nosleep

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Due_Pin_9161 on 2024-11-21 18:24:16+00:00.

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Hi everybody, My name is Carol and I am a, now former, ski patrol at the Appalachian Slopes Mountain Ski Resort in Blowing Rock, NC. It’s a quaint resort with thirteen runs, nine slopes and five lifts. It’s modest, but it’s the mountain I grew up on. It’ll always be a second home to me.

During my twenty-some odd years of service as a ski patrol, I saw a lot of sad things. Some good ones too, but, well, you don’t usually call the ski patrol for a birthday party now do ya? I’ve seen deaths, broken bones, arms and legs going directions they had no business going, and brain damage that practically scrambled every neuron in a poor guy’s head. That’s all standard for the job, skiing is throwing yourself down a mountain on two skinny slicked up slats, after all. But some of the things I’ve seen I can’t account for. I don’t know a power on earth or in heaven that could cause these calamities to happen.

Since I’ll no longer be in the ski patrol service in two days, and the resort can no longer fire me, I’ve decided to share these tales of the macabre and downright nightmare inducing with you all. Maybe some can be explained, but to be real honest with you, I doubt it.

The first story I think I should share happened in December of 2004. I was fairly new to my post on the top of the Silver Slipper run, a black diamond that bottomed out into a freestyle skiing section. They often posted us on harder runs since folks were most likely to take serious spills there. The resort was closing down for the night soon, and the light was starting to dwindle. It was freezing, and I was pretty eager to get home and get warm. I started my run down towards the base, got maybe 10 yards from the bottom when I spotted a glove in the snow. It was a nice one, something you’d buy in a pro shop, a blue and black Dynafit glove. Those things were overpriced, even in 2004, and not too common on this mountain.

I made my way slowly over to the glove, pulling up alongside it. I went to pull it off the snow, noticing how it was sticking upright like it had been purposefully frozen that way, and grabbed it. The glove was stuck, and it didn’t seem to be empty. For a moment I just stood there, knelt down holding this glove, my brain struggling to catch up with the situation I found myself in. There weren’t any reports of a snow slide, or any evidence around the slope that pointed to the possibility someone could be buried under there up to their wrist, but stranger things have happened. Least that’s what I told myself.

I popped off my skis, jabbed them upright into the tightly packed snow, and crouched down next to the glove, cautiously dusting snow from the base of it where I thought a wrist might be. When there was no wrist to uncover, my relief was palpable. I managed to wrench the glove free from the snow, quietly hoping I could find the second glove of the pair on my way down the slope and have a new set of fancy gloves, when something fell free of the blue and black glove in my right hand. It was a finger. I stared at the single digit in silence for a while, I’m not sure how long, before I looked back at the glove. I gave it a tentative shake, and the remaining 3 fingers encased in the cold glove fell into the snow at my feet.

I had a ziplock bag in my ski bib pocket, I had used it for my ham and Swiss sandwich at lunch four hours before. I shakily placed each finger into the bag, counted them once or twice to be sure, and began my descent down the slope. I did find the second glove, same as the first, but with five fingers this time. Then a boot. Then another boot. A jacket, ski pants, and finally, a helmet. We were able to assemble the whole body before the coroner's office guy, a nice fella named Jean, came to collect it from us at the base lodge. Save for one finger.

We never figured out where it went, or for that matter who had chopped someone into painstakingly tiny bits and scattered them along the Silver Slipper run. No one ever has.

A county sheriff came by the following morning, I didn’t recognize him, which is peculiar since everyone knows everyone in Blowing Rock, but he had the badge so I didn’t question much. He told us to forget about it as best we could, and keep the resort open. They didn’t want to make a big fuss of it all, and truthfully all of us just didn’t want to be out of a job in the busiest ski season at the only resort in town. So, we all kept it to ourselves, and picked up the next day where we’d left off. I stayed on that run for three more weeks, until I saw a small purple ski mitten jutting out of the snow about 10 yards from the base of the slope. That one ended up missing a toe.

Well folks, that’s my first story I’ll be sharing here. Don’t know if it interests any of you, but if it does I’m more than happy to share more. It’s kind of therapeutic to get these memories out of my head and onto paper, so to speak. Stay safe out there y'all, and see you real soon.

Sincerely,

Carol

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Random_User_499 on 2024-11-21 15:53:23+00:00.

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Hey, Reddit. Longtime lurker, first-time poster here. I never thought I’d be the one sharing a story, but something’s been weighing on me, and I need to get it off my chest.

A few weeks ago, I inherited a cabin in the Appalachian Mountains from a family member I’ve never even heard of. The letter from the lawyer was vague and old-fashioned, with no address, just landmarks to follow. Against my better judgment, I decided to come out here, see what I’d been left, and figure out what to do with it.

Now, I’m sitting in a small diner in town, the only place with Wi-Fi for miles, typing this out over a cup of coffee that’s gone cold. I’ve been keeping a journal since I arrived, and I thought sharing it here might help me make sense of everything. Or maybe someone here will see something I’ve missed because, honestly, I can’t tell if I’m imagining things or if something’s actually wrong.

Here’s what I wrote over the first few days.

Day 1

I made it to the cabin this afternoon after a long, winding drive through the mountains. The last 20 miles felt like stepping back in time. No cell service, no GPS, just narrow dirt roads and towering trees. I kept expecting to pass a house or a sign of life, but there was nothing—just trees so thick they blocked out the sun.

When I finally reached the cabin, it was like stumbling across a secret that had been lost to time. It’s old but solid, with dark, weathered wood and a steep, pitched roof covered in moss. Ivy has claimed one side of the house, creeping up to the second story. The windows are small and uneven, with glass so warped it makes the light bend in strange ways. It’s the kind of place that feels like it’s been forgotten by the world. Inside, it’s strangely intact. The furniture looks handmade—heavy wooden tables and chairs that have probably been here since the place was built. There’s a fireplace big enough to stand in, and the walls are lined with shelves full of old books and jars whose contents I can’t identify. The whole place smells like damp wood and something faintly metallic, like an old penny.

I spent most of the day unpacking and getting the fireplace going. As night fell, the silence outside became overwhelming. I thought being out here might feel peaceful, but instead, it feels like the quiet is pressing in on me. It’s hard to explain, but I keep getting this feeling that the cabin doesn’t quite belong here—or maybe I don’t. The quiet is so thick, it’s almost like the house itself is waiting for something. I’m probably just imagining things, but it’s a strange kind of stillness, like the house is holding its breath. I keep telling myself it’s just an old cabin. But something feels off about it. I can’t shake the feeling that this place has been waiting for someone—maybe me.

Day 2

I woke up to strange light streaming through the windows—more shadows than sunlight. I can’t explain it, but the light here feels different, like it doesn’t quite reach the ground the way it should. The forest around the cabin looks darker in the daylight than it should, the trees casting long, claw-like shadows even in the early morning.

I decided to explore the woods to get my bearings, but the deeper I went, the stranger it felt. The trees are massive, their trunks gnarled and twisted like they’ve been growing wrong for decades. The air feels heavy, like it’s thick with humidity even though it’s cool outside. I thought I heard something following me at one point—a faint rustling, like footsteps in the leaves. But when I turned around, nothing was there. I tried to laugh it off, but it wasn’t funny. The silence is so absolute that any sound feels unnatural, like it doesn’t belong.

When I got back to the cabin, I found the front door slightly ajar. I know I shut it before I left—there’s no question about that. I checked the whole house, but nothing seemed out of place. Still, it left me uneasy. After locking up again, I noticed a faint smell of wood smoke coming from the fireplace. The strange thing is, I hadn’t lit it that morning. There was no sign of embers or ashes, but the smell was strong, like someone had been burning wood just minutes before.

The door being open... I don’t know what to think about that. Maybe the latch didn’t catch, but I swear I locked it. And the smell of smoke? I don’t even know where to start with that. The fireplace was cold when I checked, but the smell was so strong it lingered for hours. I can’t shake the feeling that someone—or something—was in the house while I was gone. But there was no sign of a break-in, and nothing was missing or moved. Still, it feels wrong. Like the house itself is messing with me, testing me. And the woods… I don’t know what it is about them, but they feel alive. Not in the way nature usually does, but in a way that makes me feel like I don’t belong here. I keep hearing faint sounds, catching movement out of the corner of my eye. It’s like the forest is keeping tabs on me. I don’t know if I’m just letting my imagination get the better of me, but I don’t like it. Not one bit.

Day 3

I don’t know how to explain this, but the woods feel different today—closer. The trees seem denser, like they’re creeping inward. The paths I walked yesterday are harder to find, and when I tried to retrace my steps, I kept ending up back where I started. I spent most of the morning trying to convince myself it’s just my imagination. Then I noticed something else. The air smells faintly like iron, strongest near the shed out back. I almost went to check it out, but I couldn’t bring myself to open the door. Something about that shed feels wrong. By mid-afternoon, I couldn’t take the isolation anymore. I decided to drive into town for supplies and to get a break from the cabin. The town’s tiny—just a few old buildings clustered along a single main road. There’s a gas station, a general store, and this diner where I’m sitting now. The people here are polite but distant. When I mentioned the cabin to the waitress, she gave me this strange look, like she knew something I didn’t. “You be careful out there, hon,” was all she said, but the way she said it gave me chills.

The woods are closer today, and it feels like they’re closing in. The paths don’t make sense anymore. I keep walking in circles, and every time I turn around, it feels like I’m farther from the cabin than I should be. It’s like the trees are pulling me in, not letting me leave. The shed is bothering me. It feels like something’s in there, or like it’s waiting for me to open it. I don’t know what’s inside, but I’m not ready to find out. The town… I’m not sure what to make of it. The waitress’s warning sticks with me. It wasn’t just a casual “be safe” thing. There’s something about it—something off. The people here aren’t outright unfriendly, but there’s this unspoken distance. I’m starting to wonder if they know more than they’re letting on. I’m starting to feel like the cabin and the woods have a way of making things feel wrong. Like they’re altering reality in some way. It’s hard to describe, but I keep getting the sense that things are changing when I’m not looking. Maybe it’s just isolation getting to me. But I don’t think so.

That’s all for now. I don’t know if I’ll stay at the cabin much longer, but if anything else happens, I’ll update. If anyone’s been through something similar or has advice, I’d love to hear it. I don’t know what’s real anymore, but maybe someone here can help me figure it out.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/DivineAnime1 on 2024-11-21 12:59:48+00:00.

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I don’t even know why I’m writing this, except maybe I need to put it out there before it drives me insane. My name’s Alex Carson, and I’m writing this on a plane at 35,000 feet, heading back to my home in Oregon. I was supposed to be on the road for another week, finishing a cross-country trip I’d planned to clear my head after my divorce. But something happened something I can’t explain and now I’m leaving my car behind, arranging for it to be shipped back to me, because there’s no way I’m ever taking that route again.

I left Denver a week ago. I wasn’t in a hurry just taking my time, driving wherever the mood struck me. By the second day, I found myself on Highway 16, deep in the Midwest. It’s one of those roads that feels endless, stretching through flat plains, dense woods, and the occasional ghost of a town. Perfect for the solitude I was craving.

That first night, I pulled into a small motel. It was the kind of place you’d pass without noticing a squat building with peeling paint and a flickering neon sign. I checked in, ate a cold sandwich from a gas station, and tried to relax. But I couldn’t shake this odd feeling, like someone was watching me.

It was subtle at first just a tingle at the back of my neck. I told myself it was just my nerves. After all, I’d been through a lot recently, and maybe the loneliness of the road was messing with my head.

But when I stepped outside for some air, I saw him.

Or it.

At first, I thought it was a man. He was standing far down the road, just outside the glow of the motel’s lights. He didn’t move just stood there, facing me.

“Great. A small-town weirdo,” I muttered, heading back inside and locking the door. I tried to tell myself it wasn’t worth worrying about, but I kept peeking through the blinds. He or whatever it was didn’t move the whole time.

The next day, I hit the road early, trying to put distance between myself and that motel. The morning was crisp, the kind of weather that usually clears your head. But as the miles rolled by, I couldn’t shake the unease from the night before.

Around mid-afternoon, as I drove past a dense stretch of woods, I heard it.

Footsteps.

At first, I thought I was imagining things. I had the windows cracked, and I thought it might just be the wind or the tires crunching gravel. But the sound was too rhythmic, too deliberate.

It took me a while to realize what was wrong. The footsteps weren’t coming from inside the car they were outside.

And they were keeping pace with me.

I slowed down, almost to a crawl, but the sound didn’t stop. It stayed with me, matching my speed exactly. I stopped the car entirely, my hands shaking, and rolled down the window. The woods were silent, except for the soft rustling of leaves.

But then I heard it again closer this time.

I slammed the window shut, my heart racing, and sped off down the road. I didn’t stop until I reached the next town, where I checked into another motel. That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the building, every gust of wind felt like something trying to get in.

By the third day, I was exhausted. My nerves were shot, but I kept telling myself I was overreacting. I had to be. The loneliness of the road, the lingering stress from the divorce , it was all in my head.

At least, that’s what I thought until the accident.

It happened just after lunch. I’d been driving for hours when I hit a deep pothole. The car jolted violently, and I heard the sickening sound of something snapping. I pulled over and saw the damage: the front axle was slightly bent, and one of the tires was flat.

I had no choice but to fix it myself. I grabbed the jack and spare from the trunk and got to work.

That’s when I felt it again...that suffocating feeling of being watched.

I straightened up and scanned the road. It was empty. But the woods, just beyond the ditch, they were too quiet. No birds, no insects, nothing.

And then I saw him.

The figure was standing just inside the tree line, maybe fifty feet away. It was the same shape I’d seen outside the motel, but now it was closer.

And it wasn’t moving.

I froze, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst.

“Who’s there?” I shouted, trying to sound braver than I felt.

No response.

I turned back to the car, working as fast as I could to change the tire. But every few seconds, I would glance back, and each time, the figure was closer.

It wasn’t walking. It wasn’t even moving in the way a person should. It was just… there, suddenly, in a new spot.

By the time I finished, it was less than twenty feet away. The face or what should have been a face was long and pale, with hollow, black pits where the eyes should have been.

And then it smiled.

It was the most unnatural thing I’ve ever seen, like someone who didn’t understand how smiles worked. Too wide. Too sharp.

I didn’t wait to see what would happen next. I threw the tools into the trunk, jumped into the car, and floored it.

I didn’t stop driving until I reached a small airport on the outskirts of a larger town. I didn’t care about the cost I booked the first flight out and left my car in the parking lot.

Now, as I sit on this plane, I keep replaying the last few moments in my mind.

As I drove away, I glanced in the rearview mirror. The figure was standing in the middle of the road, watching me.

And just before I lost sight of it, I swear I heard it whisper my name ...

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Latter-Locksmith-483 on 2024-11-21 06:45:18+00:00.

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To be clear, it's not a phobia. A phobia is an irrational fear, after all - and my fear is very fucking rational indeed.

I was homeless. By choice, actually - lived that way for a few years. I juggle, just something I picked up as a kid, and believe it or not, that's enough to keep you fed and then some. An hour or two in front of a red light, and you're done. I liked my life, the freedom of it. I had a bit of money saved back, in case of bad weather, but most days I would work a couple hours and have the rest of the day to myself. But as agreeable as I found this lifestyle, finding a warm, semi safe place to sleep was easier said than done.

So I thought to myself, "why not look for an abandoned house to squat in?" A lot of people who can't pay rent (or don't want to) do exactly that, my state has laws that protect us. So I went to a hardware store, and I bought a padlock, as well as a couple other things. My plan was to find a place where nobody else was staying yet, slap a lock on the door so I don't have to share my space, and live it up rent free in some neglected dump. That's how I found my way to 3494, Lucky Fern Road. The place was abandoned for sure - that first night, I found the door was already unlocked, and the place was... mostly clean. Oh sure, there was dust everywhere, but that's to be expected.

I made my way into the kitchen - I figured if there was any food laying around that was out of date, that would confirm that this place is TRULY abandoned. As I opened the fridge, I was greeted with an absolutely vile odor - the walls inside, covered with mold, and a rotten glob of what used to be meat sat on a tray in the middle shelf. I took a moment to collect myself and recover from the waves of nausea, before making my way up to the bedroom.

It was mostly empty, although a dresser had been left behind - I dumped my few but precious possessions into one of the drawers, and turned my attention to the padlock, and the length of chain I'd purchased with it. The front door already had a bolt on it, which was fortunate, but the back door didn't seem to have any sort of locking mechanism at all. A bit odd, a distinct security risk at the very least. I recoiled, pulling my hand back as I touched the doorknob - it was hot, almost felt as if it nearly burned me in that brief instant. I tentatively poked it a moment later... cool. Normal. At the time, I wrote it off as some weird nerve thing in my head. Either way, I made my way upstairs - it was late, and I needed sleep. The bedroom door has a working lock, so I knew at least I'd be safe in here, even if a likeminded but less peaceful squatter saw fit to come around thr back and break in.

When I woke up, I was greeted by scorching, unbearable heat. This was early October - so naturally, I was highly confused. When I looked out the window... a cold, hard ball of fear formed in my gut. The other houses on the street were fucking demolished, they were in shambles - ruins, even. The sky was a dark, heavy grey, but it didn't look like rain, it just looked... dead. There was no sound, and very little light, and just as I was about to open the bedroom door to investigate further, I stopped. Every instinct was ablaze, and as I stepped back, the wooden floor creaked a bit under my weight. I felt like I was falling, as paralyzing terror gripped me, seemingly without rhyme nor reason.

Then, footsteps. Fast, very fast, something running. The doorknob rattled, as somebody on the other side tried to twist it open to no avail. Rattling gave way to loud slamming, and I started to think that whoever was on the other side wanted to break down the door. I grabbed the chain, and with trembling hands I snapped the padlock onto one end. I turned to the door, anxiously waiting for the rattling and slamming to stop, or for whatever psycho was on the other side to break through so I could brain them. And after a couple agonizingly long minutes, the noise did stop. It was replaced with the sound of a blaring siren from outside.

I heard the person on the other side of the door scramble, running away now, as the siren wailed outside. The grey sky, the dilapidated houses, even the street, had taken on a reddish hue, a crimson saturation permeating as far as I could see. And as it did, I saw somebody stumble out of one of the ruined neighboring houses. They were holding something in their hands - a baseball bat, I think. They looked to something I could not see, down the street - I'd have to open the window to get a good look. Instead, I watched him drop his weapon, drop to his knees... and start sobbing. His hand rose to his face, and slowly, he drove his thumbs into his own eyes. His screams were of pain, but somehow I instinctively knew this was an act of grief. For what, I was unsure. I crouched down, my face in my hands - I was shaking in abject, animal terror, and as the siren wailed on, it too was joined, now by a wet, slipperly slithering sound. I resisted the temptation, I would not look. As I crouched under the window, for a brief moment, the light of the red sky went black, as something very fucking large began to pass by. It halted, and I wanted to vomit or cry or do SOMETHING, but I stayed small, quiet, and hidden. And I waited... and I waited some more. The slithering resumed, and soon the dim red light returned.

When it did, I let out a shaky sigh of relief. What I did not know, at the time, is that I would be stuck here for just under 48 hours. The siren came back every few hours, and every time, I hid in silence, refusing to look. I had food and water, thanks to my lifestyle, stashed in the drawers, and although I'm not proud of it, I didn't even step out to use the restroom. Then, as I was eating a can of baked beans and starting to consider the possibility that the rest of my probably very short life might be spent in this room, I blinked, and the light changed. When I looked outside, the neighborhood was normal again. Blue sky, a bit cloudy, people in the road.

