nosleep

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/fainting--goat on 2024-09-09 03:40:17+00:00.

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Previous Posts

I don’t know where all this water is going.  Everything I’ve learned says that we should be flooding right now.  The ground is saturated.  We started seeing standing pools of water in the grass days ago, all over campus.  It should have gotten worse, as the rain has been unrelenting, but it’s like the progression abruptly stopped.

Professor Monotone went down to the river recently to check where it’s at and while it’s elevated, its not at anything higher than what it normally hits during the spring when all the snow melts - or at least, in years prior when they actually had snow.  I’m trying not to think about that too much.  My anxiety can handle only so much existential dread.

I know about the river levels not because he told me specifically, but because he brought it up in class.  He didn’t even do that thing where he just throws out a piece of information and leaves us to figure out why it’s significant, like some of my other professors in the geology department do.  No, he explicitly said that with all the rain we’ve been getting he’d expect it to be flooding at this point.  But it’s not.  And then he was like ‘hmmm this is all very interesting’ and I of course knew that interesting means unnatural fuckery but the rest of the students were like ‘is this going to be on the exam’ and when he said no they immediately lost interest.  So while I initially was sitting at my desk, screaming internally in panic at Professor Monotone’s recklessness to bring up that topic in front of a full class of students, I guess it’s not actually something to worry about.  I sometimes forget that not every student is as psychotic about their classes as I am.  Is it the scholarship that made me this way?  I feel that having to keep my grades up for my scholarship was the catalyst for me to become the worst version of myself.

Not everyone lost interest, unfortunately.  I took a covert glance around the classroom and saw a few staring thoughtfully out the windows.  I am a junior now, after all.  These are the advanced degree level classes.  Everyone is here because they want to be here at this point.

As Cassie so often puts it, not my problem.  Hopefully they’ll assume it’s something-something water tables and not something-something alternate dimensions.

Because my personal theory is that the water is going into the traveling river.

Josh thinks I should try summoning the river to test that theory, as well as to find out just how much authority I have over it now.  He is hyped about the idea that I might be able to exert some control over the inhuman things on campus.  It’s a faint silver lining to the whole situation, but it is undeniably a silver lining.  Surprisingly, Cassie agrees with him.  I thought that Josh was just stepping into Maria’s role, now that Maria is… not here… but it seems like the entire dynamic is shifting.

I don’t think this is what the devil meant by everything would change, though.  I’ve got a feeling that it’s something to do with the unceasing rain.

Everyone on campus is talking about it.  Everywhere I go, I hear students muttering about it, I hear them talking before class.  It’s not like when I was a freshman, either.  There are no upperclassmen to ask if this is normal.  The seniors are only one year ahead of me and none of us know anything.  The professors, when asked, have admitted that this is unusual but declined to speculate.  (only Professor Monotone threw it out there like a hand grenade)  I kind of wonder if this were a different university if campus safety would have made a statement by now, like yes it’s raining a lot, no we’re not going to flood but take these precautions anyway.  I can’t see them doing that here.  If they admit that something weird was going on with regards to the rain, I will go out, buy a hat, and eat it.

Because it all seems to come back to the rain, doesn’t it?  The river.  How it changes things.  Even some of the inhumans seemed to depend on it - the flickering man was rendered vulnerable when the rain vanished and if the campus has a will of its own, I wonder if it was the university itself that revoked that from him.

It’s a troubling thought.  It would mean that the rain is controlled by campus.

As a reminder, I write these posts in stages since I’m having memory problems.  A few paragraphs here and there, as I think about about it and before I can forget.  So you all get to find things out with me in the same order, albeit with a massively condensed timeline (minutes as opposed to days).

Obviously I’ve been avoiding Grayson.  I blocked his phone number.  Cassie did too.  (and that brings up an interesting question - who pays for his cell phone?  I bet it’s a line item hidden in some budget somewhere that no one questions)  We’ve avoided talking about the Grayson problem.  Cassie sees it as a simple thing to resolve now.  We shove his soul back to wherever it came from.  Put James where he belongs.  Get Maria back.  Done.  The conflict with how we save everyone was made easier by removing Grayson from the list of people she actually wants to save.

In her mind, the devil did us a great favor by allowing Grayson to reveal his true colors.

I am… conflicted.

I’ve seen the place Grayson came from.  It bled out of his fear and into my mind, through that connection he’s established between us.  It is a place of vast power and weight, but also of emptiness, of isolation.  I didn’t think that inhuman things could feel fear, but Grayson can, and this is what terrifies him.  Being trapped in that place.  He wants to be here, with us, and considering I’ve only seen him hurt people to further his own survival…

If we’re going to condemn Grayson for that, then we should feel the same about James.  But we don’t.  We’re trying to save James, even if it means leaving Maria trapped in some half-existence while we figure it out.

Is it wrong of me to have sympathy for something inhuman?

It terrifies me.  I know that I want to stay me, I feel sick whenever I think of what Grayson proposed.  I don’t want to lose myself, I don’t want to be something else.  But… I’m not sure I trust myself either.  Because despite Cassie’s constant reminders that “I shouldn’t light myself on fire to keep someone else warm”, I’m not sure I’m going to be strong enough to fight back.  It’s not like when I chose to leave my hometown and go to college.  That was my decision I made for myself.  It didn’t impact anyone else.

If I choose myself over Grayson, then he’s gone.  He’s cast into that vastness.  And I’ve… always chosen someone else at the expense of myself.

I’m not sure I’m strong enough to change that.

So my strategy right now is to not get to that point.  It’s… not going great.  I have no idea what to do.  I’ve never felt so lost.  I know I should be strategizing, but it’s like my emotions keep getting in the way of my brain and before I know it it’s been an hour of staring helplessly at the wall of my bedroom.  And it’s just me, too, I have to figure this out because I’m not sure if anyone else will.  Cassie seems to have accepted that it’s either Grayson or me and she’s picked me.  I’m worried she’s off scheming with Josh without me.  In fact, now that I type it out, I’m positive that’s what she’s doing.

Great.

The devil certainly hasn’t shown up with any convenient solutions.  Can’t say I expected it.  He got what he wanted and his role here is done.

Unfortunately, the longer I struggle, the more time Grayson has to finalize his own plans to… make us the same person???? However that’s supposed to work.  And after a few days of being blocked on my phone, he decided to come find me in person.  I shouldn’t be surprised.  I couldn’t avoid him forever.

Especially since he knows where I live.

And my class schedule.

Not sure how he got the latter but I’m sure it was through wildly unethical means and/or whatever influence he has over the university as a whole.  While I was unnerved to see him waiting for me outside of the geology building, I can’t say I was surprised either.  There was no avoiding it.  I’d have to speak to him at some point.  He was unlikely to leave me alone.  I left the building, walking briskly right past him, forcing him to hurry to keep up and fall in step with me.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” I said tersely.  “I don’t want what you have planned.”

“I didn’t expect you to.  This is why I didn’t tell you the details until it was too late to undo it all.”

I swallowed hard upon hearing that, as if I were trying to swallow my fear.  No.  It wasn’t too late.  I refused.

“You better have a backup plan, because I’m going to make sure this little idea of yours fails.”

He laughed.  It wasn’t necessarily a cruel laugh.  Incredulous.  I bristled at hearing it.  I might not be inhuman like him, but that didn’t mean I was helpless.

“Didn’t I kill the flickering man?” I snapped.  “You think I can’t stop you too?”

His face furrowed in frustration.  The rain was intensifying, the sky overhead growing darker.

“You had help,” he said.

The university revoked the rain.  That’s right.  I stopped walking and turned to face him, balling my hands into fists.  That wasn’t all though.  Hadn’t I-

A thought occurred to me.

“The eye,” I said quietly.  “From my freshman year.  I killed that.”

“You did,” he replied, his voice also soft.  

And this...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/APCleriot on 2024-09-09 01:11:55+00:00.

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The dispatcher said two kids - boy and a girl - showed up on a lady's doorstep. Lady said the kids wouldn't talk or give their names. She gave them milk and cookies and sent them to rest in her bed because they looked tired.

