nosleep

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/QueenOfTheDead2023 on 2024-09-23 17:23:28+00:00.

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Part 1

Part 2

So, things have been rather hectic through this investigation. We've had a few interesting conversations and gotten a few answers we've had so far in this investigation, but it hasn't lessened the fear and terror of our situation whatsoever. In fact, I'd say these answers have revealed that the situation is worse than we initially thought. But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

As I've mentioned before, since the incident with the shark cage the entire Amity crew has been seeing Bruce, occasionally showing his fin above water as if to let us know that he's still following us. What I didn't think to mention while I was typing that however was that, since the incident, Lawrence had surprisingly been rather quiet the past three days. Usually, even in serious situations and cases that he's stuck his nose in, the representative would always find a way to directly question my skills in the trade or spout some words about how my marriage is blasphemy or something along those lines. This time however, he had barely said a word to anyone on board and had been keeping to himself, almost always standing near the port and staring out at the water with a pale look on his face. It eventually got to the point where Dylan pulled out a bag of dice and passed out a pair of 6 sided dice to each of the twelve of us.

"Alright, I don't know about you folks but I'm getting worried about Larry," the older gentleman declared as he passed them out, "Instead of fighting among ourselves on who's gonna check on him, I reckon that we roll dice to decide who does. Highest roll will be the one to do it."

We each took turns rolling out our dice to see who would go talk to Lawrence. I was the only one who got an 11, causing me to mutter "Well fuck."

"Jamie, you're up," my Boss said with a pat on my shoulder, to which I stood up and began walking towards the port.

Lawrence acknowledged me as I reached him but remained silent for a while. Even now he was still staring out at the water, watching as Bruce's fin surfaced again. I stood there with him, unsure of what to say to him, and found myself watching Bruce along with him. It's then that I noticed something odd about the beast in question. Before I could only see it in bad weather and in deep water so I wasn't able to get a close look, but with the sky clear and the sun out I could make out what appeared to be burn scars on its fin and what I could see of its scales. They looked pretty bad, and rather old, as if Bruce had had them for years.

"You see them too, right?" Lawrence suddenly said, nearly startling me, and when I turned my attention to him he continued, "Those burn scars on its hide, I mean."

"Yeah, I do. Any guesses as to what might've caused them?" I asked rhetorically, not expecting an answer but was surprised to receive one.

"Oil, most likely," the representative replied solemnly, glancing over at me, "Seems like our 'friend' here found themselves caught up in an oil spill that likely involved plenty of fire. Unfortunately, I think I know which one."

"Oh?"

He was silent for a moment before he said, "Do you know why I've been acting the way I have? Force of habit unfortunately, one that I've actually been trying to break for years. You already know that I'm Catholic, but the truth is a lot more complicated than that. I didn't grow up here in Canada like you guys did, rather I was raised in a suburban area just on the outskirts of New Orleans in a very...extreme Evangelical sect. In fact I guess it should rather be referred to as a cult. I was pretty deep and brainwashed in it too, and trust me when I say I've said and done worse shit then everything I've said to you two combined, and I fucking hate it."

"Well, not something I expected to hear but alright," I said, comprehending what I've just been told and trying to figure out how to approach such information, "So...what changed?"

"I got a job outside of the neighbourhood back in March 2010," Lawrence replied, his eyes glazing over as if he was lost in memories, "I was a safety inspector for an oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico. My job on paper was to ensure that everything was secure and functional, but the cult had some influence on the rig, so I was occasionally paid extra to look the other way. I didn't care at the time since I was still under their thumb, but...well, I'm sure you can figure out exactly what happened one month later."

At first I wasn't sure what he was referring to, but it wasn't long before the details he gave clicked together and I said, "The oil rig you were on, it was the Deepwater Horizon wasn't it?"

"...Yeah, it was," he said as he pulled up his right sleeve, revealing a pattern of burn scars along his arm, "One minute, I was patrolling around to look for leaks. The next thing I knew, I was in the water, surrounded by burning oil. These scars will constantly remind me of why I can never go back to slacking off on my duties. What happened next was a blur, but I vaguely remember being rescued by someone or something and that they were seriously burned by the flames."

He turned towards me again and coldly said, "I've been trying to deny the existence of the supernatural for 14 years because I didn't want to accept the harm my negligence caused to the entity that saved me that day. But your very existence and the incident three days ago, not to mention Bruce being right in front of us has thrown that truth right back in my face. You wanna know why I've been silent? Because I've seen Bruce before, and I recognize those scars. Bruce is the thing that saved me, and all they got was horrible injuries and not even a thank you in turn. I..I don't know about you Jamie, but if I got injured saving someone and they didn't even come looking for me to thank me...I'd probably hate humanity too. It's likely my fault that this happened."

"Larry, you shouldn't blame yourself for a disaster like that," I cut in, alarmed that not only would he do such a thing, but that our Man Eater could be tied to a tragedy like the Deepwater Horizon, "You grew up under the influence of a cult, no one should be blaming someone for being influenced to not do their job by a group that's had them under their thumb for their whole life. Speaking of, what happened with the cult after the disaster?"

"Oh, those rats?" the representative scoffed in annoyance, "My parents only visited me once in the hospital with our leader once during my whole stay. They made it seemed like they cared for my well-being and that they were just giving me enough cash to pay for my bills and then some, but I'd been with them long enough to understand that they were really trying to buy my silence on the negligence onboard the rig. This opened my eyes and made me realise that the leader really didn't care about anyone within his church, to him we were nothing more than puppets. So, I took the money and later left an anonymous tip that helped expose the safety conditions on the rig. As for the cult themselves, their leader vanished into the night after the rest of the cult was arrested for something unrelated."

It took some more talking and coaxing, but eventually I was able to convince Lawrence to come back to where everyone else was. Soon we were planning what to do next, and eventually Matt would make a suggestion that, while simple, would not only change how I had thought of the bespectacled man, but would end up revealing just how serious this investigation actually was.

"I should see if my fiancee can come help out with identifying what we're dealing with," the news reporter declared, "I have my suspicions, but Tia works in the mythology section of our city's history museum, she'll certainly have a better perspective than me."

"You suspect this is some mythological beast that's stalking us?" Lawrence gruffly inquired, his eyebrows furrowed with interest.

Dylan turned to look at the representative as he replied, "Well, it sure as hell ain't a shark, let alone any marine life I've seen in my time sailing the seas. Hell, Blue Whales can't even reach the size of that thing."

"We can rule out any prehistoric animal, too," Ellen interjected without even looking up from her notes, "There's no known Plesiosaurs that look in any way similar to that, and there's no records of a Megalodon looking like that either, let alone reaching anywhere that size."

"Guess we have no choice," I noted calmly, and then turned to Matt and said, "If it helps our investigation, see how fast she can get here."

"Oh don't worry, she'll be here in no time," Matt chuckled as he walked away and pulled out his phone, "Let's just say you're not the only one who's a great swimmer."

His comment was quite confusing at the time, but it was only when Tia inevitably arrived that I understood what he meant. Ten minutes after Matt finished the call, the Amity rocked slightly as if to indicate we were being boarded. Soon after Matt approached us with a beautiful Chinese woman that...

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/googlyeyes93 on 2024-09-23 21:54:22+00:00.

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Previous

DAY 16

I honestly don’t even know if that’s the right day. At this point, everything is blurring together. I’m on… eight days, I believe, of no sort of sleep whatsoever. The feeling of electricity in my spine is the only thing keeping me going at this point, making it impossible to stay still or fall into any kind of rest. The auditory hallucinations have gotten much worse, and now I can clearly hear the numerous horrors inside the subject room. Even worse, the smells are beginning to come through as well, only adding to the stench of excrement and old viscera exuding from the observation room.

Nothing I’ve done has worked. I’ve tried… a few methods of killing myself at this point. Hanging was ineffective, leaving me with nothing but a bruised neck and trouble breathing since. Taryn made it obvious that blood loss wouldn’t do anything, so that was useless. An attempted drowning in the bathtub was cut short when I realized asphyxiation wouldn’t do anything, just like when I hung myself. Probably for the best, because that was an awful, awful feeling.

My last attempt was at a tried and true classic- the Reaper’s bath bomb. I plugged in the air fryer from the kitchen, figuring a toaster just might not have the oomph I need. Fill the bath, turn the fryer on four hundred, and let me cook.

I can still smell something burning, probably my internal organs, considering everything still feels like it’s on fire. The aches aren’t going away, and I’m not sure that I’ll be able to stay alive once I’m finally out of this, assuming I ever am.

I’m going to search for other ways. If push comes to shove, we have some drugs in the medical bay, but I’m honestly not holding out hope at this point.

—-

DAY 17(?)

I’m starting to see things. Whatever the noises are coming from, whatever the others have been seeing, they’re finally starting to appear for me.

They’re not in focus though. It’s like… it’s like looking through a patterned glass window. Their basic shape is there, but everything is blurry or mismatched, colors end where they shouldn’t and others warp so nothing is clearly distinguishable. I’m terrified of what I’m going to see when they become more clear, as what’s already showing is horrifying.

Some of the figures gathered around One are terrifying, with many just having large, red prisms of color where heads should be. Meanwhile most of the ones around Two are wearing a bright pink, and the singing… the singing is something I can hear no matter where I am. It never stops.

I’ve seen water dripping on the floor here and there from seemingly nowhere, but I now see it’s due to those gathered around Three. Their screams are some of the worst, like someone shrieking at the top of their lungs underwater, only bubbles escaping as liquid fills their airways. I can only imagine this is the sound they were making when they died.

Five hasn’t stopped banging at the door, and I still don’t know what it is that’s surrounding him. There are just… mounds? Not people figures, like the others- okay, some are more humanoid, I guess, but others are just massive piles. The worst thing is it looks like they’re burning, molten embers pulsing among dark gray and black fractals of light.

Philip is catatonic at this point, but I think it’s more because he’s shutting down from stress. I believe he’s at the point of audible hallucinations, so I would imagine he’s hearing the same things I am. Whatever is around him, the sounds are of screams and flames, a smell of charred flesh lingering in the air.

Four… Four seems to have gone feral, and we locked him in his room due to the signs he was exhibiting. Whether it’s just a psychosis exhibiting rabies like symptoms or not, that’s a whole other hell we aren’t willing to bring in here. He was almost howling in his delirium, hair matted and skin glistening in sweat as he tore at it, trying to get something out of himself.

I know there’s someone behind me, too. I know who they are. I know why they’re here. I just can’t bear to face that.

Murray has checked in on me from time to time. I believe he’s in the same state of audio hallucinations, but has yet to get a grasp of everything. The only other guard still alive has expended every bullet he could find from the security room, putting each one into his own head, one at a time from every possible direction to try and end his suffering. He’s still sitting in there, clicking an empty gun against what remains of his jaw. The top and back of his head are mostly gone, one eye lolling out of the skull to stare at the gun as it clicks again, empty. His lower jaw is mostly gone, but he’s still trying to speak. Or just crying, sobbing in loud, dreadful screams that gurgle through a mangled throat.

I have noticed one constant, no matter where I go, and it’s not the one that’s attached to me. This figure is clearer, made up millions of refracting and morphing beams of light, every color I could think of and beyond. It was… I think it was human, and the face was kind, even welcoming, but no matter how close I tried to get to it, it was like I was being pulled away. It was staying in the same place but I just couldn’t reach it, like infinity was standing between us at any given moment. No matter how long or fast I walked towards it, an eternity passed while getting no closer.

I don’t know what this is, but I believe it may be the key to stopping all of this.

—-

DAY 18

The figures are growing clearer now. Jesus… these images are worse than any nightmare I could conjure up, even after my worst bouts of sleeplessness. They’re still not totally there, but now they’re less… broken, I guess is the best way to put it. It looks like I’m watching old footage off a flip phone camera, like someone tried to make a horror movie on one.

The girls still dancing in circles around Two, occasionally taking a leave from their spot to kick or hit him, were the frankensteined, mangled corpses of girls cobbled together. There were stitches along their necks, and eyes were missing from some. There was this horrible makeup like a harlequin doll that was on their face. The pink dresses they wore were stained with scarlet blood, right in their abdomens. Two was approaching the same state of lucidity as One has been in since a few days ago. He’s not taking things as well though, with mostly unintelligible screams before one of the little girls uses their high heel shoes to stomp into his face. I can see, from the observation window, one of his eyeballs skewered through one little girl’s stiletto heel. If we’re being honest, I was rooting for them. At least someone was getting some good out of this situation.

Four and his… things. They’ve begun to rip each other apart. First he made a lunge at one of them, then they all started going at it, beginning to rip him limb from limb while biting his flesh. Hospital gowns flapped as they ran, showing bare asses that would have been comical if not for the savage gore staining the gowns.

One was still in high spirits, somehow, despite now being riddled with bullet holes. At some point, I heard a much louder bang than usual, and checked the room to see that the caved in part of his skull was now wide open, brains splattering the wall behind them. Despite that, he was still jovial, congratulating one of his many phantoms on their great aim. All that he got back was a gurgling scream from one that was missing it’s entire upper skull, face consisting of nothing but lower jaw and flapping tongue. It must have been in control of the shots, because something else hit him, splattering gore through the front of his shirt just like what happened on. the exam table all those days ago.

Taryn is just hanging by a thread, though she’s gone mostly catatonic now as well. There’s an older man who keeps hovering around her, though he simply glares from afar instead of doing anything. I’ve lost track of the times I’ve woken up, so to speak, unsure of where I am or how I got there. It’s just moments of blacking out here and there, without any telling what could be happening in between points A and B.

Philip… I don’t know what’s happening to Philip. He’s lately taken to sitting in his cot, covering his ears, and just screaming at the top of his lungs. His pleas alternate between apologies and begging for his life, but he’s screaming as if he’s trying to be heard over a cacaphony of terrible sounds. To his credit, that is the case, as the two figures near him are screaming in constant, shrieking pain. They’re just pillars of fire, standing beside him at all times. He’s been complaining of the heat in between fits, saying that he’s burning up, and I can see why, finally.

The issue is confronting my own demon, so to speak. I can see her clearly now, the exact same way she looked when she died. Peaceful, for once, instead of screaming in delirium about the thing that was after her. It was as if she had gone in her sleep, though that wasn’t the case at all. She was there, awake, screaming in delusions and convulsing as the prion ate away at her brain, taking any semblance of peace from her for the six months before she died.

All I can hear most of the time are muffled screams, the last things I heard from her. God… I’m so sorry, mom. I’m so sorry that I’ve brought myself to this. I just wanted to help myself, help anyone like us. I’m so sorry…

—-

DAY ???

I’ve been… gone? I guess that’s the bes...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Aggravating_Road2692 on 2024-09-23 18:15:50+00:00.

---

There's something strange about the little boy from down the street.

Our new house was in a nice little neighborhood on the outskirts of a large metropolitan city that wasn't known for its hospitable reputation. So you can imagine my relief when I found my little family a cute little abode in a mostly retirement-age community. While there was no age requirement, almost all of the residents of Springcrest Village were sixty years old or older. They'd abandoned the busy city life to live out the rest of their days in a new upscale community where they found fellowship with people with shared life experiences.

Springcrest had everything they could ever need. It was situated right next to this fancy golf course, ideal for keeping those old joints moving. A well-maintained pool, excellent for keeping their aging skin nice and leathery for all to admire. Most importantly, there were no schools nearby, which meant no pesky children to ruin the old folk's peace and quiet.

We drove into our new picturesque life and were met with a multitude of smiles and waves. Ricky and I are a middle-aged couple, something rather strange to see driving down the roads of Springcrest Village.

'Maybe they thought someone's adult children had come by to visit Mamma and Poppa?' I imagined them thinking as we drifted past the identical housing. Everyone seemed really kind. That is until they noticed the Penske truck tailing behind our little Corolla. Their faces changed from looks of welcome to emotions of disgust. Some gesturing over to their spouses to come and look at the impending tragedy. The Yellow moving truck sped past them and I saw a few grumpy old men throw their hands up in frustration.

'So much for a warm welcome." I thought to myself. I looked over at Ricky as he journeyed onward unfazed by the many twisting looks.

Our car slowed over to the side of the street, coming to a halt in front of our new forever home, leaving the driveway spot available to the moving truck. The movers got straight to work.

As the rolling door on the Penske truck clinked against the metal stopper, the sound of metal on metal echoed through the quiet neighborhood.

"Let's get to work boys!" The driver yelled at his mostly college-aged laborers. The commotion brought many silver-haired women and grey beards to the windows, some coming out onto their lawns to show their disapproval with their hands placed firmly on their hips. To say that I was extremely uncomfortable was an understatement.

I itched my arm in an attempt to quell my nerves. Ricky noticed my uneasiness and wrapped a hand around my shoulder. His embrace worked for the most part, and the old folks looking on slowly vanished from my mind as I looked up at Ricky's face of admiration taking in the sight of our little three-bedroom home.

"Mom?" I felt a tug on my pant leg and looked down to see Daniel, our seven-year-old son, trying to get my attention.

"What is it honey?" I said as I patted a hand on the back of his head in a comforting gesture.

"Look." He pointed to the neighbor's rose bushes. It took a minute to realize Daniel hadn't suddenly become an avid rose connoisseur

Beyond the many reds and whites of the flower petals, through the thorned bushes, and hidden behind a little angel statue, were a pair of little eyes peering out at us. It was a little boy.

I breathed a slight sigh of relief when I realized that Daniel would not be the only child in our neighborhood.

"It's Okay honey, go say hi." I gave Daniel an encouraging shove as he hesitantly took a few steps forward.

"H-Hi." Daniel quivered but the boy behind the statue seemed to shy way behind the angel's comforting stone body. Daniel looked back over at me, searching for some kind of instruction. I waved him forward, he took a few more tentative steps.

"I- I'm Daniel." Daniel outstretched a hand in a manner we'd taught him to do, a cordial introduction. The boy seemed to completely disappear behind the angel as his hands now gripped its hard exterior. Daniel took a few more steps until his arms brushed up against a few roses. Just then the frightful boy darted through to foliage, snagging his shirt on one of the thorn branches. His little orange tee shirt ripped as cotton fabric clung to the sharp twigs. With surprising agility, he leaped over some of the rose bushes and disappeared from view. Daniel stood there confused, granted I was too.

"Strange boy," Ricky said.

"Yeah, strange indeed," I said under my breath while still trying to make sense of the situation.

"Come on Daniel. Let's go pick out your room." Ricky shouted. Daniel snapped out of his surprise and ran his little feet into the house. Just then I too came out of my stooper.

"Wait, take your shoes off, it's new carpeting!" I yelled. As we all walked through the door, I couldn't help but return my gaze to the little angel statue, once again, the boy's little eyes peered out from behind as the door slowly creaked closed.

***

Daniel was Homeschooled. We'd never trusted the public education system. Often, kids don't get the attention they require, most times they are just names on some roster. Ricky and I knew this. Soon after we got married we concluded that I would stay home and school our children ourselves. Hence our disregard for adequate schooling near Springcrest Village.

Unlike many other home educators, we as a couple felt we were more than qualified for the task of molding our young son's mind. Ricky was a professor at a community college about a half hour's drive from our new dwelling, and I had my masters in social work, though I no longer practiced. Ricky made plenty and I had my hands full with our rambunctious seven-year-old.

On this particular day, Daniel and I were working on long division. Yes, our second grader is slightly more advanced than the normal school curriculum, something Ricky and I loved to take credit for. This aptitude however did not grant him the same level of patience.

"Aww, mom. I don't get why I have to learn this stuff." He wined while laying his head on our kitchen table, his eyes firmly planted on the vivid imagery coming from the other side of the window.

"Now Daniel, I know this is hard but you have to try and focus, just a few more practice problems and we can stop for the day," I informed him. To my annoyance, he returned a disrespectful grunt. I couldn't help but scowl at his rudeness.

I reached for the ruler on the table and planted a mild slap on the tip of his nail bed.

"Ouch!" Daniel retorted, bringing his hand to his mouth while huffing a few hot breaths of air as if the mist could ease the pain. He eyed me with a mild sense of anger. Yes, I hit my son.

His eyes slowly started to melt from a look of anger to one of understanding.

"Sorry, Mom." He said as he lowered his eyes. It's not often that a kid relinquishes his emotions when they know they did something wrong, which made me proud of my boy. I caressed his face, squeezing his cheeks and forcing him into a pucker. I brought my nose in and glided it back and forth on his like I used to do when he was a baby.

"I'm sowwy my little cupcake." My baby voice made him shy away.

"Mom." He said with an inflection, I gave a mild chuckle. Just then I saw his eyes turn to the window, a look of surprise plastering its mark on his face. I turned to whatever caught his eye and gave a slight jolt as my eye met the glass.

On the other side, stood the boy from the first day we'd moved in. He was dirty, wearing the same orange shirt as the day he spied us from the rose bushes. His arms were scratched, visible streaks of red running down his skin, it must've been the rose bushes that'd done it. His face had an aura of judgment to it.

"It's that boy," Daniel whispered. The boy on the other side would not lose his connection with my son. Seconds turned to minutes, and it started to get a bit awkward, more than it already was.

"Mom?" Daniel said with a questioning change in pitch.

"Can I go say hi? I looked into my son's eyes and realized that it had been some time since he'd socialized with someone his own age. Guilt washed over me. Sometimes I forget that Daniel needs to interact with people his age.

I gave him a somber smile, I could tell Daniel knew I was mauling his question over in my mind, a grin inched his way across his face, one that said 'Come on please'. I slammed the book sitting on the table shut.

"Okay go, but we have to do a few extra problems tomorrow."

"You're the best mom!" He said as he shot out of his chair and made his way to the front door. I remained sitting at the table, as I lost Daniel from view, but just then I remembered the kid at the window.

A shiver ran down my spine as his eyes were glued on me, I don't think I'd ever seen the boy blink. That is until I saw eyelids closing horizontally. My skin crawled. His gaze trained on me, the sound of the front door unlatching in the background. From the right corner of the window ran Daniel, an excited pep in his step.

"Come on let's go play." The strange boy lost his connection with me and ran off onto our front lawn. Falling on the grass and rolling around in its green pigment that now added to his already filthy shirt. Daniel tagged him and the boy gave chase. The two ran out of sight.

I stood there contemplating what I'd just seen, Ricky's words on move-in day replaying in my head.

'Strange boy.'

"Strange. Strange indeed." I whispered.

...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Theeaglestrikes on 2024-09-23 18:08:41+00:00.

---

“I think that might be the wrong way round,” I said, smirking.

The message had not been inked, but engraved into the plastic laminate partition. It’s the staple of any public bathroom stall. A number that, let’s be honest, is either false or owned by an unwilling participant of a bad practical joke. But this message was different. Unlike the other musings and doodles on the cubicle wall, it caught my eye. That was no meagre feat, considering it was three in the morning, and ten bottles of cider were sloshing around in my belly.