I got the fuck out of there, with the most absolute of haste. That was a couple years ago now. But one thing really stuck with me - my intuition. It's normally nothing special, but during those 48 hours, it was like my subconcious mind had a direct, one way line to my conscious brain. Everything seemed so clear - I knew, even without looking, that had I gazed upon whatever cast that behemoth shadow, I would meet a terrible fate. I knew, a moment before I heard it, that opening that bedroom door was a very bad idea. And when I walked out of that house, out of that neighborhood, and got a one way ticket out of that fucking city, I had this nagging, persistent notion. It was a trap. The house, it wasn't real, it was like a spider's web. I'm not homeless anymore. And I sure am glad of it. Because today I once again found myself in a strange part of town, for reasons irrelevant, and as I looked up at another abandoned house, nothing like the last, I instantly knew that this one was a trap, too. It's not just one, or two, or ten - they're everywhere. They look like forgotten, abandoned homes, down to dust and grime and even forgotten food in the kitchen. Unless you've been in one before, you can't possibly distinguish them from the real thing - and even then, there are no physical signs. All you have to go on is your gut instinct.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Dopabeane on 2024-11-23 02:45:49+00:00.

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Between 1984 and 1988, a particular metro area in the southeastern United States suffered a spat of violent murders.

The victims had no commonalities. Age, gender, color, appearance, occupation, socioeconomic status — nothing matched. Victims included middle school students and notorious cartel members, street cops and lawyers, charity directors and investment bankers, pharmaceutical executives and gas station clerks. 

The only reason authorities had any idea that the murders were related was because of the killer’s unique calling card:

A scattering of blood-drenched pigeon feathers.

As months passed and the body count mounted, law enforcement came into possession of one single piece of eyewitness testimony:

Following the violent death of a firefighter, a middle-aged woman was spotted limping away from the scene, bleeding profusely from a gaping wound in her hip. According to the witness the woman was tiny, birdlike in her thinness, shuffling like someone elderly. Notably, a flock of pigeons followed her, bobbing along beside her like an urban adaptation of the pied piper.

This sighting was ultimately dismissed due to one impossible detail:

The woman was covered in grey feathers.

A second sighting was reported one year later, and was again dismissed. Similar sightings continued to crop up over the years, every one of them ignored.

In 1988 and entirely by chance, a bloody feather came into possession of AHH during the commission of a separate task. The feathers were then brought to NASCU. Peculiarities surrounding the appearance and physiology of the feathers were noted by specialized personnel, most notably T-Class Agent Wolf. 

At this time, the agency launched an investigation of its own. 

The investigation culminated in July 1988. During surveillance of the target — a very thin woman who was always trailed by a flock of pigeons, and who always wore a long, heavy trenchcoat, even in the humid summer heat — she managed to infiltrate a house that functioned as a front for human trafficking. 

What resulted was a bloodbath.

 

The target was badly wounded and therefore sufficiently weakened due to the energy expended during the attack. Agency personnel were able to take her into custody. Her capture was not without incident, as the flock of pigeons surrounding her began to attack. One pigeon, a particularly large male with one eye, refused to leave her side. As a result, the animal was brought into custody with her. He was later observed to pluck his feathers and place them on top of the woman’s astounding number of serious wounds.

Incredibly, the feathers facilitated rapid healing.

It must be noted that the woman came into Agency custody during a time when consideration and respect for our extraordinary inmates was at a low ebb. Due to her dress, her age, her general appearance, and of course her flock of pigeons, personnel dubbed the entity The Bag Lady.

The Bag Lady is a middle-aged woman of almost extraordinary thinness. Her hair is short and grey. Her eyes are large and a vivid, bright orange identical in hue to the eyes of the pigeon who came into custody with her.

Like her pigeon, she is covered in feathers. 

Unlike many inmates, the Bag Lady is articulate, intelligent, and possesses full speech and language capabilities. Nevertheless,  for the entire length of her incarceration, the Bag Lady has refused to speak with staff for any meaningful length of time. When asked why, her answer is always the same:

“Because I don’t talk to cops.”

This is admittedly understandable, given that the Bag Lady acted in an exclusively extrajudicial capacity, to extremely violent effect. 

Despite decades of consistent questioning and other, less savory methods to break her down, the Bag Lady has continued to refuse meaningful engagement with Agency personnel. In fact, the only meaningful contact the Bag Lady has had with personnel consists of attacks both attempted and achieved.

On four different occasions, however, she has been observed attempting to engage fellow inmates in conversation. 

Notably, the Bag Lady speaks extensively and frequently to her pigeon. The pigeon does not answer, but Agency personnel believe the bird is extraordinarily intelligent and that it communicates with her nonverbally. Due to potential similarities with the inmate called the Heart Bird, the pigeon is as closely monitored as the Bag Lady herself. Concerns over such similarities with the Heart Bird are the primary reason that the Bag Lady has never been evaluated for termination.

Fortunately, the inmate’s thirty-five year vow of silence was recently broken during an interview with T-Class agent Rachele B. The insights provided are fascinating. The content of the interview poses serious questions regarding the nature of death, free will, the possibility and potential purpose of afterlife, and the processes through which Khthonic entities come into being.

One might even dare to say it provides a few answers as well.

(*Please note I did NOT write that last line. My boss added it because he's a tool)

Interview Subject: The Bag Lady

Classification String:  Uncooperative / Undetermined / Khthonic / Fixed / Critical / Teras

Interviewer: Rachele B.

Date: 11/22/2024

The first thing my son ever bought was birdseed.

He was four years old. His grandma put two dollars in his Christmas card that year, and he spent those dollars on pigeon food.

Michael loved pigeons. He started talking to them before he ever said a word to me. Watched them from windows when he was a baby and cooed at them the way they coo at each other. His first smile was at them, not at me. His first hello went to a baby pigeon blinking stupidly in a nest on our fire escape.

He loved them.

As he got older, that love grew stronger. By the time he was kindergarten, those birds would follow him everywhere, bobbing their little heads. They ate out of his hands, flew down to his arms, sometimes even landed on his head which made him laugh like nothing else. 

I’d been afraid of birds my whole life, so I didn’t understand. I asked him one time why he loved them so much. How he could make friends with them.

“It’s easy, Mom,” he said. “Pigeons think everyone’s their friend. They already love you. All you do is love them back.”

I still didn’t understand. Didn’t really want to, I guess. I grew up learning that pigeons were vermin. Dirty, ugly, unsanitary, brainless disease carriers. No, I didn’t understand at all.

But I did understand this:

Like pigeons, my son thought everyone was his friend. 

When describing Michael, you might use the word “gullible.” But that isn’t right. He wasn’t gullible. He was smart, he was intuitive, he understood everyone. He could look at the worst person alive and find the smallest, weakest spark of goodness flickering forlornly in the vast dark.

What he couldn’t understand — what I couldn’t make him understand no matter how hard I tried, how loud I yelled, how mean or desperate or cruel I got — was that a spark is not light.

A spark is just a spark. No more, and maybe less.

I could tell you about Michael’s friends. How some were born monsters. How some were made. How badly the ones that were made—the ones that weren’t born ruined— heart my hurt.

And how that spark of sympathy got my guard just enough to make sure I lost my son.

I saw him for the last time when he was seventeen.

We were fighting about his friends. Not the pigeons, I’d gotten used to them a long time ago. How they clustered around the fire escape every morning waiting for him to open the window, how they flocked down to the building entrance when it was time for him to leave for work, how his favorite bird, Mr. One-Eye, dive-bombed onto his shoulder every time they saw each other. 

No, we weren’t fighting about pigeons. We were fighting about his other friends.

It wasn’t even a bad fight. Not worse than any of our other fights, anyway. It went the same way it always did, he told me I didn’t understand like he always did, I told him he was being a little fool and his friends would be the end of him like I always did.

And he walked out the door to cool off, like he always did.

I thought he’d call a few hours later, apologizing and asking for an apology in return like he always did.

But he didn’t call.

I told myself he’d come home, like he always did.

But he didn’t come home.

And nobody cared.

My boy never coming back was the worst thing. The very, very worst thing that is, was, or will ever be.

But the fact that no one helped, that no one cared, that no one gave the tiniest spark of a damn, was almost as terrible.

I went to the police seventeen times. Seventeen. One for each year he’d been alive. Each time they told me Michael was practically an adult, we’d had a fight, and he was fully in his rights not to come home. One cop even had the gall to me it was about time he stopped coming home. Another one said I was lucky he was gone, because otherwise he’d probably come home one day and cut my throat for drug money.

The last cop took pity on me. She was a lady officer. Lady is the wrong word. She was a battle ax. Built like a brick shithouse, with hair like rusty steel wool and the scariest eyes I have ever seen. 

But when she looked at me after I taking my seventeenth report, there was nothing scary about her eyes. They were only tired. Sad. And lightless.

That look in her eyes was how I knew no one would ever find my son, ...

---

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

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/02321 on 2024-11-20 18:16:55+00:00.

---

First:

Previous:

I was tempted by an email about a job that looked like it wouldn’t kill me. I just needed to investigate a motel.  

All sorts of supernatural motels showed up on empty roads of almost abandoned towns. There must be a few thousand different types of these buildings. Some were creatures disguised as somewhere to rest. I only knew details about the basic ones. A Pop-up Motel for the most part isn’t overly harmful meanwhile a Haunted Hotel can be very dangerous. A mixture of safe and life-threatening is a Bugged Motel. I just needed to gather details about an out-of-place building in the middle of nowhere. What could go wrong?  

Knowing my luck, a lot of things.   

I arrived at the location where the motel had last been seen. These types of buildings don’t show themselves to just anyone. Luckily enough, I was the type of person it wanted—or didn’t feel threatened by. The outside looked more like a decent hotel than a U-shaped motel. The nicer the place, the more danger that waited inside. I took a deep breath and walked through the glass doors, unaware of what would greet me.  

To my surprise, it appeared normal. It's as normal as an unnamed hotel showing up overnight in a rundown neighborhood could be. A man dressed in a professional suit jacket waited behind the check-in desk. His dark eyes watched me as I carefully walked over. His friendly smile did nothing to comfort me. For some odd reason, he reminded me of August. They didn’t look related. It was just how they both smiled and facial structure formed their face. Because of that one hint, I already knew what I was dealing with.   

My palms became sweaty as I tried to look calm. I stopped in front of the desk hoping I could get out of this place safe and sound in the next few minutes.  

“What can I do for you today?” The man chirped.  

His smile grew wider, and it made every hair on my arms stand on end. I only had one chance.  

“I would like to book a room for next Monday if possible.” I said, keeping my voice steady.  

The man nodded and reached for a book to write down the information. There were no computers or cameras in the lobby. But I knew I was still being watched. I glanced away long enough to spot a cockroach nestled in the corner near the ceiling. I focused my attention back on the clerk and gave him my contact information. I was almost in the clear. Once I left, I would pass along what I learned to The Corporation. They would decide if this place was dangerous enough to assign an Agent to deal with.  I could cancel my booking, but I wasn’t aware of what the cancellation fee would be. Whatever it was, it would be better than actually staying in a place like this.  

After a tense few moments, the clerk finished my booking and I let myself exhale knowing I was free to leave. Before I took a step away,  someone came literally crashing through the door, guns drawn. A few bullets hit the clerk, his false face blowing apart at the edges showing parts of what he really was.  

“I’m here to exterminate all you fucking bugs!” A voice shouted out into the lobby.  

I stared in sheer shock at the stupidity of the person who just arrived. He wore a long black duster with his hair wild. Countless charms and necklaces dangled from his neck, and he stood tall because of a pair of black platform boots covered in belts. He must still be a teenager if he thought those boots for fighting monsters were acceptable.   

The clerk smiled away, not noticing a few new holes in his face.   

“Would you like to check in sir?” The clerk asked.  

I couldn’t stop the kid in time. I opened my mouth to speak but he instantly responded.   

“Fuck yeah I do! That way I can-”  

I watched as a swarm of dark insects flooded out from each side of the lobby. They went around me heading straight to the newcomer. He screamed and shot wildly trying to get away. He didn’t stand a chance.   

“We’ll see you to your room. And we’ll see you on Monday.” The clerk said, his voice not able to hide the joy of nabbing a new victim.  

I felt the floor move under my foot. I was rudely tossed out, the doors slamming behind me. The windows in the hotel became dark as a closed sign appeared in the window. No matter how hard I pushed or pulled, the doors weren’t opening. This was not good. That kid had at most, a few hours before the hotel claimed him. This was easy to tell this place was a Bugged Hotel.  

It was just as it sounded like. A supernatural hotel run by insect monsters that pretend to be human. Since they didn’t eat the kid when he first checked in, then I knew they would keep him alive but slowly drain his life away.   

I rushed off and somehow got a meeting with someone I’d spoken with before. Klaus met me outside of the interview room ready to hear my story. He handed me a water bottle noticing how haggard I was from running around finding the right damn magic key that would bring me to The Corporation office.  

“It sounds like you met a new Hunter. They often take in whoever applies. They give them weapons but no real training. People like this die quickly, but to their credit may take a monster down or two with them.” Klaus said after I told him the short story.  

“Clearly this kid was a dumbass trying to look cool. We need to get him out of there, like ten minutes ago.” I pushed.  

Klaus made an expression I didn’t like. He straightened his posture ready to ask questions I didn’t want to hear.  

“Did you encounter any other humans in danger?” He asked using a stern tone.  

“Well, no I didn’t see any but-”  

“Your job was to collect information. Our job is to keep the balance between supernatural creatures and humans. We do not kill every monster we come across.”  

“Yes, I know that.” I argued but he went on.  

“As distasteful as it sounds, The Corporation allows certain creatures to hunt humans to live. Each creature has a different victim limit. From the sounds of it, This Hotel has only taken one human that picked a fight. I’ll submit what you’ve told me, but you may need to accept the fact this hotel’s activities have been approved by us, but we were just not certain where it had moved to.”  

“Are you saying we should just leave him to die?”   

Klaus took a moment to try and collect his words. I knew he had most likely dealt with situations like this before. His hands were tied when it came to how The Corporation dealt with certain supernatural creatures. I knew it was only fair of them to protect monsters as much as they did humans. I still didn’t agree with certain decisions.   

“If this is deemed to be a priority, then we’ll send an Agent out. Your job is done here. You’re able to carry on with the rest of your day.”   

Instead of being angry over what he said, I nodded. He said I could leave and do anything I wanted today. That included saving a stupid young Hunter that got himself into a huge mess.  

I left the office behind knowing I wasn’t going to get any help from them. Instead, I called an old friend. She owed me a favor. Not a big enough favor for her to rush into such a dangerous place. I may need to pay her a little extra for this.  

She met me in front of the Hotel, face bright and ready to help. Harp was taller than me. Her well-built body could barely be contained in her simple clothing. Now that I was in front of her again, I knew why I had stayed away for so long. I got weird when she spoke to me. I suddenly understood Joey’s interests a little bit more.   

I shook off those emotions to get down to what we needed to do.  

“It’s good to see you back on your feet little man.” Harp said as she crossed her arms over her chest.  

She had cream-colored hair that she always kept tied back for jobs. Her ears were slightly pointed and her nose was flat. I’ve never figured out what sort of creature she was. The only thing I knew about her for certain was that she could snap me like a twig with her massive arms.  

“Not fully on my feet, but it’s good to see you. Thank you for helping with this.” I quickly said and started forward hoping she would follow.  

She did not. I turned back, my stomach rolling with different emotions.  

“You know what my price is. What I owe you is not enough for this.” Harp said, eyes gleaming.  

I let out a deep sigh feeling my face go slightly red.  

“Not in front of people this time, alright? Now let’s go.”  

I wished she would stop teasing me as much as she did. This time she followed. Her long strides soon overtook my pace. She entered the Hotel, the closed sign now gone. I felt a million unseen eyes on us when we entered the lobby. She stopped a few steps away from the front desk. The dark-eyed clerk smiled at us. His smile appeared strained when he saw me again.  

“Booking a room for tonight?” He offered in a less polite tone than he used with me earlier.   

“Nope. Coming to pick up a friend. You wouldn’t happen to know what room he’s in, would you?” Harp said, sharp teeth coming into view.  

The clerk matched her expression.  

“I’m afraid we can’t give out that information.” He half hissed.  

“Then I'll just have to beat it out of you.”  

She quickly moved; fists ready. The clerk let out a cackle, finding th...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gvw4nm/im_a_contract_worker_for_a_secret_corporation/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/job_galloway10158 on 2024-11-20 13:15:50+00:00.

---

It’s taken me far too long to write all of this down. But for a number of reasons, it has been difficult for me. One of them being the challenges of typing with one hand. But I’m scared I’ll forget everything that’s happened. It’s been a few too many years and some details are starting to slip away in my mind. And if I’m going to write it down, then I might as well share it. That was always the plan anyways. I’ve talked to an editor a few times about possibly publishing my experiences. But it turns out you have to write something before you can publish it. So, this is my story, or at least some of it. Please let me know if you guys would like me continue.

Class was in less than an hour, and I had already stretched my last shower way too long. With a fistful of mismatched clothes and a towel wrapped around me—high on my chest, like a woman, to hide my ever-growing fat supply—I wandered across the hall to the dorm bathroom. My bare feet slapped against the dark brown tile as I made my way to the middle shower.

Always the middle one. It was my favorite. The water pressure was stronger there than anywhere else I had ever found, and it ran hot enough to scald if I let it. Often, I would curl up in a ball under the stream and savor the heat for as long as I could. Not this time, though. I was already late.

I showered as anyone might, while also taking time to enjoy it. About five minutes in, eyes closed, trying to lose myself in the steam, I thought I heard a voice. Not full words, but bits of sounds—S’s and T’s poking through the white noise of the water. I lowered the pressure, listening closer.

“Do you have a moment to talk?”

It was so faint, barely a whisper above the hum of the pipes. I could almost convince myself I had imagined it. Almost.

Stepping out of the shower immediately, I wrapped my towel around myself and stepped back onto the cold tile. I checked each stall, even glanced out into the hall, hoping to catch someone running away down the hall, laughing at their own prank. But no one was there.

Back in the shower, I tried to ignore the feeling. Tried to lose myself in the steam again. But the sounds—those same, creeping consonants—slipped through, just at the edge of hearing. I switched the shower off at an instant. I was certain someone was messing with me. My showers were one of the few times that I could lose myself. That I could pretend I was not who, what or where I am. And someone was ruining it. “What?!” I said deep and loud, trying to sound like my dad. The response came from my feet.

“You can hear me.”

I looked down expecting nothing because there shouldn't have been anything there to see. And there wasn't. Just stained tile and a rusty drain. I finally resorted to asking the cliche question I had been avoiding up until this point. “Who’s there?”

“So you can hear me.”

I froze. The drain. It was coming from the drain. I couldn't comprehend why I was hearing a voice in a drain and didn't even attempt to conjure up an explanation. The voice was distinctly male and smooth as butter. But it was muffled and faded like he was speaking underwater. It was equally alluring as it was eerie. Like your favorite anchorman talking through a straw. My heart felt like it was bouncing around my ribcage. “What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck.”

“Luis, you can hear me, that's great Luis.”

A cold chill traveled down my spine. It knew my name. There was something in the drain and it knew my name. “Who are you?” I paused “A-and how do you know who I am?” I added last second.

“I don't have a name, Luis, Is that okay? That I don't have a name?”

I caught myself dwelling on the question before anything else. It doesn't have a name? It continued before I could wrap my head around what it just said.