No children had been reported missing but it was late, so the dispatcher thought the parents didn't know their kids were gone.

No problem. Not my first call about kids that walked out the front door because they wanted to play. At least it wasn't winter.

I drove to the house on the outskirts of Bridal Veil Lake. It looked like another farm sold off for condos that were never built. A bunch of wild fields and dirt surrounded the lady's house. It was remote and dark and I wondered if she felt comfortable living alone out here.

That knock in the middle of the night must have been a shock.

I announced my presence and knocked lightly. “Hello?”

An old woman - the lady - answered. “Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” I said again. “How are you doing tonight, ma'am?”

“Been better. They're in the bedroom. Sleeping, I think.” She stepped aside to let me in. I saw two shapes beneath a quilt in the darkened bedroom.

“There was no one else? You didn't see anybody?”

She shook her head.

“Were they injured? Scared?”

“No, just shy. Really shy.” She nodded toward the kitchen, which I could see from where I stood (not a big house). “They hardly ate.”

There were two neat piles of chocolate chip cookies beside full cups of milk. It all looked completely untouched. The sight made me ancy.

She said they didn't eat much. They ate something then but not a crumb had fallen on the table? Nuh uh. I have three kids. Never saw them leave a cookie intact or at all.

Something really bad must have happened with these children.

“Hi kids,” I said quietly from the doorway of the bedroom. I didn't want to startle them. “Are you awake?” No answer. But I had to check on them.

There was only a lamp for the room, and it barely lit anything. Two small shapes lay with their whole bodies and heads covered with the quilt, completely still.

“I'm a policeman,” I said. “I'm here to help you. You don't have to be scared.”

I waited. Still nothing.

“I'm going to pull off the blanket very slowly, just so you can see me, okay? Then you can put it right back, if that makes you feel safe.”

Nothing. They didn't move a muscle. I prepared for the worst, and pulled off the quilt.

Their eyes were black, shiny, and lifeless.

“Jesus…”

Because these were not living children but life-sized dolls… complete with clothing and realistic hair. Only the eyes in their plastic faces looked immediately fake.

“What the hell…” I stomped out, admittedly pissed off. The lady waited in her living room chair. “Is this a joke?”

“Excuse me?”

“Those aren't real kids,” I said, “they're dolls.”

She became confused. “I beg your pardon?”

I took a breath, and tried to calm down. “Ma'am, are you on any medication or…”

She got up and went to the bedroom. “Jesus Christ, save us…”

I shouldn't have let her see. The lady fainted at the foot of the bed. I called it in, and everyone had a good laugh about the dolls - except me.

The lady had been prescribed blood thinners and a nasal spray for seasonal allergies. Unless she did other, non-prescribed drugs, she had nothing hallucinogenic in her system. That meant she probably had a tumour or dementia. A gas leak could also be a possibility.

I mulled over these details while I escorted the ambulance to the hospital. She wasn't unconscious for long but didn't fight my suggestion to see a doctor.

“Thank you,” she said from a stretcher, squeezing my hand, just before the paramedics wheeled her into the ER. I nodded. I didn't know what to say. It's my job to help.

I followed them in. Sometimes doctors want to ask us questions. The cafeteria called to me. Four more hours till the end of my shift. Coffee and a sandwich seemed prudent. I hardly touched them.

The walkie crackled. There'd been an assault at the hospital. Obviously, I responded.

“Someone's been attacked,” dispatch said. “The nurse that called wasn't very clear, and she hung up.”

I got up from the table the same time a doctor descended the steps into the food court and shouted something incomprehensible. When he got close, I grabbed him by the shoulders.

“She's dead,” the doctor said. “Gone. He killed her!”

It took a bit to understand. I'll summarize: the old lady I'd escorted to the hospital had been murdered by another patient, a young man suffering from unmedicated schizophrenia. He'd been brought into the ER after being hit by a car.

“I thought he was sleeping,” the doc had told me. He sat on the floor with his head in his hands. “Oh god, her head. He cut off her head.”

Apparently, he walked down the hallway with it. Then he sat down and chatted with staff until the police arrived. I never left the food court, so I was spared the scene.

Still messed me up. She thanked me. I'd sent her to her grisly death.

A tragedy. That's what everyone, including my therapist, said, and I eventually agreed. I believed it.

For years, I didn't think about those dolls unless someone brought them up. The old woman had been suffering from some kind of delusion. No point in finding out what exactly with her gone. Probably wouldn't even be possible.

Then I got another call.

“What? What did you just say?”

This dispatcher didn't know about the kids and the dolls. That was half a decade ago by this point. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“North side. A gentleman says two kids showed up on his doorstep. No missing children reported tonight.”

“A girl and a boy? The kids?” I asked.

“Yeah, how did you know?”

I didn't explain. “I'm on it but send more constables please.”

So many similarities to the previous tragedy: the time of year, the wrong side of midnight, and the kids gaining entry to the home.

Except that hadn't happened last time. They were dolls, I reminded myself. I would go to the house - in the posh side of town - and find actual kids there. Then I would do my job and get them home.

Fear against resolve, I gripped the steering wheel too tight and my fingers went numb. Big dead hotdog fingers trembled when I got out of the cruiser in the huge driveway.

No lights were on in the mansion at the top of the hill. I'd hoped the other constables would have arrived but I was alone again. Took me a few moments to calm down and not call dispatch for an ETA.

As I approached, I could see the front door had been left slightly open. My flashlight revealed a foyer big enough to fit a house. Since there hadn't been a crime reported, I felt confident to call out to the owner.

“Hello?” An echo replied. The place really was that big. “Bridal Veil Lake PD. Your front door is open sir.” I rang the doorbell and waited a bit. Nobody showed.

I don't know why I didn't call dispatch or wait for the other constables. The only reason I went in, I think, was because I had to know if history was repeating. “I'm coming in.”

The switches were dead. No power.

Grand staircases wrapped the foyer in a broad embrace and in the center, they were there, propped up before a headless storyteller. At first, I didn't understand and I tried talking.

“It's going to be okay,” I said, to a headless man. He'd been posed with an oversized Grimm's fairytale book between his thigh and arm.

Before each of the black-eyed dolls, set up to appear as attentive children, a tall glass of milk and a bowl of chips had been placed and left untouched.

I choked out a gasp. It couldn't be. It couldn't. How could the dolls be here?! Attempts to draw my firearm and use my radio went about as well as you can imagine. The gun hit the marble floor and I communicated nothing of use to dispatch.

Maybe that was good. I might have shot the other constables when they showed up. They found me on my knees and hysterical. I kept pointing at the dolls. They thought I meant the headless victim.

“It's going to be okay,” one of them said, and it felt like I'd said it. Or this constable had been cloned from my cells. Funny the places a shattered mind wanders.

“Okay?” I asked. I don't remember much after that. I went to the hospital. They had to sedate me. I wouldn't stop talking about the dolls.

“Olive and Matthew,” my therapist said. He'd come to visit, and explain what had happened. “It's a terrific coincidence,” he said. “Those dolls are the same, yes, from the last incident. Apparently, they didn't belong to [the woman who passed].”

I don't know why this information horrified me. “Well who the hell do they belong to?!” I shouted.

“It's alright,” he said. “It's not entirely what you think.”

He really pissed me off. “Look, just fucking explain it then.”

“Right, sorry, okay, the dolls weren't known to the relatives. They claimed [the lady who'd been decapitated] didn't like dolls of any kind. She found them creepy. Your colleagues put them into evidence for lack of a better option. Then they were sold at auction.”

“And the rich guy bought them?”

“No,” my therapist said. “But somebody did, and that person… Well, they're the killer, I'm afraid. A man was discovered in the mansion basement, covered in blood and with the head.”

“I thought you said it'd be alright?!”

“The man was mentally ill,” he went on, “but he bought those dolls. Maybe he even called about the kids. Do you see what I'm saying?”

“Some kind of copycat killing?”

He shrugged his bony shoulders in his tweed coat. “It's the only thing that makes sens...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/IamHereNowAtLeast on 2024-09-09 02:44:37+00:00.