It wasn’t the unbalanced handwriting that entrapped my gaze. Not even the brown trail of rust left in the grooves of the etching. So what if an inebriated moron had written his phone number with his house key? That didn’t interest me at all. My curiosity was piqued by the length of the number.

Four digits. I didn’t ring it, of course, because I didn’t expect that the call would actually connect. That, along with the backwards wording of the message, started to poison my intrigue. There was an omen lurking in the message. I didn’t like any of it.

But I shook my head, realising that my drunken mind was playing cruel tricks on me. If a drunken stranger had written the message, it would make sense that he’d only remember four digits of his number. It would make sense that he’d mix up a common saying too.

Get a grip, scaredy-pants, I told myself, chuckling as I struggled to aim my stream away from the seat of the toilet.

“The fuck are you yapping about?” Mason slurred, slipping on the damp floor as he pulled my cubicle door open.

I zipped up my jeans and drunkenly grinned. “Trying to sneak a peak?”

“Keep your fantasies to yourself, Alec,” Mason said, swaying listlessly in the doorway. “Now, what were you saying, tosspot?”

“I don’t remember,” I admitted, laughing and shrugging.

“Something about the wrong…” my friend hazily began, pausing to belch. “Something was round? I don’t know.”

I slapped my head in realisation, then jabbed a pointing finger at the cubicle wall. “The message! I was saying it’s the wrong way round.”

Mason crouched, squinting to read it. “It’s missing, like… three numbers…”

I snorted so hard I choked. “Mason, it’s missing a few more than that. You’re drunk.”

“So are you!” he protested, standing up with hands on his hips, then stumbling into the opposite cubicle wall.

“True, but at least I have more than one brain cell left,” I pointed out.

“That isn’t saying much, considering you only started with two,” Mason retorted.

I laughed. “Damn.”

“Yeah,” he replied, tapping his temple with a grin. “See? Even tipsy, I’m witsy.”

“Witsy?” I asked, giggling.

“Witty,” he corrected.

I was searching for a smart reply when I noticed that my friend had produced his phone from the front pocket of his jeans. My inebriated friend’s bobblehead hindered his ability to focus on the screen, but I already knew from the tone of the phone’s digital clicks that he was dialling a number. A short number.

“You’re not serious?” I asked as the phone started to ring. “It’s not going to work.”

“We’ll see, won’t we, Mr Smart Alec?” Mason asked, mashing the phone against sweaty hair in a completely failed attempt to meet his ear. “That name hits the spot every time.”

“Yeah?” I scoffed, rocking from side to side. “So does your mum.”

My friend laughed, shoving me into the green, rickety wall of the cubicle. “My mum’s too wonderful for you.”

“You’re too wonderful for you.”

The phone had barely stopped ringing when the response sounded through the speaker. I heard the voice with such clarity that I twisted my head to ensure the responder hadn’t appeared in the cubicle.

As my friend and I locked eyes, I knew that we felt the same chilling sensation. The same chilling realisation.

Mason should not have called that number.

“Who is this?” my friend calmly asked, struggling to sober himself up.

“Who is this?” the voice parroted, speaking in a misshapen way.

Mason started to pant, his chest bloating and compressing rapidly as he trembled on the spot. I tried to control my breathing, but I knew why were both so afraid. There was background noise behind the voice on the other end. And that sharp, spiky audio didn’t signify bad reception. Something was hidden in the static of the call.

“Hang up,” I said.

I reached towards the phone in Mason’s hand, but he retracted it and shook his head at me in absolute terror, as if to say that ending the call would be a dreadful idea. As if he were hearing more than me. And I wonder, sometimes, whether he’d simply been trying to stop me from hearing it too.

I trusted my friend, as I’d never seen him that way. Possessed by terror that surpassed even my own, and I’d certainly never been so frightened in my life. His transformation became fully apparent when a drunken pub-goer stumbled into the bathroom. The barfly that locals call Barmy Barry, but only because he does, in fact, act a little barmy if we don’t.

“Fuck off, Barmy!” Mason yelled.

The old, dishevelled gentleman wore a matching waistcoat and corduroy trousers, as if he were either attending a funeral or preparing to perform amateur magic. And knowing Barmy Barry, it may well have been both. I was actually relieved to see him. Relieved to be drawn back into the real world and forget, for a second, the unsettling nature of the phone call.

“What are you boys doing in here?” the grumbling man mumbled as he walked towards our cubicle.

“Blow,” I joked.

“You’re blowing each other?” Barmy Barry gasped.

I sighed. “No, Barry, it’s… Never mind.”

“Barmy Barry,” he corrected.

“Just get out of here,” my friend icily ordered.

Barmy Barry narrowed his eyes. “I’m going to tell Michele that you two are up to no good. I’ll be back to check on you if you haven’t left in a few minutes. And then I’m taking a piss, okay? Once you’ve calmed down.”

“Bye, Bazza,” I said as the man exited the room.

My friend summoned a deep breath.

“It was only Barry,” I said, before gulping. “Just… hang up the phone, Mason. We don’t need to keep talking to him.”

“Who is this?” the phone voice repeated with that horridly unnatural timbre.

Mason ignored me and started to reply. “This is—”

“This is Mason,” the voice interrupted, answering its own question.

The two of us quaked in the bathroom stall. Nobody had mentioned my friend’s name. Not me. Not Barmy Barry. Yet, this mysterious voice knew.

I pleaded with silent eyes for Mason to hang up the phone. To my surprise, in spite of the unwilling look on his face, my friend nodded. But as he started to lower the phone from his ear, the voice on the other end spoke again.

“Why are you listening to Alec? Don’t you want to enjoy a long time?” it whispered.

Before my friend responded to the voice, the door to the bathroom stall swung closed, sweeping my friend out of the cubicle with unholy force.

“Mason!” I shouted, instantly grabbing the handle.

Something was wrong. I sensed it before I’d even opened the door. Sensed, somehow, that I would be facing a new land when I stepped outside.

I was both right and wrong.

The grimy, stained, neglected bathroom still stood before me, but its pieces had been scrambled. Before me was the familiar row of sinks, but it stretched much farther, much like the row of cubicles beside me. And when I twisted to face what should have been the room’s far end, I found only a long tunnel. The two walls, lined with sinks and stalls, were no longer straight and finite. They curved sharply to the right, and whatever lay around the corner was just out of sight.

“Alec?” a familiar voice cried.

My chest tightened.

“Mason?” I replied, voice cracking as it barrelled down the tiled chamber ahead.

There did not come a second response from my friend. However, a few seconds later, the sound of a shutting door echoed down the tunnel towards me, seemingly carried by a far-off breeze. It became clear to me that I wouldn’t find the bathroom’s end once I rounded the corner. A thought confirmed when I finally took ginger steps out of the cubicle, skidding slightly in the same mystery puddle that had nearly claimed my friend.

And after following the curving tunnel for only a few steps, I saw that I was correct. The bathroom continued ceaselessly. The two walls did not meet some end-wall. I did not see an exit beside the last cubicle on the right, for there seemed to be no last cubicle. All that awaited was a never-ending passageway of sinks and stalls.

I didn’t want to follow the bend. I had a feeling that I should wait in the first cubicle for the nightmare to pass. But I knew, if I were to do that, I would be turning my back on Mason.

As I walked farther and farther from the faux safety I’d felt in the initial cubicle, I tried to focus on my trainers clapping against damp tiles. But the persistent echoes of distant noises drowned each step, no matter how heavily I walked.

Far-flung faucets gushed. Poorly-oiled stall hinges groaned. Doors locked or unlocked. Every sound typical of a public bathroom, which would have been banal in any other circumstance, seemed to excavate a fresh layer of fear from the pit of my stomach. I held my sanity together with duct-tape and faith.

It was when a not-so-distant sound emerged that I finally unravelled.

Only three or four cubicles ahead from me, a stall door closed. But not before I had a chance to scream at the sight of translucent fingers gripping the plasti...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BuddhaTheGreat on 2024-09-23 16:13:41+00:00.

---

If you have no idea what I’m talking about or where I am, you should read my last post.

Perhaps I judged this place too harshly. It turns out that they have finally gotten around to getting a cell tower up here, so I do have reception. Typically, it’s extremely spotty, but hey, at least it’s there. I am going to write and put up these posts as and when I have the time, so don’t try and measure the gaps between them to create a timeline. It won’t work.

Anyway, I should probably start from where I left off last time. By the time the bus was pulling into Chhayagarh, I was the only passenger left. No, some horrible monstrosity did not attack us and kill them off. They just got down at their own stops like usual.

You must understand that people from the outside can and do visit our village. It’s just incredibly difficult. It does not appear on any official map. No travel guides about it exist anywhere. The only symbol of the Indian government in the entire area is the police station, and it’s completely staffed by local officers; I’m pretty sure the district superintendent doesn’t even know it exists. If you try to catch transport from any of the major cities, no one is going to know where it is. Pretty much the only way to get here is to ask for directions in some of the neighbouring villages. Some of the people there, especially the old ones, may be able to guide you to the right buses and roads. Curiously, people who have visited once never have any trouble finding their way back again, but most never do. It’s a pretty boring place.

If you do manage to find your way here, you’ll be greeted by the same rusty iron board that I saw, scrawled over with barely legible writing in English, Hindi, and Bengali, right before the bus dumps you in front of the two naked concrete pillars that qualify as the village stop.

“Dear visitors, Chhayagarh is more dangerous than it appears. Do not speak to strange people. Do not go to the forest. Do not leave your dwelling at night. If you see anything strange, inform the police station immediately. We are glad to have you as our guests.

—Chhayagarh Gram Panchayat”

Wonderful, given that I was as much of a stranger here as the occasional German vlogger who stumbled in. Instead of driving off after fetching my suitcases from the luggage carrier overhead, the bus driver parked his vehicle off to the side and casually ambled over to the small tin-and-wood tea shop helpfully placed immediately across the road from the stop.

Standing on the outskirts, I realized my predicament too late: in my rush to get here, I had forgotten to call ahead on the landline. The family had no idea I was here. Therefore, I had no transport to the manor. On top of that, it was the zenith of noon, and the sweltering road threatened to melt my shoes. Having little other choice, I slowly followed the driver to the welcoming shade of the shop. The front had been extended into a corrugated tin awning, with several wooden benches underneath forming a makeshift seating area. Here, the both of us almost unconsciously settled in next to each other. The driver raised a finger to the old man manning the shop, who quickly brought over an earthen cup brimming with milk tea and two cheap biscuits.

“And for you, babu?”

It was too hot for tea, so I asked him if he had water. He did, and I ate two extremely dry biscuits of my own between gulps.

“People don’t come here often, to this village. Especially not from the city.”

The driver’s voice was level and rich, unnaturally posh for someone with his rough, everyman appearance. I paused before deciding to ignore it. There had been enough strangeness already.

“No. No, I suppose they don’t.” I took another sip of the water.

He looked at me for a good few seconds, over the rim of his cup, and I could have sworn I saw stars dimly twinkling in them again.

“Tourist? Or are you some sort of salesman?”

“Neither. Just some… family business.” No way he needed to know more than that.

In the first place, it was odd to have to strike up a conversation with your bus driver. They were supposed to be liminal beings, taking you where you needed to go and then disappearing. This just felt wrong, like seeing your middle school teacher at the mall.

“I see. Family is good. One must take care of their family.” The driver nodded solemnly, finishing his tea and smashing the cup on the ground. “Do you smoke?”

“Uh… No, thanks.”

“I don’t either.” He glared straight into my eyes again, pupils expanding until I was looking into dark abysses. “I like quick deaths. Slow ones are boring.”

The air turned heavy and brittle, like something was about to happen. His eyes seemed to swirl like whirlpools as I looked into them. The effect was almost hypnotizing. A strange, dull cold began to deaden the tips of my fingers, slowly radiating upward into my palms, and then my arms. My eyelids grew heavy and drowsy. All I wanted was to go to sleep, but I was startled out of my stupor by a loud clang. The shopkeeper had placed the kettle a little too roughly on the stove.

When I glanced back, the driver’s eyes were back to normal. He sighed and got to his feet, walking around under the shade to stretch his legs.

It took a while to find my voice again. “Don’t you need to, you know… go back?”

“No. Not yet. The route timings are very spaced out. I spend a few hours here every time.” He nodded at the back of the shop, where a small ramshackle shed was leaning against the wall. “He lets me sleep in there sometimes.”

“Are you a local?”

“No, but I visit often.” He looked over to where his bus was parked. “Obviously.”

Right. I had very little interest in continuing this conversation, especially given what had just happened. Instead, I gulped down the last of the water and began looking around for a bin to throw the bottle in. The shopkeeper waved me over.

“Give me the bottle, babu.”

He tossed it into a green plastic bag behind him. “I send them for recycling with the bus every night. It’s good money, though he keeps some of it.”

“I see.”

“Would you like some tea now? I put on a fresh kettle.”

“Oh, no, not for me. Thanks.”

Then he leaned in conspiratorially and asked me the fateful question that every outsider must face in any village in India.

“Kiske yaha se hai aap?”

Whose house are you from?

Well, what he was really asking is how I knew people here. In other words, my family. Also, he spoke in Hindi. So, he was not a Bengali. That did not surprise me. There are plenty of people from other states here, mostly migrants in search of jobs. Ram Lal, our manservant, was from Bihar, though his ancestors had moved to Chhayagarh a long time ago.

“Birendra Thakur,” I answered, using my grandfather’s formal name.

As soon as he heard this, the shopkeeper, who must have been at least twenty years older than me, jumped out from behind the shop and bent to touch my feet. I recoiled instinctively, practically jumping backwards to stop him.

He looked up at me, still squatting on the ground. “Thakur! The little Thakur! How you have grown! It has been so long since you last came to the village!”

I grabbed his shoulders and practically hoisted him to his feet. “Please get up, and don’t touch my feet. I’m practically your son.”

Oh, yeah, I should probably mention this. Like all good feudal lords, the men in our family are given two names: a personal name at birth, and a ‘formal’ name at puberty. Yes, I also have one. No, I won’t be revealing it. Not yet, anyway. Also, Thakur is just an honorific we use, like ‘lord’. It’s more common than you think. Rabindranath Tagore? The poet guy? ‘Tagore’ is just a bastardized spelling of ‘Thakur’.

After hesitating, he opted to merely fold his hands together. “Thakur, I have seen you when you were a boy. You used to buy sweets from my shop whenever you visited.”

Maybe that was true. I barely remember my trips here.

“You don’t need to call me that.”

“After your grandfather passed…” He touched his head in a reverent gesture. “Birendra Thakur treated us like his own children. We heard about your father too. The gods have given you much grief. But the village is yours now, Thakur. Now that you are here, everything will be all right.” He paused. “But why are you here? You need to go to the manor! One vakil babu came to the village a few days ago, and I heard he was waiting for you.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I’m just looking for a way there. Is there an autorickshaw or something I can take?”

“A few farmers pass by here. But you cannot travel by bullock cart, Thakur! It’s unthinkable!”

I raised my hands to placate him. The change in demeanour was threatening to give me a whiplash injury. “I’ll manage.”

“Nonsense!” He turned to the back of the shop and shouted, “Ramu! Ramu! Come here!”

A young, well-built man came jogging around the back of the building. After a brief introduction, during which he also promptly tried to fall at my feet, Ramu pulled his trusty bike out of the shed, and we set off for the house.

Ramu was the shopkeeper’s son, and about a year younger than me. He worked with his father in the shop, and during harvest season, he helped in the fields. Like his father, he also had a deep, totally unearned reverence for me, refusing to call m...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/SubjectState7 on 2024-09-23 11:48:45+00:00.

---

Life can take us in strange directions. No matter how intricately our best laid plans are, life has a way of disregarding them, as if they were nothing more than a fly buzzing around its head. For example, I wanted to be an electrical engineer. I’d had a few colleges in mind and was looking forward to graduating High School. Now, I’m in Ketchikan, Alaska, getting ready to head north. I’m gonna be leaving a lot of my technology here as it’ll be useless once I get where I’m going. Which, come to think of it, is nowhere, really. I don’t have a plan. But, regardless, I wanted to take a moment to recount the events of the last couple years that led me here.

For starters, my name’s Jake, and I’ve been living on the road for quite awhile now. I’m from a small town in the Midwest called Riverstone, where I was born and raised. Some people from small towns tend to dislike them, or at least can’t wait to leave. Not me though. I loved Riverstone, and it breaks my heart to know I’ll never be able to go back. All because of the events which took place my senior year.

It was a cool Friday night at the end of Homecoming week. My classmates and I sat on our school’s bleachers, cheering on our football team with enough energy to power the whole town. We were seniors, so this was gonna be our last Homecoming game. We wanted to enjoy it while it lasted.

At the end of the first quarter, there was a short timeout to let people get snacks and use the restroom or whatever while the teams got ready to play again. My friends and I were sitting at the back of the bleachers, so we had a pretty clear view of the field and surrounding area. Two of them had gone to get snacks while the other, a guy named Matt, was messaging his girlfriend on his phone. I, meanwhile, just stared out at the crowd and field, not really thinking about anything.

As I scanned the crowd, my eyes fell upon a girl across from me in the away team’s bleachers. It was hard to make out any details of her face, but from what I could see, she was gorgeous. Long brown hair, glasses, and a smile so bright it rivaled the overhead lights.

I continued to steal glances at her occasionally. Her looks aside, I was really just trying to see if she was there with a boyfriend or if he was playing for their team. She wasn’t wearing a jersey, which gave me hope, but that fact was made immediately irrelevant just before halftime.

After a particularly good play by her team, I looked up to gauge her reaction, only to be met by bare flesh where her face used to be, and she was looking in my direction. At least, the chill down my spine told me she was looking at me. It was hard to tell without any facial features. On top of that, she was dead still, like a scarecrow in a field of swaying corn. The people around her jostled and swayed but she didn’t move an inch. Not a single person took notice of her either. People bumped into her a few times but they didn’t react. As if the way she acted was perfectly normal.

Thoroughly freaked out, I nudged Matt and got his attention. Thankfully, I’d pointed her out to him earlier in the game, so he knew where to look. In the moments I looked away and back again, though, she had returned to normal. Matt gave me a quizzical look for pointing the girl out to him again, but I was too dumbfounded to care.

I thought maybe it was the distance, that my eyes had simply lost focus for a second and turning my head got them to refocus. An explanation which, at the time, made total sense. So I brushed it off and continued watching the game.

Now, I need to give a bit of context for this next part. From where my friends and I were sitting, we could see the opposing team’s sideline clearly. This was perfect, since their coach was an absolute hot head. I mean, like, forehead-vein-bulging, red-in-the-face kind of guy. Every time his team would mess up, he’d be shouting like his life depended on it and it was hilarious. So when his players made a mistake, I would scan their sideline to see his reaction.

After one such play, I did like I always had, but found the bare flesh looking up at me once again. Just like with the girl, the coach stood completely still despite all the people moving around him, and no one seemed to notice his odd behavior or lack of a goddamn face.

Afraid that looking away might cause it to disappear again, I tried to get Matt’s attention without breaking line of sight. Unfortunately, the universe had other plans as a man shuffled past me just as I was tapping Matt’s arm. By the time the man passed, the coach was back to his shouting, red-faced self.

Matt looked over at me. The look on my face must’ve caused him to speak up.

“Hey man, you alright?” he asked, placing a hand on my shoulder.

I continued to stare at the coach, but was pulled out of my dismay by Matt’s hand.

“Yeah,” I said, not facing him. “Just thought I saw someone we knew.”

“You sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I turned to look at him. “Yeah man, I’m goo-”

My words were cut off as a lump lodged itself in my throat. Behind Matt were my two other friends, but next to them were people we didn’t know. The closest of those people, the one right next to my friend, was leaning forward in his seat. His arms hung straight down, limply swaying with the crowd, his head was turned at an angle just too sharp to be natural, and his face was gone.

I lost it. I stood up and barreled through the audience with instinct and adrenaline guiding my every move. Before I knew it, I was out of the crowd and racing towards the parking lot. My phone began to ring, but I didn’t answer it. All I could do at that moment was run, so I did. My feet hit the pavement and my lungs heaved air as I ran to my car, jumped into it, and peeled out of that parking lot faster than ever. Honestly, looking back, I’m surprised I didn’t get stopped by someone or pulled over. Guess I should count myself lucky, because in that state I would’ve probably been arrested.

But that didn’t happen and I made it home in one piece. I told my mom I wasn’t feeling good and locked myself in my room for the rest of the night. I tried to rest, but my mind wouldn’t stop thinking about the faceless people. No matter what I did to distract myself, the thoughts just kept coming. I did manage to fall into a restless sleep eventually, though. But when I woke up the next morning, it was into an entirely new world.

Over the course of the next school year, I continually saw the faceless entity. There was no consistency to it, at least not that I could notice, but it only popped up in crowds and only affected humans. Activity slowed dramatically as the weather grew colder, but picked right back up again in the spring. That was when I got the idea to try and get proof that what I was seeing wasn’t just in my head.

It started as a spur of the moment thing. I was out with some friends, including Matt, when I noticed it standing across the street. It had possessed a businessman, and was staring at me. Notably, it still held a cell phone to its ear with one hand and a briefcase in the other. My skin began to crawl with the chill of its gaze, but my phone vibrated in my hand, causing the light bulb to shine. Without a second thought, I held my phone in my peripheral vision, careful not to pull my focus away from the creature, and opened the camera app. I held the device as steady as I could and snapped multiple pictures. When I was done, I felt comfortable enough to look away so I could examine the photos, only to find they were useless.

The pictures were so blurry, it was impossible to make out any significant details. The shape of the man was obvious, as was his surroundings, but everything else was incomprehensible. I considered at first that maybe I’d been shaking while I took the photos, but when later attempts looked the same, I knew it wasn’t me. Disappointed, I deleted the photos like an idiot and sighed. I looked back to where the creature had been and found the business man walking by as if nothing had broken his stride while he talked on the phone.

I looked over to my friends and found Matt giving me a quizzical look.

“Thought I saw a cool bird,” I said.

“Since when do you bird watch?” He asked, grinning.

“I don’t. It was just a cool looking bird.”

“Well, lemme see.”

“The pictures didn’t turn out. The camera was out of focus.”

Matt gave me another look, this one a mixture of knowing curiosity. The subject was quickly dropped though, and we got back to just hanging out.

Ever since, I’ve tried multiple times to get pictures of the thing with multiple different cameras, both digital and analogue, only to get the same result. A blurry image with no discernible details. Which, I guess could be evidence in and of itself, or it’s just proof that I’m a shitty photographer.

From there, things continued to escalate as summer rolled in, and it got to the point where I was seeing the damn thing every single day. Even on my days off, when I never left the house, I’d see it standing in the street outside my house, just staring at me through the windows.

I tried researching it, believe me, but every time I looked up something about faceless people, I’d either get Slender Man or some obscure creepypastas. I considered talking to my friends, but I thought they’d think I was crazy. Hell, at the time, I thought I was losing it. So, I did the one thing I could, and confided in my parents.