“I want to talk to you, Luis. Can we talk?”

Cold, wet, and naked, I had pinned myself in the corner of the shower stall, trying to get away but unable to move. For some reason, I felt compelled to respond. “Yes” I said.

“Great! T-rust me it will be worth your time. I’m here to help you, Luis. Someone like me shows up when I am needed. And you need me, Luis.”

It was so... giddy. I wanted it to stop saying my name, it sounded like my school counselors in high school. Trying to foster an artificial connection by wearing out your name in every sentence. I didn't know how to respond, so I waited for it to keep going.

“You are in pain Luis. I can feel it. You have foul things inside you. Dirt, grime, rot, they weigh you down. Everyone has rot, Luis, but not everyone has to keep it”

It intrigued me. I think there are few humans that are in positions where they would humor a creature in a drain promising the impossible. But then again, desperate, lonely men—men like me—are different. When you’ve spent enough time carrying your own bitterness, your own private regrets, you start to listen to anything that offers relief, even if it crawls up from a drain. I slid to the floor and shuffled closer to the voice. “How?” I said “How do you get rid of it”

“Turn on the faucet, let it run as hot as possible. And step under the water. I will bleed your rot away and it will leave you forever.”

“Where does it go?” I said.

“Here. The drain.”

“What do you get?” I said, “What do you get out of this?” I clarified before it could respond.

“My motivations are my own. What's important is the help I’m offering you. You do not have to accept.”

His happy-go-lucky cadence had fallen away, and I was met with a grim tone that told me I had asked too many questions.

“If you so please, use the shower as I told you and I will shed you of some of your rot. Return and I will do it again!”

It used Its nice voice again. I waited for a minute or so to see if it would speak again. When nothing came, I rose to my feet and looked at the shower handle. I twisted it on and gradually increased the heat. Ever so slowly getting closer to its terminal temperature. I hesitated before I turned it the last bit of the way. I considered my options, but it wasn't really a difficult choice. I had nothing to lose or leave behind besides bad memories and wasted opportunities. I was going to see this through.

I closed my eyes, feeling the water sear down my body. And I waited—waited to feel lighter, to feel something slip away. Instead, my skin began to prickle and sting. What started as pins and needles became bowie knives and acid as I began to burn and writhe under the scalding water. I opened my eyes and saw small black dots decorating my entire body. When I looked closer, I could see that my pores were expelling small bits of dark resin. The pain was my pores stretching to unnatural levels to push out the rot. Horrified, I tried to brush the globs off me which sent shockwaves of pain right down to the bone. I didn't try that move again. Slowly, each one was squeezed out and fell to the floor to be swept down the drain. The drain moaned and gurgled as it drank up every drop. The shower ran cold, and I knew it was over. I was left shaking, my skin enflamed and raw, my mouth was horribly dry. Red streaks from my crying pores trailed down my body, and my stomach kept churning, over and over again. But I felt lighter.

I waited a few weeks to get a better idea of how exactly I was affected. After the redness of my skin faded away and my pores shrunk to their normal size, I really started to feel it. Things felt.... better. I had visibly shed some of my belly fat and my cheeks clung tighter to my face. But the best of all was the feeling that followed me everywhere. It was as vibrant and electric as it was soothing. I could constantly feel it radiating through my body and shooting out of my fingertips. It obscured the memories that were weighing me down. It made me feel like, for the first time in a while, things were going to be okay.

The weeks passed and I savored every second. There was a part of me that wanted to address the creature in the drain. A part of me that wanted to react like most people would and obsess over how bizarre my encounter was while also considering the ramifications of transacting with a creature in the plumbing. But it produced results where every spark of hope I had before failed to. I wasn't going to ruin this.

One afternoon, my new grin I had been sporting was replaced by a deep frown when I saw the grade on my history midterm. I was certain I had aced it; I studied the material as well as I normally do, and my previous exam grades were exceptional. This frustrated me as it was proof that I wasn't all better, I could still fail. And if I could fail once, I could and likely would fail again. I didn't want to fail; I wanted to get better. I decided to wear my frown all the way back to my dorm.

I stood in the stall, the faucet off, staring down at the drain, fighting off a new rise of negative thoughts. I studied the darkness that hung below the rusty metal grid. I looked for an eye, tooth, finger, something, anything that I could associate with the voice. I was going to say something, maybe ask specifically for it to make me smarter. But I didn't think I could stand to hear that velvety echo of a voice again. I turned the knob all the way to the right without hesitating. Letting the water engulf me entirely, I clenched my teeth, trying to be ready for what I knew was coming.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/horrorfan_9 on 2024-11-20 07:58:23+00:00.

---

I’ve kept this to myself for far too long, and I don’t think I can carry the weight anymore. Maybe writing it down will help. Maybe not. Either way, someone should know the truth before it’s too late. If anyone reads this, don’t dismiss it as the ramblings of a lunatic. I’m not crazy. I wish I were.

I used to work at NASA. Officially, I was part of the public-facing missions—rovers, orbital studies, things they let the world see. Unofficially, I was involved in something else. Something hidden. Something that makes me wish I’d never joined in the first place.

It started in 2016 when the first classified images came back from Project Hermes. That’s what we called it internally—a black-budget mission that had been ongoing for decades, quietly probing Mars in ways the public could never know. We weren’t just looking for signs of microbial life. We were looking for something bigger, something… familiar.

And we found it.

The first anomalies were dismissed as natural formations—weathered rock, wind patterns, volcanic activity. But the more data we gathered, the harder it became to deny what we were seeing. Beneath the dust storms and red desolation, we found structures. Not just rocks shaped by chance but deliberate architecture. Crumbled towers, shattered domes, and sprawling grids buried beneath the Martian surface. It was ancient. Older than anything we’d ever imagined.

They brought me into the project when it was clear we weren’t dealing with random geology. My expertise in planetary systems made me an asset—or so they told me. In truth, I think they brought me in because I was naïve enough to still be excited about the discoveries. I didn’t understand the implications. Not then.

It wasn’t until we recovered the artifact that everything changed. They never let me see it in person; few of us did. It was an obelisk, black as void and covered in intricate carvings. Patterns that didn’t match anything in Earth’s archaeological record—or so we thought at first. The linguists worked on it for years before they made the breakthrough. The carvings weren’t alien. They were human.

That was the day we realized Mars wasn’t a dead planet we’d stumbled upon in the vastness of space. It was home.

Mars was our home.

The artifact told a story, though it wasn’t complete. The pieces we deciphered painted a grim picture. Mars had once been vibrant—oceans, forests, teeming with life. And then, humanity happened. The wars. The greed. The arrogance. It started small—territorial disputes, resources, borders. But the conflicts escalated until the entire planet was engulfed in fire. Nuclear war, ecological collapse… no one could say for sure how it ended. All we knew was that Mars had become uninhabitable. And yet, against impossible odds, some of them escaped. They found a way off the dying world and journeyed across the void to Earth.

We are the descendants of those survivors. Refugees from a ruined world.

I remember sitting in the lab when I first read the translated text. My chest felt tight, my breath shallow. I kept telling myself it couldn’t be true. It had to be some cosmic coincidence, a shared evolutionary path, something—anything—but the truth was inescapable. The genetic markers, the shared cultural motifs, the timeline. It all aligned.

We destroyed one planet already. And now we’re doing it again.

The higher-ups at NASA decided the public couldn’t know. “It would destabilize everything,” they said. They weren’t wrong. Religion, history, politics—it would all collapse under the weight of this revelation. But I can’t help thinking that’s what we need. A collapse. A reset. Because if we don’t change course, if we don’t stop the wars and the greed and the mindless consumption, Earth will follow Mars into oblivion. And this time, there won’t be another planet to flee to.

Do you understand what I’m saying? There’s nowhere else to go. The nearest habitable worlds are light-years away, and we don’t have the technology to get there. Earth is all we have. But we’re blind to the precipice we’re teetering on, just as we were before.

And sometimes, late at night, I wonder if it’s already too late. The signs are there—melting ice caps, mass extinctions, choking skies. It’s starting again. The same cycle. The same death march. And I don’t know how to stop it.

What terrifies me most isn’t that we’re repeating history. It’s the idea that we might not even be capable of change. Maybe this is who we are—creatures of destruction, destined to burn through one world after another until there’s nothing left.

I wish I could say I have hope, but I don’t. Not anymore. All I have is this overwhelming sense of dread, this crushing certainty that we’re hurtling toward our doom and no one cares enough to stop it.

Mars isn’t what we thought it was. And Earth won’t be, either, when we’re done with it.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ICANBEAHERO on 2024-11-20 02:40:42+00:00.

---

Has anyone been shocked recently? I work as a new doctor in a small town outside of Cincinnati, Ohio and have been getting more and more cases of people coming into the emergency room presenting with severe burns to their hands, feet and even their faces. These burns are the always the first symptom and to my knowledge, there has not been a single survivor after being admitted with the first burn. I'll outline my experience below and hope that some one has experience with these symptoms. I have already called the CDC to investigate as well, but no one ever arrived.

Log 1 - Initial Report, 12:00 AM - 1 hour after intake.

This has only been going on about a week, starting with a young female patient that approached the emergency room with severe burns on her fingertip on her right hand. The patient stated that she was working at her computer when she felt an electric shock come from her mouse and enter into her finger, causing the burn. The patient stated that she felt fine other than some localized pain around the burn mark and some join stiffness that we attributed to the electricity entering the body and stunning the surrounding muscle tissue. We wanted to make sure that she did not damage her heart and immediately put her on a multi-diode ECG to ensure that her heart didn't get damaged and asked her to stay overnight.

Log 2 - 2:00 AM - 3 Hours since intake

I was woken up by a overnight nursing manager about an emergency that was occurring with the patient and she could no longer feel her arm. All other readings were steady, but they wanted me to come in and oversee due to being the resident on call. When I arrived they had moved the patient from her residency in the room 240 patient ward into room 11 on the emergency floor. I inspected the patient and found that she had no feeling in her arm at all and the arm appeared to have no function. Upon inspection of the burn site I observed that the fingernail of the electrocution site had fallen off and the skin had turned black. The nail bed lost its consistency and was gelatinous in nature when touched. The patient otherwise appeared normal and was still fully conscious. The patient was given a standing order for pain medication if needed and a recommendation was made to have the finger and possibly the arm removed after a meeting with a surgeon in the morning.

Log 3 - 6:00 AM - 7 Hours Since Intake

I was called back to the hospital due to rapid deterioration of the patient. Upon entering the room a horrid smell wafted from the room, immediately reminding me of medical school. It reminded me of the day that we visited the morgue and saw some cadavers in advanced decomposition. But the patient was still alive. The patient seemed in obvious emotional shock, but stated that they were still feeling no pain. Upon observation of the arm it was observed that the patient no longer had fingers, as they had melted(?) to the linens that she was laying on. The bones to the fingers were still present on the linens but the patient still could not move the remainder of her arm. The surgeon was called for immediate intervention as this was progressing too fast to wait.

Log 4 - 6:18 AM - 7:18 Since Intake

The on-call surgeon arrived on site and asked for a briefing when a nurse once again asked for assistance in emergency room 11. Upon arrival the nurse found that the patients entire arm had melted(?) to the linens, leaving only the bones and a terrible mess. The patients chest and lower abdomen showed signs of black permeating the skin. The surgeon was unable to do any surgery as the infection had moved into critical portions of the body. I took several samples of healthy tissue as well as the gelatinous tissue that was left from the infection. I had the lab run it for everything they could think of, as we were running blind at this point.

Log 5 - Approx. 7:00 AM - 8:00 Since Intake

More patients with similar symptoms arrived at the hospital. The patients presented with similar burns in different areas of their body. The patients also claimed that hey had all been in contact with an electronic device when they were burned. The CDC finally took an interest and arrived at the hospital.

Log 6 - Approx. 7:30 AM - 8:30 Since Intake

The lab nerds stated that they were unable to run the sample due to constant interference in their instruments. They stated it was akin to someone holding a magnet nearby causing the sensitive machines to give odd results. One lab tech put a sample under a microscope and observed several mini-electric shocks occurring between cells. The microscopic electric attacks were causing the cells to rip themselves apart, causing the skin to just "let go" of itself. I remember in biology they told us that electricity could not be alive, but I was beginning to wonder.

Log 7 - Approx. 8:00 AM - 9 Hours Since Intake.

The lab began getting shocked by their own equipment and all but two of the techs ended up in the hospital that they were working at. Was it somehow spreading to the equipment? After helping the techs to the emergency admission center I was called to Room 11 once again to pronounce time of death. The patient had suddenly stopped responding, staring into the distance as if all life had stopped behind her eyes. The patient continued to breathe and show signs of "life" until part of her chest caved in from the infection reaching her internal organs. Time of death 8:08 AM. 9 Hours from initial shock.

The patients admitted after the original patient have started deteriorating in a similar fashion and with no leads, we just have to make them as comfortable as we can. Some of my colleagues have been shocked by our medical equipment. Once someone shows additional signs something is wrong it has been 100% fatal.

The CDC took initial samples and left to test them, but have not returned. The last thing they told me is that it that the virus was somehow stopping the electricity in our body, causing them to melt down. I theorize that the loss of muscle control and lack of pain is due to the impulses from the brain being turned off as it spreads. The CDC just stands outside now. Watching us from their vehicles outside of the hospital.

Log 8 - Approx 12:00 PM - 12 Hours Since First Patient

I want to leave. I want to sleep. But every jolt and every touch of an electronic device is making people jump and worry. Anyone who gets shocked is immediately ostracized by the remaining staff out of fear of the unknown. I will continue to work, as is my duty, but please.

Has anyone been shocked recently? Can anyone tell me their experience with something similar?

Log 9 - 2:00 PM - XXX

I got shocked by one of the respirators when I was trying to keep someone breathing. We've had some success removing the limbs of initial shock patients if removed before symptoms occur. We've had two patients survive initial shock. My hands are stiff. I'm unsure if its from my lack of sleep or infection. At this point, I'm not sure I'd care. Some of the other doctors told us we were unable to leave now. They claim men in hazmat suits block the doors whenever someone tries.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/subparadult on 2024-11-20 02:24:45+00:00.

---

The house I grew up in was anything but ordinary. It stood at the edge of a thick forest, and just beyond our backyard laid an old, hidden graveyard. The graveyard was overgrown with weeds and tangled trees, making it look like something straight out of a ghost story. The headstones were crooked and crumbling, their inscriptions too faded to read. Even in the heat of summer, the air back there always felt cold. Sometimes, we’d catch glimpses of shadows moving between the headstones or hear faint voices when everything else was silent. We never talked about it, but we all knew.

The house itself wasn’t any kinder. From the day we moved in, strange occurrences became part of our daily lives. Lights flickered, doors opened and closed on their own, and objects disappeared...only to reappear in strange places. My parents brushed it off at first, explaining it away as drafts or forgetfulness.

But one night changed everything.

Every evening after dinner, we’d gather in the living room for our usual TV routine—Friends, Seinfeld, Everybody Loves Raymond. It was a comforting habit, the kind that made the house feel familiar and safe. As a child, I’d often drift off to sleep curled up on the couch under a blanket. My parents would leave me there, not wanting to disturb me, and I’d stay asleep until I inevitably woke up in the dark, alone. Fear would take over, and I’d race down the hallway to their bedroom. At the foot of their bed sat my dad’s old college footlocker, which I’d use to climb up and crawl between them, where I always felt safe.

But this evening felt…different. The laughter from the sitcoms didn’t seem to reach me. The air in the room felt thick, heavy, almost suffocating. I was uneasy but still managed to drift off as usual. My parents, too, eventually went to bed, leaving me asleep on the couch.

Then came the sound that was oh so familiar...the soft "pitter patter" of little feet. My mom and dad stirred awake, groggy at first, but the sound was getting closer, and that’s when they started to pay attention. The footsteps stopped just outside their bedroom door, and the door creaked open slowly. They heard me walking around the bed, just as I always did, making my way toward the footlocker at the end of the bed.

“Hurry, Erin, get in bed,” my mom called, her voice thick with sleep. But I didn’t climb up like usual.

“Come on, Erin, stop playing around,” she said, her voice edged with irritation. She laid still for a moment, expecting me to move, but instead, she felt a slow, deliberate shift in the bed...a weight pressing down, as if I were crawling up the side of it. The feeling was wrong.. too slow, too quiet.

That’s when my dad’s patience finally snapped. His voice was louder now, laced with panic. “Erin, you have five seconds to get in this bed!”

But when they looked down toward the foot of the bed, their hearts stopped.

There, crouched low on all fours, was a shadow. It was still, frozen in place, watching them from the darkness. It looked just like me (my shape, my posture) but it wasn’t moving. The air around it felt colder, heavier, as if the room itself had stopped breathing.

My dad, now fully awake and panicked, turned on the bedside lamp, flooding the room with light. The shadow vanished in an instant. When his eyes adjusted, he saw nothing. No one was there.

They looked around in confusion, the room feeling unnaturally still. They checked under the bed, pulled open the closet, even yanked back the curtains—desperately searching, convinced I was hiding somewhere. But the room remained eerily empty.

Without another moment’s hesitation, they rushed down the hallway to the living room.

There I was, still sound asleep on the couch, exactly where they had left me.

My parents stood there for a long moment, unsure of what to make of it. The weight of what they’d just experienced hung heavily in the air. My dad was the first to speak, his voice low and shaken. “What…what just happened?”

But nothing more was said. The house felt different somehow, like it was no longer the home they knew. From that night on, they never left me alone in the living room again.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/mikeventure76 on 2024-11-20 01:43:51+00:00.

---

It was hard not to look at the pale, doughy man sat across from me with utter contempt. Hatred, even.

His entire frame seemed to roil and bubble with each shuddered and exasperated breath. Beads of sweat cascaded down his bald head, rounding his jiggling jowls and the folds of his neck, dampening the tightly buttoned collar of his too-small dress shirt.

He fiddled with the handcuff encased around his pudgy wrist, fondling it with his sausage fingers. He’d raise the cuffed arm slightly, exposing a swiftly growing puddle of condensation in the space where his hairless forearm had rested on the metal table.

That slick sheen of sweat caused his pallid skin to glow under the halogen lights above our heads.

Edwin Tallor. The sick fuck looked like a giant soft boiled egg.

Tallor had been on the department’s radar for a good while - he had a few priors for lewd behavior in his younger days, had been caught skulking around outside the middle school. There was even a local rumor in St. Clare that he’d run around in the middle of the night with an undersized children’s private school uniform barely fitted over his fat frame, yelling excitedly about the school year and all the friends he hoped to make.

I know it’s best not to judge a book by its cover, but you could tell just by looking at the guy. Something upstairs wasn’t right.

The problem with these cases is making something stick. You’ve gotta track these pieces of shit for weeks, months. Following their perverted digital footprint, ensuring you got all the hard evidence you possibly could of their despicable tastes. A fake profile, an Internet chat room.

It didn’t take much for our officer to coax Tallor into exposing himself, speaking freely of all the little girls he’d done things to. What he wanted to do to her (a 13 year old, by the fake age we’d listed on the profile and reiterated repeatedly during our talks with Tallor), providing visual aids all the while.

We finally kicked the motherfucker’s door in at 6:30 that morning, and it had been worse than we could’ve imagined.

The worst part wasn’t Tallor’s questionable taste in art; the cartoon drawings and black and white photos of children that adorned his walls. It wasn’t the gigabytes upon gigabytes of illicit material we found on Tallor’s devices once we’d dragged him out of the dingy apartment, handcuffed and blubbering like a plate of flan.