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The only word that I can think of that describes how I feel, inadequate.  

I’ve always wanted to do more for my wife. But she’s always assured me over and over that things are fine and that she just needs the time and space to process things. 

Yet night after night, the routine has been the same.

Just before 11 p.m., as if driven by some unseen force, Ellen rises, quietly excuses herself, and disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks shut, and the locking of the door is followed by muffled sounds of her crying—not super loud, but loud enough to be the only sound I hear once she starts.

I often find myself thinking about our life together. 

When did this start? Did I do something? Did I miss something when we first started dating? I tend to then replay our entire relationship in my head, looking for signs, while I wait for her to come out of the bathroom.

We met during our junior year of college.

Our first run in was at one of those cliché frat parties, an event called Jerseys & Jorts. And as you guessed it, every guy and girl there was sporting some sort of sports jersey and a pair of cut off jeans. 

Our eyes met while we were both waiting in an obnoxiously loud line for a drink. She was stunning. Then, after I probably stared a little too long, she said hello and introduced herself.

“Ellen Callas.”

She complimented my Mutombo Nuggets jersey, an old vintage jersey imbued with a rainbow of vibrant colors. I complimented her retro Robinson USA jersey, a bonafide classic. 

She had borrowed it from her roommate. A couple minutes into our conversation, I realized she didn’t know who either Dikembe Mutombo or David Robinson were. 

Then we laughed at everyone in jean shorts, and how everyone would secretly look forward to somehow coming up with a new excuse or themed party where they could sport their jean shorts again.

“Why can’t people just admit they like wearing jean shorts?” 

We continued poking fun at Greek life at schools, and somehow ended up talking about our classes and our majors, then our roommates. It felt like we talked the entire night.

I was in love. We followed each other on Instagram. It took me three weeks of barraging her with memes, which she often hearted, before she responded with a fateful message.

DO YOU WANT TO GET COFFEE WITH ME?

I thought I was dreaming. 

One morning later that week, we were in line at Picasso’s Coffee. I was babbling about how much I love cold brew. When we were finally up, she ordered tea… 

I was so caught off guard by her order, I somehow ended up ordering a berry blast smoothie. A thought had infiltrated my mind, I guess… What if she didn’t like coffee drinkers? 

When we finally sat down with our drinks, she laughed and pointed out that neither of us got a coffee, and that maybe it was a sign we would have to go again sometime soon. 

I officially asked Ellen to be my girlfriend at the art museum one morning while we were finally sipping coffees. We were standing opposite Van Gogh’s painting, The Ravine. It was her favorite painting in the museum. She loved talking about it.

“Not only is it one of his masterpieces, but underneath, there’s a totally different painting, maybe another masterpiece. He struggled to pick which image he wanted to present to the viewer.”

I loved the way she looked at that painting. She’s always been so much wiser than me.

Then time flew by. 

At times, the years feel like a single memory.

Ellen and I have been married three years now, and we have a beautiful eight-month-old daughter named Zoe. I like to think we’re the picture of a happy family—weekend trips to the park, family dinners, and bedtime stories every night. 

Ellen has been everything I ever wanted in a partner: loving, supportive, and devoted to our family. I think we’ve been in love since our first coffee date, and having Zoe has only strengthened our relationship.

But this peculiar fact has always weighed on me, and it’s something I still, after everything, can’t make sense of. Every night at 11 p.m, Ellen is in a locked bathroom and crying. When she returns, her eyes are a little red, but she smiles and insists everything is fine.

The truth is I can’t quite remember exactly when it started, but I’m almost sure I first noticed it a couple weeks after we moved into the new house. Looking back, maybe it did start around then.

It was a lot of change quickly.

In one year, we got engaged and then married. I lost my job and it took longer to find a new one than we expected. Ellen lost her mom to breast cancer. And then we found out we had a baby on the way.

I figured this was Ellen’s way of coping. Grief, stress, enormous change. I tried to give her space, hoping she’d tell me when she was ready. 

“Ellen, are you okay?” I asked her as she slowly climbed into bed one night.

The crying had been more intense than usual. She looked as if she was hiding physical pain. She responded with a gentle smile, her eyes still glistening from the remnants of tears she hadn’t fully wiped away. 

"I’m okay, really. Just… thinking about things," she finally said.

“What kind of things?” I pressed gently.

She waved it off, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, and changed the subject. I let it drop, thinking it was just a rough patch. We all have those, right?

But as time went on, I realized it wasn’t just a phase. 

It was something much deeper, something that didn’t fade.

Her 11 p.m. ritual continued.

No matter where we were—on vacation, at a friend’s house, even out at dinner on a date night —at 11 p.m., she’d find a bathroom, go in alone, and cry.

One day, I hoped that Ellen would bring it up to me in bed. That one topic that your partner finally feels safe enough to share with you just as you are both about to doze off.

Some strong mixture of sleepy comfort and courage.

I was ready for any explanation. But I realize now I’ll never know.  

I’m sorry, I read back what I’ve written and haven’t made it clear. I guess in some ways, Ellen is here with Zoe and I. 

We lost Ellen in a car accident recently.

On July 5th, just before dawn, Ellen got up early one morning to go meet her dad at the harbor for a mile swim. It was a tradition of theirs, always the morning after the 4th. They joked that their time in the water calmed down the fish, who were spooked by all of the fireworks from the night before.

But she never made it to the pier. 

She was hit by a drunk driver who was just coming home from the bars.

So it’s me and Zoe now. And our families. 

My parents have been helping out as much as they can, though they both still work. 

Ellen’s dad tried his best for a few days.

But I think the grief of losing both his wife and daughter was too much. Just a few days after Ellen’s funeral, he abruptly said he needed to go to Greece to visit family, which I didn’t even know they had.

I look back now and wish I had asked Ellen’s dad about it after I first noticed.

Had they ever noticed it when Ellen lived at home?

Or maybe I should have pushed further with Ellen herself, to get an answer. I could have mentioned therapy. I could have gone with her and we could have figured it out together.

But now I find myself in the same position. Unable to help someone I love.

The night Ellen died, after the hospital, after sitting for hours in that cold, fluorescent waiting room, I finally came home with Zoe. My mom and dad stayed over with us.

Just a baby—too young to understand what had happened. 

But that night, when I put Zoe to bed, she started crying. It was loud and heart-wrenching, nothing like the soft cries of a sleepy baby. I held her, soothing her as best I could until she finally calmed down.

It wasn’t until later, after she’d fallen asleep in my arms, that I glanced at the clock. It was just a few minutes after 11 p.m. My stomach dropped.

I hoped it was maybe just a coincidence. Though as the days and nights passed, it was clear...

Every night at 11 p.m. on the dot, Zoe cries a horrible cry. Her body writhes, as if she's in some great pain. I can’t do anything for her. I hold her tightly in my arms and just let her cry out. 

Feeling hopeless, I finally confided in my parents about Zoe’s nightly crying.

At first, they thought I was just overwhelmed with grief, imagining things. In their defense, I couldn’t bring myself to explain that Ellen did the same thing. It’s like I was embarrassed to admit it. Not embarrassed of Ellen, but embarrassed I didn’t do more to help.

My parents did say no matter what was going on, I should get Zoe looked at it if she was crying terribly all the time. I first took her to our regular pediatrician.  

Dr. Connelly performed a comprehensive physical exam, checking Zoe’s vitals, growth metrics, and reflexes, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. 

After a thorough discussion of her symptoms, including the recurrent 11 p.m. onset of intense screaming and crying, Dr. Connelly suggested we rule out any underlying sleep disorders, such as parasomnia or night terrors. However, when initial polysomnography tests came back normal, he referred us to a pediatric neurologist for further evaluation, suspecting a possible neurological component.

After a week of waiting, a neurologist named Dr. Patel conducted a full neurological examination, assessing Zoe’s cranial nerve function, motor coordination, and sensory responses. 

She ordered an electroencephalogram, an EEG she called it, to monitor f...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/EmmaWatsonButDumber on 2024-09-08 22:17:16+00:00.