One thing you should know abo...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/beardify on 2024-09-23 15:32:57+00:00.

---

I saw another one today. It was spray-painted above the entrance to a sewer, along with an arrow pointing downward into the darkness. Twenty years later, MVSH is finally back in town. 

MVSH. Four little letters. I know it's stupid to be scared of them, just as I know that no one is likely to remember me as the person I was twenty years ago. None of that helps when the memories come flooding back. 

The summer I turned seventeen, my life was about music: grimy basement mosh-pits, drunken field concerts where the amps were plugged into some survivalist’s gas generator, night drives with the windows down and the radio blaring. A part-time job at Sundown Records paid bums to buy beer for me and kept my gas tank needle half an inch from empty. My parents bit their nails about my future, but I didn’t care: why shouldn’t life just go on like this forever?

Working at Sundown Records had another perk as well: I got to spend time with Dylan Fughes. He was a big name in the local underground scene, and his music shop reflected it. The walls were covered with the concert flyers of bands he’d discovered and made great; the high-end sound system played only music that met his own exacting standards. 

My interview at Sundown was just to listen to three songs and tell Dylan what I thought of them. When I told him I thought they all sucked, a polished white smile flashed across his face; he put his crocodile-skin shoes up on his desk and told me that the job was mine if I wanted it. 

Dylan gave me tips on all the most exclusive shows, even let me borrow albums from the shop. He was charming, he was worldly, and unlike the boys in my high school, he actually knew how to dress himself. It wasn’t long before I was head-over-heels in love with him. That was how it started. 

I was breaking down cardboard boxes in the hallway beside his office when the phone rang. My heart skipped a beat: nobody dared to call Dylan after five PM, not unless it was an emergency. I still remember the giddiness in Dylan’s voice when I pressed my ear against the door to eavesdrop:

“Really? They are? I’ll be there.” 

Dylan burst out into the hallway just as I got back to my heap of cardboard. Big news, Vee, he was yelling. MVSH is playing this weekend!

I’d missed a key word in there: it had sounded like his mouth had suddenly filled up with half-chewed meat. Dylan rolled his eyes at my blank expression. Apparently, “MVSH” was the hottest thing on the scene right now. No one knew who the band members were, where they were from, or even how to pronounce their group’s name; MVSH didn’t even sell tickets to their concerts. The only way in was to show up with a specific food item: it served as proof that you had been told about the show by someone close to the band.

I nodded along to Dylan’s story, not trusting myself to speak. When I was alone with him, my words tangled themselves into stupid, humiliating knots. I always wound up talking to my shoes, and half the time I had no idea what I had actually said to him. I was thinking about how unfair that was when I realized that Dylan had just invited me to go see MVSH with him. 

Sure, I guess, I finally managed to shrug. My boss must have seen right through my attempt to look careless. There was a sneer on his face as he peered out into the shop: he wanted to make sure no one overhead what he was about to say next. I got goosebumps as he leaned in close and whispered:

“Well, then. There are a few other things you’re going to need to know…” 

I had it all planned out. I waited until my father had finished three-fourths of his coffee and reached the sports section of the newspaper before I asked him if I could stay over with my friend Sara on Friday night. We had a biology exam on Monday, I lied, and Sara wanted to study together.

My father glanced up sharply, and I knew I was busted. I had been an idiot to suggest that I cared about school; he knew me better than that. He gazed out the window, brushed some crumbs off of his tie, and sighed:

“Sure, honey. You can go. But you’re bringing Raquel.” 

Trying to hide the horrified expression on my face, I gave him a quick hug and bolted out the door. This was going to ruin everything. 

The difference between my sister Raquel and I was clear just by looking at our notebooks. Hers were neat, detailed, each perfectly-shaped letter contained inside the lines; mine were jumbled and chaotic–filled with stickers, doodles, and my friends’ phone numbers. If I tried to leave Raquel alone at Sara’s, she would rat me out for sure. My only option was to bring her to see MVSH as my guest–and hope that I could convince her to follow Dylan’s bizarre instructions.

The afternoon before the concert, we raided the heaps of donated clothes in the Methodist church basement. We were searching for the ugliest, filthiest stuff we could find. Dylan said that MVSH didn’t let anyone in unless they looked like they had been sleeping in a dumpster for a few weeks; I told Raquel that we could throw everything away after the concert anyway. 

“Gross.” My sister made a face. 

I took a deep breath and did my best to explain to Raquel that seeing MVSH live was a life-changing experience. Did she really think that Dylan Hughes would be wrong about something like that?

If she did, she kept her mouth shut about it, finally settling on a pair of paint-splattered khaki pants and a greasy orange T-shirt. The jeans and tuxedo vest that I’d picked out for myself were in tatters, but at least they fit me and (sort of) matched. I was especially proud of a leather belt I’d discovered  in a dusty corner beneath some trash bags. Its steel buckle was brick-heavy and handmade in the shape of a grinning skull. Now there was just one last stop to make before we caught a bus to the location that Dylan had given me. 

“What’s with the soup?” Raquel asked later, when she saw me pocketing two packets of bullion cubes at the mini-mart across from the bus station. 

I repeated Dylan’s instructions: 

“When you go to a MVSH concert, you’ve got to bring something that shows you know somebody cool. You know, like a password. This time, it’s chicken soup cubes. We got lucky. Dylan says that one year it was oatmeal, and last time, it was pig’s blood.” 

“Hey!” Raquel hurried after me, whispering: “You’re going to pay for that, right?”

I got us a coin locker across from some broken-down payphones. As we stored our stuff,  I reminded Raquel that she couldn’t bring anything into the show with her: no wallet, no phone, nothing. 

“For punks, these guys sure have a lot of rules.” Raquel complained–but handed over her shoulder bag anyway. 

When the bus arrived, Raquel sat in the front seat, her spine straight and her hands folded neatly in her lap. I lounged beside her, drumming my fingers impatiently on the windows and hoping she wouldn’t realize how nervous I was. I had assumed that Dylan would be fine with me inviting one extra person…but what if he wasn’t? 

Our stop was near the end of the line, its crazily-leaning sign barely visible in the amber streetlight glow. I was expecting some gritty industrial club with steel shutters and a line of leather-clad hipsters at the door, but the sidewalk was empty. The factories and warehouses looming over us were either closed down or partly demolished; mangy cats prowled through the weed-choked lots. The only sign of life was a pair of white semi-trucks backed up against one of the decrepit buildings. For the first time, I found myself doubting my boss’ intentions. What if Dylan was just toying with me? What if the whole thing was just some kind of cruel joke? 

Raquel and I slipped through a gap in a chain-link fence, then turned down a blind alley. At the far end, MVSH was spray-painted above a rusted factory door. A crowd had already started to gather: their clothes were just ragged as ours, and there was a packet of bullion cubes in every hand. I spotted Dylan’s silky smooth hair right away. We had made it.  

As my boss approached, that feeling of relief vanished. Without his expensive clothes and soft lighting of the record shop, Dylan looked…old. He licked his lips when he saw me, and suddenly I wanted to puke. I wondered what an adult man was doing inviting a teenage girl to an event like this, then wondered why it had taken me so long to ask that question in the first place. The hungry expression on his face soured when he saw Raquel at my side:

“Who’s this?”

“My sister Raquel.” 

“I specifically told you that there’s only one invite per guest!”

“Right. You invited me, and I invited my sister.” I found myself getting angry on Raquel’s behalf. Who did Dylan think he was? She had just as much of a right to be here as anyone else! “If its a problem, we can just leave–”

“No, no problem.” Dylan clearly still thought he had a chance. He looked at Raquel’s outfit and snorted. “Just act like you don’t know me when you get to the door, okay?” 

“That won’t be hard.” Raquel snorted. There was a sarcastic edge to her voice that I had never heard before, and it occurred to me that maybe my sister was more than just the whiny teacher’s pet that I had always believed her to be. Maybe during these long years of high school, she had changed, too. 

A breeze blew down the alley, carrying dust, ripped-up plastic bags, and soggy newspaper pages. One of them stuck to Dylan’s pants and he pried it off with two fingers as though it were...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Wild-Tea-9242 on 2024-09-23 00:18:27+00:00.

---

We had walked in a straight line for nearly two hours and came back to 52 Magnolia Way. We trembled as we felt the weight of what was transpiring fall on us like a ton of bricks. We broke down under the burden of soul crushing dread.

“That… That doesn't make any sense.” Yazmine whimpered, her hand slowly releasing from mine.

Zack let out a strangled cry and crumbled to the ground, his tears dripping onto the asphalt. He hollered until his voice cracked.

“No,” John shook his head and stepped backwards, “someone's gotta be playing a prank on us. I-I mean, they gotta be!”

“What type of elaborate fucking prank is that?!” Bryce screamed in his face.

“I don't fucking know, alright?!” John screamed back, pushing him out of his personal space.

“That's not possible!” I told John, swiveling around to face him with tears trickling down my face. “This wasn't here a few hours ago, it's not possible to change the entire layout of a town just for a prank-”

“Okay!” John snapped, throwing his hands in the air. “Then I don't know! What do you want me to say?! That the ghosts did it?!”

“Jesus Christ,” I moaned in exasperation as I took my glasses off and rubbed my eyes.

“That's exactly what the hell is going on, don't even pretend it's not!” Vanessa argued with us, all while still filming.

“I've had enough of that fucking camera!” Yazmine lunged for her and Vanessa ducked out the way.

“Stop!” I came between them as Yazmine fought to take the camera away, her face flushed red from anger.

Vanessa was smiling, but it was a pathetic and weak smile, and her lips were trembling as tears ran down her cheeks. “I'm not doing anything.” She said quietly, wiping snot from her nose. “Just let me have this.”

“Yaz, chill out,” I grabbed my best friend's shoulders and held her firmly at bay. She breathed deeply in and out through her nose, her eyes shooting daggers at Vanessa and her teeth worrying her bottom lip. “Fighting isn't helping.” I said in a calmer voice. She jerked her arms out of my grasp and turned away, trying to collect herself.

“What's going on?” Zack uttered through quiet snobs, his voice nasally with mucus. “Why is this happening to us?”

“If we go back, will the same thing happen?” John wondered.

“I'm trying it.” Bryce turned and walked in the direction we had come.

“Wait,” Vanessa rushed over to him and grabbed his arm but he shrugged her off, “we just came from there!” We rushed to keep up with them as the two bickered.

“I don't care, we don't have anything to lose from trying,” Bryce replied stubbornly.

“If the same shit happens… Then that means we're trapped…” Zack looked about ready to have another breakdown.

John wrapped an arm around him reassuringly, “Don't think like that. We must have gotten turned around somehow.”

“Bullshit!” Vanessa threw him a dirty look over her shoulder. “You guys are in denial and it's not helping the situation at all. What we need to be doing is trying to appease the spirits, not spending another two hours walking this fucking road.”

“Appease my ass,” Bryce scoffed, “I'm not gonna-”

He stopped walking, making Vanessa nearly run into him.

“What’s-” I cut myself off as I looked ahead and realized what he was staring at. Everyone's gaze fell on a solitary figure, standing just at the edge of the further reaches of our flashlight beams in the center of the road.

It was a child, made obvious by her height, and Bryce's flashlight highlighted her from the torso down. She wore a filthy, faded purple dress and her feet were bare. She could've been at least eight or nine years old.

“What's a kid doing out here?” John muttered.

Bryce lifted the flashlight and illuminated the figure's face, giving us the horrifying truth.

The girl had no eyes. Only blood-caked, empty eye sockets. Her brown, frizzy hair was matted and tangled. Her skin was bloodless, and her pale lips were pressed into an eerie thin line. She stood still like a statue, not even moving a hair's width, the dark pits in her face emotionlessly boring holes into us.

We all flinched and drew in a sharp breath, taken aback by the gruesome sight.

“Oh…Oh my god.” Yazmine's mouth fell open as she staggered backward. “I saw her obituary. That's the Jenkins girl. She's fucking dead. She's dead!”

I couldn't help it, I screamed and ran back towards that dreaded Eye Ripper house, away from that horrifying specter. I could hear the pounding footfalls of the others right behind me, cursing and panting from fear. I scrambled into John's car, still parked outside, in the passenger side seat.

“Go go go!” I screamed, slapping the dashboard as John threw himself into the driver's seat and took out his car keys.

“We have to get out of here! Try it again!” Yazmine shouted as she and the others slid into the back seat, their shoulders flush against each other.

“I'm trying, I'm trying!” John tried to ignite the engine over and over again, but it only spat and spluttered like a wounded animal.

“This is hopeless.” Vanessa shook her head, camera raised towards the window as she looked for any more unwelcome specters. “They don't want us to leave, so we're not going to be able to. That's why we can't call anyone, that's why we can't walk back, and that's why the car won't start.”

“Then what do you suppose we do?” I faced her with an annoyed look.

“Clearly, we disturbed the spirits,” Vanessa began her explanation, “I think it happened when Zack left the game, you're supposed to say a proper goodbye when you're finished communicating with a spirit over the ouija, or else the window between our world and theirs won't close.”

“Oh, come on,” Zack groaned, “don't put this shit on me.”

“I think this place was already fucked to begin with,” Yazmine theorized, “we just should've never came here, that was our mistake. And I know I begged you guys to come, so I'm sorry.”

“To think I almost stayed at home…” Bryce groaned, head in his hands.

“We can't sit here pointing fingers, we have to figure out a solution,” I said, looking at the house in front of us warily, “Vanessa, Yazmine, since you guys seem to know so much about ghosts do you have any idea how we can get out of this?”

“Like I said,” Vanessa replied, “appease them.”

“Appease them fucking how?” I pressed.

Vanessa seemed surprised at my aggression, “Er, uh- we go in there, we get out the board, we apologize, and end the game correctly this time.” She shot a glare at Zack and he threw his middle finger up at her.

“‘In there'?” Bryce looked at her like she was crazy. “In where, the house where we caught that thing in the basement on camera?! In there?!”

“Yes, in there!” Vanessa glared at him. “Unless you have any better ideas?”

“Let's do it,” John said. He was the last person I expected to follow along. “I didn't believe in ghosts before but I guess I can't argue with whatever the fuck we saw back there.”

“Let's do this, and quick.” Yazmine agreed.

“I'm not going back in there!” Zack shrunk in on himself.

“Bro, there's six of us against one creepy little girl,” John tried to reason with him.

“And it might not work without every participant,” Vanessa added.

It took some nagging to get Zack to agree to leave the car, but eventually we found ourselves going back inside. First John went out the car and checked our surroundings, and when he deduced there were no scary dead girls lurking about, we all got out next, took the ouija board from the trunk, and hurried through the front door. Bryce locked it.

“Ghosts aren't deterred by locked doors, babe,” Yazmine raised an eyebrow.

“Whatever,” Bryce waved her away, “let's get this apology thing over with.”

“Are we gonna have to go back down in the basement?” I asked, hoping that wasn't the case.

“That's where the kids died.” Vanessa nodded grimly. “We have to.”

We filed down the basement slowly, flinching at every creak of the wood under our shoes. We scoured the whole place with flashlights, making sure no one was hiding, then sat down around the board like we did earlier. The atmosphere was heavy and foreboding. Once again, Vanessa set up the camera to film, and Yazmine lit four candles. We all piled our hands on top of the planchette, candle light flickering over our sweaty and nervous faces.

“I-is there anyone there?” Yazmine stammered, all her nerves from the first time gone without a trace.

This time, when the planchette moved under our hands, we didn't deny a ghost was doing it. We simply held our breath and watched as it landed on the word “Yes.”

“Listen,” Yazmine choked out through a sob, “we just want to say we're sorry for bothering you all in here, we were just - I don't know, we were just trying to have fun and-”

She stopped talking as the planchette spelled out a word. F. O. R. G. I. V. E.N.

“It says we're forgiven!” I smiled and wiped away a tear.

“So then…we can leave?” Zack asked unsurely.

The planchette started moving again. L. E. A. V. E. Y. O. U. R. E. Y. E. S.

“It said ‘leave your eyes,’” Vanessa whispered. My heart skipped a beat.

“We can't leave without our eyes, dipshits!” Bryce screamed towards the ceiling.

That's when all hell broke loose.

Suddenly, Yazmine, who was sitting right across from me, screamed and backpedaled away from the Ouija board. She was looking at me. No… she was looking…

Behind me?

I turned around, and an eyeless child, the boy I'd seen in the window, was standing over me.

Everything happe...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/TumbleWeedPasses on 2024-09-23 13:58:28+00:00.

---

My 9 year old daughter, Abi, has had a weird fear of mythical creatures for a while now.

I blame her mother, my ex, for giving her unrestricted access to the internet at a young age.

I began to grow tired of constantly having to 'check under her bed and in her wardrobe for monsters' every time she stayed at mine for the weekend, and even had to invest in a nightlight to help her sleep.

When she was younger, I was understanding. Lots of kids are afraid of the dark and things that go bump in the night. But as the years went on, this started to irritate me. It had gotten to the point where she didn't want to sleep by herself, couldn't sleep in the dark and absolutely refused to step outside at night.

Two weekends ago, Abi and I fell out because she point blank refused to take the trash out after dinner because it was dark. This led to me growing frustrated, as she only had to take five steps out the door, but she dug her heels in.

During that week I decided enough was enough and planned to take her camping in the forest for the weekend, to get her away from all the nonsense online and face her fears.

I ordered Abi some walking shoes, hiking trousers, a thermal jumper and some cheap t-shirts to pack for our weekend (Abi basically has an entire wardrobe of clothes she keeps here, but I didn't want her to complain if her clothes got dirty or damaged.)

I left work a bit earlier on Friday to prepare, packing a bag for myself and my daughter for our trip. I loaded up the car and made my way to my exes house to collect Abi.

Abi greeted me at the door and I held out a carrier bag full of hiking clothes.

'Hey you, go and put these on.' I smile handing her the bag.

'What is it?' She asks, peeking into the bag.

'Walking gear,' I tell her. 'We're going on an adventure.'

As Abi ran upstairs to get changed, my ex Martha sauntered to the door, her new partner Steve following behind.

'Hello Paul, hope you're well.' Martha smiled half-heartedly, with Steve offering me a nod of hello.

We engage in pleasantries for a while, when Martha asked me what our plans were for the weekend.

'Camping,' I tell her in a low voice. 'Under the guise of a brisk hike.'

'Oh Paul, no.' Martha frowns, shaking her head. 'You know what she's like with the dark.'

'Ah, leave him be Marth,' Steve chimed in, giving me a nod of approval. 'It'll bloody do the girl some good. My father would've done the same.'

Martha pursed her lips, as if thinking of a counter argument, before her shoulders dropped in defeat.

'Well, I guess. Just look after her, Paul.' She told me sternly.

'She'll be alright,' Steve assured her before I could respond, rubbing her shoulder. 'Don't you fret.'

Abi returned to the door not long after.

'How's it fit?' I asked her.

'Well, the shoes fit fine,' she replied, lifting her foot out in front of her. 'But the trousers are a little long, and the fleece is kinda big.'

She wasn't wrong, but I put it down to the unpredictability of online shopping.

'Looks alright to me.' Steve said, giving me a final nod farewell before my daughter and I retreated to the car.

....

'Dad, this hikes taking ages!' Abi whined, her arms swinging by her sides.

'It's only been a couple of hours, usually you're full of energy.' I chuckle.

We carried on walking until we reached a large clearing.

'Here will do.' I announced, sliding the backpack from my shoulders.

Abi looked at me perplexed. 'For what?'

'The campsite.' I smiled.

Abi's eyes widened.

'What!?' She snapped. 'Tell me you're joking.'

'Oh don't be dramatic,' I told her. 'Didn't you catch on when I got this huge bag out of the car?'

Abi began to panic, explaining to me how it will be dark soon and we need to leave.

'Hey now, calm down,' I assured her gently. 'We won't make it back to the car before dark anyways. Let's set up camp and we'll get a big fire going, I've bought marshmallows.'

....

The tent was up, baked beans and hot dogs were eaten and we sat around the campfire with marshmallows on sticks.

'See,' I smiled at her. 'This isn't so bad. Isn't it nice to be away from screens and pollution?'

'I guess.'

'Want a soda?' I asked, pulling two cans of sugary drink from my bag.

Abi raised an eyebrow. 'After 7? You and mum never let me have soda after 7.'

I nodded. 'Yeah, I guess you're right. I thought you might want one as a treat, but like you said...'

'No!' Abi yelled playfully as I pretended to put the sodas away.

I handed her a can and we both resumed our places at opposite ends of the fire, our sodas letting out a hiss as we pulled the tabs.

'So, how comes you're so scared of the dark?' I asked her, pulling my packet of cigarettes from my pocket and lighting one.

Abi ran her finger around the rim of her can. 'You know why.'

'Monsters.' I reply. Abi nodded without looking up.

'Do you believe in monsters?' She asked me.

I shook my head. 'Nah, well I mean I don't believe in the kinda monsters you do with the claws and horns. I believe some bad people can be monsters though.'

'I don't believe in those kinds of things.' Abi told me.

I raised an eyebrow. 'Uh, so what sorts do you believe in?'

Abi looked down at her can again, prodding the tab with her finger.

'Have you ever heard of the hermits?'

'The what?' I asked, a slight chuckle escaping my lips.

'The hermits.' my daughter repeated.

'Can't say I have.'

Abi pulled her phone from her bag, opening a folder in her picture gallery and handing me the phone.

I put my can down next to me and begin flicking through.

The first image was a drawing of a humanoid creature, but its ears were slightly pointed and its eyes were a pale white with pupils like a snake. It had locks of thin, white, greasy hair. It looked as though its nose had been removed and it was drawn wearing only a white shred of cloth around its groin.

The second was a realistic looking image similar to the drawing. It had long, sharp fingernails and was grinning with pointy yellow teeth. It was thin and seemed to hunch over, with greyish skin and a hairless body. This image didn't show it wearing the shredded white cloth, instead it appeared to have a small bulging pouch similar to a kangaroo where a human would have their reproductive parts.

I scrolled to the next image, which was mostly text with two different sketches of the creature. One looked more male and the other female, with a slightly fattier chest, a 'pouch' that went sideways and a more flexible, hunched over stance.

I flick my finger across the screen to the next image, which showed local statistics of missing children and hikers who vanished without a trace, with some locations and images of victims.

What followed this image was a screenshot of a written text.

"The hermits generally reside in woodlands and farmland where they can easily acquire food.

The hermits usual source of food is bone marrow of larger mammals such as livestock (mainly cattle), horses, deer and humans.

The hermits are attracted to the smell of blood, some say they can smell it from up to a mile away, although this hasn't yet been proven.

The hermits are social predators, which follow similar pack rankings as we give to wolves.

The hermits don't tent to follow the usual pack gender roles, with both males and females engaging in similar activities and ranks for both sexes. "

I continued flicking through the album, which showed more sketches, pictures and grainy camera footage.