The worst part was the girl he’d been on top of when that door splintered to bits. A pale mountain of flesh in skidmarked tightey whiteys, straddling an unconscious, waifish thing on a dirty mattress.

As of now, several hours later, she still hadn’t woken up.

Which brought us to this moment. Tallor stared off into space, still sweating despite the room’s near frigid temperature, still pawing at his handcuffed wrist. I slapped the table, hard. The sound of flesh on cold metal reverberated through the room.

Tallor jumped, handcuff rattling, chair nearly falling over backwards. He seemed to jiggle faster now, like the fear and adrenaline elicited a physical response.

“Listen Edwin…” I started, my voice a low growl. “We’ve got you dead to rights. We’ve got your messages with our agent, the one that you thought was a 13 year old.” Tallor’s white face reddened with shame.

“You were on top of that poor girl, we’ve looked at your computer… We can sit here and play with ourselves for all I care. But if you’ve got any interest in making things even a little better for yourself, now’s the time to start cooperating.”

Tallor kept his eyes downcast, fixed on the floor. His shaky breathing the only response to my tirade.

The truth was, we did need the fat man to start spilling his guts. So far, we hadn’t been able to find any information on the girl while she remained in his unconscious state. She didn’t match the physical description of any missing kids in any local municipalities.

Until she came to, Tallor was our only shot at getting anything.

“The girl!” I shouted. “Where did she come from? Who is she?”

A grimace crossed Tallor’s face. His round head began to shake from side to side. Finally, he spoke.

“I guess… she’s still asleep then.” The large man’s voice was soft and meek, with an otherworldly effeminate quality.

I raised an eyebrow.

Suddenly, he snapped his face forward to lock eyes with me. “Is she here? Is she at the hospital?” His voice became frenzied, eyes going wild. Tallor made a move to stand, shifting the entire table as he did so. The veins in his neck bulged as his eyes darted around the room.

I jumped to my feet, rushing over and grabbing his free arm to force him back down. “Hey!” I screamed. “Sit your fucking ass down motherfucker.” His arm was damp with sweat and felt malleable, like wet clay.

Tallor did as he was told, but that manic look didn’t leave his eyes.

“Please, please.” He murmured as he returned to a seated position. “You have to keep her mouth covered. Keep her… keep her eyes closed. Keep her restrained.”

I sneered at him in disgust, fighting the urge to rear back and rearrange some of his teeth.

“Because…” Tallor continued, his voice catching in his throat. “If she wakes up, everyone’s going to die.”

I scoffed, unable to help myself. “Is that a threat?”

“Please sir.” He continued pleading his case. “Please. You have to believe me. I know I’ve been bad. I know I’ve been a bad man. But that girl…”

Tears welled in Tallor’s eyes.

He was crazier than I thought. I figured my usual strong arm approach wasn’t gonna do me any good. I needed him to start spewing. Hopefully I’d be able to get my licks in later on, once the situation was a little more under our control.

“Listen Edwin…” I released my grip on his arm and made my way back to the other side of the table. Tallor cradled his shiny head in his free hand. “We want to help her. We want to figure out what’s going on, who she is. She’s been taken to the hospital, we have officers with her and doctors working. We’re all hoping she wakes up.”

Tallor began shaking his head. I continued. “I’m not gonna insult your intelligence: It’s not looking good for you. But listen. You tell us what happened, a bit about her, that cooperation could help you in the long run. I know you can tell us who she is, Edwin. What’s her name?”

Tallor began mumbling to himself. “If she’s at the hospital, then maybe I’m… maybe she won’t…” “Hey, hey.” I interrupted. “Edwin, come on. Focus.”

Tallor still kept his eyes averted, but he spoke clearly. “Once I met her, once I saw her, I just couldn’t… I mean, I’ve never been able to… They’re just so beautiful when they’re like that. Like her. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

I sucked my teeth, keeping my comments and my hands to myself.

“Serlana.” The word left his mouth after a beat. I waited for him to continue. He didn’t.

“What is that? What does that mean?”

“It’s her name.” The egg-man finally answered. “Thats her name. She’s not… she’s not right. She’s not from this… place.”

“Jesus fucking Christ…” I muttered.

“Didn’t you people notice?” Tallor continued. “When you took her. When you got her to the hospital. Her skin, it’s so grey. Her arms and legs, her fingers. They’re longer than ours. Maybe at first, maybe you can’t see it. But the lounger you look at her. And her mouth, her teeth… Her eyes.”

I thought about what he was saying. Truth told, I hadn’t looked that closely at the girl when we’d rescued her from Tallor’s clutches earlier in the day. The scene had been an absolute madhouse, and she had been quickly shuffled into an ambulance. To what I could recollect, her skin certainly hadn’t been vibrant and glowing. But she’d been living in hellish conditions for god knew how long. No one would look healthy under those circumstances.

But elongated digits and limbs? An… unnatural mouth? Tallor was off his fucking rocker.

“She’s not like us. They’re not like us.” I ran my hand over my face in confused exasperation.

Tallor continued. “Thats why I had to keep her sedated, keep her eyes covered. Because if I didn’t, she’d be able to call out to… her. Her mother…”

Tallor let the words hang in the air a moment.

“I shouldn’t have taken her. I just… when we talked, when we spoke, I fell in love. I’ve always wanted to love a girl like her. But when I saw what she was, met her mother… I should’ve left it alone.”

My mouth contorted into an expression of disgust and further confusion as Tallor slowly raised his head, a look of pure anguish on his face. Anguish, or fear?

“Haven’t you ever done anything stupid for love?”

I couldn’t help it. I nearly leapt over the table and grabbed Tallor by the scruff of his shirt with one hand and wrapped the other around his pudgy neck. “I don’t love little girls, you sick fuck.”

The fat egg man wriggled like jello as his cold sweat flopped in all directions.

I glanced up at the interrogation room’s camera. I really didn’t need another incident like this going on my record. I’d always had trouble keeping my cool when it came to pieces of shit like Tallor. Slapping them in cuffs and sending them on their way after a comfortable interview never felt like punishment enough.

I tightened my grip as he sputtered.

“No more games, no more fucking bullshit. I tried to hear you out, and you’re hitting me back with some nonsense. Let’s focus on the parts that make sense. You ‘talked.’ When, where, how? You met this girl’s mother? Get your shit together and tell me...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gve6gc/my_interrogation_of_a_child_kidnapper_ended_with/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Super-Distance-2457 on 2024-11-19 23:17:55+00:00.

---

I wasn’t supposed to be there. No one was. The Human Zoo wasn’t advertised on billboards, and you couldn’t find it on Google. It was an urban myth, the kind of place whispered about in online forums or during drunken conversations. People said it was hidden deep in the woods, far off the beaten path, where only the truly curious, or foolish, would venture. The rumors claimed it wasn’t animals in cages but humans, each one a living nightmare. Most people laughed it off. I should have too.

But then Alex sent me a link. It was nothing more than GPS coordinates and the message, “You need to see this.” Alex was always chasing the next thrill, always pushing boundaries. He hadn’t responded to my messages since, but I assumed he was being his usual self; cryptic and dramatic. So, I did what I shouldn’t have done: I got in my car and followed the coordinates.

The road narrowed as I drove, the trees on either side thick and menacing, their skeletal branches clawing at the sky. The gravel crunched louder than it should have beneath my tires, and the fading sunlight barely pierced the canopy. By the time I reached the end of the coordinates, the sun had completely disappeared, leaving only the eerie glow of my headlights to illuminate the world ahead.

There it was: a towering chain-link fence, rusted and worn, with barbed wire curling menacingly along the top. A wooden sign hung crookedly from the gate, its faded letters barely legible: “THE HUMAN ZOO.”

A shiver ran down my spine, but I told myself it was just an elaborate art project. A prank. Something edgy and harmless. I was already here, so what harm could it do to look?

I pushed open the gate.

The first thing I noticed was the smell—like wet soil and old metal, sharp and invasive. Rows of cages stretched into the shadows, each one lit by a single flickering bulb hanging overhead. The weak light cast harsh, trembling shadows, and my footsteps sounded too loud on the dirt path as I approached the first cage.

Inside was a man, thin and pale, hunched over a desk cluttered with papers and a keyboard that wasn’t connected to anything. The plaque on the cage read: “The Workaholic.” He typed furiously, his fingers flying over the keys, his lips moving silently as if reading from an invisible script.

Then he froze. His head snapped up, and for the first time, I noticed his eyes—bloodshot, wild, and staring straight at me. “Do you need it now?” he rasped. “I—I can finish it tonight. Just… just give me a little more time!”

I stumbled back, my heart racing. His voice was desperate, hoarse, like he hadn’t slept in days. His hands twitched as if ready to start typing again. He wasn’t talking to me. Or was he?

I hurried past the cage, my pulse hammering in my ears.

The next cage held a young woman, seated cross-legged on the floor in front of a cracked phone. The plaque read: “The Influencer.” A ring light bathed her face in harsh white light as she posed for an imaginary audience. Her smile was wide, painfully forced, her lipstick smudged at the corners.

“Hi, guys!” she chirped, her voice unnaturally bright. “Don’t forget to like and subscribe!” She shifted her pose, angling her face toward the phone’s shattered screen. “This is my raw, unfiltered moment,” she whispered, her tone trembling with suppressed hysteria.

Her eyes darted to me for the briefest of moments, and I froze. “Are you… my follower?” she asked, her smile faltering. Then, suddenly: “Don’t go!” Her voice cracked, and her hand shot out toward the bars. “Don’t leave me here! I’m real, I swear!”

I backed away, tripping over a rock, and scrambled to my feet.

Each cage I passed felt worse than the last. There was a teenage boy, surrounded by piles of books, scribbling equations into a notebook with raw, ink-stained fingers. His cage was labeled “The Overachiever.” He muttered incoherently, reciting formulas and facts like a broken record. His hands shook, his breathing uneven, but he didn’t stop writing.

I tried to tell myself it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. But the rawness of their voices, the desperation in their movements, was impossible to fake.

Then I reached The Spectator.

The cage was different…emptier. A single chair sat in the middle, and in it was a man, slumped forward, staring at a screen mounted on the wall. The plaque on the cage read: “The Spectator.”

Curious, I stepped closer, craning my neck to see what he was watching. The screen displayed live footage. Of me.

I froze, a cold wave of dread washing over me. The angle was unmistakable. It was filming me from behind, standing in front of the cage.

The man in the chair stirred, his head lifting slightly. His face was slack, emotionless, but his eyes… they were alive, sharp and piercing as they locked onto mine. His mouth moved, forming words I couldn’t hear. Then, suddenly, his whisper broke through the silence:

“Do you like the show?”

I stumbled back, nearly falling. My heart pounded in my chest as the man’s lips curled into a faint smile. The footage on the screen shifted, now showing me stumbling away.

I ran.

My legs carried me blindly through the rows of cages, the exhibits screaming at me as I passed. Their voices overlapped into a chaotic cacophony:

“Take me with you!” “Don’t leave!” “You can’t escape!”

I turned a corner and skidded to a halt. I was back where I started, standing in front of The Spectator’s cage. But now, the chair was empty.

Before I could process what was happening, I felt it. A presence behind me. Slowly, I turned, and my breath caught in my throat.

Figures dressed in black uniforms stood in a line, their faces obscured by smooth, featureless masks. They hadn’t made a sound, but now they were there, blocking the only exit.

“Wait!” I stammered, my voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to come here! I’ll leave, I promise I won’t tell a soul!”

One of the figures stepped forward, raising a gloved hand to point behind me. I turned, trembling, to look at the cage.

Inside, someone was sitting in the chair.

It was me.

My doppelgänger sat in the same hunched position, staring blankly at the screen. The footage now showed the masked figures closing in on the real me. I turned back to plead, but they were already moving, their hands grabbing me, cold and unyielding.

I screamed, thrashing against their grip, but it was useless. They dragged me backward, toward the cage. The last thing I saw before the door slammed shut was my own reflection in the screen: my face frozen in silent terror.

Now, I sit in the chair, unable to move. The screen plays new footage, showing a man hesitantly stepping through the gates marked “THE HUMAN ZOO.”

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/SoLostInAStrangeCity on 2024-11-19 22:49:12+00:00.

---

I used to have a larger Reddit account, but I’m using this new one due to concerns I may get into later. Right now, I just want to get this out there while I can. I already had two weeks to even get this device, and then it’s been over a week more of waiting in order to meet the required rules of Reddit and this sub in order to post. The next ‘reset’ could be any time now, and I don’t want to have to wait any longer to do this if I can help it. Because I’m in a rush, I might forget a few things, but I’ll do my best to get this right. If you have any questions, feel free to ask them, and I’ll either respond in the comment section or address it in a future post.

So, my name is Michael, and for the past few weeks, l've been trapped in this strange city where, pretty much every couple of days, everyone suddenly passes out and forgets everything.

It doesn't matter where you are, what you're doing, who you're talking to — everything will be fine, and then there's tiredness I can't even begin to describe, this heavy feeling in every part of your body that you can't even fight, your eyelids close, and you wake up in your bed like it never even happened. I'm the only one who even seems to remember it, but I know it happens to everyone else, too. I've seen people passing out in front of me, heard them describe how they're suddenly so tired, caught them as they started to slump over, even as I was struggling to stay alert myself. But nobody remembers. Nobody remembers anything. At least, not anything that anything that matters — not since the day I remember waking up here for the first time.

I don't even know how I got here, and it's starting to drive me crazy. The last thing I remember before this all began, I was back in my real world, in the actual city where I lived, riding in the backseat of a car, with my father at the wheel. We were driving to my Uncle's house so we could all carpool to a big presentation they had together. I didn’t get much sleep the night before, so I was tired, and since it was going to be a long drive, I decided I would take a nap. And I did.

And then I woke up here. In this ugly hotel room in a city that looks like it was built two or three centuries ago. In clothes that aren't mine. With currency in my pocket that I don’t recognize. Surrounded by people who mostly look like they're dressing for some Victorian costume party, but in a world where there’s so much wrong that I don’t even know where to start.

Nobody even acknowledges that I don’t belong here — that one day I just happened to wake up in one of their hotel rooms, like I fell out of the sky. They act like I’m one of them. Some of them tell me these stories about how I moved here from the next city over. Some of them claim to know me, recite memories to me I don't have, about my family, about my childhood, about my life. But none of it is real. It can't be. I remember my real life. And I have proof of it right here in my hand. Proof of the world I left behind. It’s real. Reddit exists. You all exist. I'm not crazy. I know I'm not. And if I'm not crazy, if you all exist, then there has to be a way to get back home where I belong.

Even just getting this device wasn’t easy. It was easily one of the strangest experiences of my life, but I’ll talk about that in a future post… Right now, the only thing that matters is that, somehow, it works. I don’t understand it — as far as I know, there’s no cell towers here, no satellite, nothing — but I don’t really care, either. All that matters is it’s here, and I can use it to reach out to all of you. To ask for your thoughts and your help.

I have to go now. It's been too long already and I shouldn’t risk any more time. Please help me. I don't know what to do. This place is the only place I know I can go where people won't say l'm trolling and this is all a big joke. I'll return with an update and answers to all of you as soon as I can.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/OnlyABlur on 2024-11-19 22:20:52+00:00.

---

I’ve worked at this bar for the last year and a half. It’s been just like every other bartending gig i’ve had before, got some regular drunks who wait at the door for you to arrive for your morning shift, young college kids trying to use their fake ID’s on nights when we have cheap specials, and bumbling idiots who are only looking to cause a ruckus. That was all until about six months ago when I began experiencing events that are not only weird, but make me want to believe in the paranormal. 

I’ll give you some background as to who I am and the place that I work at. My name is Anthony, but most of my co-workers and regulars just call me Ant. I’m 23 years old and have been working in the service industry since I was 17, so I’ve seen my fair share of shit while working. I won’t bore you with details of the past places I’ve worked because there is nothing noteworthy to say about them. I also won’t give out the name of the place I am currently at because I don’t need any crazy people online trying to visit me. I will say it’s a local dive bar not on the best side of town, but also not the bad side of town either. Not much to write home about on the inside, the bartop seats about 12 people, we’ve got a pool table that runs on quarters, and a small tv we keep up in the corner for big sporting events. We get a wide variety of people coming in, but they are usually on a schedule so it’s easy to predict what type of crowd will come when. Morning shift is usually populated by locals from the baby boomer generation that like to sip on Budweiser and Jameson. During the weekdays the night shift is typically pretty slow and consists of those same morning dwellers sleeping on the bartop and needing a cab called for them. On the weekends we usually get a solid bunch of college kids from the local state school who like to come for the cheap beer and special on red headed slut shots. 

Like I mentioned before I’ve begun dealing with something at work that nobody else seems to understand other than me. Around six months ago there was a new guy that came in during one of my morning shifts. I was working solo like usual because we don’t often get that many people on weekdays. He’s about five foot ten inches tall, looked about 30 years old, and was wearing dark khaki pants, a black dress shirt, tan shoes, and a white blazer with multi-colored large polka dots on it. He didn’t seem like a weird guy when I first interacted with him, he politely asked for a miller high life and a cold pint glass to go with it. He would then sit there for exactly 3 hours, stare forward, and only break his gaze or talk to anyone when I asked him if he needed another beer. He would have anywhere from 12-15 beers per sitting, but would never show any sign of intoxication. He did this every day for a month straight at the same time every morning that I was working.

After a month was when things began to change. He would still come in at the same time and in the same outfit that day, but this time he ordered something different with his miller high life. He ordered a shot of 151 proof rum which I found to be a little odd because people offered to buy him shots in the past, but he always ignored them. When I gave him the shot he took a lighter out of his pocket and lit the shot on fire, he then asked for a double shot of rum so I gave it to him just to see if he was really gonna drink all of it. When I gave him the double shot he instantly threw it on his chest, splashing the alcohol all over his clothes and face. He then took the lit shot and threw it in the exact same spot, igniting his whole body in an instant. He began to char and turn a sickly blackish, reddish, amalgamation of flesh and fire. His face was the first to start seeing any serious deformities, his left eye was beginning to wither out of its socket and dropped out like a pinball going into the starting slot. His ears crisped up as if they were slices of potatoes in an air fryer. It was all very reminiscent of the melting of the nazis in that one Indiana Jones movie. I began to panic because of course I’d never been trained to deal with a customer committing suicide before. I looked around at the couple of other patrons in the area, but they didn’t seem to notice anything, they just kept laughing and joking with each other while they sucked on the teat of their bottles. I ran to grab the fire extinguisher from the back and when I got back I closed my eyes and started blasting at him with no regard for anything or anyone around me. 

When I opened them up I saw the bartop and some of my customers covered in extinguisher foam, but I didn’t see any sign of the polka dot man or any burn marks made by the flames. The regulars all just laughed and busted my balls about “spraying my white foam” on them. I asked them about the fire and they told me I just suddenly freaked out, grabbed the extinguisher, and foamed them. I gave them all a free round for their trouble, but I just couldn’t get over the fact of how it all felt so real to me. When I left that day I just hoped I would never have to see that polka dot guy again and that he was just a weird day dream that my mind wanted to make up.