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I always do these late night drives from work. Usually, I take a longer route. It's more relaxing after spending ten hours of my day with my eyes glued to a screen. The route I take is not the same. I like to spice it up.

I was driving through this dark forest which surrounds my town in the south, and had my windows down a bit. The road here is broad enough so that the trees don't suffocate you, and it is pretty trafficked. I mean, I was constantly passing cars. Weirdly enough, they were flashing their headlights at me, so I figured some police car was hunting around.

I didn't have my license so I slowed down and looked for another route on my phone. A more isolated street, through the woods. My GPS found it.

Current route: 13 minutes until destination

Recalculating...

Current route: 32 minutes until destination

Ah, well. I can take being a few minutes late home.

So I turned my car and went on this path through the woods, darker than the main road, with no other cars in sight. I don't get creeped out that easily but it was kind of spooky. I liked the adrenaline though.

I came across this crossroad. A lonely cabin sat behind it, and no one else around. I slowed down a bit, because I thought I saw a deer or something.

Getting closer, I made out this skinny guy. He was in a t-shirt and some dark pants, and looked really tired. Reaaaally tired.

When he noticed my car, he lifted up his hand and made the hitchhike sign.

He got close to my window. He was shivering.

'Hey! What are you doing up here?'

'I got lost. I'm so sorry.'

'You alone?'

'Yeah, sir.'

'You got a gun?'

'No, sir. Can I come in?'

'Get in.'

'Thank you.'

'Not in the backseat! I don't want you cutting my neck and shit.'

So he got in the passenger seat. He smelled weird. Not like rot or anything, but he had this smell of old, unwashed clothes or rooms where you never open any windows. He was slender and pale, and had a strange calmness, as if he was sleepwalking or something. Drugs, I thought. Well, at least the type of drugs wasn't the one that got the young ones so aggressive. I didn't mind him sleeping in my car.

Truth is, I saw myself in that guy. That's why I picked him up. I used to be a loser when I was a teen, and got into some really unsafe groups during high school. Lord knows I may have ended once or twice hitchhiking on a dark road, and I would have killed to have someone nice feel sorry for me and pick me up.

'So, where you headed?'

'To town.'

'Anywhere?'

'Yes.'

We drove in silence. I was a bit intrigued by him, but not scared, never scared.

My GPS said I had 15 minutes left to home when I decided to drop him off. I stopped the car and told him to get out.

'But you haven't arrived yet.'

'I'm not gonna bring you home. Don't want you knowing where I live.'

He looked at my GPS, where my address was written. Shit.

'It's fine. I'll get off. Thank you for letting me in, sir.'

'You're welcome. Bye.'

He got off and I watched him get smaller and smaller in my rear view mirror.

I got in the driveway and locked the car. I thought I saw something move in the back seat, but I was so tired I didn't care.

For the next days, my car had that smell. That weird ass smell. My wife complained about it non-stop. Tom, you gotta clean that car. It fucking stinks. I don't know who you had in there.

Anyway, last night I got into my car for my usual late night drive. As I was turning on the engine, I a chill ran down my spine. My body was alert all of a sudden, but my mind was confused, as I didn't see anything odd. Why the sense of danger? What was about to happen?

I decided to start driving, anyway. My favorite route, through the forest. I liked driving through creepy scenery, a simple spectator from the safety of my car.

My eyes widened as I hit the brakes, to stop the car from hitting a deer. Right in that moment, as the vehicle stopped, I heard a thud in the back.

My head suddenly felt very light.

I'm not a courageous man. I don't do well in these situations. The prospect of having someone in my car was so horrifying to me, it almost made me puke. I stared straight ahead, unable to move. From behind me, movement. I sensed it.

The stupidest words came out of my mouth. 'Who's there?'

Silence. I had the light on inside, and I saw my reflection on the windshield. Behind me, something rose. Something human-shaped, but not quite.

'What do you want?'

That was the last thing I remember before I blacked out.

When I woke up, I was still in my car, and the sun was almost up. I wiped my forehead with my hand, then rubbed my eyes. Had I been crying? My hands were slippery.

I looked in my rearview mirror and saw my own face, stained by blood, then looked at my hands, and realization hit me like a truck.

I looked into my backseat. There he was. The hitchhiker.

'What did you do to me?'

'I did nothing. You offered to help. You invited me.'

As he said that, he got out of the car and walked into the forest, leaving me wondering how my own blood got onto my hands. At first, I doubted it was mine, but then I saw the cut on my forearm. I felt weak, as if I'd been bleeding for a while, but there was no blood pool under my seat.

I'm not a superstitious guy, but I think that was a vampire. They're getting smart, I see. Apparently, you don't need to invite them into your house anymore. It's enough if you pick them up.

Filthy creatures. They're now hitchhikers.

I drove home in silence, and had to explain to my wife where I'd been. Tonight, I'm not driving around anymore.

The problem is, something is moving outside, and I can make out a shape against my window, on the first floor.

I can't exactly admit what I'm feeling, but the tensed up shoulders, dry mouth, and sweating give it away. It's fear.

I just hope he stays the fuck there. He better.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/orangeplr on 2024-09-08 22:24:04+00:00.

---

Looking back, I feel dumb. Completely stupid, actually. I should have known that apartment was far too cheap to be right, even for a studio. I should have known there had to be a catch. 

The day I moved in was a complete blur. I insisted that no one help me, not wanting to prove any of my family members suspicions about my character. By late afternoon, all my muscles ached terribly and my head throbbed. I fell back on my bare mattress, staring up at the ceiling fan with glazed over eyes. I pulled the damp strands of hair from my sweaty forehead, wincing in disgust. 

Someone knocked on my door, causing me to jump. I cursed under my breath, pushing myself up on my elbows. 

Two girls were peeking around my door frame - foolishly, I had left it wide open, forgetting the old college rule: only leave your door open if you want to make new friends. And I was not in the mood to make new friends. 

One of them, an asian girl with choppy black hair, was grinning at me. The other stood a little further back, fingering a box of Marlboro reds. “Hey,” she said, nodding at me. Her voice was smooth and raspy at the same time. “Did you just move in?” 

I laid back down, rubbing my face with both hands, choosing not to bother with manners. “Yeah. About five seconds ago.” 

“Cool.” 

The girls walked in, evidently ignoring my very clear body language. The girl with the black hair ran her fingers along the edge of my desk, and then picked up a little ceramic duck from my unpacked box of trinkets. 

“Grandma,” I explained, feeling strangely defensive. 

“Cute,” she replied, holding it up to her face. 

“Has anyone told you yet?” The other girl asked abruptly, looking around my apartment. She had tucked the cigarettes into the back pocket of her jeans, and was now tugging at her long red braids. 

“Jesus, Gianna, give her a second.” 

“Well, she needs to know…” 

“Yeah, but we haven’t even asked her name.” 

I blinked at the two strangers incredulously. I hadn’t even had time to put toilet paper in my bathroom, and here they were, touching my things and talking about me like I wasn’t there. I just wanted to take a nap, honestly. 

“My name’s Arden,” I said. 

The girl with the red braids, Gianna, sat down next to me on my bed. 

“Did they tell you?” 

“Tell me what?” 

“Oh, of course they didn’t. The rules.” 

I blinked again, my face blank. I didn’t know about any rules, besides the typical renting ones. I had signed the lease after, at best, skimming over it. The landlord was a skinny woman who smelled of ashes, and I was fairly certain she had never developed the facial muscles necessary for smiling. I wasn’t about to ask her any follow up questions, especially when the rent was so cheap. 

The other girl laughed nervously. “Where did you move here from?” 

I ignored her. “What rules?” 

Gianna got a strange, wicked sort of smile on her face, bouncing a little on my mattress. The other girl sighed loudly. 

“Something happens here every night,” she began, pulling out my rickety office chair and sitting down. “Something weird.” 

“Like what?” I sat up, frowning at her. Finally, my interest was peaked. 