'Huh, they are pretty creepy,' I admitted. 'But they're not real. There's been all kinds folklore around since I was a kid. Used to scare me a bit too, but it's just make believe.'

Abi frowned at me as I handed her phone back. 'It's not fake, dad. I've seen them. They roam the woods at the back of the house.'

I chuckled. 'That so?' As I moved my arm, a pointy branch from the log I was sitting on snagged the sleeve of my fleece, pulling some of the thread out.

'Dammit.' I hissed, raising my arm to inspect the damage. Abi suddenly jumped up.

'Did you cut yourself?' She squealed.

'No, no. I just got my fleece caught on a stick.' I told her.

Abi went into a tirade about checking my arm for cuts to ensure it's not bleeding.

'They can smell blood. They target the wounded for an easy kill.'

I looked at her and sighed.

'Kid, let's just get ready for bed...'

....

I turned in my sleeping bag, trying to get comfortable. The dim yellow beam from the flashlight which Abi had insisted we hang from the roof of the tent was all that illuminated our shelter.

I was about to drift off, when I felt my shoulder being poked.

'Dad, I need a wee.'

I turned and sat up in my warm sleeping bag. 'OK, go ahead and take the light. Don't go too far.'

'Can you come with me?' Abi asked awkwardly.

'You're plenty old enough to do these things by yourself.' I told her, already unzipping my sleeping bag knowing my fate was sealed.

I grabbed the flashlight and climbed out of the tent, aiming the light at a large tree.

'Here, you take the light, just go behind that tree over there.'

I turned around and took a deep, tired breath, feeling the crisp air caress my face.

My daughter returned, her face pale.

'Dad, something's wrong...'

'What's wrong?'

'I think, I think I'm bleeding.'

'What, where? Did you get a scratch? I've got a first aid kit if it's bad and-'

Abi cut me off by pointing to her lap. 'There.' She looked at me, visibly upset and uncomfortable.

It took me a moment before it ...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/jarofgoodness on 2024-09-23 04:22:34+00:00.

---

The smoldering sun broiled my forehead as I made my way down a back alley in Tijuana. The road was made of broken bricks of various shades of red, each rising up to different heights above the level that would have made them flush. I suppose at some point in the distant past they were new and beautiful. Back then the alley probably saw more traffic than it does now, I thought.

Up ahead and to my left there was an old wooden door in the side of an abandoned building. It looked like it had been a grocery store specifically meant for tourists at some point. Now it sported shattered windows, graffiti, and trash clogging up the front entrance. A young Mexican boy named Pedro stood a few feet to the right of the door and was pointing at it and staring at me with a very concerned expression on his face.

"Senior," he exclaimed, "please. Go to my Uncle's rug shop. You don't want to go in here."

I stopped in front of him. "This is that Doctor's office I asked you about, right?" He lowered his arm.

"Si, but you should not go in there. My cousin knew a boy and his friends Mami went in there and never came back out," he plead.

"So, your cousins' friend's mother?" I asked.

"Si. He cry for three weeks!"

I gave him a crisp American twenty dollar bill and thanked him for showing me the way. He turned exasperated, and walked away slowly.

I returned my gaze to the old wooden door hanging crookedly on rusty hinges with it's chipping pastel green paint. I'd come a long way from San Diego for this. I'd lost my job and with it my health insurance a few months earlier. Having come down with a lung condition afterwards for which a treatment did exist, I'd found myself in a financial situation which put that treatment out of reach for me. A friend of mine had heard of a Doctor in Mexico who offered the treatment at a fraction of the price. And that led me here.

They said his name was Doctor Diablo, which didn't set my nerves at ease. The condition of his office was also causing me concern. But this was Mexico. Things were different here. I shouldn't expect the same kind of clean shiny offices like we have in the States. In fact, I was feeling kind of guilty for even worrying about it. You can't judge people like that, I said to myself. It's kind of racist and I certainly didn't want to offend the good Doctor.

So I took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, imagining the stress draining out of my half clogged lungs as I did. I felt better after that and slowly opened the door. It squeaked. The floor of the hallway inside creaked as my foot pressed down on what seemed flimsy plywood covered with linoleum tiles.

There was another door just inside that led to a small room with a reception desk and a couple of cheap folding chairs, the metal kind you might find at some public school function.

No one was there but a box-fan was on in the corner blowing the hot air around as if pretending to keep the room cool. There was a little bell on the desk so I rang it. A minute later a man came out from a backroom. He was middle aged and dressed in a white t-shirt and blue jeans. He had dark hair and a mustache. He looked me up and down and then examined an open notebook.

"Ah," he said. "You must be the American." I nodded. He smiled. "You know I'm an American too. You see, Mexico is in North America so we are both Americans."

"That's right," I said as he laughed. I guess this was supposed to be funny. I appreciated him trying to give the situation some levity.

"You left your phone at your hotel like we agreed?" he asked.

"It's in my car. I haven't checked into a hotel."

"Oh I see," he scratched his chin and thought for a few seconds. "You know the Federales are always trying to shut us down. We can't take any chances. Where did you park your car?"

"It's in the lot behind Hernandez Emporium."

"Oh, that far? Good. That's good. Ok. The Doctor will see you now. Just follow the hallway and when you get to the door go down the stairs." He then retreated into the backroom through the door he'd come out of.

The hallway was the only other way out of the room. It was dimly lit with florescent tube lights that barely let out a glow and a window to the right. A small wooden cabinet was on the left. The floor seemed to be concrete under it's worn and peeling paint. There were a couple of closed doors in the short corridor and an open one at the far end.

I walked through and entered the open doorway into a dark hallway which had a few open doors on either side. I looked into those rooms as I walked past.

The first one had boxes on the floor and several shelves on the far wall. On one of these shelves I noticed several glass jars with strange looking contents. A few seemed to have dried up fungi or plant specimens but a couple had small skulls which seemed to me to be from small monkeys.

I wondered for a moment if this guy was some kind of witch doctor, but then I stopped myself. No, I thought, there's no place in my thought process for that kind of cultural bigotry. I'm sure he's just a collector.

The next room had a padded table in it with extensions for arms and legs which included leather straps. Again I had a moment of fear. If someone were strapped down on that thing, they'd be helpless for any psychopath to have their way with. "Stop it," I said to myself. "I'm sure it's just for violent mental cases. They have these at insane asylums to protect the staff from out of control nutcases."

The third open door was to a room with cinder-block walls and a single dim light in the ceiling. Hung on the walls were what seemed to me to be medieval instruments of torture. Apprehension filled me up in an instant and I almost turned to leave. Then I came to my senses.

"What are you, some kind of racist?" I asked myself. "Just because you're in Mexico doesn't mean that every doctor is some kind of fly by night quack or serial killer. How do you know what those things are for? Are you a doctor? Did you go to medical school? Okay then."

I reached the end of the hall and to my left was the stairwell. I followed it down into the cool basement level. The drop in temperature was a relief and set me much at ease.

The basement was comprised of two rooms from what I could tell. The first was a small waiting room with several chairs and one florescent tube light flickering and buzzing away as they do. I sat down to wait and the doctor entered a minute later through the only door.

He wore a white lab coat and had a traditional stethoscope draped around his neck. His eyes were bloodshot and set back into his head within crater like structures on his heavily creased leathery face. He bore a black mustache and goatee which, along with his tattooed right hand, gave me the impression of an East LA gang member. Otherwise he looked like any ordinary doctor you'd see in any normal hospital.

"Gringo?" he said. "You here for the lung infection?" I nodded. "You got the money?" I handed him a folded stack of cash I had set aside in my pocket. He counted it, then fixed his eyes on me. "Okay. Come in the back."

I followed him through the door into a small operating room. The place was a mess: wires from various machines on the floor, dusty old equipment everywhere, and one of two surgical lights broken. Pale blue tiles went halfway up the wall and wrapped around the room. Above that cheap wooden paneling had a chipped and peeling light green paint job. The surgery table was in the center and was the only thing about the room that looked normal.

He instructed me to sit on the table and so I did. He fumbled through a cabinet and pulled out a thick metal wand like thing which was attached to a tube which he hooked up to a machine. When he turned it on it made a whirring sound.

"Now open your mouth up," he commanded, "I gotta check your lung pressure."

I opened my mouth wide as he lurched forwards like a madman, shoving the thing deep into my mouth. He held my face with both hands one on each side of my mouth, pulling the skin hard as if forcing me not to close my lips. He pushed and I fell back on the table as the wand slid halfway down my throat.

I could feel it vibrating in my neck. It seemed to be alternating blowing and then sucking air in. I thought he was trying to kill me and was using the front of being a "doctor" to lure in unsuspecting victims.

The man was strong and I couldn't pull the wand back up. I began panicking as I choked. He howled as I did. "Just take it Gringo! Just take it!"

Just as I was about to suffocate he pulled the thing back out and calmly turned and approached the machine the device was hooked up to. I rubbed my neck and breathed in deeply as he flicked a few switches on the unit.

"Hmm," he said. He turned to face me. "Well. You definitely got a problem hombre." He started fumbling through another cabinet.

He was just used to people fighting the procedure. It's a reflex. I mean shoving something down someone's throat. I'm sure everyone fights it. Of course, I thought. He's not a psycho. It's just his style of practice.

A wave of shame overtook me for thinking otherwise. Here he was just trying to make a living and I come down here from the United States with all my privilege and prejudices thinking he's some kind of criminal.

Just then, he turned around from the cabinet having retrieved another instrument. It was a set of black pressure sleeves like is used to check blood pressure. Only they were huge and all connected. He wrapped the largest s...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BadandyTheRed on 2024-09-23 05:22:17+00:00.

---

I know that another call is coming today. I don’t know when and I don’t know why, but it will. They have been the only constant in the chaotic maelstrom of decision and consequence that has been the last few weeks of my life. Oddly reassuring knowing I can look forward to them, yet completely powerless to know exactly when they will occur or more importantly what I should do about them. Any doubt is gone, I have seen too many things to believe it is just some trick or coincidence. I don't want to believe, but I have to now. I know I have a responsibility to do something, I just don’t know what that is most of the time. I am tired and overwhelmed, but someone has to do something and that someone is me. I was chosen to know what will happen and given the burden of stopping it, or just bearing witness. I suppose I understand how ignorance can be bliss now. Sorry, I should elaborate and tell you what has been happening to me these last few weeks, I know it might sound crazy but bear with me.

The first call was two weeks ago. I was just getting off work and had to take care of something that was equal parts annoying and expensive. I needed to pick up a new phone since I managed to completely break my old Galaxy by dropping it the day before. The screen shattered of course, but worse some damage to the internal components completely broke it and it would not boot up or do anything other than display a blank screen. As I was about to head out to purchase my new device, the seemingly dead phone sprang to life and started ringing. Not with my own ringtone but a strange chime I had not heard before and was not sure if it was even in the list of pre-programed ringtones. I was confused how it could still ring but was momentarily relieved since I figured it might still work after all. I could not really afford anything better at the moment anyway so if I could I would save the expense. Putting aside the decision to keep my shattered phone a while longer or not I answered the call. I was surprised and disturbed when before I could even say hello and panic-stricken voice cut me off.

“Help! Oh God please help someone stabbed him; they stabbed Michael please send help.” It sounded like someone was trying to call the emergency line and somehow it got sent to my broken phone. I was confused and I tried to explain to the distraught person on the phone that I was not emergency services.

“I am sorry, I know it sounds like a real emergency there, but you need to dial 911 and get help I don’t know who this is and I can’t track the location, this is a personal cell phone not 911.”

Before I could try and explain more, I was cut off.

“What do you mean? I did call 911, I need help! Someone stole our car and stabbed my boyfriend, Michael. We need help now! Get a real dispatcher or something please. He is losing so much blood; we need help now! We are near the park on, what was it?” She paused, likely confirming the address.

“We are on 4th Ave and Becket Street I think please send help.” I did not know what I could do. I had tried to suggest they call 911 but they sounded sure that they had. I did not know how to tell the panicked woman that I couldn't help. I finally decided on a plan and told her,

“Alright mam try and stay calm, I will try and call emergency services myself and send them there. Please try and call 911 again over there and see if it routes you correctly so someone can help. What can I tell them your name is?” There was a pause and the voice on the other line spoke again.

“It’s Kendra, Kendra --------Wa-----” Static interrupted her response and after a moment the line went dead. I tried to call 911 but after that call my dead phone had died once again and it was unable to make even an emergency call. I hoped that whoever that Kendra woman was got hold of emergency services. I had no idea how I had gotten the call but either way they really needed help and I sure was not an EMT. I thought they likely got through since I did not get another call, but the more I thought about it the more concerned and responsible I felt. I considered the location she gave. I knew that park, it was not too far from where I was so I figured I would go and check and make sure that they got through to 911 and someone was there on scene to help.

I drove out to the park and found the corner of the park by 4th and Becket. Not many people were around since it was fairly late in the evening. Certainly, no signs of a stabbing or carjacking on this street corner. Since no one was around I started thinking that maybe I had been the victim of a prank and that no one was here. It might have just been some elaborate crank call, meant to rile people up about emergencies for some kind of sick entertainment. I felt upset by being fooled, but also relieved that no one was really in trouble and I decided to head home. The Verizon store was closed by that point, so I would have to try again tomorrow. I stuffed the Verizon coupon I had saved and hoped would help discount a new phone for me back into my pocket. Having scribbled the address that Kendra had given me on the back of the paper I started to feel silly for having gone out there.

The next evening after work I was planning to go buy the overpriced replacement for my phone again. As I got into my car to leave, I fumbled in my pocket for the coupon I had received and had written the address from the prank call the day before on. It was not there. My heart sank, it was a coupon for one hundred dollars off on a new galaxy phone, which considering how much they cost was not a huge percentage and I would have to finance it anyway. Still a hundred dollars was a hundred dollars! I still had a while before the store closed so I decided to check back by the park. I thought maybe I may have dropped it there when I had gotten out to look for the so-called crime scene. It was a stupid idea, I knew that. I figured that unless someone was going to buy a phone, they might not have picked it up and it could still be there.

I drove back to where I had been the previous night. There were more people around this time. A few joggers, some bike riders and people walking the trail. I parked and got out of my car and started looking near where I had been standing the night before. The whole idea was stupid but if it could save me a bit of money I would go for it. As expected, after fumbling around for a few minutes I could not find the paper anywhere and I started walking back to my car. I saw a young couple walking hand in hand back to the parking lot as well. They had arrived back at their car and the gentlemen opened the door for his lady. I thought the gesture was very sweet, which made the next few moments even more horrifying. As he closed the door and started to the driver's side. A figured dressed in all black jumped out of the nearby bushes and shouted at the man. I couldn't make out the words from where I was but he was holding something and when the gentlemen reached into his pocket the figure in black lunged forward and attacked. He seemed to stab the gentleman several times and I heard a scream from the woman who had just emerged from their car. She was still screaming and rushed towards the fallen man and I thought I heard her shout,

“Michael no!”

I stood there frozen unable to act, I knew I should help but I was paralyzed by the sudden brutality and horror of the situation. Before I could move the man in black peeled out of the parking lot in the couple's car. They remained where they were, her screaming continued and she held onto him. The sound had finally snapped me out of my confused and terrified daze and I raced over to try and help. As soon as I approached the woman looked up at me. Her hands were covered in the man’s blood and she begged for help,

“Help call 911, he’s been stabbed my Michael he’s been stabbed!”

I fell back in confused shock; the voice was familiar the name was too. That was the woman from the phone call yesterday. It sounded exactly like her, there was no mistaking it, I couldn't understand how it was all happening in that moment. My confused reverie was interrupted by the woman shouting me back to my senses.

“Don’t just stand there, please we need help!” I did not know how to response but I managed to stutter out a meek,

“My, my phones broken I am so sorry maybe I can find help.” As I backed away trying to figure out what to do a jogger had happened by and raced over to help. She sat down with them and was assisting in stabilizing Michael. She had given her cell phone to the woman who seemed to be calling 911. As she finished dialing the number I felt an odd tingling in the air and suddenly my broken phone vibrated and a notification bell chimed. I sat there dumbly watching everything unfold is disbelief. After a brief delay I heard her speak and I was not prepared, though perhaps I should have been, for what happened next.

“Help! Oh God please help someone stabbed him; they stabbed Michael please send help.”

I felt an odd thrumming of electrical energy from the phone as she spoke and I knew what she was going to say next.

“What do you mean? I did call 911, I need help! Someone stole our car and stabbed my boyfriend, Michael. We need help now! Get a real dispatcher or something please. He is losing so much blood; we need help now! We are near the park on, what was it?”

I unconsciously mouthed the words that followed since I had heard them less than...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/jebstewart on 2024-09-22 20:41:02+00:00.

---

It wasn’t entirely uncommon to see various stores come and go along our local strip mall. In fact, I recall purchasing a grill from ‘Armstrongs Hardware’ in the same building that had been a chinese buffet only a month prior. The stores came and they went, a tale of another family unable to make ends meet.

Not much changed around the Oakfield area outside of the carousel of businesses. The local skatepark remained dead and the bowling alley had become a hot spot for purchasing shitty weed and laced coke. School numbers had remained on the decline since the turn of the century as families filed out one after the other. 

Anyways, I suppose that’s a good enough history lesson on the quaint town of Oakfield, Illinois. A once promising city that would be lucky to be classified as a village now. 

Here I am, once a man, lucky to be classified as a bum now. 

I’d made a decent living and a good name for myself during my tenure at the Oakfield Cafe. The food wasn’t necessarily fancy but that’s okay, it brought the town comfort. Good ol’ fashioned soul food. However, things took a turn during Covid and we were forced to shut the place down. I’ve been unable to hold down anything ever since, outside of the occasional freelance job.

The morning I happened upon ‘Rileys Fungeon’ had been like many which had come before it, in fact, it had seemed markedly better. The air was cool and crisp, the Fall was easing in and washing out the heat of a long, dry Summer. A perfect day for some job hunting.

My parents had always told me that it’s better to apply in person than online. So that’s exactly what I did. I threw on my cleanest white shirt (all the others had paint stains from previous jobs) and a pair of blue jeans and out I went. 

I had been actively avoiding applying at the bowling alley so I decided to see if any new stores popped up at the strip mall since my last visit. My beat up, old civic bounced and lurched along the decaying roads, fighting the monstrous potholes along the entrance of the malls parking lot. 

In total, the row of buildings could house five stores, though it seemed one of them always remained vacant. Starting from the left was the longest tenured of the five, a laundromat which never seemed to have an employee present. No dice. 

Next to that was ‘Blue’s Supermarket’, which probably accounted for 90% of the traffic in the mall. Unfortunately, I’d already applied there at least half a dozen times and had yet to hear anything back. Might be worth another shot. 

Then, right there in the middle, was exactly what I’d hoped for. A new store, a new possibility for employment. 

‘Riley’s Fungeon’, the scarlet-colored sign read. Weird name, but it was worth a shot. 

The door to my Civic squealed in protest as I pushed it open and slid out. I peered up at the sign with the funny name again before pushing the door shut and making my way to the building. I wish I could say that I had felt some sort of the ominous foreboding as I walked up to Rileys Fungeon, but rather it was a sort of cautious optimism. Truthfully, I felt great, like I’d already got the job offer and my financial burdens would soon be a thing of the past.

Those dreams were promptly crumbled up and shot into outer space as soon as I made my way inside. 

A victorian-esque couch, the color of crimson, sat lonely in the middle of the vacant room. Several lamps, which hung from the wall, cast a golden hue over the dark, wooden floors. The darkness seemed absolute outside of the lamps glow. All the windows were shrouded by curtains which matched the couches' red hue. 

As odd as it all seemed, it was somewhat comforting. 

My footsteps fell especially loudly in the empty room. This may sound weird, but at that moment  I was sure that I was the only soul in the room. 

As I came closer to the red couch, I noticed a short, mahogany desk sat directly in front of it. Its top was no more than a foot above the floor. A metal box stood in the middle of the desk, with a yellow button protruding from the top. 

“Hello?”, my voice echoed much like my footsteps had. Nobody answered.

Against any rational judgement, I decided to take a seat.

Almost instantly, two more lamps directly in front of me turned on, revealing a chalkboard. In perfect cursive it read, ‘Welcome to Rileys Fungeon, where your wish is our command. Ask the box anything and press the button. Remember, it all comes with a price”. 

The creeps had thoroughly settled in by this point, my heart had begun pounding furiously. What did any of it mean? Anything? I mean, really, anything? 

I sat dumbfounded on that couch for a while, reading its message repeatedly. ‘It all comes with a price’, I thought, all too aware of the empty wallet sitting in my pocket. Though, even then, I had a feeling that wasn’t the kind of price it meant. 

“Hello?”, I called out once more, hoping somebody, anybody would come clarify what this all meant. Obviously, it couldn’t be real. This had to be some sort of gag store for some assholes Youtube channel or Tiktok. 

I looked around the room again, studying the shadows between the lamps glow. No matter how long I looked into those shadows, no matter how long I let my eyes adjust to that darkness, they couldn’t seem to penetrate through that pitch black. 

I shifted in my seat, suddenly aware of the fact that I was sitting alone in a dark room of a place called ‘Rileys Fungeon’. Maybe people in horror movies aren’t as dumb as people make them out to be… or maybe I’m just the perfect person to play such a role.

Once again, against any rational thought, I decided to press the button. As my finger lifted from the glowing button, I went still, expecting someone or something to emerge from the shadows and either snatch me up or laugh and scream that I had just been ‘pranked’. Neither happened. 

I returned my gaze to the chalkboard. ‘Ask the box anything’, it said. As greedy as this makes me sound, it took little time for me to decide on my wish. Rent wasn’t going to pay itself. 

“I need eight hundred dollars… please?”, I said. At first, nothing happened. I sat there feeling like an idiot, getting ready to hop up from the couch and continue my job search elsewhere. Then, from one of those inky shadows in the corner of the room, I could hear  the squeal of a door on its rusted hinges.

I froze.

A tall, slender figure began to materialize through the darkness. I wanted to bolt so badly, but it felt as though my body was frozen in time. 

A man, or what I assume was a man, emerged  from the shadows. He was adorned in a black suit with matching black pants. He wore a mask over his face, a mask which looked like it was straight from a Victorian masquerade party. The mask had a long, skinny nose and no mouth… its eyes appeared to be sewn shut.

In his hand was a large, silver platter with a dome concealing its contents. He walked swiftly and without hesitation. At once, he stood directly over me, his gaze never meeting my own. He lifted the platters sparkling dome. 

Upon it, were eight perfect stacks of hundred dollar bills… and a razor. As my shaky hands drew near my prospective rent funds, the man raised his hand like a cross guard trying to stop a car. 

Instead, he lifted the razor.

I looked at the razor and then at him, though he seemed to be fixated on something beyond me.