The very next day he walked in right at 11:35 just like he had for the last month before, he sat down, ordered a miller high life, and stared forward. I had a thousand yard stare on him from the moment he stepped through the threshold of the doorway. I figured I had to have imagined what happened the day before because fact was that the man who burnt to a crisp in front of my eyes was now sitting in my gaze without so much as a scratch on him. After he ordered his beer from me I began to question him about what happened the day before. I asked if he was okay, if he went to the hospital, how he got out of the bar without me seeing. He wouldn't answer a single thing I said and just looked forward with those soulless pale blue eyes. The only words that would leave his mouth were “Miller High Life” between every few questions that I’d ask. Once I realized that talking to him was pointless I just placed the cold bottle in front of him and watched him out of the corner of my eye for the shift. He never did anything out of the ordinary (for him anyway) and at 2:35 sharp he asked for his check, I gave it to him, he paid, left a 30% tip, and began walking to his car. 

His car was parked on the other side of the road in perfect view of the propped open door. I watched as he walked to his car, unlocked it, settled down in the front seat, adjusted his mirrors, then he turned his head to look at me. He never had much of an expression on his face when he was in the bar, mostly just a blank face of an emotionless void. No expression of malice or joy has ever stricken his face, until he looked at me from the drivers side window of his beat up 1998 Toyota Camry. He had a wide grin on his face, one that curled at the corners of his lips similar to that of the grinch from the old Dr. Suess cartoon. Although his smile was tall and wide his teeth never showed, it was as if he was trying to hold something on the inside of his mouth while experiencing a renowned feeling of ecstasy. His eyes told a different story, they showed the expression of fear. His eyebrows raised so high that they nearly touched the base of his already receding hairline. Eyes squinted as if he had just gotten a fist full of sand thrown directly in them. 

We maintained eye contact for what felt to me like an eternity while he reached into the glove compartment of his car. He pulled out a small six shooter revolver that looked like it couldn't have been any more than a pea shooter. We keep a rifle below the bar so I knew that if he tried anything funny that I would be able to tag him before he could even step out of the car. 

Although he didn't make any movements to the door handle or anything like that, he was just there keeping his eyes locked with mine while he slowly pushed the gun towards his left shoulder. He fired a shot, but the gun made no sound, and I could see as the bullet passed through the flesh on his shoulder and out through the back side of the driver's seat. Faster than I could even think he placed the gun on his right shoulder and did the exact same thing. He then followed with his left and right kneecaps leaving the car door flooding with blood. For his fifth shot he placed the gun on the side of his cheek and let the shot go, his smile was now extended even further on the left side of his face now stretching all the way to the back of his ear. Throughout the entire process he never broke eye contact with me, it was like he wanted me to watch and he only wanted me to watch. I still see that same god damn face every time I close my eyes, it has been burned into my memory for as long as I live. For the final shot on his revolver he placed the gun directly on his temple and pulled the trigger. I watched as the expression on his face left and his body sank lower and lower into the recesses of his car. I immediately ran out to go check on him and call an ambulance, but just as it was with the fire extinguisher, I opened the car door and there was no body, no blood, no gun, no sign that a person had ever even been in the car. 

At this point I was petrified to come into work, I called in sick for the next few days to avoid the man and try to make any sense of what was happening to me. Was I going insane? Was I having a schizophrenic episo...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/IamHereNowAtLeast on 2024-11-19 18:52:58+00:00.

---

Part 1

Morning light blasted through my blinds, jolting me awake.

I had only been asleep a couple hours.

My fingers trembled as I plugged the USB flash drive into my laptop, dreading what I’d see. My laptop screen flickered, and I clicked on the file, reliving last night’s nightmare in grainy footage.

It was worse than I remembered. 

The headlights in the footage were like eyes, unblinking, menacing.

I could feel being there in the driver seat again, my body shivering involuntarily. But even with the rear dash cam, I couldn’t make out his face. 

He stayed in the shadows, his features blurred.

He's careful...

But the truck clicked in my mind, even if the footage was grainy. A blue Ford F-150, just like my uncle used to have. An older model. No license plate on the front, sure… but an old truck like that isn't terribly unique in the area. If we could find that truck, we might find him.

Later, I sat in the main visitor's seating area of the Meridian Police Department.

An hour or so passed before I found myself in Officer Daniels’ office. It seemed like Officer Daniels wanted to be anywhere else in the world than in his office with me.

He tossed the USB drive back to me as he sat back behind his desk.

He barely glanced at his monitor, at the footage I had from last night before smirking. “Look,” he said, leaning back, “you’re a bit of a pot stirrer. Harassing locals like this.”

“Harassing locals?” I snapped back. “That guy on that monitor fucking followed me off the road last night. He fucking sprinted at my car! At me!”

Daniels raised an eyebrow. “A blurry video of headlights blinding me... You spend too much time on TikTok. Everything ain't a conspiracy."

"I know Maggie didn't just vanish."

Officer Daniels rolled his eyes.

"Maybe Eddie Baker thought you were in trouble,” he said.

“Eddie Baker?”

My heart skipped what seemed like several beats.

“Yeah, Eddie Baker,” Daniels sighed. “His granddaddy was Edward Baker, old gold refiner. Eddie’s rough around the edges, sure, but that don’t make him a criminal.” 

He gave me a thin, artificial smile. 

“Drop this before you find yourself in a big pot of cream you can’t churn out of.”

His hand was on my shoulder as he ushered me gently towards the front door.

As I walked through the parking lot, I called my friend Ryan, bombarding him with a recap of the police's reaction once again. About Eddie Baker. About the corrupt world we're living in.

I word vomited for two whole minutes before I realized Ryan wasn't really responding.

I finally stopped talking.

“Do you have any idea how reckless you’re being?” Ryan finally asked me. “You’re out there alone, chasing a potential killer, someone who probably knows you’re looking for him.”

“I’m not doing this for fun. This fucker might have taken Maggie.”

“And probably you next!” He snapped. “I’m coming over with pepper spray and a gun.”

“I don’t need a gun,” I insisted, though my voice wavered. “I just need proof.”

He groaned but didn’t argue further. 

“You’re in over your head.”

That night, I ate a big bowl of pho while I just Googled for hours. Looking for anything about the Baker family, but I just kept hitting dead ends. All old, unhelpful articles.

Almost nothing about Eddie. Was that even his name?

And worse…

I couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Every creak or odd noise in the house made me jump. 

And then it happened, a loud crash that actually shattered the silence of the night. 

My heart stopped.

I dropped my phone and ran to the living room, where shattered glass lay scattered across the floor.

In the center of the room was a severed lamb’s head, a pool of blood soaking into my carpet. Its lifeless eyes stared right at me, mouth twisted in a gruesome snarl.

A note pinned to its forehead, smeared in red letters.

I KNOW MORE ABOUT YOU 

THAN YOU KNOW ABOUT ME

CUNT

I stood there, numb with shock. 

I stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over the glass as I grabbed my phone. My hands shook like crazy as I called Ryan, panic seeping into my voice.

“Ryan, I… bring over the gun,” I stammered, eyes fixed on the grotesque scene. “He knows. He knows I’m looking for him.”

I FaceTimed Ryan, showing him the scene.

“Stay where you are,” Ryan replied, his voice tense but steady. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t touch anything, and don’t go near the windows.”

Ryan arrived at the same time as the police. He had called them again. They took pictures of the scene and then helped me clean up the room. I didn't say much to them, other than giving them a small statement and reciting the facts of the night.

They've dropped the ball with Maggie's case so many times over the years, I've lost all faith in the police's ability to actually help the city's residents. And I honestly don't know who I can even trust.

After the police left, the events of the night looped in my mind like a horror film. I promised Ryan I'd go to the chief of police again in the morning. And call my parents to let them know what's going on.

But something about all of this felt so wrong.

The severed lamb’s head, the blood, the note. It all felt unreal, but the shattered window and the lingering stench of blood kept reminding me it was.

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. Not really. 

I sat in my living room with Ryan by my side, his gun lying between us on the coffee table. The curtains were pulled tight, leaving the room in a gloom that matched my mood. 

Ryan was still asleep on the couch, his arm draped protectively over his face, but I couldn’t stay still any longer. My anger and fear wouldn’t let me.

Eddie knew about me, and he wanted me scared. He wanted me to stop, but I wouldn’t.

I needed answers. 

Not just for Maggie but for myself. If I was in danger anyway, there was no reason to stop now. Maybe I could find something to put me back in the drivers seat of this shit of an investigation I've been running.

Quietly, I picked up my laptop and continued digging online. Most of what I found continued to be useless. Random mentions of Eddie’s grandfather, Edward, old mining operations in California and Nevada.

But one article stood out: a small mention of a hunting cabin deep in the mountains here in Idaho, land that had belonged to the Baker family for decades.

Ryan stirred awake, yawning. He blinked, then sat up when he saw me on the laptop. “You’re not still…” His voice trailed off when he saw my face.

“I’m going out there,” I said, pointing at the screen, my eyes locked on the article I had found. “The hunting cabin. If he is hiding something, it’s there.”

“You’re insane.” Ryan rubbed his face, his eyes still bleary. “Do you even hear yourself? You believe he’s the crazy dude who threw a severed lamb’s head through your window, and now you want to walk right into his territory?”

I nodded with a slight shrug.

"You're an idiot," he said.

“I'd rather be an idiot than a coward. Our city is fucked with corruption. I'm doing this. Besides, it's not like I'm asking you to come." 

Ryan sighed heavily, shaking his head. 

“You know I’m not letting you go alone.” He grabbed the gun off the table and checked the chamber, making sure it was loaded. “But if we do this, we need a real plan. No rushing in blindly.”

"Okay," I agreed.

"How about this is recon? We go see what we find, but that's it. Just take notes," Ryan said aloud, forming a plan he was comfortable with.

"Deal. It's 80 miles north."

Part of me was terrified what we might find out there, but another part… the part that refused to let Maggie’s memory be tarnished by inaction… was ready.

We spent the next few hours gathering what we needed. Flashlights, extra phone chargers, snacks, and a map of the area. Ryan had insisted we stop by his dad’s place on the way out. 

His dad was a retired private investigator, the type who had more surveillance gadgets than the NSA. Ryan came back with a box of cameras and trackers.

“If the coast is really clear, we can mount some of these on his property,” he explained as he packed them into the trunk.

We drove for a couple hours, the city giving way to open country, and then dense, winding forest roads. The deeper we went, the more civilization seemed to vanish. The sky above turned from clear blue to overcast gray, and soon, mist began to gather between the trees, thick and damp.

Finally, we turned down a narrow, overgrown path, barely wide enough for Ryan’s truck.

The cabin loomed ahead, a dark silhouette against the backdrop of endless trees. It looked abandoned, the kind of place that held a hundred secrets, none of them good. The windows were dark, the roof sagging in places, and an eerie silence hung over the clearing.

We parked a good distance away, hidden behind a thick line of trees. 

Ryan killed the engine, and for a moment, we just sat there, staring at the cabin. My pulse pounded in my ears, and my mouth felt dry.

“Last chance to back out,” Ryan said, his voice barely a whisper.

I shook my head. I was ready. 

We moved cautiously, staying low, making our way toward the cabin. The air was thick with tension, every snapped twig underfoot making me flinch. We reached the side of the building, and Ryan motioned for me to stay back as he peered through one of the grimy windows.

The cabin seemed empty, dilapidated from the outside. The walls...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Dopabeane on 2024-11-20 01:41:03+00:00.

---

In 1909, an antiquities excavation crew in Caerleon, Newport, South Wales vanished in a tunnel below the ruins of the Isca Augusta. The details surrounding their fates remain unknown.

All that is known is that their bodies were mutilated, fully disarticulated, and then rearranged in a spectacularly disturbing tableau inside the mouth of the tunnel.

This was not the first such tableau, nor has it been the last. In fact, the other reason this incident is in any way significant relative to the scope of the perpetrator’s actions is that it finally led to the eventual capture of the most dangerous entity known to the Agency of Helping Hands:

The Harlequin.

If our work demonstrates any truth with utter certainty, it is that the nature of reality is inconstant.

Our senses lie to us. They muffle, omit, and deceive to prop up the absurd house of cards that comprises the foundation of our limited perception. Reality is porous. Worse, it is malleable. Worst of all, it is a trap. Like unwitting ants stumbling into a glue trap, so does our reality trap us. This is simply the way of things. This trap was made for us, and we are made for our trap. It is a troublesome and ugly yet foundational balance.

Problems arise when things that are not like us – things that do not belong here with us – slide into our trap alongside us.

No entity demonstrates the nature of this particular complication so thoroughly or so dramatically as the Harlequin. 

The existence of the Harlequin has been known to the Agency of Helping Hands since its inception, but due to a preponderance of fables, legends, and false information abounding, the Harlequin evaded detection for nearly one hundred years.

The Harlequin is an utter enigma. To date, the Agency does not know where it comes from, what its motives or goals are, or even what it is. 

The only information the Agency has on the Harlequin is the information it volunteers.

By his own admission, the Harlequin’s favorite activity is upsetting children. He taunts them by taking on various forms including a monster, a spider, a werewolf, a clown, a mime, a king, and a dog with the face of an old man.

His favorite place is California, because – in his words – “California is the capitol of the show.”

He has murdered entire families for no apparent reason, returned to mutilate victims he has already terrorized, and – most problematically—been observed attempting to lure minors and developmentally disabled adults to a place he calls “The City Bright.” The Harlequin has never divulged the meaning or location of “the city bright.” Of the numerous victims he successfully lured and abducted before the Agency could intervene, only one has been located. Due to the sheer scope of damage inflicted by the Harlequin’s interference, this victim is currently incarcerated in AHH-NASCU.

When asked about the purpose of these abductions, the Harlequin’s only answer is, “To prepare.”

The only silver lining to the Harlequin’s appalling actions is that he usually “disappears” his victims from the memory of those who knew them, resulting in startlingly few complications for the Agency.

The major issue with his talent for “unexisting” is, of course, the question of the people, places, things, and history he has potentially “unexisted” outside the scope of the Agency’s ability to retrieve such information. For this reason among others, the Harlequin is considered the Agency’s most dangerous inmate. 

As previously stated, the Harlequin was accidentally discovered in 1909 in Caerleon, Newport, South Wales. He was living in a tunnel below the ruins of the Isca Augusta. Although the entity was not discovered on U.S. soil, the United States did not want a foreign government to capture it due to concerns over the potential power such a being might bestow upon its captors. For this reason, the Agency made capture and containment of this being its primary goal. Due to the Agency’s complete lack of experience with entities like the Harlequin, capture was not achieved until 1926.

The entity was captured while wearing a very dirty and immense leather cloak with a patched motley pattern. Testing determined that the leather was human skin, and that each patch of “motley” was made of flesh from a distinct human individual.

Testing was halted during the Harlequin’s first containment breach. Although the cloak remained in Agency custody for the duration of the entity’s escape, new motley patches appeared along the edges of the cloak at a rate of approximately four per week until the Harlequin was re-apprehended. Upon its recapture, personnel asked the Harlequin how it had obtained the new patches of skin and integrated them into the cloak. Its answer was nonsensical, and to this day not understood:

“By filling the holes.”

When first captured by Agency personnel, the Harlequin introduced himself as “Your servant, Arlecchino.” Over the course of the preposterously unproductive conversation that followed, it gave three other names for itself: Hellequin, Zanni, and Herla Cyning. When called upon to explain these discrepancies, the entity stated that it in fact had no name and was nothing but a faithful servant.

When asked who it served, the Harlequin answered, “That which must be served.”

When asked what must be served, its nonsensical answer was, “Four in seven, just as you worms. Four in seven.”

Agency personnel immediately proceeded to research the names provided by the Harlequin. It quickly became clear that the entity was playing a joke of some kind. Arlecchino, Hellequin, Zanni, and Herla Cyning are all terms related to the figure of “Harlequin,” a stock character that frequently appears in Italian Commedia Dell’Arte plays.

Agency administration believe that the entity’s use of these names is significant and holds clues as to the Harlequin’s purpose and motives, a view bolstered by the fact that the Harlequin was located in the ruins of an ancient theater. Nevertheless, no substantial ties have been discovered at this time.

Due to the Commedia Dell’Arte references and the motley cloak in which it was discovered, the Agency named the entity Harlequin.   

The Harlequin’s extracurricular activities do not stop at the terrorizing and abduction of children. During its frequent containment breaches, the Harlequin creates holes and ports in what can only be termed “the fabric of existence,” and changes reality in ways almost no one can detect. In one instance, he once “unexisted” an entire town. In another, he vanished a popular film franchise from existence simply because – in his own words – it was so objectively terrible that simply knowing it existed was intolerable. During yet another escape, he “unzipped” reality, allowing an as-yet unidentified entity to slip through. The whereabouts of this entity are currently unknown.

Although its cloak hides most of its body from view, Agency personnel have determined that the Harlequin is unusually large – roughly the height of a polar bear, with bodily proportions that seem at least somewhat human.

The only part of the Harlequin’s body not concealed by its cloak are its jaws, which protrude in a manner best described as “lupine.” They are approximately eleven inches in and covered in puffy, suppurating flesh that appears blistered and scarred. The cause of these injuries is unknown.

The Harlequin possesses three rows of teeth. The largest and most prominent somewhat resembles crocodile teeth. The inner rows of teeth are much smaller and sharper, and bear a strong resemblance to oversized coyote teeth. 

As previously mentioned, the Harlequin breaches containment on a regular basis. During these escapes, it leaves behind its cloak, which continues to expand in its absence.

The Harlequin is capable of assuming various appearances. Whenever Agency personnel locate the Harlequin after a containment breach, it takes the appearance of a human male with auburn hair and blue eyes. Although superficially normal, this body induces a severe and clinically significant form of what is popularly referred to as “the uncanny valley effect.” The Harlequin is aware of this, and appears to take great pleasure in subtly changing the proportions of its face and body until it inflicts maximum psychological distress on its captors. 

The Harlequin maintains this body until it reenters its cell, at which point it crawls under its cloak to assume what personnel believe to be its true form.

To date, no Agency personnel have seen the Harlequin in its true form without its cloak.

The above statements comprise the sum total of the information the Agency has gathered in the century since the entity’s capture.

The Harlequin is uncontrollable, indestructible, and effectively uncontainable. While the Agency maintains a cell for him, he routinely escapes. When it comes to neutralizing him, we are lost. As of this writing, he is at large and we have no idea what to do.

As of this writing, the only planned course of action is to arrange for T-Class Agent Bowman to interview the Harlequin immediately upon his recapture.

The Harlequin

Classification String: Uncooperative / Indestructible / Olympic / Protean/ Critical / Egregore

Interviewer: Rachele B.

Interview Date: Pending

***

I know.

There's no interview.

Here's why:

As penance for accidentally facilitating the release of a clinically insane inmate with a penchant for child-massacre, my boss gave me homework.

...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/masterslosey on 2024-11-19 21:43:43+00:00.

---

I think I was about 7 or 8 at the time when this occurred. My parents had been divorced since I was 5 and so they had shared custody of me. My dad had me for the weekend and every other week, typically on a Friday, we would go out to my uncle Rob's, who lived in the sticks. My dad and him and a few other guys would meet and go to his garage in the back to shoot the bull, smoke, and play either poker, ping pong, darts, or whatever. I always liked this because I got to stay up a little later and got to visit my cousin Cassie. Plus we went to Blockbuster and he let me rent a couple of movies, get a couple of Reese's Peanut Butter cups, and we had Mickey D's for dinner on the way up.

We made the 45 minute drive out into the boonies and I got excited when dad drove up the long driveway and I could see the dim amber glow of uncle Rob's porch light. We parked next to two other pickup trucks and I immediately got out with my Blockbuster sack of Reeses and two movies, rushed to the door, and rang the doorbell. My dad was just coming up the steps of the porch when my cousin Cassie greeted us and let us in. I hugged her and went to bear-hug uncle Rob as he kneeled down to greet me.