“Someone walks down the street,” Gianna said, her voice reminding me of a camp counselor telling a scary story around the bonfire. “That one, right down there.” She pointed at my window. “It’s someone different each night. They scream for help for about an hour. But we aren’t supposed to help them.” 

I just stared at her. I felt a small chill run up my spine. I didn’t know what to make of all this. 

“It happens at a different time every night,” the other one said softly. “We never know when it’s coming.” 

“Why?” 

She shrugged almost sadly. “We don’t know why.” 

I scoffed, leaning my elbows against my knees. “I don’t believe you.” 

The girl shrugged. “You don’t have to. You’ll see for yourself.” 

The look in her eyes made me want to believe her, she seemed sincere, but I couldn’t even begin to fathom what they were saying being true. It was too strange, too outlandish. I knew this wouldn’t be the nicest neighborhood, but it couldn’t be that bad. It had to be a prank, they had to be hazing me or something. 

“We’ll come back later,” Gianna said matter-of-factly. “We’ll show you.” 

Before I could protest she grabbed the other girl by the wrist, and they were gone. I followed them to the door, watching them march down the hall, talking to each other in hushed voices. 

I closed my door behind them. That night, as promised, they came back. They came dragging along two boys: one was somewhat muscular, wearing a tight black t-shirt and baggy jeans, and my eyes were instantly drawn to a silver heart shaped locket around his neck. He smiled at me and introduced himself as ‘Will’ when he walked in. The other boy was smaller but chubbier, and nervous looking, with a buzzcut and ill-fitting cargo shorts. His name, I was told, was Mateo. 

The girl named Gianna came in carrying a bottle of wine, and that same slightly crumpled box of cigarettes. The other one, the girl I still didn’t know the name of, was the only one who looked even somewhat apologetic. 

They all sat down on my dusty floor, next to the window, and motioned for me to join them. I sat between Will and the nameless girl, unsure whether I should continue feeling violated or if I should just give in to my strange, pushy neighbors. 

“Do you all live in this building?” I asked, hesitantly accepting the wine when it was passed to me. 

“Yeah,” Will answered with a grin. It seemed half-hearted. “This building is where all the young people live.” 

“It’s where they put us,” Gianna cut in, lighting a cigarette. It didn’t even occur to me to tell her not to smoke inside. “We’ve all been sorted out.” 

“Forgive her. She’s a bit of a conspiracy theorist.” 

“It’s not a theory,” she snapped, glaring at him. “Look at the other ones. Next door, the middle-agers. People with kids, but no grandkids. Across the street, old people. Not a single twenty-something in that entire building! Mey, tell him!” 

So her name was Mey. I looked her over, admiring her smokey eye makeup and how she’d tied her hair up, long strands poking out like exploding fireworks. 

“Stop it,” Mey muttered, reaching for the wine bottle. “You’ll scare her.” 

“I’m not scared.” 

She just shrugged at me, as if she didn’t believe me. 

We passed the bottle around, and then around again. I listened to them bicker and laugh - it was clear they’d all been friends for a while, and I felt a little bit like I was intruding, even though they were in my apartment. Will asked me if I had gone to college, and I told him I did, but I dropped out. They all nodded sympathetically, which made me feel stupid. 

By midnight, I was a little bit buzzed, and my guard was beginning to fall. I had to admit, it felt good to have friends. I had already mentally resigned myself to a life of solitude, at least for a while, but it seemed that might not actually have to be my fate. I laughed at Mateo and Gianna’s drunken argument, passing a cigarette back and forth with Mey, blowing the smoke out of my open window. 

I had almost completely forgotten why they were all over when it happened. 

All at once, a blaring alarm came from each of our phones, like an Amber Alert. I could hear the sound echo throughout the neighborhood, like an entire chorus of hundreds of phones going off, not just ours. I nearly leapt out of my skin. Not even Gianna laughed. All of them went quiet, and they looked at me as I took it out, frowning at the screen. 

DO NOT INTERFERE. 

“It’s coming,” Will whispered. He had changed, his eyes almost glassy and his voice soft and shaky. Mateo squeezed his shoulder. I looked at Mey. Her eyebrows were cinched together in concern, and she was stubbing out our cigarette against the windowsill, shrinking away. 

There it was again, that chill. It crept up my back, spreading along my scalp and making me shiver. Something felt deeply, deeply wrong. The others were quiet now, staring silently at the window I was sitting up against. The air felt somehow warmer, like it was buzzing with something… or maybe I was just sweating. 

We sat there, unmoving, for what felt like half an hour. Right as I was getting tempted to ask what was going on, I heard it. 

It was far away, and faint, but I still heard it. A cry. It continued as it got gradually closer, louder… more desperate.

“Help… please, my god, someone help me…” 

Slowly, I leaned out the window. I had to see it with my eyes, had to confirm there was actually someone out there like they had said there would be. 

My new apartment was on the fourth floor, so it was hard to see who was down on the street without squinting. 

In the flickering streetlights, I could make out the outline of an elderly man. He was hunched over, wandering aimlessly from door to door, wearing only what looked like a hospital gown to cover his pale, broken body. Behind him trailed a path of dripping blood, although I couldn’t see where it was coming from. 

“Please… I’m hurt…” 

I looked back at the others, my mouth hanging open. “What is this?” I demanded loudly. “What the hell is this?” 

Mey touched my arm, trying to calm me down. I pulled away from her. 

“Arden, please…” 

“We have to help him! Why can’t we help him? He’s just an old man!” 

“We can’t help him. Trust me.”

I ignored her, leaning further out the window, prepared to call out to him. Before I could open m...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1fca2gu/every_night_a_different_person_walks_down_the/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Quiet_Improvement_39 on 2024-09-08 21:22:44+00:00.

---

A few weeks ago, I bought a Ring camera for my front door. I live in a quiet suburban neighborhood, and I never thought I’d need it. The only reason I installed it was because of a recent string of break-ins nearby. I figured having some peace of mind wouldn’t hurt.

The first couple of weeks were uneventful. The camera picked up the occasional stray cat or delivery truck, but nothing out of the ordinary. That all changed last night.

At around 3 AM, my phone buzzed with a notification: "Motion detected at your front door." Half-asleep, I figured it was a passing car or a raccoon. I’ve had false alarms before, so I didn’t think much of it. I swiped open the app, expecting to see nothing but an empty porch or maybe the neighborhood cat wandering around.

Instead, I saw… me.

Standing on my front porch, facing directly into the camera, was someone who looked exactly like me. They were wearing the same clothes I had on that night—gray sweatpants and a faded t-shirt. Same messy hair, same tired look on their face. I blinked a few times, trying to shake the grogginess and make sense of what I was seeing.

I’m inside my house. In my bed. But there I was, staring at myself on the screen.

At first, I thought it was a glitch—maybe the camera had picked up a reflection, or maybe it was delayed footage of me going outside earlier. But I hadn’t been outside all night. And the more I stared, the more I realized something was off. The figure on the screen wasn’t moving. It just stood there, staring directly into the camera, watching... like it was waiting.

I watched for a minute, my heart racing, expecting the figure to move, to do something. But it didn’t. It remained completely still, like a mannequin. It didn’t even blink.

I thought about getting up and checking the door, but the idea of confronting that thing—or whatever it was—made my skin crawl. So, instead, I just watched, phone clutched in my shaking hands, heart pounding in my ears. The camera feed stayed live the entire time, no glitch, no interruption, but the figure never moved an inch.

After about five minutes, I finally worked up the nerve to check the timestamp on the footage. 3:04 AM. I watched for another minute, but nothing changed. Still, I stayed glued to the screen, waiting for the figure to leave. It didn’t.

By 3:15, I was losing my nerve. What the hell was going on? I clicked out of the app and sat there, sweating and wide awake. It took all my willpower not to immediately pack up and drive to a friend's house, but a part of me was convinced it was some elaborate prank, something explainable.

When I finally mustered the courage to open the app again, the camera was back to its normal empty view. No figure, no one standing there. It was like it had vanished the moment I closed the app.

This morning, I checked the footage. But when I scrolled back to the time of the notification, the video wasn’t there. Everything before and after 3 AM was recorded as usual—just not that particular time frame. Like it had been erased.