“What do I do with it?”, I asked, cringing at the weakness of my cracking voice. I turned my gaze back to the chalkboard, which revealed a new message. 

‘Shave one of your eyebrows off’, it said. 

“That’s it?”, I asked the man, though I was sure he wouldn’t answer. If I had to walk around for a month or so looking like an idiot, at least I’d  have an apartment to hide in the meantime. I plucked the razor from his gloved hand and promptly erased of my eyebrows. 

I set the razor back on the platter when I was done and scooped up the stacks of bills. My feet were unsteady as I walked haphazardly to the door, looking back one more time before thanking the silent man and leaving. 

Rent was paid on time that month. 

My insides felt slimy and sick for a while after using the services of Rileys Fungeon. Though I wish I could say that feeling had stopped me from ever returning. Over the following months I had returned for various things, ranging from more help with my financial burdens or the occasional steak dinners. All of the requests had remained fairly innocent.

Once I had to shave my entire head bald, another time they made me flip my eyelids open. Though, sometimes, they were a bit more… ominous. Once I had to smash one of my fingers with a hammer, which had broken it, though the money I got was able to pay for a doctors visit and more. 

They’d also made me pull one of my teeth after I requested a little help in the dating scene. But it was more than worth it after my recent influx of female visitors.

Truthfully, life was good. But, as it was programmed in my lizard brain, humans simply cannot let a good thing be. I figured if I got one big lump sum that I would never have to return to the Fungeon. But, I had to be smart, I had to be.

If I asked for a million dollars, could you imagine what horrible shit they’d make me do? I couldn't let that happen. I needed help.

The trees were barren at this point and a thin layer of sleet had taken up residence on the sidewalk leading to my grandmothers home. She was more than excited to see her seldom present grandson knocking at t...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1fn33d2/the_new_store_at_the_local_strip_mall_will_grant/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/TheKillingJoke1991 on 2024-09-22 18:21:42+00:00.

---

This morning I found some audio recordings on my phone. For whatsoever reason I’ve been recording myself at night. These recordings are my own narrations of what I’ve been doing after apparently waking up at 3AM. Truth be told I can’t vividly recall any of this happening. I woke up this morning and everything seemed so normal.

Have any of you ever experienced anything like this? Is something off? I can’t wrap my head around any of this so I decided to write down what I found.

 

20/09/2024 

 

It’s 3AM. 

Woke up from a bad dream. 

Can’t exactly recall what it was about, but it feels like I had that exact same dream before.

Only three more hours before my alarm goes off. 

God I hope that I will never ever have to experience that dream again. 

Have to calm my nerves and get back to sleep. 

I’ll go downstairs to have a glass of water. 

I’m in my pitch black room and all is quiet except for the occasional creaking sound of the roof. 

Found the lights. 

Going down the stairs. 

There’s a painting on the wall. 

Haven’t looked at it in ages. 

It’s a painting of the ocean. 

No wonder I haven’t looked at it in a long time. 

Entering my living room. 

Father’s asleep on the couch. 

He’s fast asleep.

Television’s on.

It’s showing footage from the eye of a cyclone. 

I go to my kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. 

Radio in the kitchen’s off, all is quiet. 

Television’s still on and still showing footage from the eye of a cyclone. 

Time to go back upstairs and get some sleep. 

Only three more hours before the alarm goes off. 

Going up the stairs again. 

Open the door to the left. 

Wrong room, it’s my brother’s. 

Brother’s not living at home anymore, but the room still looks the same. 

Hanging from the wall there’s a few pictures of exotic locations and a painting of a forest. 

He always had a thing for nature. 

Entering my own room now. 

A cartoon’s playing on my TV. 

Can’t remember leaving on the TV in my room. 

It’s an old kid’s cartoon. 

Can’t remember ever having seen that cartoon.

Switching off the TV and the lights.

I’m alone in my bed and there’s nobody else with me. 

Only three more hours before my alarm goes off. 

I hope the night will soon be over. 

 

21/09/2024

 

It’s 3AM. 

A yelling voice inside my head woke me up from a bad dream. 

Can’t exactly recall what it was about, but it feels like I had that exact same dream before.

Only three more hours before my alarm goes off. 

God I hope that I will never ever have to experience that dream again. 

Have to calm my nerves and get back to sleep. 

I’ll go downstairs to have a glass of water. 

I’m in my pitch black room and all is quiet except for a wheezing sound coming from the room next to me. 

Found the lights. 

Going down the stairs. 

There’s a painting on the wall. 

Haven’t looked at it in ages. 

It’s a painting of the ocean with a hand coming out of the water. 

Wonder how I never noticed that. 

Entering my living room. 

Father’s asleep on the couch. 

It looks like he’s staring at me.

Television’s on.

It’s showing footage from the eye of a cyclone. 

I go to my kitchen and pour myself a glass of water. 

Radio in the kitchen’s on, station’s playing some weird chanting gibberish. 

Television’s still on and it’s showing footage of a field. 

Time to go back upstairs and get some sleep. 

Only three more hours before the alarm goes off. 

Going up the stairs again. 

Open the door to the left. 

Wrong room, it’s my brother’s. 

Brother’s not living at home anymore, but the room still looks the same. 

Hanging from the wall there’s a few pictures of a few uncanny faces and a painting of a forest. 

He always had a thing for the weird. 

Entering my own room now. 

A cartoon’s playing on my TV. 

Can’t remember leaving on the TV in my room. 

It’s a rather disturbing old cartoon. 

Can’t remember old cartoons every being this disturbing. 

Switching off the TV and the lights.  

I’m alone in my bed and I think there’s somebody else standing at the doorway. 

Only three more hours before my alarm goes off. 

I hope the night will soon be over. 

 

22/09/2024

 

It’s 3AM. 

A terrifying screaming voice inside my head woke me up from a dream. 

Can’t exactly recall what it was about, but it feels like I had that exact same dream before.

Only three more hours before my alarm goes off. 

God I hope that I ever will be able to experience that dream again. 

Have to turn down my excitement and get back to sleep. 

I’ll go downstairs to have a glass of blood. 

I’m in my pitch black room and all is quiet except for a moaning sound coming from the room next to me. 

Found the lights. 

Going down the stairs. 

There’s a painting on the wall. 

Haven’t looked at it in ages. 

It’s a painting of a dead bloated corpse with open eyes drifting beneath the surface of the ocean. 

Wonder how I never noticed that. 

Entering my living room. 

A pile of dismembered limbs, organs and an eviscerated human torso is placed on the couch. 

A degloved skull is staring at me.

Television’s on.

It’s showing footage of a dead horse lying in a field. 

I go to my kitchen and pour myself a glass of bone marrow. 

Radio in the kitchen’s on, station’s playing some cacophonous noise of barking dogs. 

Television’s still on and it shows a man crawling out of a dead horse’s opened abdomen. 

Time to go back upstairs and get some sleep. 

Only three more hours before the alarm goes off. 

Going up the stairs again. 

Open the door to the left. 

Wrong room, it’s my brother’s. 

Brother’s not living at home anymore, but the room still looks the same. 

Hanging from the wall there’s a few pictures of atrocities being committed during multiple wars and a painting of a man standing in the middle of a forest. 

He always had a fascination for the morbid. 

Go into my own room now. 

My TV’s switching channels between multiple cartoons. 

Can’t remember leaving on the TV in my room. 

They’re all rather disturbing old cartoons. 

Can’t remember old cartoons ever featuring this amount of slaughter. 

Switching off the TV and the lights. 

I’m alone in my bed and there’s somebody else with me in my room. 

Only three more hours before my alarm goes off. 

I hope the night will last forever.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/googlyeyes93 on 2024-09-22 21:42:55+00:00.

---

Previous

DAY 12

Beginning to wonder if there’s any point in keeping count of days anymore. The only way I know is by consulting the clocks around the facility and my computer, but who knows if those are accurate. I haven’t seen the sun since the shutters came down, and at this point, I don’t know if I’ll ever see it again. Wish I would have enjoyed my time outside more while I still had it.

The subjects are all still alive. I don’t know if we’ve passed some sort of advanced regeneration point, but we did take a blood sample for analysis from Two. He was still alive, something… torturing him. It’s like the invisible force that ripped him apart would wait for his wounds to scab over, taking their time then poking hard at the healing skin, making it bleed again as they pulled the it off. He couldn’t do anything but scream in pain.

One didn’t seem catatonic anymore at all. He had passed into a new point, one where he was bright eyed and awake for the first time in days. He started talking to us, with nobody in particular as his target, just open ended questions.

ONE: So, what are you in here for? What did you do? Wanna know what I did?

TWO: Shut up! Shut up! Stop singing!

ONE: Oh, that’s not me.

FOUR: Please let me go. Please just let me out of here. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

Three was huddled in his corner again, facing inward and muttering how he was going to teach someone a lesson, and they would listen to him after all was said and done. We got the answer on that pretty quick, because he was the first to respond.

THREE: I needed to teach that bitch a lesson. She wanted to get uppity, and I had to show the kids what happens when you get like that… how they should be a man. A woman is supposed to submit to her husband, dammit, and if she won’t I’ve got every right to punish her. What’s so wrong about living by God’s word?

ONE: Oooooh that’s the woman beside you. Huh, looks like she brought the kids for a visit. You show them their place, too?

THREE: They would have ended up just like her if I hadn’t saved them. They would’ve been ungrateful whores to any man they were lucky enough to have. I kept them pure. They died pure.

Taryn looked like she was going to throw up. I made a motion for her to leave the room, going back to her room for some quiet. She shook her head, refusing to be shaken once again. The woman was showing strength I hadn’t seen since my mother passed, and that was a high bar.

ONE: Damn, dude. At least I just shot up a school because they were bullies.

There’s two mysteries solved now. One was a shooter (and fit the stereotype, honestly) while Three was a family annihilator. I lost a lot of the pity I had for either of them through the experiment then, especially when One started describing his spree.

ONE: You know, it was REALLY easy to gat shots off in a school. Have they changed that yet:? I’ve been locked up for years so I’ve only been told hearsay. God, back in my day you could just walk right in with a twelve gauge in hand. I can see Erica standing right over there, speak of the devil. Not sure if she’s looking at me or not though, since there’s… well, there’s not much to her face anymore. OH! I think I get it now. They appear how they died, that’s why your family is soaking wet, right?

THREE: I drowned them…

ONE: What’d you use, bathtub? Baptise ‘em in the old river downstream? Come on, tell me!!!!

THREE: I tied cinderblocks to their feet and threw them in our pool.

ONE: (whistling) Damn, that’s intense. Good on you, buddy. Innovative. How ‘bout you Jeffrey Jr.? What’re you in for?

FOUR: None of your damn business.

ONE: Oh, the little group around you says otherwise. Lots of hospital gowns. They look fuckin’ delirious too, more than all of us.

FOUR: I was trying to help.

ONE: Help what? The Grim Reaper?

TWO: SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!

ONE: Calm down, boss. We know what you’re in for, look at all these girls. I lost fucking count, and they look pretty young. Care to explain?

TWO: FUCK YOU!

ONE: Yeah, don’t think we needed any explanation anyway. Honestly, I look like a saint compared to you fuckers.

FOUR: Please, shut the fuck up.

ONE: What do you guys think the other guy had? I saw a bunch of burning body parts around him. I know the default answer is probably arson, but MY personal theory is that he was in charge of some major war crimes. Those things looked obliterated and COOKED. Like, well done cooked.

He was relishing this at this point, even though he was missing half of his organs. This son of a bitch was commanding the room like a storyteller, spilling everyone’s darkest secrets. When he looked at us, I felt my blood run cold.

ONE: Now you, lady, I get. I understand that you’re innocent of any crime. I’m sorry you’re about to go through this. Now, you two though….

He looked squarely at Philip and I, leveling eyes at us like lasers set to stun. We were frozen in place, entranced by his act of psychological torture.

ONE: You have two people. Now, I don’t think a good guy like you would do something like that intentionally, right? They’re pretty mangled, after all. One only has a part of his head. Ha, we should be friends!

He gestured to his own head, the flattened part bulging out now from brain swelling. Philip wouldn’t answer upon hearing that, shutting down in fear while his mind pondered the ramifications. They were likely the friends he had killed in his drunken joyride.

ONE: Oh well, you’re probably going to see them yourself soon. You though, who’s the woman?

The electricity in my spine from the gas was nothing compared to the bucket of ice that was just injected right into my bone marrow. I know. I know who it is. I just can’t bear to fucking say it.

ONE: Kind of a dick move if you killed an old lady. Hell, the only one in here who doesn’t have something hanging around is that guy.

He pointed to Murray then, giving him a thumbs up.

ONE: Well, things are only about to get worse. Kirk over here is telling me that they’re going to torture me in ways I’ve never imagined.

Two was screaming for him to shut up now as One just started to laugh again, taunting all of us. He had passed the point of sanity, but just might have achieved something beyond it at this point.

All of us left, going back to. the dining table and sitting in silence for a time.

“I’m so sorry…” Philip started whispering under his breath. I don’t know if he was telling us, himself, or the things that were probably still following him, but he broke down sobbing eventually.

I wandered off to read for a bit, trying to find anything to calm my racing mind. Even after all this, I’m trying to come up with some sort of scientific answer. Despite all my logic though, the real evidence in front of me is supernatural, at least.

—-

DAY 13

I’ve had bad doses of irritability, but nothing like this. God, every small sound is terrible, making the headache I’ve been nursing for days only get worse.

Philip has taken to being a recluse in his cot, crying on and off in between long dissociative episodes. He would just stare at the wall, not even bothering to pay attention to the food we brought him.

We offered food to the subjects still inside, but all refused, saying that they weren’t hungry anymore. Every one of them is exhibiting the same symptom now, seeing other people around them that are, seemingly, from their past.

It’s… getting hard for me to focus. I’m having my own episodes of dissociation, sleepwalking is probably the best way to put it. Cognitive function isn’t doing so great either, so forgive me if there are words misspelled in future entries. Assuming there are future entries. I hope I can keep going.

—-

DAY 14

Five got up on his own today. After laying in the medical bay since he caught fire, screaming in pain as his skin started to slough and peel off, he got right up and walked out of the room. I don’t know what was driving him, but he started beating on the windows, now shuttered from the outside since the shutdown started. Bits of skin and streaks of blood left marks all over the glass, with his fists banging against it in vain like a solemn funeral drum. If only they could have funerals.

Examination of blood samples shows that, while the cells can be broken down and individually destroyed to the point of irreparable damage, they can’t outright die. It seems that something is keeping them here, making sure that they’re trapped in this hellish limbo. It’s my belief that this correlates with the healing process during sleep, with the lack of rest leading to cells going into a sort of preservative stasis instead of going through regeneration as they would during REM sleep. It’s essentially a state of conscious cryogenics, frozen to keep them alive while they feel everything.

Two is still being tortured by whatever is there. I fear once we get closer I’ll start seeing these… phantoms that they’ve been seeing.

Three began to choke earlier, coughing water from his lungs as he struggled for breath. It just kept coming from nowhere, gallons of it that at one point mixed with blood from the pressure on his lungs. The more disturbing thing was Four’s reaction to it, shrinking back in fear as he saw the water beginning to pool on the floor. He looked wild-eyed, terror in his face as he fell back, trying to get as far away as possible from it while beginning to choke himself, throat violently sp...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/toripope on 2024-09-22 19:02:08+00:00.

---

My son will be one in just a few days, so my husband and I have decided it is time to sleep train. We have got to get our flare back, and the only way we know to do that is to get our son out of our bed. So one night last week, we jumped on the opportunity as our son was extremely tired, and it was now or never. I ran into his closet to find the unopened baby monitor, we have had no reason to use it so far. It is a nice little monitor, I had gotten it at the baby shower, brand new from my dad and step mom. I know you have probably all heard of the creepy stories of monitors that connect to wifi, and someone will connect to it and talk into it. So for that very reason as the “well researched” mother I am, I only asked for one thing NO WIFI NEEDED MONITOR! Of course my step mom and my dad heeded my wishes and grabbed a no wifi needed baby monitor.

So fast forward to the day we began the sleep training, I was so excited. I knew I probably wasn’t going to be getting much sleep in these upcoming nights, but hey what mother really is sleeping anyways. Then 7 oclock hit and it was finally bedtime. We did our nighttime routine so baby boy didn’t suspect anything different, but after bath and lotion and one last nursing session, I laid him in his crib. Surprisingly, he fell straight to sleep (thank you daycare!), and I was so happy for him and even happier for the reconnection my husband and I were going to share.

Around 12am, I woke up naturally patting the spot next to me, but of course there was nothing there. My baby was in his crib and I should have been ecstatic, but I started to cry. I was going to miss this season of life and miss his sweet snuggles at night, but I knew this was something that needed to be done. I pulled my phone off the nightstand and started to scroll on Reddit, then I heard the weirdest thing coming from my end of the monitor. “Hi Mommy” I jumped but didn’t want to wake my husband, my baby is only 11 months, he doesn’t say much of anything other than the goo goo ga ga’s, mama, dada, and the occasional HAT (he loves hats). I rubbed my eyes, many times I had gone delusional in the middle of the night so I chalked it up to that. I did double check the monitor though, and saw my little angel peacefully sleeping.

Around 2am, my internal alarm clock woke me again. Not even knowing what to do at this point I again grabbed my phone and hit up all my usual games and social medias, but as I was scrolling something weird happened again. “Why are you ignoring me, Mommy?” This time I screamed, I know I definitely heard something as the monitor lit up green indicating someone was definitely talking. My husband groggily rolled over and barely even opened his eyes, and then drifted back off. I snatched the monitor so quickly and stared for what felt like hours, but in reality it was maybe only 5 minutes. Nothing was out of place, and yet again, my baby was happily in dreamland. Something in me told me to rush to the room and grab my little boy, but you know the age old saying “Never wake a sleeping baby”. So I didn’t, but mother’s intuition is always right, and I should have listened to it. Too late now, all I can do now is sit back and ponder all the mistakes I made that night, because somehow I slowly drifted back to sleep.

My alarm went off at 5:45am, I work at a local daycare and I bring my son along with me. I got myself dressed, and I brought the monitor into the bathroom with me just to make sure he wasn’t awake, while I was doing the boring morning things. I brushed my teeth quickly, went to the bathroom, and then grabbed a diaper and lotion to get my boy ready for his day. But as I was getting his clothes picked out, the monitor turned green again, but nothing was said just a hushed laughing sound. I thought for sure that was my little man waking up, after all he is a bubbly boy and loves to laugh. Then the monitor turned green again and I heard something that will forever haunt me. “You shouldn’t have ignored me, Mommy” I ran to my baby’s room in a panic, I did what I should have done the first time I heard a peep out of that thing. But to my horror, my son was nowhere to be found. He just had recently started pulling up on things, so I thought maybe he had managed to escape the crib. I searched everywhere, his favorite hiding spots, his closet, my bathroom, but he was gone. I yelled louder than I think I ever have, and my husband came running, again we searched but it was as if that sweet boy had just vanished. We of course called the police, but no leads yet. So for anyone reading. Should I call a priest, is this something paranormal, or was my son abducted. I guess I wasn’t as well researched as I thought.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/APCleriot on 2024-09-22 16:36:24+00:00.

---

So the end had come. A hundred bucks and a quarter, my cut of the tips for Thursday night. Not even close to what I needed to pay rent and get some food - actual food, not pretzels and chips - for Sam, my brother.

His care cost a lot. He needed to be watched at all times. Mrs. George from the lower apartment would have done it for free but she needed to survive too. Taking care of kids in the building, and Sam, was her income.

“Need an advance, Charlie?” Jack, owner of The Cat and Cathedral, offered.

I smiled. “You've already advanced me a month.” I sighed and rested my chin on the bar. “It's just not enough these days. I can't keep up. Can you?”

He shrugged. “It's been slow. Times are tough all around.”

“Can you remember a time when they weren't? I asked.

“Early 90s maybe?”

“So, last century,” I observed.

He chuckled. “Guess so. Wanna drink?”

“Yes.”

He poured out two pints. Jack didn't know I had little taste for beer. I drank it for the calories. Without these nightly freebies, I'd waste away.

“Cheers.”

We drank a few. It tasted like coppery piss, but the alcohol dulled the anxiety or at least delayed it a little. Sober me could deal with the crushing responsibilities of life later.

He indulged my prolonged loitering till just after three.

“I'm off, Charlie,” he said.

“Mind if I stick around for one more? I can lock up.” Jack caught my straying glance toward the old office under the stairs.

His eyes fixed on the locked door. By his order, no one was allowed in there. Only me and one other bartender had been told what it contained. And the other bartender - Tyler - was dead.

“You stay out of there,” Jack said.

“What? I know.”

“It's only trouble. Tyler-”

“Died from an overdose, Jack.”

“But if he hadn't messed with the drawer,” Jack said, still watching the forbidden door, his expression pained, “he never would have-”

“I don't buy that, Jack, which is why I would never bother putting anything in there. There'd be no point. I stopped believing in magic at ten.”

He nodded and looked a bit teary eyed. I wondered if I'd been too blunt. Tired and stressed 24/7, I rarely made good company. Jack had always been a friend.

“I won't go in there,” I said. “I promise. Now go home. Shannon's gotta be wondering where you are, and tell her to come by every once in a while. I haven't seen her in years.”

Jack smiled at the mention of his wife. “She's probably been asleep since nine.” He said one more goodbye, spared another uneasy check of the old office door before reluctantly leaving.

Like most days, this would be my only time alone. I loved Sam. He waa my heart and my world. But the energy of my youth had been spent on him.

Our parents were old when they had us, and not healthy. They died within a year of one another. I was nineteen. Sam was twelve. Jack gave me a job and more than a decade flew by.

I helped myself to the house red, and ate a bag of chips in a dark booth. Mrs. George had texted that Sam had fallen asleep around eight. He'd be up by six am again. I had three hours. Sleep didn't call because it never did.

“I'm going to die if this goes on,” I said to the bar, and thought of the drawer in the old office. The Cat and Cathedral had the honour of being one of the oldest piles of bricks and mortar in Bridal Veil Lake. It predated the War of 1812.

And had once served as an apothecary and barbershop. Dark iron brackets for lanterns were still embedded in the beams. The fireplace was original too, though rarely lit, except on Christmas Eve for the lonely, the lost.

Despite the heat of a mid September night, I wished to build a fire so I could smell the ashes, and think of better days. Tips were plentiful around the holidays. Sam and I ate well and the rent would be paid.

“I don't know if I can make it to Christmas,” I said. “I'm tired. God, I am tired.” While I cried, I poured out more wine and began to really feel the alcohol seize control.

With so little food in my stomach, the beer alone had pushed me beyond a buzz. Wine gently guided me the resy of the way to totally fucked.

“Shit,” I said. “I'm drunk.” Then I laughed because it didn't matter. Drunk. Sober. Sleep deprived. I'd been so long past exhausted, it couldn't get worse. You can't kill what's dead.