"Ah, you're getting big, Mikey! Your daddy feeding you Miracle-Gro?" Uncle Rob said jokingly as I hugged him as tight as I could.

"We had McDonald's!" I blurted out.

Afterwards, my dad and uncle Rob greeted each other and made their way to the kitchen where all the other guys were.

Before he did, my dad kneeled down to me and said "Alright, kid. You know the rules. You behave yourself, ok?"

"I will." I replied assuredly.

"Alright, we're going out back now. Remember, the two-way by the backdoor."

"I will." I repeated. My dad and the guys made their way out the backdoor and towards the garage.

Cassie and I made our way into the living room and I gave her one of the Reese's and the movies.

"What do you wanna watch first? Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or Aladdin?" I asked, presenting the VHS covers to her.

"I wanna watch Turtles!" She replied. I then handed her the movie and she went to go turn the TV on and put the movie in the VCR.

"I'm gonna make some popcorn." She said as she ran into the kitchen. I just sat on the couch and watched the previews.

A few minutes later, the movie had just started and she brought out the popcorn in a plastic green bowl and we shared it along with the Reese's while we watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

I think it was more than an hour later and Cassie said that she had to go to the bathroom. She left the room and I stayed watching the movie. I was resting my head on the arm of the sofa and I suppose I nodded off while the movie was playing.

I then slowly started to wake up and stretched my arms and legs. I then noticed that the TV displayed static and the soft white noise emanating from it. I looked around the room and noticed that the living room lights were off but the kitchen light was illuminating from the next room. I then realized that Cassie was nowhere to be found.

"Cassie?" I called out to her but there was no response. I call out to her again and there was still no response.

I began to yell out to her but there was still no response. I didn't know what to make of this so I got up from the couch and called out to her while walking into the kitchen. It was all too quiet except for the ceiling fan still spinning and wobbling. I looked up at the clock hanging on the wall above the fridge and saw that it was past 9:30.

I couldn't tell if I was reading the time right or if the clock was broken but I could see the second hand ticking. I went back into the darkened living room and looked on the digital display of the VCR and it read 9:34PM. Usually, my dad and I would've been on the road by now around that time and he would have me in bed by 10.

"CASSIE!" I shouted almost at the top of my lungs. I then felt this dread creeping onto me, as if I was all alone in this house. Where did she go? I've had no responses to my continuous yelling for her.

I went to the bathroom door and saw in the space below that the light was still on.

"Cassie?" I knocked on the door. "Are you in here?" But there was no answer back.

I opened the door to the bathroom and saw that the light was still on. She wasn't in here either.

I then went to the two-way radio near the backdoor and pressed the button to speak.

"Dad? Uncle Rob? Are you there?" I released the button but there was only the white noise of static. After waiting for a response, I tried again.

"Dad! Uncle Rob! Are you there!?" I asked, edging on desperation and fear.

I looked out the window of the back door and saw the outside and inside lights of the garage were still on. I tried the radio again but there was still no answer from anyone. Just static.

The thought of going out to the garage at night was already creepy enough. Did I really have to make my way to the garage by myself in the dark? I tried the radio a few more times before giving up on it and concluded that I would have to go to the garage... In the dark... By myself. I wanted Cassie to be here with me. I wanted my dad and uncle Rob. I didn't want to be here anymore.

I forced myself to open the backdoor then the screen door. I stuck my head out, scanning my immediate surroundings. After seeing the coast was clear, I slowly stepped out onto the back porch and I started shivering, even though it was a warm September night. I cautiously made my way down the backdoor steps and my body tensed up. I crept towards the light of the garage trying not to make any crunching noises under my feet. I then realized, as I was trying to keep silent, that I normally heard crickets and all that but it was all eerily quiet. I felt like I was completely alone. It felt like the garage was a mile away and I was completely on edge with every step I took. I quickened my pace as soon as I was close to the light of the garage and burst through the door.

"DAD!" I yelled as soon as I entered the garage but there was no one here. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted in the air, the radio was playing the country music they usually listened to, there were playing cards left scattered on the table, but where did everyone go? Where's uncle Rob? Dad? Where is everyone!? The dread started to creep more into me and I swear I was just about to panic.

Suddenly, I heard the muffled, distant noise of a gunshot echoing outside that broke my train of thoughts. Then another one. Then several more to where I got so scared that I ran back into the house as fast as I could and slammed the door behind me. I then heard a couple more gunshots but then I heard a high-pitched shriek which made my blood run cold and I turned to look outside the window, keeping my head low.

I didn't see anything but I could hear another distant shriek. I've never heard anything like this before. I had a feeling that it wasn't an owl or a deer or anything that I've heard out here on uncle Rob's place. I then could hear some shouting echoing. Dad? Uncle Rob? I searched for anything to appear in the garage's outside light but several minutes passed and there was nothing. I then walked into the kitchen, lifted myself up on the sink, and looked out the window.

I continued to look out into the darkness until I heard my name.

"Mikey!" I heard a voice coming from outside.

"Mikey!" It sounded like Uncle Rob. I was looking out to see if I could see him but nothing came into view.

A few minutes passed and I heard uncle Rob calling my name again, "Mikey!"

I was about to run outside to call back out to him until I saw a shadowy figure from a distance. I couldn't make out exactly what it looked like but I could see it was a tall, lanky figure that lurched stiffly and... so inhuman. I froze staring at this thing moving across the yard, twitching disgustingly and I think I heard it hiss that I felt the hairs on the back of my neck sticking up.

"Mikey!" It was uncle Rob's voice but this wasn't uncle Rob that I was seeing out the window. It turned its head towards me and I saw the eyeless face of a monster! I panicked and I fell onto to the floor, struggling to get myself in a kitchen cabinet.

I was able to hide in a cabinet where I had an angeled but clear view of the kitchen window and I watched the window through the crack of the slightly open cabinet door. I don't know how much time had passed but nothing was happening and I began to calm down. I was about to come out when I suddenly saw the monster's head appear at the window and a cold shiver instantly went up my spine and the hairs stood back up again. It pressed its hideous pale, eyeless face against the glass and slid its face around as if trying to get a better view inside.

The face looked almost horse-like but the muzzle was shorter and gaunt. Its bared its teeth but I don't think it had any lips or anything that would hide them. Its nostrils flared and would leave fogged spots that quickly dissipated on the window.

"Mikey!" It barely moved its mouth to speak using uncle Rob's exact voice.

"Mikey!" The sound of uncle Rob's voice coupled with its grotesque face had me totally unsettled. Why did it sound like uncle Rob?

"Let me in, Mikey!"

Oh hell no! There was no way I was leaving this cabinet to let that creature in!

Suddenly, I heard a couple of gunshots ringing out along with some men yelling. The creature let out a shriek as it f...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gv8uun/the_monster_out_at_uncle_robs_place/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/askewten688 on 2024-11-19 18:12:19+00:00.

---

I didn’t think much of it at first. Who notices their shadow, really? But now, I wish I’d paid more attention.

It started about a month ago. I was out on a walk, enjoying the rare sunny day, when I noticed something strange. My shadow wasn’t moving right. I lifted my arm to shield my eyes from the sun, and there it was—a delay. A fraction of a second where the shadow just… didn’t follow me.

I laughed it off. Maybe it was a weird angle or my imagination. But that wasn’t the last time it happened.

A week later, I was leaving a coffee shop when I saw it again—or thought I did. My shadow stretched out on the sidewalk like normal, except… I swear it turned. Like, it shifted on its own, as if it were looking at me. I actually stopped walking and stood there, staring down at the ground like an idiot. A few people gave me funny looks, but I shook it off. Shadows don’t just look at you.

Then things started getting worse.

I started seeing it in places I wasn’t. Once, I was driving home from work when I passed a street corner and froze. There it was, my shadow—or something just like it—on the pavement. The posture, the tilt of the head, even the way it slouched when I was tired. But I wasn’t walking. I was in my car.

I looked back, but it was gone.

After that, I started watching. Really watching. That’s when I realized it was changing. When I looked in mirrors, my reflection’s shadow didn’t always match what I was doing. I’d raise my arm, but my shadow’s hand would stay down—or worse, twitch, like it was trying to catch up but couldn’t.

Last week, my roommate asked me if I’d gone out at night. She said she saw me standing in the kitchen around 3 AM, just… standing there, staring at the fridge. But I hadn’t left my bed.

Then a friend called me in tears. “You were outside my house,” she said, her voice trembling. “You were just standing there, staring up at my bedroom window. Your eyes… God, your eyes weren’t right. What’s going on?”

I didn’t have an answer for her.

I’ve started to feel… off. Tired all the time, like something’s draining me. Sometimes, I catch it—my shadow—doing things I didn’t do. The other day, I reached for my coffee, but in the corner of my eye, I swear my shadow flinched.

The worst part? It’s started showing up in photos. At first, it was just in the background—barely noticeable. But now, it’s obvious. In one picture, I’m smiling at the camera, but my shadow is standing behind me, its head tilted at a sharp angle. Like it’s watching me.

I’ve tried to find answers. Folklore, paranormal blogs, forums—anything that might explain what’s happening. The closest thing I’ve found is an old myth about shadows gaining independence when a person’s soul is damaged. If they get strong enough, they can replace you entirely.

I don’t know if I believe it, but I can feel it growing stronger. Every day, I feel weaker—like I’m fading.

Tonight, I saw it standing across the room from me. Not attached to my feet, not part of the wall, just standing there in the corner, perfectly still. I don’t know how long it’s been watching me, but I’m scared to close my eyes.

I think it’s waiting for something. I don’t know how long I stayed frozen, staring at it. My shadow, standing there, detached, just… watching me. Its head tilted at an unnatural angle, almost curious.

I wanted to move—run, scream, do anything—but my body wouldn’t cooperate. The air felt thick, pressing against me, and I swear I could hear something. A low hum, like static, but deeper, vibrating in my chest.

And then it moved.

Not a shift or a twitch like before. It stepped forward.

I scrambled back, knocking over my chair, but it didn’t stop. It moved with an eerie fluidity, almost like it was gliding across the floor. As it got closer, the humming grew louder, and I realized it wasn’t just sound. It was a voice.

It was whispering.

I couldn’t make out the words at first, but then they became clearer. It was speaking in my voice. “Why are you so afraid?” it asked, tilting its head again.

“Stay back!” I shouted, my voice cracking.

It paused, as if considering my words, then crouched low, mimicking the exact way I had when I used to hide as a kid. “I’m not going anywhere,” it said, the corners of its shape shifting, almost as if it were smiling. “You brought me here.”

“I didn’t bring you!” I yelled, pressing myself against the wall.

It tilted its head the other way. “You did. Every doubt. Every fear. Every crack you let grow inside yourself. I’m just filling the space you left behind.”

My breathing was shallow, my heart hammering in my chest. It wasn’t just mimicking me anymore—it was claiming to be me.

“What do you want?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

It straightened up, towering over me now. “To finish what you started,” it said. “To make you whole.”

I didn’t understand at first, but then it stepped closer, and I realized something horrifying. As it moved, I felt weaker. My legs trembled, my vision blurred, and I felt like I was being pulled into a void.

I stumbled, clutching at my chest. “What are you doing to me?”

“I’m taking what’s mine,” it said. “You don’t need it anymore.”

And that’s when it lunged.

I don’t know how I’m still here. I remember darkness—cold and endless—and the feeling of something pressing down on me, suffocating me. I woke up hours later, sprawled on the floor, my body drenched in sweat.

But something’s wrong.

I don’t feel like myself anymore. My thoughts feel… distant, like I’m observing them instead of thinking them. When I look in the mirror, my reflection seems off. It stares just a little too long, its eyes darker, emptier.

And my shadow?

It’s back, attached to me like it should be. But sometimes, when I turn away, I feel it move on its own—stretching, curling, reaching.

I think it won.

It’s been a few days and things have only gotten worse.

I tried to pretend everything was normal. I went to work, hung out with friends, even forced myself to laugh at stupid jokes. But deep down, I know it’s still with me. I can feel it—this weight pressing down on me, like I’m not the only one in my own skin anymore.

The whispers haven’t stopped.

They’re louder now, more distinct, and they’re not just in my head. I’ll hear them at the edge of my hearing when I’m alone in my apartment, or even in the car when the radio’s off. It’s my voice, but it’s saying things I’d never say.

“You don’t belong here.” “This isn’t your life anymore.” “Let go.”

Last night, I woke up to find myself standing in the middle of my living room. I don’t remember getting out of bed. I don’t remember anything. I was just… there. The lights were off, the moonlight casting long shadows across the floor.

And mine was wrong.

It wasn’t connected to me. It was beside me, standing upright like a person. For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating, but then it moved. It stepped closer, and I swear I felt the coldness radiating from it.

It leaned in, its face—or whatever passed for a face—mere inches from mine. I wanted to run, to scream, but I couldn’t move. It whispered something I couldn’t quite understand, and then it melted back into the darkness.

When I finally regained control, I collapsed onto the floor, shaking. I don’t know how much longer I can take this.

I went back to the old forums I found, desperate for answers. Most of the posts were useless—people calling me crazy, telling me it was sleep paralysis or some psychological break. But one comment stood out.

It was from an anonymous user. They said they’d been through something similar. They called it a “shadow parasite,” a kind of entity that feeds on your energy, your identity. It doesn’t just want to replace you—it wants to erase you, to absorb everything that makes you you.

The only way to stop it, they said, is to confront it. To force it back into submission. But they didn’t explain how, and their account was deleted shortly after.

I’ve been thinking about that all day. What does “confronting it” even mean? How do you fight something that isn’t flesh and blood? Something that knows your every thought, every fear?

I’m running out of time.

Just an hour ago, I was staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to convince myself that I’m still in control. But then my reflection blinked—and I didn’t.

It smiled.

Not a normal smile, either. It was wrong. Too wide, too sharp, stretching my face into something that didn’t look human.

And then it spoke.

“Soon,” it said, its voice echoing in my head. “You’ll see.”

I smashed the mirror.

I don’t know what’s going to happen tonight, but I’m done running. If confronting it is the only way to end this, then I’ll do it. I’ve left this post open on my laptop, just in case.

If I don’t update, you’ll know I didn’t make it.

And if you ever see your shadow move on its own, run. Don’t let it in. Don’t let it win.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/iifinch on 2024-11-19 17:01:38+00:00.

---

I am a good man.

I know I'm a good man, but I've got a gun and I'm going to kill a man who meant a lot to me, who at one time was my pastor, my mentor, my uncle.

What's the saying about when a good man goes to war?

When I arrived at the church I work at after my two-day absence, it looked like the whole church was leaving. From some distance away, the perhaps one hundred other workers pouring out of the grand church looked antlike compared to the great mass of the place.

Their smiles leaving met my frown entering, and they made sure to avoid me. No one spoke to me, and I didn't plan on speaking to them.

I made my way to the sanctuary, hoping to find my uncle, the head pastor here. He would spend hours praying there in the morning. Today he was nowhere to be seen. No one was. I alone was tortured by the images of the stained glass windows bearing my Savior.

I'm not an idiot. I know what religion has done, but it has also done a lot of good. I've seen marriages get saved, people get healed, folks change for the better, and I've seen our church make a positive impact on the world.

My faith gave me purpose, my faith gave me friends, and my faith was the reason I didn't kill myself at thirteen.

Jesus means something to me, and the people here have bastardized his name! I slammed my fist on a pew, cracking it. It is my right to kill him. If Jesus raised a whip to strike the greedy in the temple, I can raise a Glock to the face of my uncle for what he did. I know there's a verse about punishing those who harm children.

"Solomon," I recognized the voice before I turned to see her. Ms. Anne, the head secretary, spoke behind me. Before this, she was something like a mother to me. A surrogate mother because I never knew mine. Her words unnerved me now. My hand shook, and the pain of slamming my hand into the pew finally hit me. Then it all came back to me, the pain of betrayal. I hardened my heart. I let the anger out. I heard my own breath pump out of me. My hand crept for my pistol in my waistband, and with my hand on my pistol, I faced her.

"What?" I asked.

She reeled in shock at how I spoke to her, taking two steps back. Her eyebrows narrowed and lips tightened in a disbelieving frown. She was an archetype of a cheerful, caring church mother. A little plump, sweet as candy, and with an air of positivity that said, "I believe in you," but also an air of authority that said, "I'm old, I've earned my respect."

We stared at one another. She waited for an apology. It did not come, and she relented. She shuffled under the pressure of my gaze. Did she know she was caught?

"I, um, your Uncle—uh, Pastor Saul wants to see you. He's upstairs. Sorry, your Uncle is giving everyone the whole day off except you," she said. With no reply from me, Ms. Anne kept talking. "I was with him, and as soon as you told him you were coming in today, he announced on the intercom everyone could have the day off today. Except you, I guess. Family, huh?"

I didn't speak to her. Merely glared at her, trying to determine who she really was. Did she know what was really going on?

"Why's your arm in a cast?" Her eyebrows raised in awe. "What happened to you?"

She stepped closer, no doubt to comfort me with a hug as she had since I was a child.

These people were not what I thought they were. They frightened me now. I toyed with the revolver on my hip as she got closer.

Her eyes went big. She stumbled backward, falling. Then got herself up and evacuated as everyone else did.

She wouldn't call the cops. The church mother knew better than to involve anyone outside the church in church matters. Ms. Anne might call my uncle though, which was fine. I ran upstairs to his office to confront him before he got the call.

Well, Reader, I suppose I should clue you in on what exactly made me so mad. I discovered something about my church.

It was two days ago at my friend Mary's apartment...

It was 2 AM in the morning, and I contemplated destroying my career as a pastor before it even got started because my chance at real love blossomed right beside me.

I stayed at a friend's house, exhausted but anxious to avoid sleep. I pushed off my blanket to only cover my legs and sat up on the couch. I blinked to fight against sleep and refocus on the movie on the TV. A slasher had just killed the overly horny guy.

Less than two feet apart from me—and only moving closer as the night wore on—was the owner of the apartment I was in, a girl I was starting to have feelings for that I would never be allowed to date, much less marry, if I wanted to inherit my uncle's church.

Something aphrodisiacal stirred in the air and now rested on the couch. I knew I was either getting love or sex tonight. Sex would be a natural consequence of lowered inhibitions, the chill of her apartment that these thin blankets couldn't dampen, and the fact we found ourselves closer and closer on her couch. The frills of our blankets touched like fingers.

Love would be a natural consequence of our common interests, our budding friendship—for the last three weeks, I had texted her nearly every hour of every day, smiling the whole time. I hoped it would be love. Like I said, I was a good man. A good Christian boy, which meant I was twenty-four and still a virgin. Up until that moment, up until I met Mary, being a virgin wasn't that hard. I had never wanted someone more, and the feeling seemed mutual.

The two of us played a game since I got here. Who's the bigger freak? Who can say the most crude and wild thing imaginable? Very unbecoming as a future pastor, but it was so freeing! I never got to be untamed, my wild self, with anyone connected to the church. And that was Mary, a free woman. Someone whom my uncle would never accept. My uncle was like a father to me; I never knew my mom or dad.

Our game started off as jokes. She told me A, I told her B. And we kept it going, seeing who could weird out the other.

Then we moved to truths and then to secrets, and is there really any greater love than that, to share secrets? To expose your greatest mistakes to someone else and ask for them to accept you anyway?