I spent the entire day trying to rationalize it. Maybe the camera glitched, maybe someone was messing with me. I even told myself it was just a dream—something my groggy brain had cooked up in the middle of the night.

But tonight, I’m not so sure.

It’s happening again.

I just got another notification: "Motion detected at your front door." And there I am. On the screen, standing perfectly still, just like last night.

I haven’t moved from my bed. I don’t know what to do. I’ve been staring at the feed for nearly 10 minutes now, and the figure still hasn’t moved. Same clothes, same blank expression.

No one else is awake, and I’m too terrified to go to the door and look for myself. I feel trapped in my own home.

What scares me the most isn’t that I’m seeing myself on the screen.

It’s that this time, the figure is closer to the door.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Sipixre on 2024-09-08 16:24:25+00:00.

---

When you're in the zone you don't have to think much. Big, bright, “Hi what can I get you?” Post the ticket to the kitchen. Grab whatever is ready at the window and sling it onto the table. Hi, ticket, plate. Hi, ticket, plate. Rinse and repeat for several hours and then you're done, feet aching and hopefully a hundred bucks in tips in your pocket.

I did take one break usually, mid morning. I'd wolf down breakfast and then hide in the toilet for 8 minutes to scroll on my phone. But otherwise it wasn't a job where I could be on my phone much. Maybe later as the breakfast rush died down, but by that point I was usually tired and flagging anyway, and my attention was focused on not delivering plates to the wrong tables. 

So it was pretty odd to zone out and find myself standing behind the counter, in full view of everyone, staring at my phone. I never took my phone out when I was on the floor, unless my mom called with an emergency or something. 

But when I came to, I looked at my screen and my lips went numb. I had my notes app open and had simply written, “That thing isn't human.”

If a friend had messaged me I would have assumed it was a prank. But it was my notes app. I had written it. I had clearly just written it. I didn't remember doing so which was odd, but the last couple of minutes were a blur and I didn’t remember not-doing it either. I was worried I was maybe having a stroke or something. I glanced around quickly and made eye contact with the cook, who said, “Order UP,” like he'd said it a few times already, and nudged a plate towards me. I grabbed it. The #7 was for table 3. I turned around and it was pretty quiet in the diner. I was getting close to the end of my shift. There were a couple of folks in booths and a couple of folks at the counter. I ran the food out to table 3, grabbed them a new bottle of ketchup, and then went to pick up the next order from the kitchen window. 

I froze.

How had I not noticed the monster at the counter?

It had a humanoid head, but that was where the resemblance to a human stopped. It had fleshy appendages; they were pinkish and looked like human skin. They were neatly folded up, some joints folding backwards like a bird's legs, but overall it had fit itself quite compactly into a seat. It wasn't quite sitting as much as propped between the counter and the stool, its body not able to bend in the places a human's can. Overall, though, it looked to me kind of like a giant insect. Something about the limbs reminded me of a grasshopper or a praying mantis, the sharpness of the joints and the way they sat on its frame. But the skin. I felt myself gagging, but then the cook, Pascal, was yelling insistently from the window to get my ass in gear.

I grabbed the three plates on autopilot, balancing them on my arms, and hurried out to table 1. I stopped by each table and asked if they needed anything. The man in seat 2 at the counter asked for another glass of water, which I happily obliged. I turned my back to fill a glass at the soda fountain when I froze.

How had I not noticed the man in seat 2 was a monster? 

He looked nothing like a man, except that he had flesh-like skin. But that was where the resemblance to a man ended. I had walked up like everything was normal and asked if it needed anything. It made a series of clicking noises. I remember saying, “No problem,” in my customer service voice, like it was the most normal thing in the world, and walked over to pour a glass of water. I was panicking by this point. How could I not notice? Was it messing with my head?

I came to when the cold water came spilling over the edge of the cup and splashed onto my hand. I reflexively pulled back. I dumped the extra water into the drip tray. 

I glanced back to see if the monster was there.

I was holding a dripping glass of water for seat 2. I walked over to him and said, “Here ya go, holler if you need anything else,” and moved to toss some menus at two guys who had just come in. I was bussing table 3 when I remembered I hadn't seen them leave. We're a tiny hole in the wall place. Five booths and ten counter seats. There's a bell on the door. Had I heard the bell? They left their food half eaten.

There was a monster in seat 2.

I whipped my head around, but there was an older gentleman, maybe mid 40s, sipping his glass of water and pushing some potatoes around on his plate. I shook my head and laughed quietly to myself. I needed to finish my shift already. I wiped down the table and brought the bin to the kitchen. 

In the kitchen I had a meltdown, when the memory of the monster hit me like a freight train.

“Pascal, look at seat 2,” I whispered.

He glanced over and back at me. “Old guy. What, he make a pass at you or something?”

“No, he's not… I don't think he's human,” I said.

“Not…human?”

“He's a bug person, but I only remember when I'm not looking at him.”

“Okay,” Pascal said. “Can you serve him food? Even if he's a bug person?”

I shook my head. “I can't go back out there. It's messing with my head.”

Pascal said, “You're tired, let's get you some water. There's 20 more minutes until Sheila gets here and she can take over, okay. Can you do 20 more minutes?”

“No!” I shouted. I ripped my arm away from Pascal, who had been patting my shoulder comfortingly. Our dishwasher had brought me a glass of water but I slapped it out of his hand. “I'm not going back out there!”

“Okay…” Pascal said. “I'm going to make a couple phone calls. Sit right there. Ramón, you're going to have to run a couple tables, okay?”

He called the owner, who said I could leave of my own accord or else they'd call an ambulance for me. I begged Ramón not to go out, but he gave me a wide berth. Pascal escorted me out the kitchen exit, next to the dumpsters. I got in my car and drove home, careful not to look in the windows of the diner. The owner called me the next day and told me I was fired, which was fine by me. I was never going back there. This was just a job to help pay for books while I worked my way through community college. I was already lining up a work study at the library.

He did call me again a week later asking if I wanted to pick up a couple shifts. Just a couple, until he could hire someone else. He was short staffed, you see. Pascal had walked out suddenly, and Sheila… well, Sheila had no-called no-showed three days in a row and he couldn't get in touch with her at all.

*

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Roos85 on 2024-09-08 19:02:27+00:00.

---

I was the second person in the world to get the Neurolink implant. I’ve suffered from Manic depression my whole life. It affected every aspect of my life. Nothing gave me joy, not even the smiling faces of my kids. So when I was told the neurolink was the answer to all my prayers I jumped at the chance.

It took a few days for the nerve tissue around the implant to heal before it kicked into gear. When I woke in the morning there was a split second of calm before my anxiety overwhelmed me, but instead of the normal feeling of dread, my brain was filled with endorphins, and a wave of euphoria swept over me.

From that moment my life changed. Driving to work, which was normally an impossible task filled with anger and frustration, became my favourite part of the day. I sang my heart out to the songs playing on the radio while waving to people walking down the street. Seeing someone sitting on a bench enjoying a cup of coffee filled me with immense joy when, normally, the sight of someone looking happy would fill me with resentment.

I worked at an accountancy firm as a temp. I loved the Job, but my depression made it hard for me to make an impact. My boss wasn’t the worst and he understood my struggle and never gave me a hard time. So I was surprised by the look on his face when he demanded to see me in my office.

As soon as I entered his office he started berating me and accusing me of all sorts. Normally, I would be filled with fear and self-loathing, but the more he shouted, the happier I felt. When he told me I was fired, a warm feeling of europia crept up my spine, and I felt amazing.

I was at odds with my situation and how I felt. I wanted to be sad; I wanted to cry, which is strange because, for years, all I wanted was to be happy. But I was now jobless with no hope, but all I felt was joy.

As I made my way to my car, I was too joyfully delirious to notice I was being followed. Just as I was about to open my car door, I heard footsteps behind me.

“What’s in the box?”

I turned to a gun pointed at my head.

“Please don’t shoot me,” I said in a chirpy tone.

“Give me your wallet or I’ll wipe that smile from your face.”