“Oh, god, please help me.”

I thought he answered with the soft scraping of wood on wood. The noise came from the old office, and I could have convinced myself I'd imagined it if I weren't so desperate for something to go my way.

“Don’t mess with the old office,” Jack told Tyler and I years ago. I think I was twenty-two. Tyler and I had gone in there out of curiosity. The small room didn't hold much but a broken chair, and a drawer in the wall. Jack caught us as Tyler opened the drawer.

“Close that shit up!” Jack had yelled, and I'd never seen him so mad before. I didn't think he could get mad. He slammed shut the wide, shallow drawer, and physically dragged us from the room by our aprons.

Last call was hours ago that night. I remember a winter storm discouraged the trek home. Jack's hands were shaking as he struggled with an old key in the ancient lock of the office door.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“What’s the deal with that drawer?” Tyler ventured. “It's weird.”

Jack said nothing as he searched behind the bar for something strong. He came out with vodka and poured himself a shot. And then another. When he finally started to settle, he spoke quickly.

“Never go in there. Don't open that drawer, and for the love of fucking Christ almighty, don't you dare put anything in there.” He stared hard at Tyler as if he knew the far younger man could only be tempted by a warning.

“The drawer goes into the wall,” I said, “but… there's only the outer lounge on the other side.” I thought of the low ceilings in what seemed like an annex to the main room, and recalled the strange cylindrical stonework tucked into the left corner. It looked like an old timey bread oven without an opening. I figured that's what it'd been, and that it'd been filled in at some point. “The drawer goes into that bulge in the annex. That's weird.”

“It's just big enough for a person to stand in,” Tyler said, “uncomfortably.”

“I don't know about any of that,” Jack said, rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth. “But there's something in there, and it isn't good.”

Tyler laughed.

Jack looked embarrassed.

“What are you saying, Jack?” I asked.

He glared at Tyler. “I won't talk about it anymore except to say whatever goes in that drawer comes back out times three.”

Obviously, we had no idea what he meant, and it took some persuasion and another shot to get an explanation.

“So,” Tyler said, more interested, but no less skeptical, “If I put a loonie in there, when I open the drawer, there'll be three loonies?”

It felt like a set-up for more ridicule. Jack didn't take the bait. “You can't just put money in there. Part of you goes with it. It comes back at you three times as hard.” He leveled a finger at us both. “Promise me you'll stay out of there. Right now. Or you can pound sand.”

“Whoa, whoa, for real?” Tyler asked, grinning like a child. “You're gonna fire us? Sounds like a wrongful dismissal lawsuit. Should we get a lawyer?”

“I promise, Jack.” It was important to him, so it was important to me. “So does Tyler.”

“I do?”

I dug my fingernails into his forearm. “Ouch. Fuck,” he expressed calmly. “Fine. I promise not to play with your magic drawers.”

Jack studied our faces before nodding and abruptly leaving for the night.

“That guy's fucked,” Tyler said.

“That guy,” I said, “is my friend.”

“Okay, okay,” Tyler said. “You heading out?”

“Yes,” I said, “and so are you?”

He grinned again. “Oh come on, I've got to check this shit out. It's a magic drawer? Did you see his face? Dude is scared shitless of it. I can't not check it out. I. Can't.”

“You promised him.”

“Under the duress of your finger knives.”

He had a point there. I didn't believe in superstitious bullshit. Plus, I didn't see a way into the old office. Jack had the key. Tyler lacked a brain and had zero skills outside of slinging pints and flirting with customers.

“Goodnight,” I told him for the last time. He died from a combination of drugs and exposure that night. On the way home, he passed out in a snowbank and froze to death.

Jack found the old office and the drawer open. That was enough evidence for him. The “trading drawer” he called it, and it had killed Tyler, all of twenty-four.

I'd like to say I felt sad about Tyler's death. But I didn't feel much at all. Deep in my own troubles, I had no energy to spare on fools.

Jack took it much harder. He vowed to seal that room, and break the drawer. But he never did. He couldn't bring himself to go inside, and never stayed long near the old office door even.

If he could have sold the bar or closed it, I think he would have. Instead, he kept his head down and drank more. And didn't talk about the drawer or Tyler except for this night, this very night I thought about it and nothing else.

I needed money. I had a hundred bucks and a quarter. Three hundred and seventy five cents would be much better. My promise to Jack and what I was about to do stung through the fatigue and withdrew guilt usually reserved for Sam.

I could never do enough for my brother. I was failing him. Jack would be upset, but with a full stomach and a place to live. I owed it to Sam to try every damn thing to help us survive and more.

None of these thoughts...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Dizzy_Cucumber_9626 on 2024-09-21 17:06:24+00:00.

---

Have you ever had the feeling that you’re being watched, like eyes are prying into you, trying to dig their way deep into your soul? Because that’s how I’ve felt for the past two days. I don’t know what to do, or how I can make it stop. I’ve never posted on something like this before, but at this point I’m willing to try anything, I’m desperate for some advice.

I’ll take you back to the start, or what I assume to be the start of it all. 

I live a fairly ordinary life. I’m a 21 year old guy, living on his own in a bit of a rundown flat, commuting to work on the train everyday. This doesn’t leave me a lot of spare time for anything else, really, because my commute is an hour each way. My days consist of waking up at 6:30, getting dressed, walking to the train station, catching the train, walking to work, working, and then doing the same process in reverse. That’s it. I don’t really have any friends to hang out with, and I’m not exactly on the best terms with my family (for reasons I won’t go into here), so I sit on my own each evening, watching TV or playing video games. I keep myself to myself, and get on with my life.

Now, you may be thinking that my life sounds pretty miserable or boring, but to me, it’s perfect. I’ve always been a bit of a loner, so my daily routine suits me perfectly, and I’ve been living happily like this for the past year. 

That is, until a dream I had 3 nights ago.

Like all dreams, it didn’t have a beginning. I was simply there, no recollection of opening my eyes in this new place, or how I’d got there. I was standing in the middle of a large grassy field. I could feel the wind blowing gently on my face, and I ran my hand through the large grass strands that stretched up from the ground to meet me. I looked around, and realized I was alone. The field was empty, save for a lone tree, a few hundred feet away from me. I started to make my way over to it, not knowing why I was doing so, but just having the feeling that there was something there I needed to see. As I got closer, I could make out the faint shape of letters carved into the wood. From where I was standing, I couldn’t quite make out what they were, and so I decided to get closer for a better look.

And that’s when I felt it for the first time. Even in my dream, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and a chill went down my spine. I could tell that I was no longer alone. Someone else was here, watching me. I span myself around, and caught the first glimpse of them. They were far away, so far away that all of their features were obscured by the distance. All I could make out was a featureless shadow, standing in the grass, watching me. I stood for what seemed like hours, just staring back at them, unsure of what to do. 

And then they started to run.

The figure lurched forwards with impossible speed, heading straight for me. Instinctively, I span back around and began to take off in the opposite direction, towards the tree. The words on the tree were becoming clearer, but I still couldn't make out what they were yet. As I ran through the grass, trying desperately not to trip on the uneven terrain, I glanced behind me to ascertain how much distance I had left between me and my pursuer.

Not much. 

It had impossible speed, coming at me like a steam train, closing the gap between us in a matter of seconds. It would only be a few more until it was on me. I began to panic and tried to pick up my pace, but as is the curse of most dreams, I was running at a snail's pace. My foot slipped, and I was sent crashing to the ground. I flipped over just in time to see my pursuer pouncing on top of me. I could see now that it was not the distance that had caused it to look featureless. It was featureless. Just a black hole of pure energy in the shape of a person. It brought its ‘hands’ up to my face, placing them on either side of my eyes. I began to cry and plead with it, begging it not to hurt me. It didn’t listen. Instead, it plunged it’s dark thumbs into my eye sockets, blocking my vision and causing me to scream out in pain.

And then I was awake, screaming still.

I scanned my room, looking for the creature, but I was alone.

“Fucking stupid nightmare.” I muttered to myself as I led back down, trying to slow my breathing and calm myself down. I managed to eventually get back to sleep, and awoke at 6:30 to my normal alarm buzzing next to me. I got up and began to get ready for work as normal, when my mind drifted back to my nightmare. I tried to think of the letters I had seen carved into the wood of the tree, but all I could remember were,

“Erom ecno niks ym no enihs”

There was still a lot more carved into it, but in my panic I couldn’t make out the rest. 

“Whatever,” I thought to myself.

I left my building and began my walk to the train station, the thoughts of my dream already beginning to fade from my memory, chalked up t o nothing more than a stupid dream caused by a scary video game or something. 

You’d be surprised by how quiet the streets are in a big town at 7am. No one trying to sell you things, no one bumping into you or pushing past, most of the time it’s just me and the road. Nice and quiet. It was the same on Thursday morning, but as I got closer to the train station, I began to get a familiar feeling. The hairs on the back of my neck began to stand up, and I felt a chill run down my spine. I turned around slowly, hoping to just see another commuter making their way to work behind me.

The street was still clear, with no sign of anyone else having been there other than me. I breathed a sigh of relief and shook my head, thinking that the previous night’s dream was just playing tricks on my mind. However, as I began to turn my head back in the direction I was traveling, my eyes caught a glimpse of someone, standing behind a lamppost. Only half of their body was visible, the other half hidden behind the metal pole. They were standing about 200 meters from me, so I couldn’t easily make out any of their features. All I could see was an eye, glistening in the reflection of the streetlight. Whoever it was was watching me, motionless. I stood for a moment, debating what to do.

I brought my hands up to my face and momentarily covered my eyes as I rubbed them. When I removed my hands once more, the figure was gone.

I let out a faint laugh, cursing myself for being so stupid as to believe someone was watching me. It was most likely just someone making their way to work, just like me. They had momentarily stopped to look at me, the only other person on the street, just as I had done to them. And then they had moved on, got on with their day, just as I had to do now as well.

The rest of the day went by as usual, with nothing out of the ordinary to report, that is, until I was on the way home. I got on the train home as I normally would, and we set off back towards my home town. There are a number of stops between where the train begins and where it ends, with the carriages steadily becoming quieter and quieter as the journey progresses. By the time it reaches the final stop, I am normally the only person left in the carriage, which I am more than okay with, as it means no one has to sit next to me.

As the train slowed to ready itself for the next station, I felt my hairs stand on end once more. I sighed at myself. 

“Not again” I thought, wishing that my brain would stop playing tricks on me. It was clearly hanging onto the dream more than I had thought, and was not letting not go any time soon. The train slowed to a halt, and the doors hissed open to allow any passengers to get off. It was a quiet station in the evening, and so the platform was deserted, save for the shape of a lone person standing at the far end of the platform. It had been raining, and so my window was covered in thin streams of water, obscuring the figure and making it seem as though they were a strange shape - almost as if you were looking at yourself in a funhouse mirror. Their body seemed twisted and deformed, no longer even resembling the shape of a human. The thought of it sent more chills down my spine, and as the doors hissed shut and the train pulled off, I silently thanked the gods that we weren’t delayed.

When I climbed into bed that night, I prayed that my brain wouldn’t force me to experience another one of its concoctions, and that I would just be able to forget the whole thing had ever happened. But my mind, once again, had other plans.

I was standing in the middle of a crowded street, streams of people passing around me. I glanced down and found that I was dressed in my work clothes, consisting of a shirt, tie and smart pants. I felt at the tie, and let it slip through my fingers. The silk felt so real. I looked back up to the street and found myself surrounded by staring faces. Everyone had stopped what they were doing and were staring at me, their mouths hanging slightly open in a look of shock and awe. And when I say everyone, I mean everyone. All those sat in coffee shops, in the flats above me, and in cars all stared at me through the glass of their windows, the same expressions resting on their faces. They were unmoving, unbreathing, unfeeling. All emission had drained from them, as though they were statues.

And then as one, they took a step closer. Faces squished against the windows as those inside the buildings tried to get closer, seemingly unaware there was something in the way. I beg...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/CallMeStarr on 2024-09-21 12:30:58+00:00.

---

We drove.

The drive lasted forever. At first, I didn’t notice, I was too busy fidgeting with my shiny new phone. In my naivety, I figured this venture (rescuing my girlfriend from the hounds of hell) would take a couple hours, and I’d narrowly make it to school on time. Oh, how wrong I was.

The cop didn’t speak; no music, no conversation, nothing. Just the sound of the V-8 engine barrelling down an anonymous side road. Finally, I spoke up.

“Um, where are we going?”

The cop grumbled something under his breath, gripping the wheel tightly, and kept driving. Earlier at the coffee shop, he introduced himself as Doug. He didn’t say much else. Only that he knew of this frozen hell-world Rowan was trapped inside. And that we should go get her, before it's too late.

We drove.

I was getting fidgety, my phone no longer of interest. Ugh. Where was he going? We weren’t even in the city anymore. I began to worry. Maybe this disgruntled cop was going to torture me, and make me do unspeakable things. I imagined the worst. Many unthinkable scenarios played out in my mind. Doug was old, but he was tough as nails. His wrists were like logs, his eyes as cold as a killer’s heart.

I was sitting in the back, which somehow made it worse. It was an old car, with the old-style seat belts, and old car smell. I didn’t like it. The old car blundered onward, until finally we pulled into a plot of land next to a cabin so derelict, it should’ve had a sign declaring: Hillbilly Haven.

“Wait here.”

His revolver, clenched tightly within his large hands, made a good argument.

I waited.

My heart was leaping inside my throat. I hated myself for being so gullible. Like, why would I get into a car with some strange man? Yes, he was a cop (retired), and he claimed he could find my girlfriend. Still. I truly am an idiot.

I watched him disappear behind the makeshift cabin. The only sound was the squawking jays, warning others of our presence, and the endless chorus of crickets. By now, I’m freaking out. Clearly, I wasn’t safe. I scanned the old car, looking for a weapon. Anything. There was a ballpoint pen on the dash. I grabbed it and stuffed it inside my sleeve, just in case. When I looked up, he was standing over me. I nearly screamed. He tapped on the window. I rolled it down manually, which I’d never done before.

“Keep out of the bag.”

Before disappearing again, he tossed a large khaki backpack onto the passenger’s seat. Despite the warning, I considered rummaging through it. Just a peek, right? But I didn’t dare. When he returned, gun in hand, he got into the vehicle and drove away.

“Like, what’s going on?” I asked, trying to sound brave.

“Needed supplies,” he grunted. “You didn’t think we’d just show up unprepared, did you?” His laugh was as dirty as an ashtray.

I didn’t know how to respond, so I kept quiet. If this psychopath was gonna kill me, let’s get it over with. After a summer of depression (the guilt of abandoning Rowan weighed heavy on my heart. And why wouldn’t it?) I enrolled in college, taking a welding course. I wanted to improve my life. Whatever that means. Now, this?

He drove fast, trailblazing through a series of rustic roads. I closed my eyes, and must’ve fallen asleep, because the next thing I know we’re in the parking lot of Brews and Wash. To my surprise, the lot was empty, save from a few druggies mucking about.

“It’s closed,” I said, bewildered.

The cop rolled his eyes, like this was yesterday’s news. Maybe it was.

“We’ll enter through the rear.”

Those words didn’t sit well with me. I still did not trust this man. My heart was pounding so loud, I’m sure he could hear it. He stepped out of the vehicle and tapped on my window, rolling his fingers impatiently, until I got out. Above us, the sky was bleak; a storm was brewing. Surely, a sign for things to come.

“How are we gonna get in?” I asked.

Grinning, he licked his lips. This is a madman, I realized, not happily, as he produced a golden key.

“This here’s the City Key. It’ll open anything.”

“We’re…?”

I didn’t have the heart to ask. Nor did I need to. Of course we were breaking in. It’s not like Ray would voluntarily let us pass through the door that declared: DO NOT ENTER! Besides, for whatever reason, Ray closed shop. He’s owned the laundromat for as long as I can remember. Nothing made sense. The cop rammed the City Key into the lock and turned. CLICK. His eyes danced with possibilities.

“You go first,” he said.

I can’t believe I’m going through with this. Like, I should be in class right now! Ugh. With a pouty face, I flicked on the light. No light came. Something was wrong. All the machines were gone, replaced by piles of black soot. The smell was like burnt plastic. The cop nudged me onward.

“Take this.”

He reached into his bag and handed me a flashlight. The light was welcoming, as we descended into the dark and dingy basement, careful not to wack our heads.

“What the…?”

I stopped and stared, not believing my eyes. It looked like a nuclear bomb had detonated. The cardboard boxes were obliterated, the mop bucket now a pile of ashes. The basement stank worse than upstairs.

“Get going.”

The cop nudged me towards the door. The door with the DO NOT ENTER! sign. Only now, the door seemed different. Smaller somehow. The skull was colorless. It seemed sad, like its hopes and dreams were shattered.

I was handed the skull key.

“Open the door.”

I didn’t appreciate being ordered around. I should jam the key down his scruffy throat. Instead, I took the key and shoved it into the large lock.

Nothing.

I tried again, and shrugged. Doug’s face was blazing red, his eyes burning with rage.

“Lemme try!”

He snatched the key and fed it to the lock and turned.

Nothing.

We stood side by side, crouched awkwardly, while staring at the door with the DO NOT ENTER! sign. Doug’s face took a sour turn. I didn’t trust what he’d do next.

An idea came to me. “Try the other key,” I said.

“Other key?” His eyes lit up. “Of course!”

The City Key worked! Finally, something was going our way. In the excitement, the cop shoved me aside and disappeared through the strange door, gun in hand. I turned and smashed my head and swore. Oh, how I hated this basement.

A layer of mist was rolling in. The door was shimmering. It’s now or never. So, with a million thoughts crashing my mind, I entered the frozen hellscape. The door slammed shut behind me.

The cold hit me straight away. Why didn’t we bring warm coats? I could kill myself right about now. Ugh. My eyes were slow to adjust. Torrential winds pelted me from every direction. The snow was merciless. I could barely see my own hand in front of my face. The flashlight did nothing.

“Doug!” I shouted. “Where’d you go?”

My voice was flattened by the oncoming storm. Shivering, I scanned the vicinity, shocked that the door we came through, now closed, was floating midair. Behind it, only snow.

As my eyes adjusted, I noticed something resembling a snowy cave. I went towards it and slipped, falling flat on my face. Ugh. When I looked up, I groaned. Something was circling above me. Something huge. It looked like a Pterodactyl, with a long beak, spiky teeth and glowing red eyes.

“Doug!”

Anger enveloped me. This was stupid. We were walking into certain death. Then it hit me: The cop has no intention of helping me. Clearly, he has his own agenda. Whatever, I’m here now. The least I could do is try. I jumped to my feet and shouted as loud as humanly possible.

“Rowan!”

Something struck the back of my head. Rocks. That stupid Pterodactyl was dropping rocks! I was on my knees, cowering, when a series of tortured screams startled me. The sound was abhorrent, like the screaming of a billion tortured souls, bellowing in despair. One thought sprung to mind: ESCAPE.

Admitting defeat, I turned back, thinking the door was behind me. It wasn’t. In the confusion, I must’ve gotten turned around. Oh, why didn’t we bring markers, or something. This was stupid. I wondered what the cop was up to, and if he was having better luck. I scanned the area, looking for the dreaded door. There! The door was to my right. Lying flat on my belly, which kept me warm, I crawled towards the door. Meanwhile, the dreaded dinosaur continued dropping rocks the size of Texas.

I heard a familiar voice call my name.

“Rowan!”

“Jackson! Is that really you!”

My heart found my mouth. I couldn’t believe it! She’s actually alive! Deep down, I thought she was dead. The only reason I went – besides the fact that I was ambushed and put on the spot – was to alleviate the life-destroying guilt, gutting me. The ground trembled. The wind and snow whirled. The terrifying screams reached a fervor.

“Jackson! It’s a trap! Go back!”

Her voice was coming from below me. I tried following it, but I was stuck, frozen to the ground. The Pterodactyl swooped down and snatched me up; and the next thing I know, I’m high in the air, trapped inside its massive beak. The beak, as sharp as a surgeon’s blade, dug deeply into my back and neck. The pain was tremendous.

A shot rang out.

The high-flying creature went berserk, flinging me like a toy in a dog’s mouth. I jammed the ballpoint pen into its eye. It made a sound like a Harley. Then it dropped me, and I crashed onto the icy surface.

The ground below me groaned. The ice was cracking. Before I could move, the ground opened up and swallowed me. While falling, I saw the cop, revolver in hand...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/croww_0 on 2024-09-22 16:59:03+00:00.

---

Dad was always kind of a weird guy.

Weird and strict.

I always thought this was just because he was a single parent, but even that seemed to only barely cover his odd behavior. He expected the best of me, expected my chores to be done, expected the rules to be followed, and, if I didn't, there was only one punishment that would do. 

Dad never hit me with a belt, he never spanked me with his hand, he never took my stuff or put me in time out.

No, Dad had a different sort of punishment he used.

He didn't introduce the jar until I was six, and it was revealed with a lot of serious contemplation.

I remember coming home from my first day of Kindergarten and finding my Dad sitting in the living room, the jar on the little end table where the magazines and rick rack usually stood. The jar may have begun life as a pickle jar, it always smelled a little of brine, and inside were beans. These were spotted pinto beans, the kind I had used on art projects and crafts since before I could remember, and I noticed they had been filled up to the brim. All in all, there were probably about three bags of beans in there, and a piece of scotch tape declared it to be my jar.

"Take a seat, we need to have a very serious talk," he said, and I ended up just sitting on the floor of our living room and looking up at him. He looked very serious, more serious than I had ever seen him before, and that scared me a bit. Up until now, Dad had always been this goofy guy who played pirates and astronauts and Mario Kart with me, but now he looked like a judge ready to sentence me to death if I didn't have a pretty good defense for my crime.

"You are six now, long past knowing right from wrong. In this family, it is customary to use The Bean Jar to punish children. Do you see this jar?" he asked like there was any way I could miss it.

I nodded and he smiled, seeming pleased.

"The Bean Jar symbolizes You. It is everything you are, and everything you might be. So, from now on, when you are bad, or insolent, or you disobey my orders, I will not yell at you or send you to your room. I won’t do anything but take a bean from The Bean Jar."

I almost laughed. Was this a game or something? Was I supposed to be scared of a jar of beans? This had to be another one of Dad's jokes. Dad was always doing stuff like this, telling me how the monsters in my closet could be kept away by a teddy bear or that the Cavity Creeps would eat my teeth if I didn't brush them twice a day. Dad was a goofball, he always had been, but I think it was his face that made me wonder if he was joking or not. Throughout the whole thing, he just sat there, deadly serious, and never averted his eyes from me.

"You're a smart kid, just like I was, and I see now that you'll need an example. You may think this is just a regular jar, but you're wrong," he said, reaching in and picking up a bean, "dead wrong."