I didn't quite know how I felt about her yet in a romantic sense. She was a friend of a friend. I was told by my friend not to try to date her because she wasn't my type, and it would just end in heartbreak and might destroy the friend group. The funny thing is, I know she was told the same.

"That was probably my worst relationship," Mary said, revealing one more secret, pulling the covers close to her. "Honestly, I think he was a bit of a porn addict too." Her face glowed. "What's the nastiest thing you've watched?"

I bit my lip, gritted my teeth, and strained in the light of the TV. Our game was unspoken, but the rules were obvious—you can't just back down from a question like that.

I said my sin to her and then asked, "What's yours?"

She groaned at mine and then made two genuinely funny jokes at my expense.

"Nah, nah, nah," I said between laughs. "What's yours?"

"No judgments?" she asked.

"No judgments," I said.

"And you won't tell the others?"

"I promise."

"Pinky promise," she said and leaned in close. I liked her smile. It was a little big, a little malicious. I liked that. I leaned forward and our pinkies interlocked. My heart raced. Love or sex fast approaching.

She said what it was. Sorry to leave you in the dark, reader, but the story's best details are yet to come.

She was so amazed at her confession. She said, "Jesus Christ" after it.

"Yeah, you need him," I joked back. Her face went dark.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.

"What? Just a joke."

"No, it's not. I can see it in your eyes you're judging me." She pulled away from me. The chill of her room felt stronger than before, and my chances at sex or love moved away with her.

"Dude, no," I said. "You made jokes about me and I made one about you."

She eyed me softer then, but her eyes still held a skeptical squint.

"Sorry," she said, "I just know you're religious so I thought you were going to try to get me to go to church or something."

"Uh, no, not really." Good ol' guilt settled in because her 'salvation' was not my priority.

"Oh," she slid beside me again. Face soft, her constant grin back on. "I just had some friends really try to force church on me and I didn't like that. I won't step foot in a church."

"Oh, sorry to hear that."

"There's one in particular I hate. Calgary."

"Oh, uh, why?" I froze. I hoped I didn't show it in my face, but I was scared as hell she knew my secret. Calgary was my uncle's church.

"They just suck," she said, noncommittal.

Did she know?

"What makes them suck?"

She took a deep breath and told me her story—

At ten years old, I wanted to kill myself. I had made a makeshift noose in my closet. I poured out my crate of DVDs on the floor and brought the crate into the closet so I could stand on it. I flipped the crate upside down so it rested just below the noose. I stepped up and grabbed the rope. I was numb until that moment. My mom left, my family hated me, and I feared my dad was lost in his own insane world. The holes in the wall, welts in his own skin, and a plethora of reptiles he let roam around our house were proof.

And it was so hot. He kept it as hot as hell in that house. My face was drenched as I stepped up the crate to hang myself. I hoped heaven would be cold.

Heaven. That's what made me stop. I would be in heaven and my dad would be here. I didn't ...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gv20jh/i_think_my_uncles_church_is_evil/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/NoMoreFetch on 2024-11-19 15:17:59+00:00.

---

You won’t find much about the mysterious death of the Doe twins in the news. Twin brothers, both apparently dead of natural causes within days of each other, both bodies found hundreds of miles from home, mysterious disappearances preceding both deaths. None of this information was ever released to the public. The police reported it as a coincidence, treating the deaths as natural causes. As a close friend of the Doe twins, I’ve pieced together as much information as I can about their deaths from my own memories, reports from other friends and family, and the police investigation (in which I was a key witness). What I have uncovered terrifies me.

Everything you read here is 100% accurate, except the names which have been changed to protect privacy.

Early last year, the body of John Doe, a 32-year-old from a quiet coastal village in South Wales, was found by hikers. The body was found in a forest near the Suffolk coast, approximately 350 miles away from home - quite literally the opposite side of the country. There was no sign of any physical harm, and medical exmination determined the cause of death to be a heart attack.

The same day, John Doe's identical twin brother Richard, disappeared. His body was discovered eight days later, hundreds of miles away from both South Wales and Suffolk in a Yorkshire moorland. Like his twin, Richard was found by hikers. Same cause of death: heart attack. The police called it coincidence.

They’re wrong.

I knew the Doe twins since I was a child. I first met them at primary school (around 5 years old for those not familiar British schooling!) and we quickly became the closest of friends. For the sake of their privacy, I won't go into much detail about them or their private lives. This may seem uncaring, but the truth is that I gave eulogies and said goodbye at the time of their deaths; the purpose of this report isn't to remember their lives, but to try to help uncover the mystery surrounding their deaths.

In the months leading up to their deaths something started changing in John. He had always loved conspiracy theories - the paranormal, aliens, secret government projects; the wilder the better in John's mind. But he'd always viewed them as an entertaining work of fiction, never really believing. The changes were subtle at first, but suddenly he wasn't joking any more. It started small: hushed comments about "visitors," glances over his shoulder, cryptic warnings to "stay away from the school/hotel/mountains."

Then he vanished for three days. No phone, no keys, no wallet. No communication. When he returned, he was unhurt. Physically, at least. But he was different. He was obsessed with the "visitors", but wouldn't elaborate in case they were listening. He became paranoid, sure the visitors were trying to zap him with their "electric paddles". His door was always locked, and he inspected visitors - including close friends like me and even his own twin - through gaps in his window blinds before letting them in his house.

We spoke to the local GP - a family friend also from our small village - and they put it down to potentially psychosis or schizophrenia, or perhaps agoraphobia, or maybe anxiety disorder. John refused to see the GP himself though, so no formal diagnosis was ever made. The worst part was I was starting believe him. Not the specifics, maybe, but the fear in his voice was real.

John's family and close friends decided to take turns staying with him. The night he died, it was my turn. By then, his paranoia was suffocating. When I knocked on his door, he cracked it just enough to peek out, his eyes wide and bloodshot. Inside, he jumped at every noise—the creak of floorboards, the hum of the fridge—like he expected something to burst in at any moment.

“They’re coming tonight,” he said, gripping my arm hard enough to hurt. “They're going to hurt people. I have to stop them.”

I tried to calm him down, but he wouldn’t listen. I called Richard for backup, thinking his twin could talk him down. If anything this made John more agitated.

Richard arrived close to midnight, and the two of us tried to reason with John. He wouldn’t hear it. “If I don’t go, they’ll take people," he said, hands trembling. "They'll hurt them, they'll hurt them then fry them."

Fearing for what John might do if he got any more agitated, Richard changed tact and agreed to drive him wherever he needed to go. "I'll take him to the police station, it's only 15 minutes away, maybe they can help" he whispered to me.

That was the last time I saw either of them alive.

The next morning, hikers found John’s body in a forest on the other side of the country. There were no wounds, no signs of violence—just a man in the dirt, staring at the sky. The medical examiner said it was a heart attack some time during the night.

Richard's car was later found in North Wales, hours away in the wrong direction, parked at a trailhead in a popular mountain hiking path. There was no sign of Richard.

The only plausible timeline the police could put together was the following. Richard had driven John at high speed to the North Wales mountain car park, where he had a second car waiting. He swapped cars, immediately turned around and drove across the country toward the East England forest. A few hours into this drive John had his heart attack and died. Richard continued to the forest and dumped John's body, then went on the run in his second car. Even driving at high speed with no stops, travelling that route within that time frame is only just plausible. No motivation for Richard's behaviour in this theory was ever given, nor was any evidence of a second car ever existing. None of it made sense.

Richard wasn't seen or heard from for eight days. On the morning of the eight day after John’s body was found, hikers found Richard's body slumped against a stone outcrop just off a popular hiking route in a Yorkshire moor. Another heart attack, another empty wilderness. No one saw him during those eight days. He didn’t contact anyone. He didn't have his car, he didn't spend any money on his cards, he didn't go home. He just… disappeared. Nobody knows how he made it so far up north.

The police wrapped it up neatly. Two brothers, two heart attacks while hiking, a freak coincidence. Case closed. It barely made the local news. But I can’t accept that story. Not after everything I saw—and everything I’ve learned since.

I started digging into John’s old posts on conspiracy forums. He was tracking something—a pattern, he called it. His last posts were desperate, warning the visitors would come again. Maps detailing the visit sites. Berwyn mountain range in North Wales. Suffolk’s Rendlesham Forest. Yorkshire's Ilkley Moor. A handful of other places. Finally our home town of Broad Haven. All places he claims they've visited before. It sounds insane, I know, but the deeper I go, the less I can dismiss it.

I don’t know what really happened to John and Richard Doe that night. But I do know one thing: it wasn’t just a coincidence. And whatever they were, I don’t think they’re done yet.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Braven025 on 2024-11-19 16:28:35+00:00.

---

Part 1

Day One Cont’d

(First of all, I want to apologize for having to split up Day One – I don’t have a lot of time to write things down, but there was a lot that happened that I need to explain. I have to constantly be looking over my shoulder. I will try to do better moving forward)

The media was waiting for us when we walked out of the police station. Crowds of people that hadn’t been there when we entered. I walked beside Dylan, my body in a vice grip of cold, hard fear. He grasped the boy’s hand in his, a grin plastered on his face, waving at the camera crews and journalists that had somehow been alerted to the boy’s “return.” I was struck dumb. What was wrong with me? This kid wasn’t ours, but somehow my husband of nine years, the police department, and the media seemed to think he was.

“Mr. Harding, Mrs. Harding, how does it feel to finally have your son back after he went missing three years ago?” a portly man with a bald patch asked. He leaned in, raising his eyebrows, waiting for an answer.

My stomach flip-flopped. I couldn’t answer him. What the fuck would I say, anyway? This isn’t our kid, but my husband thinks he is? The police are mistaken? I want a DNA test? Nothing would sound right coming out of my mouth. So I just clamped it shut and shouldered past all the nosy onlookers. Dylan, on the other hand, was happy to be the center of attention. He pushed the boy in front of him, that shit-eating grin on his face, and said proudly, “This is the happiest day of our lives.”

A young woman stepped forward then. “Do the police have any leads on where Logan has been all this time?”

Dylan shook his head. “Not yet, but we’re hopeful they’ll figure it out. Or that Logan will be able to tell us.”

The first man turned to me and I whipped toward him with a steely glare before he could get another question out of his mouth. “No comment.”

Was I losing my mind? Did I block out the boy’s existence to save some shred of sanity when he went missing? If that was true, why did I feel this inexplicable sense of dread and fear when I looked at him? Shouldn’t I be happy? But no, I was completely out of my mind with confusion and fear. Nothing about it felt right, even as Dylan ushered the boy into his car and turned to me.

“We’ll meet you at home,” he said, breathless. “I can’t believe it, Lyss!”

I made a grunting sound and climbed behind the wheel of my Prius. For the second time that day, I considered running. I wouldn’t have time to stop at home and pack a bag. Or say goodbye to Gus. How could I leave without Gus? Fuck. Whatever was going on, I needed to stay and figure it out.

At home, Dylan’s car was already in the driveway when I pulled in. He was standing on the front steps with the boy, talking in soothing tones to him.

“This is our house, Logan,” he said. “You probably don’t remember it, but not much has changed.”

The boy looked back at me as I approached. His dark fucking eyes pinned me to the sidewalk. They were dead inside. And they didn’t just stare through me. No. Maybe that would have been better. They stared INTO me. Like he could see all the way into my soul, prying open the folds of myself I didn’t even know were there, prodding, poking, digging around. Why didn’t Dylan see that? Instead, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. The boy hesitated.

“May I come in?” he asked, speaking for the first time. His voice was soft and one-toned, lacking any sort of emotion. It sent shivers ripping through me.

“Yes, of course,” Dylan said. “This is your home.”

The boy looked up at me again. “May I?”

I frowned. Dylan just told him he could. Why the fuck was he asking me?

“Lyss,” Dylan hissed. “Answer him.”

“Uh, y-yes. I guess.”

The boy nodded and followed Dylan into the house. Gus bounded down the hallway, his nails tip-tapping on the hardwood floors. He stopped short in the kitchen, the golden hairs on his back instantly standing on end. A low growl rumbled in his chest. I fucking knew something wasn’t right. Dogs always know.

“Hey now, Gus,” Dylan scolded. “It’s Logan. You remember him, don’t you?”

Gus started to back away, bumping into chairs and cabinets as he went, not taking his eyes off the boy. When he was about twenty feet away, he turned and ran, disappearing into the back of the house.

I raised my eyebrows. “Dylan, don’t you think—”

“He just needs to warm up to him again,” Dylan said crossly. “It’s been three years.”

“Sure,” I said, shrugging.

“Your room is down here at the end of the hall, buddy,” Dylan said. “We didn’t really touch it after you left so it might be a little…young for you now.”

The sound that came out of me then caused Dylan to shoot me the dirtiest look. What the hell was he talking about? The only thing at the end of the hall was a guest bedroom that had become a catch-all for boxes and junk we didn’t need in the main house. Certainly not a child’s bedroom.

But when Dylan swung open the door, the breath caught in my throat.

Soft beige carpeting, a sturdy wooden bed topped with a navy blue bedspread, sailboat posters on the wall, and a pile of stuffed animals in the corner stared back at me. I blinked my eyes in disbelief. A wet sound gurgled in my throat.

Dylan raised his eyebrows at me, then placed a hand on the boy’s back. “Go on, buddy, get comfortable. Mom and I are going to get started on dinner,” Dylan said.

The word “mom” uncoiled something inside of me, like a spool of thread coming undone, unraveling all over the floor in a messy, tangled heap. The boy spun around slowly, then perched timidly on the edge of the bed. As we walked out, and the door swung closed behind us, I turned just in time to see a smile spreading across the boy’s face. But it wasn’t a smile of happiness or humor. It was the most unsettling thing. His lips spread wide, wider than I would have thought possible, but his eyes remained dark and emotionless. I shuddered as Dylan moved down the hall toward the kitchen.

Out of ear shot, he spun on me. “Alyssa, what is going on with you? Are you in shock or something?”

I honestly didn’t know how to answer the question. It was obvious that one of us was cracking up and at the moment, I didn’t know which one of us it was. When we made the decision not to have kids, it wasn’t just my decision. Dylan was adamantly against them too. He didn’t even like spending too much time around his nieces and nephews. They freaked him out. Now, all of a sudden he’s Dad of the Year?

“I’m fine,” I said quietly.

I wasn’t ready to let on that something was terribly wrong, because it seemed like I was the problem. What happened if I didn’t keep up the charade? Would Dylan have me hospitalized? The very idea filled my mouth with a sour, metallic taste. Because how could I NOT be the problem? There was a bedroom in our house that I remembered being filled with boxes and random shit. Not a kid’s bedroom. Definitely not that. Why wouldn’t I remember something like that?

“Well you’re not acting fine,” Dylan snapped. “This is all we’ve wanted for the last three years.”

“Is it?”

“What are you talking about, Lyss? God, I can’t believe you!”

“Something is wrong with him.” I couldn’t help it. The words just popped out. I couldn’t hold them inside any longer.

Dylan’s mouth dropped open. “Un-fucking-believable! Of COURSE something is wrong with him! He’s been missing for three years and who knows what he went through during that time! How can you be so insensitive?”

His words stung, bringing heat to my cheeks. He was right, of course. He had to be right. Something was wrong with ME. But deep down in the pit of my stomach, denial clung tight. Insistence that it wasn’t me. It was him. It was them.

“Well?”

I looked up at my husband, the man I’d called my best friend, the man I barely ever fought with, and saw disgust in his eyes. When I didn’t answer, he threw his hands in the air and stormed into the kitchen, rummaging around for something to make. I doubted he was going to find much in the way of kid-friendly food. Unless the kid liked asparagus and grass-fed beef. Dylan settled on a box of pasta and put a pot of water on to boil.

I wandered into the living room and sank onto the couch, dropping my head in my hands. There was a stranger in our house. A dark-eyed stranger who my husband insisted was my son. What the hell was I going to do? A tear slipped from my eyes as I listened to the sounds of Dylan puttering around the kitchen. I glanced down the hallway at the closed guest bedroom door, remembering that wide smile and those big, soul-staringly dark eyes.

When Dylan had finally concocted something suitable for everyone, he brought the pot out to the table, along with a stack of dishes.

“Logan, dinner’s ready!” he called.

I watched with dread as the guest bedroom door swung open. The boy stood silhouetted in the doorway, still, silent, watching. I was frozen in place, waiting to see what he would do. Then, it was like he snapped out of a trance, and he came down the hallway into the dining room.

“There you are,” Dylan said happily. “Take a seat. I made pasta.”

“Okay,” the boy said. He climbed into a chair and sat with his hands folded in front of him.

Dylan turned to me. “Will you be joining us?”

I nodded and rose from the couch, passing a bookshelf as I went. My heart stuttered and skipped in my chest. On the middle shelf, among the photos of Dylan and I, there were some pictures I’...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gv17bx/four_days_ago_my_missing_son_returnedonly_i_dont/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Stxaar on 2024-11-19 16:24:23+00:00.

---

For as long as I can remember, WLNK 97.3—The Link has been the local radio station in my town. It’s one of those stations that plays a little bit of everything: old rock, some pop hits, even a few talk shows when the ad money dries up. Everyone listens to it. You know, that kind of station that’s always on in the background at diners, garages, and grocery stores.

I’d been a casual listener my whole life. It was dependable. Familiar. Safe.

But all of that changed three months ago, the night I noticed something I can’t explain. Something no one else seems to believe, no matter how many times I try to tell them.

It started on a Monday night. I’d been driving home late from work, flipping between stations, when I landed on WLNK. I wasn’t paying much attention—just another evening commute. The DJ was wrapping up a song, probably something by Fleetwood Mac, when he cut to his usual banter.

“And now… the name of the night,” he said, his voice dropping into a strange, almost playful tone.

There was a pause, static buzzing faintly in the background. Then, with eerie clarity, the DJ said a single name:

“Jessica Browning.”

It felt odd. There was no context. No explanation. Just a name, dropped into the ether like a stone into still water.

I shrugged it off. Maybe it was part of a contest or some weird new segment. But I couldn’t shake the way it felt—the delivery was too strange, too deliberate.

I forgot about it until the following Monday. I was driving again, same time, same station, when the DJ did it again.

“And now… the name of the night.”

This time, the name was Robert Sanchez.

Another pause. Another song.

The pattern continued every Monday at exactly 11:05 PM. One name. No explanation. Just dropped into the void.

By the fifth week, curiosity had gotten the better of me. I started listening religiously, notebook in hand. Each Monday night, I’d jot down the name. And each week, I’d search social media, local news sites, anything that might explain what this segment was about.

At first, I found nothing. No contests. No winners. No mentions of the names anywhere.

But then something changed.

One week, the name was Caleb Howard. It stuck with me because Caleb worked at the gas station near my apartment. We weren’t friends or anything, but I’d chatted with him a few times while paying for coffee or snacks. He was a nice guy, always had a smile on his face.

I didn’t think much of it until a week later, when I stopped at the gas station and saw a “Help Find Caleb” poster taped to the door.

He’d gone missing.

The clerk behind the counter—a college kid with a nervous energy—told me Caleb had just disappeared after his shift. No one knew where he’d gone. His car was still in the parking lot.

I couldn’t believe it. Caleb’s name had been said on WLNK exactly a week before. I told myself it was a coincidence, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t.

I started digging.

I went through the names I’d written down in my notebook and searched for any trace of them. By now, I had six names, including Caleb’s. Three of them—Jessica Browning, Robert Sanchez, and Caleb Howard—were confirmed missing. Their faces stared back at me from articles and social media posts, plastered with desperate pleas from friends and family.

No one else seemed to see the pattern.