The guy had a glazed look in his eyes, so I knew he was serious, but I couldn’t help but burst out laughing as I grabbed my wallet from my pocket.

“Are you laughing at me? I’m not playing around. I will shoot you.”

I couldn’t stop, and the angrier he got, the harder I laughed. I was terrified, but the more scared I got, the happier I felt.

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it. I think there's something wrong with me,” I said as tears of joy streamed down my face.

He grabbed the wallet from my hand.

“Fuck you,” he shouted before the gun went off, hitting me in the shoulder.

He went through my pockets as I lay on the floor in a manic state of laughter. He took my car keys, jumped in my car, and drove off as I lay there in a pool of blood.

As the police questioned me at the hospital they couldn’t understand why I looked so happy after being robbed and shot. When I told them I had just been fired from my job before it happened, they asked me if I was on drugs. I knew it was something to do with the chip but I didn’t know how to explain it to them.

When you are depressed every day, no matter how uneventful the day went, it was a difficult day. Stubbing my toe on the coffee table would fill me with an overwhelming sense of self-pity and send me spiralling even deeper into a pit of despair. But I had the worst day imaginable, and all I felt was Immense joy. I didn’t care that my job and the car were gone. I didn’t even feel the pain from my bullet wound.

I didn’t want to rush out and find another job. I wanted to spend quality time with my wife and kids. If I wasn’t working I was either too depressed to get out of bed or to enjoy taking my kids out. This was a chance for my kids to see their dad smiling for a change.

The kids got so excited when I told them we were going to feed the ducks. I’ve never seen them that excited and it made me so happy I felt like crying.

My wife and I sat on the bench and watched as Toby and Makalla threw bread to the ducks.

“Dad, why do ducks like bread? Do they eat anything else?”

Toby was the curious one, always asking questions, but normally the only answer he got was go ask your mother.

“I don’t know, Toby. Maybe it’s because they go quackers for bread,” I said as I let out a little chuckle.

Toby turned to me with a big smile on his. He took a step back, and before I had a chance to react, he fell into the bond.

“Daddy help him,” shouted Makalla.

Toby struggled to keep his head above water. My wife, who couldn’t swim, was shouting at me to jump in and save him. The more chaotic it got the more dopamine flooded my brain.

It was like I was frozen. I wanted to help my son but all I could do was laugh. The more he struggled, the more delirious I got until I was clapping and hollering like a madman. Luckily, a passer-by saw what was happening and jumped in and saved him.

The guy who saved my son looked at me as if I was the worst. Toby was in tears as my wife held him tight.

“Why didn’t you save me, daddy,”

“I don’t know. I was scared.”

“You didn’t look scared, he said with a look of pure sorrow. I didn’t know what to say. My wife and daughter were disgusted with me and didn’t utter a word as we drove home. Inside, I was screaming; I was at odds with my external responses and my internal despair; I was terrified and never felt more alone, but I couldn’t express it.

I woke the following morning to an empty house. At first, I thought my wife had taken off with the kids, but she didn’t pack any clothes, and her car was still in the driveway.

Suddenly, a van pulled up outside my house, and two men in suits jumped out.

“We work for the company that installed your Neurolink. We would like you to come with us so we can evaluate your experience.”

I felt strangely compliant and felt too Joyish to refuse so I jumped in the back of the van.

When they brought me to the same place I had the Neurolink implanted, they put me in a room that looked more like an interrogation room than a doctor’s office. As I sat there a man in a white lab coat walked in.

“My name is Dr Weinstein,” he explained as he put a folder in front of me. When he opened it up I was shocked to see a picture of the man that shot me.

“I understand life hasn’t been easy the last few months. How did it feel when you lost your job?”

“How do you know that and where did you get the picture?”

“Everything will be explained in time. Right now we just need you to answer my questions.”

I felt like my brain was going to explode. I wanted to resist so badly but the feeling of euphoria coursing through my veins made me strangely compliant.

“I felt great. Better than I ever felt in my life. I didn’t care about losing my job,” I said as Dr Weinstein took notes.

“How did you feel when you were being robbed?”

“I wanted to run, but it was like being on a roller-coaster knowing there is a chance you could die, but you enjoy the ride anyway.”

When he was done with the questions he brought me to another room. The room was sterile and empty apart from a large black screen on the wall.

As I sat in the sterile room, the black screen flickered to life. A grainy video began to play. The room was silent, apart from the faint hum of machinery. On the screen, I saw my wife and kids. They were huddled together in a small room, looking terrified. My heart should have been pounding, but instead, I felt a gentle warmth spreading through my chest. A familiar sensation of joy washed over me, confusing and inappropriate.

"Where are they?" I demanded, though my voice sounded too cheerful like I was asking about the weather.

Dr. Weinstein stood beside me, his hands calmly folded. "They're safe for now. We needed to observe your response."

I wanted to shout, but my brain wouldn’t let me. Instead, I smiled, even though my world was crumbling before me.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked, still grinning like an idiot, my body betraying me with happiness as I watched my family suffer on the screen.

Dr. Weinstein turned to face me.

"The Neurolink was never about curing depression or mental illness. That was just the cover story. We’ve been developing a way to control emotional responses to better manipulate behaviour. You were one of the first to receive the implant because of your vulnerability. We wanted to see how far we could push someone like you. We wanted to see how easily you could be made compliant, no matter the circumstances."

The video continued playing in front of me. My wife was crying while holding Toby and Makalla tightly. Toby was whispering something to her, but there was no audio.

We control your emotions now. We wanted to see how much we could break you and still make you feel happy."

A wave of euphoria swept over me as I watched the screen. My wife and children were in danger. Any rational person would be terrified but I couldn't feel it. I couldn't connect with the fear that I knew I should have felt. Instead, it was like watching a happy scene in a movie.

"You see you no longer have control over your own emotions. You're a puppet of joy. Even now, as your family is at risk, you can't help but smile, can you?”

I tried to fight it, tried to dig down and find the sorrow or terror deep within me. But no matter how hard I tried, I could only laugh. I...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1fc5ex8/i_got_a_neurolink_implant_installed_to_cure_my/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Dry-Competition5290 on 2024-09-08 17:50:22+00:00.

---

I’ve lived in this apartment for almost two years, and until last night, I thought I knew every inch of it. It’s a small, one-bedroom place—nothing fancy, just a decent spot that’s close to work. The building itself is one of those old Mill Town buildings with an apartment up top and businesses on the lower level with a hallway that separates the two. It’s where the business owners would live when the town first established. It’s in the downtown area of a very, very small town. Nothing exciting. When I first moved in, the landlord, Shane, gave me a blueprint of the unit. A very OLD blueprint.

At the time, I thought it was strange. You see it’s normal to get a layout print when in the process of renting just to see the floor plan. But who gives a blueprint showing the electrical layout, the water line, basically the ENTIRE construction lay out for a one-bedroom apartment? It was weird. But what made it even more odd was Shane himself.

He’s always been… off. You know the type—quiet, always watching, never really says much unless he absolutely has to. He wears Dahmer style glasses, and combs his hair over a hole in his Toboggan (He’s balding, I’m southern, shut up) he dresses in blue short sleeve coveralls and adjourns himself only in the jewelry that is a few ink pens in his pocket and a very musty odor. The most intimidating part about him is his height.

The man is 6’11….

Not joking.

Anyway the first day I met him, he just stood there, staring at me for a moment before handing over the keys from his hulk sized hand, muttering something about “making sure everything’s in order.” Even when he gave me the blueprint, he wouldn’t look me in the eye, just said, “You’ll want to hold onto this,” like it was some kind of secret. I almost laughed at how serious he was being. I should’ve asked more questions then. But I’m a dumb-dumb welder and I do what I have to do to get by.

Last night, while trying to fix a leaky pipe under the sink, because Shane’s phone for some reason ALWAYS goes to voicemail when shit goes wrong, I noticed something strange.

My hand slipped, and the wrench clanged loudly against the wall behind the cabinet. The sound it made… it wasn’t right. It was hollow. For a second, I thought I imagined it, but curiosity got the better of me. I knocked on the wall, and sure enough, there was an empty space behind it.