He didn't even take it out. He just lifted a little, hovering it over the pile, but he didn't need to do anything else. Suddenly, miraculously, it felt like someone was touching my brain. It was the feeling of getting a sudden sadness, a sudden bit of anxiety, and I wanted him to drop that bean back in the jar. I needed to be whole, I needed all my beans, and he must have seen that on my face because he dropped it back in and I trembled as I tried to make sense of what had just happened.

"I'm sorry, but you have to know what's at stake here. You're my last chance, I have to make sure that you are perfect, and the Bean Jar knows perfection from flaw. My own father used this method, and his father, and his father before him. The Bean Jar is always used until the child's eighteenth birthday, or until all the beans are gone."

I was panting when I asked him what would happen if all the beans were gone.

He looked at me without mirth and without any sign of a joke or a goof, "You don't want to know."

That's how we started with the Bean Jar. Dad didn't suddenly turn into an ogre or become a villain overnight. He went back to being the same guy he'd always been. We would play video games together, build with my Legos, and play pretend after school. My Dad had never scared me like that before, he and I were always really close, but I remember how he would get when he had to take beans out of the jar. His face would become completely neutral, and he would walk to the jar and take out a bean before crushing it between his thumb and forefinger. 

The Bean Jar was utilized even for the most trivial of infractions. 

Forgot to wash my dishes? Lose a bean.

Forgot to put my clothes away? Lose a bean.

Stayed up too late on a school night? Lose a bean.

There was no escalation either. There was never any difference between forgetting to clean up my toys or yelling at Dad because I was frustrated. It was always one bean at a time, ground to dust between his large, calloused fingers. He would look at me too with this mixture of pain and resolve once it was done, his stoicism only going so far.

Those times he took a bean, however, were unbearable. 

It felt as if each bean were a piece of my psyche that he was turning to dust. As a child, every bean made me hyper-aware of my actions, but I was still just a child. Sometimes I forgot things, sometimes I was lazy, and sometimes I thought I could sneak around and get away with not doing what I was told. I was always caught, always punished, and I always fell into a state of anxious, nervous emotions once it was done. I hated the way it felt when he crushed those beans, and I didn't want to lose another one. I didn't want to lose them so badly, that I trained myself to perform the tasks expected of me without fail. Five am: start the laundry. Five twenty: make breakfast. Five Thirty: wash my dishes. Five forty: dress. Six o'clock: clean up my room. Six thirty: backpack on, fully dressed, waiting by the door to leave. Three ten: Get home, do homework. Four thirty: Clean house. Five: Start dinner. Six: Eat dinner when my father got home. Nine o'clock: brush teeth, take a shower. Ninethirty: Bedtime. Every day, without fail, these things were done or I would be one bean shorter.

This manifested itself as a kind of mania in me. Not only did I have to get all my chores done, but I needed to get good grades too. After a while, good wasn't good enough either. What if Dad decided that C's and B's weren't good enough? I strove for all A's, and Dad seemed happy with my efforts.

To the other kids, however, I was a weirdo, and I didn't really have any friends.

Dad was my only friend, but it was a strange kind of friendship.

Like living with someone who has schizophrenia and could change at the slightest inclination.

I didn't have any real friends until high school when I met Cass.

Cassandra Biggly was not what you would consider a model student. Her parents had high expectations for her, but she was a middling at best. She came to me because I was the smartest kid in school, at least according to the other kids, and she begged me to help her. I helped her, tutored her, showed her the way, and soon her grades improved. That was how we became friends, and how she was the first to find out about the Bean Jar.

"So, he just takes a bean out and crushes it?"

"Yes," I said, not sounding at all mystified about the process.

"And...what? It means you have less beans?"

I thought about it, Dad had never actually told me what would happen, only that it would be terrible.

"When he takes out all the beans, then something awful will happen."

"Like what?" Cass asked, "No dessert for a month?"

"I don't know, but I know that when he crushes those beans, it's like a piece of my sanity is mushed. I feel crazy after he smooshes a bean. I don't like feeling that way, I don't like it at all."

I started crying. I hadn't meant to, I was sixteen and I never cried anymore, but Cass didn't make me feel bad about it. She just held me while I cried and eventually, I stopped. It had felt good to be held. Dad hugged me, but he never really comforted me. I didn't have a mom, someone whose job seemed to be comforting me, and as Cass held me, I realized what I had been missing all these years.

I had been missing a Mom that I had never even known.

We hung out a lot after that, Cass and I. Despite our age, it never became inappropriate. She gave me something I had been missing, a friend without the threat of punishment looming over our relationship. The realization made me feel differently about my Dad. He was still the lovable goofball that he had always been, but I started to see how our entire relationship hung under the shadow of that bean jar. As I pulled away, he became more sullen, and more suspicious, and I saw him holding the Bean Jar sometimes as if he wished to smash them. If I wasn't misbehaving, though, he couldn't, that was always the deal. He knew it, I knew it, and he knew that as long as I abided by the rules, he couldn't punish me. 

Despite how it will sound, Dad was never cruel about the Bean Jar. He never used it to take out his frustrations, he never came home and punished me simply because he’d had a bad day. The rules were established, we had both agreed to them, and I knew that by following them I would be safe. I think, deep down, Dad really did think he was doing the best for me, thought he was molding me into something better than I could be, and I guess he was right, though it wasn’t fair, not really. 

Then, one day after coming home from Cass's, it all came to a head.

D...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BlairDaniels on 2024-09-22 16:58:42+00:00.

---

There is a video on YouTube simply titled “White Noise, Black Screen.” It is a 10-hour-long video, designed for playing while you’re asleep.

It stands out among the other white noise videos though, because at around the 6-hour mark, there is a huge spike in the “most replayed” section.

In case you don’t know—”most replayed” is a feature on YouTube that shows what part of the video other people played over and over again. For most videos, it makes sense—on a creepy urban explorers video, the “most replayed” might be where the person encounters a ghost or creepy person, etc. Or a funny skit video might be most replayed at the punchline.

But for a video that’s playing white noise and a black screen for 10 hours, why would there be a most replayed section?

But there it was. A 30-second portion of the video at the timestamp 6 hours, 18 minutes.

Out of curiosity, I jumped to that part of the video and played it. But it looked and sounded the same as the rest of the video: black screen, white noise. No blips in the audio or change to the visuals, as far as I could tell.

Maybe that’s when most people get up. I mean, that was six hours of sleep, right? Maybe a lot of people woke up about 6 hours into the video and shut it off.

That wouldn’t really be replaying it, though.

And also, 30-seconds in a 10 hour video was too accurate. Some people would wake up six hours in, six hours five minutes in… etc. The “most replayed” feature showed a spike at exactly 6:18:14. A huge, narrow spike—specifically at that time—not a broader hump that would imply a range of wakeup times.

Maybe someone linked the video at that time by accident, and shared it to a lot of people?

Comments were turned off, so I couldn’t check if people were saying anything else about it.

Despite the weirdness, that night, I decided to play the video while I slept. That’s how I found the video in the first place—I really did need white noise. My neighbor’s dog kept barking at 6 AM and I needed sleep.

I pressed PLAY on the video and went to bed.

And woke up with a start in the middle of the night.

I didn’t know what woke me up. My phone said it was 3:37 AM. My room was pitch black, except for the dark-gray glow of the “White Noise, Black Screen” video playing. I rolled over, pulled the blanket over me, and tried to fall back asleep.

But my body was pumping with adrenaline. It was like I’d woken up from a nightmare or something, even though I didn’t remember having one. I tried to relax, slowly counting in my head.

That’s when I heard something else.

It’s hard to describe, but I’ll try. Some white noises are computer-generated, so that they truly make a uniform rushing sound the entire time. Others, however, especially in older “sound machines” are actually a clip of white noise repeating over and over again. Listening to it long enough, your brain starts to pick out a pattern of the subtly changing tone, and it gets really annoying.

That’s what this felt like. My brain was suddenly picking out a pattern, a sort of rhythm, to the white noise.

Even though I hadn’t heard it when I fell asleep.

The longer I lay there, tossing and turning, the more my brain picked up on the pattern. A series of whooshes and clicks. It was really annoying—I’m one of those people who can’t sleep in the same room with a ticking clock, and that’s what this felt like. Whooosh. Wup. Click.

Whooosh. Wup. Click.

My nerves grew ragged.

Whooosh. Wup. Click.

Just when I couldn’t stand it anymore—just when I was about to get out of bed and turn it off, because anything, even barking dogs at 6 AM, was better than this—I heard it.

A growling sound.

“Who’s there?” I shouted.

Nothing.

I sat up—and my heart dropped.

A pair of white eyes floated in the darkness.

On my computer screen.

I watched, frozen, as the eyes shifted—off the computer screen. They hung in the darkness a full foot away, staring me down.

Then it moved.

The eyes blazed white as the thing leapt for me, shadowy hands reaching across the bed—a shock of pain as something tightened around my wrist—

I scrambled away, kicking. Grabbed my phone off the nightstand, turned on the flashlight.

Nothing was there.

I ran to the door and turned on the lights. The bedroom was empty. I grabbed the laptop—and saw that I was just past the 6:18 mark in the video. The most replayed part.

I rewound it, replayed it.

Nothing was there.

No growl.

No shadowy figure.

No blazing white eyes.

I ran to the bathroom and splashed water on my face, trying to calm myself, to break myself out of the panic. It was just a dream. You were half asleep. That’s all it was.

But when I looked down at my arm—

I saw a purple bruise just above my wrist.

In the shape of a slender, skeletal hand.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ramslie on 2024-09-22 00:58:54+00:00.

---

I am still a lawyer! For now.

My disbarment hearing was postponed for another two weeks. Something about a last minute witness, unlikely to be good for me. Not that it matters, I’m not exactly in the headspace to be practicing law at the moment so being barred for two more weeks is neither here nor there.

While I have the time, I figured I’d share another story to take my mind off my impending disbarment. This one takes place after I left the public defender’s office.

I had recently joined an (almost) full-service private law firm. They handled EVERYTHING (except for family law and criminal law). I wasn’t sure what practice area I wanted to join, they just liked that I had trial experience. Funnily enough, I ended up handling very little trial work during my tenure but that’s beside the point.

My first year or so there was spent in their estate planning unit. I won’t bore you with legal jargon (and will explain it as necessary) but I’ll split it up into two parts. There’s (1) the planning side and (2) the administration side. We handled both. As you can imagine, the planning side involved a lot paperwork, hours dedicated to pushing paper and writing lengthy legal clauses. The administration side, on the other hand, was drama-central. 

I remember when my managing partner popped into my office and dropped the subject case file onto my desk. She didn’t knock, it’s rare that someone does in an active legal office, and unless we were on a client call, the door had to be open. Something about making sure we were available.

It was a thick manila folder, no client name on the label, stuffed with papers. And yes, I understand in the 21st century that everything is online, and we DID have an electronic case managing system. Old habits die hard and this particular partner LOVED printing things out. So I got the paper file, inclusive of every thought, email, memo, or otherwise about the estate.

“You remember the estate?” She asked nonchalantly, without a glance up from the phone in her hand, no doubt putting out another fire (read: checking email, texting your spouse, scrolling social media, etc., anything that wasn’t actual work).

“Whose estate?”

“Well he died. Son’s asking for us to administer it.”

I repeated, “Whose estate?”

“Client agreement’s signed, bill under the Kellerman matter. Should be in the system, and use the timer please.” (We bill every 6 minutes for our time, less than 6? Round up.) I had a bad habit of not using the timer and letting minutes slip through the cracks here and there. It’s tedious, okay, this is a no judgment zone, if anything, be happy that I never overcharged a client… even if it only resulted from forgetting to do so.

I’ll break down the client file for you. Dead Kellerman had a Will. In theory, that allows someone to divide their property in whatever way they want. This can make some people angry, for obvious reasons. In short, my job was to read the Will, collect all the stuff, notify all relevant parties, and distribute it. 

This Will was a doozy. Three ex-wives, eight kids split between them, three more step kids, too many grandchildren to list, and one illegitimate child. 

I stared at the open manila folder, feeling a sense of dread settle in my stomach. Outside of my overwhelming caseload, the complexity of the Kellerman estate was daunting. I flipped through the pages, noting the numerous names and the tangled web of relationships. Each connection held a potential grudge, a whispered resentment, or a long-buried secret that I desperately did not wish to know.

Over the next few weeks as I delved deeper into the intricacies of the Kellerman estate, a nagging sensation that I was missing something crept over me. I began receiving strange phone calls from the various members of the Kellerman family. My phone would ring once but when I went to answer I was greeted by nothing but silence. At first, I brushed it off. I’ve death with my fair share of clients and I understood that most people’s first interactions with lawyers is on the worst day of their lives, so trepidation is expected. 

But the calls started escalating, becoming more frequent, targeting me at home at all hours of the day and night. Then the letters started, again from seemingly every member of the family. Each letter containing blank pages of paper.

I thought it was some sort of cruel prank — an odd family ritual or a manifestation of grief, trust me, I’ve seen weirder. But the silence was unnerving. Each time I opened a fresh envelope, the blank pages seemed to taunt me, their emptiness a haunting echo ever-present in my mind. 

One night, unable to shake the feeling of being watched, I began digging deeper in the Kellerman files, scouring every document, every email, and any hint of the family’s history that might offer some explanation for this strange behavior. As I pored over the estate planning documents, I noticed something odd about the Will. In the section detailing distribution of assets, there were handwritten notes in the margin — scribbled words that felt like whispers from beyond the grave. They were almost illegible but I could make out a few words, here and there, “betrayal,” “revenge,” “never forget.”

Suddenly my phone rang, causing me to jump. I checked the time, 1:05AM. I rubbed my bloodshot eyes, wondering who could be calling at this hour. I picked it up, cautiously, half-expecting silence, but this time a voice crackled through the line. A raspy, disembodied voice that sent chills down my spine. 

“Stop looking. You can’t afford to know.”

I dropped the phone, paralyzed with fear. My heart raced and my instincts told me to abandon this case, to let some other unfortunate associate take it on, but I was in too deep. The thought of losing my position, my reputation, haunted me more than the calls or the letters.

The next morning, I returned to my office with a sense of dread. My managing partner greeted me with a strange, knowing smile that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. 

“Figure it out yet?” She asked, voice low, a hushed whisper, almost… conspiratorial.

“Figure what out?” I stammered. 

She stepped closer, her breath reeking of coffee and cigarette tar. “The reason for the letters, the calls. The family — oh, they’re dying to get to know you, to let you in, to share their secrets, but they’re afraid. So very afraid of what might happen if the truth were to — let’s say — get out.”

I stepped back, confused. “What truth?”

She smiled, but instead of answering, simple turned and walked away. Heels clicking on the tiles of our polished office floor. 

Determined to get to the bottom of it, I abruptly left work, heading home to conduct more research without the watchful eye of my managing partner. I spent the evening researching the Kellermans, diving into local newspapers, public records, and any other source I could get my hands on. 

It was a twisted tale — murders, disappearances, allegations of abuse. As I pieced together their history, I came to the realization that the estate wasn’t just about money or property; it was a minefield of long-buried grudges, and the Kellermans had buried more than just their dead.

That night, staring blankly at article after article, surrounded by the weight of the Kellerman files, I felt like Sisyphus. As I poured myself another cup of coffee from my third pot of the day, my computer screen flickered and went dark. I cursed under my breath and got up to check the breaker. A cold draft brushed past me causing me to stop in my tracks, despite the still air of my apartment. 

And then, my phone rang. I picked up, not even eking out a yellow before a voice so raspy it was as if I was being spoken to by a fork in a blender, whispered, “You’re in over your head, lawyer.” And the line went dead.

I felt a chill crawl up my spine. I felt like I was being hunted.

The next day, I summoned the courage to confront the surviving family members, one by one. Each encounter sent me sprawling deeper into their madness — eyes flickered with fear, anger simmered just beneath the surface, and each family member mirrored the others’ paranoia. They all spoke in hushed tones, as if someone was listening, as if the walls themselves had ears. 

By the end of the week, I could no longer eat, I could no longer sleep. 

I was a ghost of myself, consumed by the need to understand. The calls grew more frequent, the letters felt heavier, more menacing, each one taunting me with the emptiness of their pages, the secrets they threatened to spill. I was drawn into a darkness I couldn’t shake off, despite my rational mind screaming for me to walk away. 

On the day of the asset distribution, the family gathered in the conference room of my office. It was the first time I had stepped foot back in the office since the last encounter with my managing partner. 

The tension was palpable, faces glared across the polished conference table, each relative a simmering pot of resentment, of hate. I had prepared to confront them as a whole, to lay bare the pieces I had picked up from each of them, to unravel the tangled web of their lives, and to bring some clarity to the chaos that was the Kellerman family.

As I began outlining the distribution of assets, the atmosphere shifted. A woman — Kellerman’s second wife — stood up, hands trembling, and stuttered out, “y-y-you have n...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BuddhaTheGreat on 2024-09-22 07:51:06+00:00.

---

Okay, I think this needs a bit more context. You wouldn’t know it if you saw me walk down the street, but my family owns a village. This village is somewhere in Bengal, but I won’t tell you where for reasons that will quickly become clear. My ancestors were given the zamindari, or feudal rights, over the settlement by the Pala kings all the way back in the 11th century. Yes, it’s been a heck of a long time. What did we do to deserve this honour, you ask?

 

Well, there isn’t a simple answer to that. Kings used to give away lands and villages for practically anything back in the day, from marrying the princess to curing the prince of an illness to bringing over the neighbouring king’s head. I haven’t had the time or the inclination to rifle through what little family chronicles have survived to find out which one we did. I live miles away from that place anyway, in Kolkata. My father left the ancestral manor in the care of my grandfather and his brothers and moved away with his family when I was barely learning to open my eyes. Since then, I have only visited Chhayagarh a total of five times. That’s the name of the village, by the way. Chhayagarh.

 

The last time I visited the village, I was ten years old. My father was still alive then. My memories are dim, given that it was more than a decade ago, but I remember the important details. I remember my grandfather’s glowing face as he sunned himself in his recliner, watching me play with the weeds in the courtyard. I remember his hefty walking stick, and enjoying the loud clacks it made as he walked around the corridors. I remember Ram Lal, the manservant, chasing me around the backyard to force me into taking a bath. I remember my grandmother’s delicious cooking on my tongue.

 

I remember other things too. The pale lady in a white sari, smiling at me from the parapet of the boundary wall. The unnaturally tall man whispering to my grandfather in his study, his broad-brimmed hat scraping the ceiling. He had turned briefly to smile at me; his face had nothing on it save the grinning mouth. I remember the shaggy thing I used to play fetch with near the family grove, built like a dog but not quite. I remember my father sending me back to my room with a harsh noise, old rifle in hand, before joining a small group of villagers with flaming torches and wooden staves at the front gate at midnight.

 

There is something off about Chhayagarh. I can’t find a better way to explain it. It is a normal village, with all the trappings you would expect: playing children, women with water pots, charming little trees and huts. But alongside that world, there is another world that lives there. A world many of us would rather not acknowledge. That world was somehow centred around us. Each time my father took us there, something was always happening: villagers filtering in and out to confer with the family, mounds of dusty books and manuscripts lying open on tables, weapons being brought out and maintained. Each of these buildups would inevitably have a climax: a loud struggle at midnight, gunshots in the forest, a massive ritual bonfire in the atrium, or something similar. I never saw these climaxes; everyone made sure to give me a wide berth whenever funny business was involved. After everything was over, my father would pack us up, and we would be back in Kolkata, none the worse for the wear.

 

The last time we went there, it was different. I was too young to ask questions, but something went wrong. That night, my father returned three hours later, his face white as a sheet. He was alone and without his gun. He said nothing, he did nothing. He merely went into a room with my mother and my grandfather, and closed the door. Fifteen minutes later, my mother came to put me to bed as usual. I am pretty sure she said nothing out of the ordinary, but there were streaks of tears running down her face. The next morning, we packed our bags and returned to Kolkata.

 

Two days later, there was an accident. Thirty cars piled up on the road. Only one casualty. Even at the cremation, my mother said nothing. She only cried silently as she handed me the torch and let me burn my father’s mangled corpse to ashes. We haven’t been back to Chhayagarh since. In fact, she has actively kept me away from visiting, despite more than a hundred letters from my grandparents (old-fashioned people; apparently, they never could figure the telephone out).

 

Not that I’m complaining. Without the rose-tinted glasses of childhood, it was kind of a shitty place anyway. The land was dry and hard, and the villagers struggled to farm in the best of weather. The water table was deep and stony, and the nearest well was over two miles from the manor; the servants had the near-constant duty of running pots of water to the house for cooking and cleaning. I’m pretty sure there still isn’t a mobile tower, bank, or post office in the entire block. In hindsight, the only thing that made it worth it was the pure joy on my grandfather’s face whenever he saw us. But that can only take you so far.

 

My life in Kolkata is good. I just finished my law degree, and a career in litigation looks to be on track, though my senior still insists that five thousand rupees is plenty of money to live on for a month. I’m not sure he has purchased anything since the fifties. My mother is running a successful interior decoration business, so that helps with the finances. My father also left behind a decent estate, and for all our neglect, my grandparents do not skimp on sending over the revenue from the property. I dimly knew that I was going to come into the zamindari eventually, given that my father was no longer in the picture, but it was not something I really thought about. In any case, I was planning to pawn the damn place off to the first feudal enthusiast I met with more money than sense. Chhayagarh did not feature in my top fifty priorities list.

 

Until yesterday. This time, the letter that came did not bear my grandfather’s characteristically elegant handwriting on the envelope. It was the harsh, angular script of a lawyer, just in case the starched brown envelope did not make the official nature of the communication clear enough. Apparently, our family has an estate manager.

 

He was writing to tell me that my grandfather was dead. There were no details as to how, just strict business: in accordance with ordinary rules of succession, the zamindari should devolve to one of my uncles, but my grandfather had made his wishes clear. The family customs had to be followed. The land and the village must pass to his firstborn son, my father, and through him to his firstborn son. Me.

 

He had also insisted that I come to the village immediately, and take charge of the manor and the surrounding properties. The estate lawyer would meet me there and hand over some articles he had bequeathed to me. I had sole and absolute ownership over the ancestral house, but he had requested that I allow my grandmother, my uncles, and their families to continue their residence on the premises and take care of their needs.

 

When I showed my mother the letter, I was expecting she would say what was already on my mind: toss the letter in the bin, surrender the property to some relative or, failing that, the government, and go on with my life in peace.

 

Instead, she sighed, put the letter face down on the table, and asked, “When are you leaving?”

 

“What?” was all I could say.

 

“Chhayagarh. When are you going over to take possession?”

 

“Mom. Are you serious? That place is a dump. I have no interest in roleplaying a medieval landlord in some godforsaken hamlet in the middle of nowhere. I have a career here. We have a business here!”

 

She sighed. “I wish I could have kept you here forever, but I can’t. You have to go. Our family must take up the mantle. It is our duty to Chhayagarh, to our ancestors, to ourselves. Go.”