I tried asking people about the radio show, but everyone looked at me like I was crazy. A few people said they listened to WLNK, but none of them had noticed the “name of the night” segment. Some even insisted it didn’t exist.

I couldn’t explain it. How could a radio broadcast that I heard every week leave no trace?

By the time the eighth name was announced, I was obsessed. The name was Emily Carter.

I didn’t know her personally, but a quick search on social media turned up her profile. She was 28, lived on the other side of town, and worked as a veterinary assistant. Her posts were filled with photos of smiling dogs and cats, each caption brimming with positivity.

I couldn’t let her vanish like the others.

I sent her a message. It was awkward, clumsy:

“Hi, you don’t know me, but I heard your name mentioned on a radio station. It’s hard to explain, but I think something bad might happen to you soon. Please be careful.”

She didn’t reply.

Over the next week, I checked her profile obsessively. She posted like normal—pictures of her dog, updates from work, jokes about her favorite TV shows. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Then, exactly seven days later, her posts stopped.

I knew what that meant.

The next morning, I saw a news article: “Local Veterinary Assistant Reported Missing.”

She was gone.

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

I started visiting WLNK’s building after hours, trying to figure out who was behind the segment. The station was housed in an old, nondescript building downtown. I watched it for hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of the DJ or anyone who might know about the names.

Nothing.

On a whim, I tried calling the station during the day. The receptionist who answered sounded confused when I asked about the 11:05 broadcast.

“We don’t have anything like that on our schedule,” she said. “Are you sure you’re listening to WLNK?”

“Yes,” I insisted. “It happens every Monday night.”

There was a long pause. Then, quietly, she said, “We don’t have live programming at that time.”

Last Monday, the name was Brandon Lewis.

I found him online—a local contractor with a wife and two kids. I didn’t bother messaging him this time. No one ever believed me.

Instead, I decided to confront the source.

At 10:30 PM, I parked outside WLNK. The building was dark except for a single light on the second floor. I waited, heart pounding, until 11:05.

When the time came, I heard it: the muffled sound of the broadcast through the building’s walls.

“And now… the name of the night.”

I burst through the door.

Inside, the station was eerily silent. The reception desk was empty, the hallways dark. I followed the faint sound of the DJ’s voice up a flight of creaky stairs to the second floor.

At the end of the hallway, a door was slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the corridor.

I pushed it open.

The room was empty—just an old desk, a microphone, and a tangle of outdated broadcasting equipment. The light on the “ON AIR” sign flickered weakly, and the static-filled voice of the DJ continued:

“Brandon Lewis.”

I stepped closer, and the equipment suddenly shut off. The room plunged into silence.

Then I saw it.

Taped to the wall behind the desk was a list of names, written in neat, looping handwriting. My heart stopped when I saw the last entry:

Ethan Grant.

That’s my name.

It’s been six days since that broadcast. I’ve locked myself in my apartment, every door and window sealed. The phone rings sometimes, but I don’t answer it.

Tomorrow is day seven.

If anyone hears this… if anyone knows what’s happening… please, don’t let them say another name.

Because no one ever comes back.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Ok-Counter-9441 on 2024-11-19 13:02:46+00:00.

---

It had been one of those lazy nights—the kind where no one really had a plan but didn’t want to call it quits, either. The four of us were packed into Greg’s basement, sprawled across old beanbags and couch cushions that smelled faintly of dust and cheap cologne. Someone had dug out a pack of old marlboros, and Greg had tossed on some album that was mostly static and ghostly guitar riffs. Tommy was doing his best impression of our principal, using a deep, absurd voice, much to everyone’s amusement.

I leaned back against the wall, watching my friends goof around and trying to tune out a low-grade sense of restlessness. It was rare these days that we got to just hang out like this, With everyone busy—part-time jobs, classes, family stuff—we were lucky to get a few hours together, let alone a whole evening. I was grateful for it, even if it was just hanging out in a musty basement, swapping bad jokes.

We had spent the last hour eating stale chips and debating whether it was worth going out for food, but every time we got close to agreeing, someone would start up another conversation, and we would all settle back down. Kev was in the middle of a story about some disastrous date he’d had last week when my phone buzzed, the sound cutting through the quiet laughter and casual hum of the night.

I didn’t think much of it at first—probably my mom asking when I’d be home, or some random group text lighting up. But when i glanced at the screen, I saw my sister’s name, glowing urgently in the dim light. It was rare for her to call this late, even rarer for her to call me at all. We got along fine, but our lives don’t exactly overlap. She was younger, more into her own scene, and she usually kept me out of her business.

“Hang on a sec,” i mumbled, stepping away from the group to answer the call. I could tell right away something was off; I didn’t even have to say hello. Her voice was rushed, almost a whisper, and there was noise in the background—music, people arguing, someone yelling like they were way too drunk.

“Casey?” she said, her voice almost swallowed up by the noise. “Hey, can you…can you come pick me up?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” i replied, thrown off by the tension in her voice. “You okay?”

There was a pause, the sound of her moving away from the crowd. “Not really,” she admitted, a strain in her voice. “The party’s getting weird. We have a…situation. I don’t know how to explain it, but can you just get here fast?”

That was all it took. I glanced back at the guys, all of whom had gone silent, listening in as I finished the call. “We gotta go,” I said, feeling a prickle of worry. I didn’t explain, but they didn’t ask. They all just stood, shaking off the comfort of the night and grabbing their jackets, feeling a shared sense of urgency settle over them.

“Guess we’re going for a drive,” Kev said, trying to keep it light as we all piled into Greg’s car. But even he was quieter than usual, and I could feel my own tension spreading to the others.

Greg’s car rattled as it picked up speed, the low hum of the engine filling the silence that had settled over us. I sat in the passenger seat, my fingers drumming nervously against my thigh as I tried to explain where we are headed. We all knew the city well, but even I wasn’t exactly sure where this party was, and every turn we took seemed to make the streets feel less familiar.

“So, she told me it was somewhere off East Monroe,” I said, staring out the windshield. “It’s this big old house at the end of the block. She said it’s the one with the porch lights that flicker.”

Greg nodded, his eyes fixed on the road, though his shoulders were tense, hands gripped a little too tightly around the wheel. “East Monroe? There’s nothing but old houses down there, right? People usually don’t throw parties there.”

“That’s what I thought,” I replied, glancing at Greg. “But I guess some college kid’s renting it now. Or maybe they just snuck in. Either way, she said it was packed.”

Tommy leaned forward from the backseat, his voice a low murmur. “Did she say why she wanted to leave so bad?”

I shook my head. “Not really. She just sounded…different. Said there was some situation.”

“Situation?” Kev asked, his voice filled with forced lightness, trying to break the tension. “You think there's something shady going on?”

I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t know how to put it into words, but her voice had sounded wrong. Like there was something she was afraid to say, something she didn’t even want to put into words over the phone.

“Nah, nothing like that,” I finally said, though I wasn’t sure I believed it myself. “Probably just some people got too drunk or whatever. But let’s just get there quick, alright?”

The streetlights threw long, uneven shadows as we drove, and I felt the weight of those shadows settling around us. The houses passed by, silent and dark, like they were holding secrets. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the city was different tonight—emptier, darker, like something was crouched just beyond the glow of the headlights, watching.

Tommy, sensing the mood, let out a shaky laugh. “Man, you guys are acting like we’re about to walk into some horror movie,” he said, though his voice was a little too loud, a little too forced. “It’s just a party. We pick her up, and we’re out of there in five minutes.”

“Right,” Greg muttered, glancing at me. “Five minutes. In and out.”

We pulled up a few houses down, parking under a half-dead tree that cast warped shadows across the hood of Greg’s car. The house we were looking at, the one my sister had described, was at the end of the block, its dim porch light flickering in a slow, irregular pattern. But everything else about it seemed…off.

Greg cut the engine, and the silence hit us like a weight. No bass thumping from inside the house, no laughter drifting out into the night, no sounds of people spilling onto the porch for a smoke or some air. The place looked abandoned, except for the dim yellow light over the door, swaying slightly in the breeze. It was a big house, three stories tall, the kind of place that felt like it had its own ghost stories. The windows were dark, and the yard was overgrown, as if no one had cared for it in years.

“You sure this is the right spot, man?” Kev asked from the back, leaning forward to get a better look. He squinted, peering through the darkness like he could will the place to look more lively.

“This should be it,” I said, pulling out my phone and trying to call my sister. I waited, listening to the ringing, but it went to voicemail.

“Maybe they all went somewhere else?” Tommy offered, though even he sounded unconvinced. “Or it ended early. I mean, it’s almost one in the morning.”

I shook my head, staring hard at the house. “She’d have texted me if she was leaving. Or if she needed a ride somewhere else.” But she hadn’t texted, hadn’t left me any clue except her tense, hurried call.

Greg took a deep breath, glancing nervously at all of us before nodding toward the house. “Maybe we should just…go up, check it out. If she’s not there, we’ll head out. But at least we’ll know.”

None of us moved at first, as if the idea of actually going up to the house had caught us all off-guard. But then I opened the door, breaking the spell, and one by one, the rest followed, stepping out onto the quiet, empty street.

We walked slowly, each step echoing a little too loudly in the silence, as if we were the only people left in the city. The street was lined with darkened houses, every window empty and watching, giving me the eerie sense that something was waiting. I led the way, my hands shoved deep in my pockets, with Greg right behind me, my gaze fixed on the house, as if I was hoping my sister would step onto the porch.

As we reached the sidewalk, Kev glanced at us and whispered, “This place looks like it hasn’t seen a party in decades. Are we sure this isn’t, like, someone’s grandma’s house?”

Tommy chuckled, a nervous sound that broke too soon. “If she’s waiting for us inside that place, I’m not going in without a weapon.”

“Relax,” I muttered. I wasn’t sure why the house felt so wrong, but it did, and I couldn’t shake it.

We climbed the creaky steps to the porch, and I tried to call my sister one more time, letting it ring as we started at the cracked, peeling front door. It felt like the night was holding its breath, waiting for us to make the next move.

When all of a sudden, the door started to creak

It swung open slowly, as if someone—or something—inside had been watching us the whole time, waiting for us to come close. The hinges moaned, loud in the night, and the door opened just enough to reveal pitch-black darkness inside. It was so dark it seemed to swallow the light from the street, an unnatural kind of dark, as if it didn’t want us to see what lays within.

Greg swallowed, his hand hovering just inches from the door, and my heart was racing, each beat louder than the last.

And then, finally, my sister picked up her phone.

“Casey?” Her voice was low, urgent, barely more than a whisper. “Casey, listen to me. I’m…I’m not in the house anymore. I don’t know how to explain it, but you need to leave. Now. Don’t ask questions. Just get out of there. Please.”

Her words hit me like ice water, sending a shiver down my spine. I looked around at my friends, who were watching me with tense, anxious expressions.

“But—” i started to say, but she cut me off.

“Casey, pleas...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/MasterofFate25 on 2024-11-19 04:25:51+00:00.

---

For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been waking up in the middle of my sleep to my neighbor’s dog barking. I’ve tried approaching my neighbors about it, but they just look exhausted and tell me they’re also annoyed by the dog. They say they’ve tried everything to calm it down—training, different collars, even consulting a vet. But nothing seems to work. It sounds ridiculous, but I guess it’s something we all have to deal with, and at least I’m not the only one being tortured by the constant noise.

At first, I just thought it was the usual—cats, raccoons, maybe the occasional stray fox. But lately, the barking has been different. The dog’s growls and barks are harsher, more frantic, like it’s barking at something that’s more than just another animal. Something larger.

I’ve been losing sleep over this. The exhaustion is starting to affect my work. It’s hard to focus during the day when you’ve barely gotten any rest. So, after a few more nights of the same chaos, I decided I’d had enough. I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to know what was causing the disturbance, once and for all.

So, last night, I went outside. The air was thick and humid, typical for South Florida, and the moon was barely visible behind a blanket of clouds. I stood still for a while, listening. The dog’s barking had been relentless for what felt like hours, but now, there was an eerie silence. Just when I thought the noise had stopped, the barking exploded again—only this time, it was coming from the side of my yard, where the bushes and trees grew thick.

I crept toward the back door, pushing it open slowly, trying not to make a sound. My heart raced, my palms began to sweat. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but something told me it wasn’t going to be just a raccoon.

I peered out from the doorway, squinting through the darkness. My eyes adjusted, and that’s when I saw it.

The dog was in the corner of the yard, barking furiously at something standing just beyond the edge of the fence. It wasn’t an animal. No, it was something… human, but it wasn’t. I can’t explain it. It didn’t move like a person, but instead it jerked and twitched in ways that were almost too fast for my eyes to follow. I can’t even put into words what it was I was too busy trying to comprehend what the hell was going on and what it was.

The dog kept barking—furious, desperate. I could feel my own body stiffen, my stomach twisting into knots. I felt like I was trapped inside my own skin. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move. I didn’t even know if it saw me. I just stood there, frozen, as it stared off into the distance, its unnatural posture making my blood run cold.

The silence that followed felt even more suffocating than the barking. And just as suddenly as it had appeared, the figure darted into the trees, its long limbs snapping with unnatural speed. The dog, now quiet, stood still, watching.

I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to scream, to run, but my feet felt glued to the floor. It was like the air itself was heavy with the weight of the thing I had just seen. I don’t even know how long I stood there—minutes? Hours? I only snapped out of it when I heard a familiar voice in the distance—my neighbor, yelling at their dog to come back inside.

I don’t know what I saw, but I can’t shake the feeling that whatever it was, it’s been there all along, hiding just beyond the edge of my sight. I’ve been trying to convince myself it was just some weird shadow or a trick of the mind, but deep down, I know that’s not true.

I’m not sure if I’m ready to go outside again. But if I hear that barking one more time, I’ll be prepared. I’ll snap a picture. I’ll get proof. Because I can’t be the only one who’s seen it. Can I?

I’m reaching out to anyone in the area—anyone who’s had a strange experience, or maybe noticed something similar. I need to know if this is happening to anyone else. I’m not crazy. I can’t be.

Please, if you’ve seen anything like this, or know what it might be, let me know. This has gone too far, and I don’t think I can just ignore it anymore. It’s not just a barking dog. There’s something out there.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Nobleblade2019 on 2024-11-19 01:09:59+00:00.

---

It started out like a scene from some dreamy romantic movie. I was in the cereal aisle, reaching for the last box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and her hand brushed mine as she reached for it too. I looked up to find myself staring into the warmest brown eyes I’d ever seen. She laughed, the sound soft and musical, and said, “Guess we’ve got the same taste.” She had this easygoing confidence, like she wasn’t a stranger but someone I’d known forever.

Her name was Kate. She was beautiful in that effortless way, with a quick smile and this energy that seemed to light up the air around her. Over coffee, I learned she was smart, funny, with a way of looking right at you like you were the only person in the room. That day led to a second date, and a third, until days turned into weeks, and I was hooked.

She had a mysterious edge, though, something she didn’t fully reveal. It was in the way she talked about her family, this tight-knit group of women who lived on a “homestead” tucked deep in the woods. “It’s like a haven,” she said. “No noise, no distractions. Just peace.” She smiled, but her eyes had this far-off look, like she was seeing something I couldn’t. Then, one night, she asked me to visit the homestead with her. She wanted me to “see her world,” as she put it. I didn’t hesitate—I would’ve followed her anywhere.

The drive was longer than I expected, and the forest seemed to close in tighter around us the further we went. We finally turned down a dirt road that snaked through dense trees, branches scraping against the car windows. It was almost dark when we reached the homestead, a cluster of cabins that seemed to appear out of nowhere, nestled deep in the shadows of the trees.

I’d expected some idyllic little village, but this place felt wrong, oppressive, like the air was thick with something unseen. Women stood in front of their cabins, watching as we pulled in, their expressions unreadable. Kate led me inside one of the larger cabins, handed me a cup of tea. I took a sip, but it tasted strange, metallic and bitter. The room spun, my vision blurred, and the last thing I saw was Kate’s face, her smile melting into a cold, unfeeling stare.

When I woke, I was lying on a cold, damp stone floor. My wrists were bound behind my back, my head pounding as I tried to focus. The room was dark, the air thick with the smell of mold and something metallic… something like blood. I struggled, called out, but my voice echoed back, hollow and empty. Then I heard a low, rattling breath from somewhere nearby.

“Quiet. Don’t draw attention to yourself,” came a voice, barely more than a whisper.

I twisted, straining to see, and finally spotted him—a man slumped in the corner, his face battered and bruised, his eyes hollow with terror. He looked at me, his gaze a mixture of despair and something else… recognition.

“They got you too,” he rasped, his eyes locking onto mine, then shifting, almost fearfully, toward the door.

“What… what is this place?” I managed, panic clawing up my throat.

He shook his head, voice trembling. “She told you her name was Kate, didn’t she?” He laughed bitterly, his voice like sandpaper. “Yeah, that’s what she told me too. Kate, Ashley, Mary… she’s used them all. It’s not her real name. None of them are real.”

A chill crept up my spine. I tried to argue, to defend her, but his eyes held a look that crushed every word before it formed.

“She and the others bring men here,” he continued, his voice hollow. “They lure us, charm us, bring us here like lambs to the slaughter. I’ve been here for days, maybe weeks… watching them kill.”

I barely had time to process his words before the door creaked open. Kate walked in, but she wasn’t the woman I’d fallen for. She was cold, her eyes as dark as the shadows pressing in around us. Two other women followed her, their faces as blank and hollow as hers. They grabbed the man, dragging him out of the room. His screams started almost immediately, desperate and raw, growing fainter until there was only silence.

When they brought him back, he was nothing more than a lifeless shell, his face twisted in horror. I felt bile rise in my throat as I looked away, fighting down the panic, trying to keep control.

Hours passed, maybe days. I barely ate, barely slept, every sound from above making me flinch, my mind unraveling as I waited for them to come back for me. I thought about my family, my friends, anyone who might notice I was gone. But the days kept dragging on, and my hope was slipping away.

Then, one night, a new prisoner arrived, a man no older than me, his eyes darting around like a trapped animal. I watched him, hoping he had a plan, but he was as lost as I was. And then, one night, he snapped. I watched as he managed to loosen his bindings and dashed for the door, his footsteps frantic as he bolted down the hall. I heard him shout as he made it to the clearing outside… followed by a single, echoing gunshot. His body hit the ground with a dull, final thud.

And then there was silence.

I’d given up. There was no hope, no escape. I was weak, broken, waiting for the inevitable. But then, in a desperate flash, I remembered my smartwatch. I must have triggered the emergency alert when I’d thrashed against my restraints. It was a long shot, but it was all I had.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, time slipping through my fingers. And then, faintly, I heard the sound of sirens in the distance. My heart hammered as red and blue lights flashed through the cabin windows, the harsh beams cutting through the darkness. Shouts erupted outside, doors splintered open, footsteps thundered above me. And then, hands were on me, lifting me, carrying me out.

As I stumbled out of the cabin, I looked back, and there she was—Kate, or whatever her name was. She stood in the shadows just beyond the reach of the lights, her expression as empty as the forest around her, her eyes meeting mine with a look that chilled me to the bone. She watched me as they led me away, and then she vanished into the trees.

The police found nothing but the empty cabins when they returned; Kate and the others had vanished without a trace.

I’m back in the city now, safe, but I still can’t shake the feeling that it’s not over. Late at night, I catch glimpses of her in crowds, feel her eyes on me from across a crowded street, see her smile in strangers’ faces. And I know, one day, I’ll turn around, and she’ll be there—waiting, ready to lure her next victim into the darkness.