 

I paused. “That place killed my father. I’m not going. I’m going to write to the lawyer, and—”

 

“Chhayagarh killed your father. And it killed your grandfather.”

 

“Grandfather? How can you be so sure?”

 

“It killed him, just as it has killed many of your ancestors before him. I know it, somewhere inside me. Just as your father knew, that day. He knew he was going to die. He could not keep winning. But he did his duty. Just as you will. Because if you don’t, Chhayagarh will kill many more.”

 

I leaned forward and grasper her hands in my own. “Mom… You’re not telling me something. What do you know?”

 

“Not enough. Only they can explain it to you. Those who have lived on the land, and worked with it. But I know this. There was a reason your family, our family, was given that land. No, a reason they were placed upon that land. It wasn’t wealth, or favour, or martial skill that won us Chhayagarh. It was something else. Something to do with… them. The others. You know of what I speak.” Her hands trembled in mine. “You must go.”

 

She would say no more after this, only insisting that I go, and that all will be clear once I reach the manor and take over affairs. I will be frank. After this conversation, my desire to go to Chhayagarh had only lessened. But right now, I am in a rattling bus, travelling through territory that I’m pretty sure does not exist on any map you have access to, on a road you will probably never see. A road that leads to Chhayagarh. I am here because of what hap...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/RoseBlack2222 on 2024-09-21 11:04:37+00:00.

---

Deep in the mountains of Georgia is a remote town called Dead Leaf Falls. You won't find it on any map, except Google Earth, if you happen to come across it at just the right time of day. Even if you knew exactly where this town is and went over to it, you would find nothing except trees for miles. How do I know it exists? The answer is simple.

It's where I was born and spent the first twelve years of my life. If you happen across it while on a road trip, you may think it a nice little place, quiet, lots of scenery, and a community so self-sustaining the idea of outside contact is laughable. The issue is that this comes at a price.

“Tommy! Psst, Tommy!”

Groggily, I lifted my head up from my desk to find my best friend, Amanda shaking my shoulder. Our math teacher was explaining some word problems. I wasn't paying attention, being focused on Amanda and wiping the drool off my face.

“What?” I snap back, louder than I intended.

“Mr. Ballard, were you sleeping again?” our teacher asked.

“No, Mrs. Hooper,” I answered, suppressing a yawn.

Her narrowed eyes studied me for a moment before she returned her attention to the board. When she did, Amanda immediately picked up where we left off as if we hadn't been interrupted.

“So you know the Equinox is coming up, right?”

“What about it?”

Leaning into my ear she told me, “I think we should get a picture of the Fall Fairy.”

Mrs. Hooper dumping a cup of ice water in my head wouldn't have made the tiredness leave my body faster than those words did. Amanda had the foresight to put a finger to my lips before I could have another outburst. She glanced at Mrs. Hooper who was watching another kid in our class trying to solve a problem on the board. Amanda lowered her finger.

“Are you crazy?” I asked her.

The Fall Fairy was the local legend. Here's how it went. In the forest outside of town, lies a cave that only appears during the equinox. That's its home. On the first day of Fall, it comes out to play.

Everyone says it's friendly which is why we always found it strange that everyone stays inside during this time. I never thought to question it. Any excuse to be up in my room rotting my mind with movies and video games was always welcome. Amanda, though, was different, more adventurous and curious. She was a social butterfly with plenty of friends.

Contrastingly, I could count the number of kids I regularly interacted with on one hand. Some may say I was antisocial. While I don't disagree, I think it's more that I simply wasn't a social seeker. I didn't shun people who tried talking with me, but I never struck up conversations. Hell, I hardly raised my hand in class unless it was to be excused.

To this day, I'll never understand what quality I had that made her want to spend so much time with me. Before you make assumptions regarding “young love”, let me assure you that our dynamic was entirely plutonic. In fact, if nobody in town knew us we could’ve been mistaken for siblings.

“So what if I am crazy?” she scoffed. “It's better than being a wuss. Anyway, I already got it all planned out.”

She explained that she had nabbed her dad's camera and wanted us to sneak out and search for the cave. There was an excited glint in her gaze that was at odds with the “bad idea” feeling I was currently experiencing.

“Amanda, I don't mean to dash your hopes, but how would we even begin to find this thing? All the stories just say that it's in the forest. That's not a lot to go on.”

She grinned, indicating that she'd been expecting this sort of response. She unzipped her backpack, pulling out what looked to be an old journal.

“This belonged to one of the settlers.”

“Where did you get that?”

“I found it in the attic. My parents were making me clean it.”

“Wait, so it belonged to someone in your family?”

She smiled, nodding.

“That's right. Isn't it exciting?”

I looked at the journal again, the leather worn from age and cracking in several places.

“Have you already read that?”

“Someone bookmarked a page. I only read that part. Why? Do you want to borrow it?”

“No, that wouldn't be fair to you.”

“It's fine. I already got what I wanted to know out of it.”

She dropped the book into my lap. The rest of our school day was uneventful only being punctuated by the occasional remark from Amanda when our teachers weren't paying attention. We lived in the same neighborhood and on the bus ride home, she caught me up on the latest gossip, having overheard her mom talking with her dad about it.

“You know Mr. Turner?”

“Kind of, he lives across the street from you, right?”

“Yeah, anyway, his wife caught him kissing another woman and kicked him out.”

“That's pretty crazy.”

“That's not the crazy part. You'll never guess who he was with.”

“Shoot.”

“Mrs. Hooper.”

I thought about how irritable she'd been the last few days.

“That explains a lot.”

“It sure does. Then Mr. Hooper ran into Mr. Turner at the store and they got into a big fight. It was bad. They had to get the cops involved. One of them got a black eye and the other had to get stitches.”

As I was making a mental note to stay off the Hooper and Turners' radar for a while, the bus brakes were screeching as we came to our stop. We and some other kids got off.

“Remember, the Equinox,” Amanda said.

I nodded, then she was yelling for her friends to wait up while jogging after them. I watched her mingle with them before turning around and walking to my house. When I got home, my parents greeted me with the usual questions, “how was school?”, “Have you been talking with anyone new?”, that sort of thing. Dinner that night consisted of pumpkin chili and apple nut muffins for dessert. It was common for people in our town to have seasonal foods in the days leading up to Autumn.

“Hey,” I spoke up, prompting my parents to look at me, “I was wondering something about the Fall Shut-in.”

“What about it?” my dad replied, returning to his book.

“Has anyone actually seen The Fall Fairy?”

I may as well have questioned the existence of the sky with the way my parents were staring at me then.

“Of course, people have seen it, that's why we stay inside,” my mom answered.

“What does it look like then?”

My dad slammed his book shut. Growing up, he was an intimidating man. He never beat me or anything. It's just that he carried himself in a very authoritative manner. When he spoke, there was always a finality to his voice to let me know he was entirely in control of the conversation.

“You've never cared about this before,” he said. “Why the sudden change?”

“I heard someone at school talking about it and got curious.”

That was technically true.

“Well, that's why you shouldn't eavesdrop,” my mom told me. “We thought you would have learned that by now.”

This was coming from one of the biggest gossipers in town. I decided to drop the topic and finish eating my food. My dad talked with my mom about seeing if he could squeeze in a hunting trip with his buddies the day before the shut-in. Meanwhile, my mom was going shopping with one of her friends. Our town was behind the times in terms of technology so cell phones or the internet weren't a thing for us.

With my parents out of the house, it was going to be me by myself which is something I have gotten used to. Reading was a big part of my childhood. It was always fascinating to catch these little glimpses into the outside world even if the stories were out of date. I spent that night and the day before the Equinox pouring through the journal. Part of me is glad I read it before her.

There were passages in it that would have made her ashamed of her family name. The short of it is, the natives (Likely Cherokee based on the region. Though, the journal never specifies) lived here before our ancestors settled and well, the transition of ownership wasn't peaceful. There was a name mentioned in one of those harrowing passages that was familiar to me. Going through my stuff, I realized it was the same as someone on a family tree project I did for school. That means someone I’m related to assisted in that slaughter.

As if I wasn't already dealing with enough. I thought about bringing this up to my parents. However, I knew they would deny it. Everything had to be perfect. I'm not bringing this up to alleviate familial guilt, by the way.

I do it because of the subtext present in those pages our ancestors chose to ignore. When our ancestors first invaded the land that would become Dead Leaf Falls, they noted how strangely the natives acted in response. They said of them it was like they were fighting to try and warn them away. I wish I could be surprised. If there's one thing people in our town were good at, it was ignoring problems staring them in the face.

There are only two passages I can share verbatim due to them having been burned into my mind. The first is below.

We have finally managed to clear out the last of these savages. Now we can utilize this land as our Lord intended. I know in my heart this was right and yet I am troubled. We looked into the eyes of our enemies in their final moments and saw no resentment, only relief.

The second was written months later.

We were blind.

That's where the journal ends. I wanted to tell Amanda, but she was so excited for our trip. I didn't want to deter her. There was something else I could do to ease my worry. My dad kept a gun cabinet in his trophy room.

He never kept it locked because I never had any interest in weapons up to that point. ...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/sleep-taken on 2024-09-22 03:45:34+00:00.

---

My friend told me to try and post here to see if I could get any help. My mom and dad got divorced a few months ago and once she got full custody, my mom moved my sister and I into this old house halfway across the country. And I don’t use the word “old” lightly. I feel like if I breathe too hard the house moves with that air. Every board creaking and groaning under the strain of the roof on top. 

For the first month, I was mad. Mad at every single change going on around me. I wanted to go back home where my friends were, where my life was. I didn’t eat for days, didn’t talk for weeks in protest. Maybe if someone saw how hard this was for me, I could change something. Make my mom take me back. But I gave up on that idea after my little sister broke down and begged me to stop. 

I tried to make some friends at school, I really did. But I was just the weird girl in a small town that enrolled in the middle of the year. The only one brave enough to talk to me was this short, scrawny girl who only dressed in all black. Bella soon became the only thing keeping me from going insane here. Although I’m not sure she’s enough anymore. 

Things finally started feeling normal that second month, school on weekdays and hanging out with bella on the weekends. I even thought about looking for a part time job, just to have some spending money. When I came home from my first job interview, that’s when I first heard it. That’s when the whispers started. 

I walked through the door and thought I heard my mom call my name. It was quiet enough that I had to strain to hear it so I assumed she was calling from her bedroom just to make sure it was me walking in the door. I called out a response and sat in the living room to study for an upcoming test. She walked in the front door 30 minutes later with bags of groceries. She went shopping right after work and I was home alone. That freaked me out a bit at first but I wrote it off from being tired. I wasn’t sleeping well from trying to catch up on lesson plans at school so it was easy to let it go. I got more worried when I started hearing more sounds outside my bedroom door, But it was always explainable, I would be about to go to sleep or I would hear my name or some shuffling outside my door when I had headphones on. 

I looked it up and it turns out those things happen to a lot of people. I chalked it up to being paranoid in a new house with new surroundings and it was putting some of my senses in overdrive. Everytime I heard a noise it freaked me out more and then I would hear more phantom shuffling and knocking. I just got used to ignoring it I guess, I hoped that as I got used to the house, my nerves would settle and I would just have a funny story to tell Bella about how I thought my house was haunted for a few weeks while it was settling. 

The shadows were harder to explain. The first time I saw it, I was doing homework in the living room. In the corner of my vision, I saw something peeking out of the kitchen doorway. As soon as I snapped my head towards the figure, it wasn’t there anymore. I laughed. I thought it was funny how some stupid math assignment was making me so stressed that my brain was creating weird shadow men to try and distract itself from it. It wasn’t so funny anymore when I turned back to my laptop and saw it walk past the doorway. I didn’t even think, I got up and  ran outside to call my mom. She left work and raced home with the police right behind her. They searched the whole house, but nothing was found. For days after that I did my best to try and convince my mom I didn’t lie. She’s convinced that I just want to leave and this is my next option. And the problem is that I could see myself coming up with this idea when we first moved so I don’t know how to get her to believe me. I mean, I barely believe me. But I’m not making this up. Either there was someone in this house or I’m going insane. I honestly don’t know which one I want to be true. 

My sister got a kick out of this. She made a game of sneaking under my bed and whispering my name when I walked in. making tapping sounds with her hands. Once she even grabbed my ankle when I got off of the bed and I swear if my mom didn’t pull us apart, I might’ve killed her. It was a big joke for the family that I was losing it, that crazy Ally was so upset about moving that she was inventing ghosts and shadow men. 

For the next week, I saw the shadow in the edges of my vision. Usually peeking out of a doorway like it was checking on what I was doing. I’m pretty sure I even saw it standing at the bottom of the stairs once. But everytime I try to look right at it, It’s like it was never there to begin with. I can’t talk to my mom about it, then it turns into a fight because she’s positive I’m trying to run us out of this house. I feel so alone, disconnected from reality. But all of this is almost explainable. Yeah, it’s concerning but I could justify all of this if you give me enough time. I can’t say that for what happened two nights ago. That’s the reason I’m coming on here, I can’t explain this away. 

I woke up in the middle of the night and had to pee. I turned over and saw a shadow shoot away from against my doorway. I know it sounds weird but that's become a normal thing for me so I just ignored it. I went to the bathroom and did my business and trudged my way back to bed. I made sure the hallway light was on, a habit I’ve been doing for a while because I don’t want to be in complete darkness with everything my mind has been doing to me. As soon as I got back into bed and faced the wall, I heard it. The whispers got closer, I could hear the sounds of the wood creaking as if something was crawling towards where I was laying. I’ve never heard the sounds of my name being called this clearly before, like something was whispering right in my ear. If I focused, it was like I could feel someone’s breath against my cheek. I was frozen, facing the wall, afraid to open my eyes and see what was calling for me. It felt like forever until the sounds stopped. It was even longer before I got the courage to turn around.

I saw it. At first it blended into the pile of blankets on the side of the bed but when My eyes adjusted to the light, I saw the outline more clearly. It was against my bed, peeking up just enough that I could see its eyes. Staring right at me, not even blinking. It was my sister's eyes. That’s when I felt anger. This was different from hiding under my bed when I got home from school. This was a new level that was just plain awful to do. I went to rip the blankets off and get up to yell at her. But then I got a closer look. They were my sisters eyes but that was it, the face surrounding them looked like black ink. Almost like this thing was molding its face as I was looking at it. Swirling features around a silhouette that looked vaguely human. The lights came on and it disappeared, just like that. It wasn't until my mom came in that I realized I was screaming. I told her I had a nightmare. I didn’t have enough energy for another fight. 

The next day I told Bella what happened, she recommended I post here for help. I don’t know what to do or where to go. I know I wasn’t dreaming and I don’t feel crazy. If I was crazy then I would see this thing everywhere. But it’s only at this house. I can still hear it whispering now. I’ve been sleeping with the lights on every night and I haven’t seen it since but it’s still calling for me from the shadows. It’s getting better at sounding like my mom or my sister. I almost can’t tell the difference now.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Wild-Tea-9242 on 2024-09-21 17:38:24+00:00.

---

This is going to sound insane, but I'm so sick of keeping it to myself. I was witness to something of a homicide, and very few people know what truly happened that night. If you ask me, the government is purposely preventing it from spreading worldwide because it..

Well, it sort of involves supernatural. Very obviously so, to the point it would probably create mass panic, so big details were hidden and it has very little, next to none, news coverage. I've honestly been afraid that if I speak out, I'll go 'missing,' if you catch my drift.

But, I'm tired of staying silent about this, it's like a huge weight on my chest. I don't care about sounding crazy anymore, this experience has ruined my life. I startle at my own shadow, every creak of an old building, and I've developed a severe panic disorder and a case of PTSD.

Maybe if I speak about it, it'll offer me a form of closure?

Well, make yourself comfortable, and I don't know, maybe grab a snack and a drink, because this is going to be a bit of a doozy.

My name is Grace. I'm currently 30 years old, and this happened when I was 16. My friends and I had been planning to explore this abandoned, supposedly haunted house for about a week. It was October, and we were feeling pretty festive. Halloween Eve fell on a Saturday, and we already had plans to go to a Halloween party the following Sunday, so we decided that would be the day we would go ghost hunting in the infamous ‘Eye Ripper House.’

I know, it certainly sounds like a fun time, doesn't it?

I would've never gone if my best friend, Yazmine, hadn't peer pressured me into it. You see, I was a dorky chick with brown hair and big glasses, a late bloomer who kept her nose stuck in books and was always regarded as the teacher's pet. I wasn't exactly the daring type.

When I moved to town I had virtually no friends, until Yazmine came and sat next to me at lunch out of the blue one day. She had light brown skin and long curly dark brown hair. I remember she called me pretty, said I looked like one of those girls in movies who would take off their glasses and suddenly become the hottest girl in school, even though they were just as pretty when the glasses were still on. I blushed and said thank you, not used to being complimented, and then she just kept talking up a storm, no matter how short and bland my responses were she carried the conversation nonstop. That's how we became friends, she almost sort of adopted me, like a pet, and dragged me everywhere with her. Others who didn't like me were forced to get along with me in her presence and I was invited to a lot more parties.

The thing about Yazmine was, while on the outside she seemed like a cliche popular cheerleader all the boys drooled over, she was an absolute geek for the paranormal. She ran a vlog where she talked about ghost stories, folklore, and tried to commune with spirits on her bedroom floor via a ouija board. Her parents didn't know of course, and she kept it a secret generally from our classmates. But a week before the incident, she had complained about her viewers pressuring her for more… risky content. They wanted her to explore abandoned and haunted places like other content creators did. And while she didn't have a lot of subscribers, they were very loud and demanding and threatened to leave her with none if she didn't follow their suggestions. She had drawn them in with her personality and now she had to keep them hooked by spicing things up a bit.

The only people she told about this aside from me were her other friends, John, Zack, Bryce, and Vanessa. Well, Bryce was her boyfriend, he was on the football team with John and they were inseparable and among the kids who were popular because they were cute looking, athletic, and outspoken. Vanessa was a relatively new friend, she was kind of a lot to take in and no one really liked her, but Yaz had adopted her the same way she had done for me so I have no room to talk. Zack was sort of a social reject and everyone believed John became friends with him out of pity, mostly because they couldn't believe John, the quarterback heartthrob, actually had an interest in Dungeons and Dragons, which they had apparently bonded over.

Yazmine had broken down the plan to us while we were in her house after school one afternoon, watching a movie on her couch with her parents at work.

“So, you know the house those kids were killed in some years back?” Yazmine spoke with a mischievous grin.

“Oh, God,” I said with a groan.

“You mean, that freaky ass house where those kids were found with their eyes ripped out? That house?” John asked incredulously. To describe John, he was tall with dark brown skin and short black hair. He often wore his bright red varsity jacket.

“Oh yeah!” Vanessa pitched in with a sick grin of excitement. “Sign me up for that, baby!” She was a true crime fanatic, to an annoying extent, at least in my opinion. She almost seemed to fangirl over serial killer cases as if she were gushing about celebrity drama. She was pale from powdery foundation with blonde hair dyed black at the tips, and mascara always ringed her gray eyes.

“Well, count me the fuck out,” Bryce said through a mouth full of popcorn as he dug his hand greedily into the bowl we were sharing. He had sandy blonde hair with blue eyes and really liked wearing hoodies most days, even in the summer.

“Baaaabe,” Yazmine whined as she wrapped her arms around him, “are you really gonna let me explore some abandoned house all by myself with no big strong jock to protect me?”

“Yaz, why the hell would you want to go there?” I asked, rubbing my temples stressfully.

“I told you,” she rolled her eyes, “ghost hunting in spooky, abandoned places is what's hot with paranormal vlogs nowadays.”

“You have a ghost hunting vlog?” Zack, who hadn't spoken in a while from his secluded spot in the armchair in the corner, suddenly piped up. He was skinny and naturally pale with shaggy black hair and thin-framed glasses. He always seemed to wear band tees and skinny jeans, and he barely talked outside of his circle of video game nerds at school.

“I do now!” She smiled at him. “Come on you guys. This Saturday, Halloween Eve. Don't be pussies, it'll be so fun. Oh, and pack your sleeping bags. We're gonna be spending the night!”

“Hell no!” We all, except for Vanessa and Zack, shouted in unison.

“Come on, what's the worst that can happen?” Yazmine seemed to be getting frustrated at our refusal. “Casper jumps out at you and goes boo? There's six of us. It won't be that scary with such a big group.”

“I'm in!” Vanessa said. “But what are we supposed to tell our parents?”

“Tell them you're all at my place.” Zack said, smirking deviously. “My dad works the graveyard shift and my brother will cover for us if anyone calls. There won't be any trouble.”

“Don't tell anyone where we're going!” Yazmine snapped. “I'm serious, not one soul! I don't want this getting out to people at school! My mom would snap my neck if word got out and she found out I was doing this.”

Zack raised his hands up defensively. “I'll tell my brother we're going to a party. Chill.”

“Wait, so you're actually doing this?” Bryce asked, finally turning his attention away from the movie.

“Yes, I'm serious. I wanna catch some creepy paranormal shit on camera.” Yazmine gave him a hard stare.

“You're out of your mind.” John shook his head and laughed.

“If you're scared, just say that.” Yazmine crossed her arms.

John and Bryce exchanged annoyed glances. “Ain't nobody scared.” John replied indignantly.

“It's just childish,” Bryce defended weakly.

“Are you two really gonna let Zack prove he has bigger balls than you?” Yazmine smirked and raised an eyebrow at them.

John and Bryce glanced over at Zack, who tensed awkwardly under their gazes, then back at Yazmine.

“Fuck, fine.” Bryce's shoulders sagged as he gave up.

“Whatever,” John shrugged, “but if I die, I'm definitely haunting you.”

“I don't think it's smart to go to some abandoned house where people were murdered.” I said shyly.

“Please?” Yazmine held my hands in hers and stuck her bottom lip out. Her eyes grew big.

As much as I tried not to, I cracked a smile.

“Come on, Grace, show everyone you're not the square they think you are,” Vanessa took a subtle jab at me with a sneaky smirk.

“Fine!” I shot a glare at Vanessa, absolutely hating to be called a square. “But never again!” Yazmine squealed happily and hugged me. It felt nice to be shown affection and included, and at the time that was worth risking a visit from a ghost.

And so, fast forward to the night of Halloween Eve, we were parked in John's car on an abandoned street on the outskirts of town. It was located on an unfinished suburb, where the house was at the end of what was meant to be a cul de sac, with at least two other finished houses and the rest half-built. The exact address of the ‘Eye Ripper House,’ as it was dubbed, was 52 Magnolia Way.

Nature was quickly reclaiming the semi-rural land, the yellowed grass on different sectional plots of land where houses were originally going to be built were high and swaying in the autumnal breeze, and the shivering trees crowding in too close for comfort. We were the only sign of life out there, six teenagers stepping out of the car and looking up at the two storey single family home looming over us with dark windows that may as well have been empty eyes sta...

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