I thought it was kinda odd but I tried to not let it bug me too much. However I’ve read a lot of horror stories and seen a lot of videos of people finding hidden rooms in their homes. So I didn’t sleep much after that.

This morning, I pulled out the blueprint that Shane had given me—no hidden rooms, no extra spaces. It was all supposed to be solid. But that hollow sound kept gnawing at me, so I grabbed a hammer and started chipping away at the wall.

Behind it, there was a door. A small, old, wooden door—barely four feet high—painted the same color as the wall so it blended in perfectly.

I checked the blueprint again. No mention of a door. No mention of a hidden room. Nothing.

I can’t stop thinking about how weird Shane was when he gave me that blueprint. Why would he go through the trouble of giving me this if it didn’t even show this? Why didn’t he tell me about the door? Why didn’t he look me in the eye?

I don’t know what’s behind it, but something about it feels very wrong, like it’s been waiting all this time, just hidden till now.

I’m gonna get to the shop I got too many orders coming through to worry about it, People need drivelines, and their tanks and trailers repaired, but maybe somebody here knows something about old buildings or can help? Anyway if anything comes of it I’ll let y’all know.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/TomWritesTrash on 2024-09-08 17:44:15+00:00.

---

Blood gets in the strangest places.

Under a rug, in a drawer, hell, I once pulled a chunk of brain matter out of a ceiling lamp. My point is, when you're in the business of cleaning, you can't leave a single stone unturned. All it takes is one thing out of place, one whiff of bleach, and the pigs'll bring out the big guns; UV lamps, chemicals, swabs, and then the whole thing is fucked. Your client, your payday, your life: all gone cause you made one miniscule mistake.

I guess this is a story about that, kind of. A story of shit hitting a fan which was turned up to its highest speed, flinging the feces about the whole room. The word fuck getting fucked by fuck.

You might be wondering how someone even manages to get themselves in the position of cleaning up after other people's dirty work.

Don't.

All it takes is a single bad choice, one tiny misstep on the map of your morals. It's certainly not something you seek out, not something you wake up and decide to do one day.

But none of that's important.

I'm here to tell a story.

It started off routine, regular. A random message on my burner. Some guy heard my name from some other guy who knew a guy and so on. The way these things usually work. I gave him a call and from the panicked whispers on the other side of the line, I gathered that it was a domestic. An argument got out of hand and the girlfriend ended up with a knife in her throat.

It happens pretty often, more often than you'd think. A lot of guys out there snap like a dry twig the second their masculinity's on the line.

Like I said, regular.

The scene was supposedly contained to the living room; hardwood floors, central rug, nothing too complex. An easy two grand for a night's work. I instructed him to leave the scratch at the scene, toss the phone, leave the back door unlocked, and lay low at a hotel for a couple nights. He thanked me like a preacher praising God before cutting the line.

Snapping my burner, I grabbed a new package on the shelf and went through the monotony of activating it before sending a message to my regular clients so they'd have my new number.

I packed my things and hit the road; handheld UV, scrub brushes, nylon coveralls, body bag, and a couple gallons of what I call Magic Milk sitting in my duffle. The milk is a combination of chemicals I probably can't name here, my own orchestra of compounds dangerous enough to melt skin if exposed directly. A couple wipes and what was once a red stain on the floor was now cleaner than a government grow lab; albeit, minus a layer of lacquer. So I carried some of that with me as well.

Like I said, no stone.

It was a longer drive, about an hour outside of the city, and it was teetering on midnight by the time I rolled into suburbia. I checked the address and pulled into a picturesque yellow cottage straight out of Better Homes Magazine. The fact a bachelor lived here surprised me, I would've guessed mid-30's soccer mom.

That's when it hit me, it wasn't his house.

I sighed. These jobs had to be meticulous, perfect. If it had been the killer's house, the cops wouldn't have free reign over the crime scene since there was someone actively living in it.

But a soon to be missing girl? Her apartment would be chock full of pigs trying to sniff out a truffle. Now, I treat every job as if a whole precinct would be taking magnifying glasses to the place, but I still feel the added pressure. It's not a job that gets less stressful over time.

I hopped out of my car, slung the duffle, and headed for the door as if I belonged. Looking confident is a sure way to stop potential witnesses from remembering a thing about you. As instructed, the back door swung open without a hitch. Good boy.

The scene would've made a fly gag. The body was there, sprawled across the floorboards, knife handle protruding from a bruised neck.

But the cat.

The fucking cat.

The little bastard had slid through the puddle of blood which haloed the poor girl's head and painted a mural of gore all about the room. Streaks of blood weaved between furniture legs, under the sofa, on the sofa. The thing had wreaked havoc on the poor, country-style, interior.

And it was nowhere to be seen.

In a mild panic I began opening doors, careful to avoid any of the streaks. I didn't need to be tracking more around the place. Not to mention I hadn't even changed into my coveralls yet.

Into the dining room, through the kitchen, and into a small reading room I went until finally, I laid eyes on the little shit. I spotted a small kennel in the corner and, sliding on a pair of elbow high latex gloves, I approached the furry friend.

It stopped licking blood from its paws and looked up at me, eyes wide before letting out a tiny squeak and trying to rub up against me. I grabbed it before it had the chance, and carefully put it into the crate. Its lock was finicky, and didn’t feel too strong, but it’s not like the thing could burst out.

The job just went from one room to four. If I had a way to contact the fucker I'd demand more pay, but I knew he had probably already tossed the phone and disappeared. I could've left, but that'd get the dude caught and he'd most definitely try to take me down with him.

I was backed into a corner, fuming, pissed, angrier than a gay conservative. The only way forward was to clean.

I put in some earbuds, flicked on some Grandson, pulled on my suit, and got to work transferring the body and murder weapon into the black bag. She would go by the door until it was time to leave.

I took pictures of how the room was arranged, and moved all the furniture to one corner of the room. First step was rolling up the central rug and tossing it in a milk bath. Thankfully the girl had a ceramic tub otherwise it'd have to go in the sink bit by bit.

Next, I dabbed up the wet blood with paper towels, careful to avoid smearing it. The dried stuff would be cleaned shortly. I took toothpicks to every single crack and crevice between the floorboards, scraping up dried flakes of blood. Once the 'pores' were open, it was time for the milk. A whole gallon on the floor, squeegeed around everywhere to get into the cracks. It immediately brought up the dry blood and any stains that might've started to form.

Sopping up the milk with a whole roll of Bounty, I got to work hand washing every single board with a sponge and yet more milk. By the time I was done the floor had lightened a couple of shades. That was fine.

The leather couch was easy, just more paper towels and milk made it look brand new, and I rinsed it thoroughly with water to avoid taking any color out of the leather. If it has been a cloth couch, the whole thing would have to go in a milk bath or be reupholstered. I've had to do both.

While the floor and sofa dried, I took a lint roller to every single surface in the room, the only real defense against stray hairs of my client. I took off the vent covers and cleaned out all the dust, threw every dish that was visible into the dishwasher, then took the lint roller to the underside of any removable cushion. The legs of all the furniture would get some care, just in case the cat rubbed up against them. The doorknobs each got a wipe-down with a damp towel along with the arms of each chair and every other possible point for fingerprints.

When I was pleased with my work, I laid a layer of lacquer over the floor and started in on the dining room. It was the same process again and again and again until I saw the sun start to rise through the windows.

All things considered, I had a day or two before the police bothered doing a wellness check, but I'd rather not live in a murder victim's house any longer than necessary. After finishing the dining room, I headed into the kitchen. The mess wasn’t near as bad here; just a trail of bloody paw-prints leading around the island to the reading room. I wouldn’t even have to move around furniture this time. I checked the countertops to make sure the rogue feline hadn’t run across them, and when I was happy with the results I took a step back to scan the room in full.

The stove was expensive from the looks of it, a flat, black top gleaming in the light from a low-hanging fixture. The refrigerator was equally nice, equipped with a touch screen which displayed the interior temperature. I swung the door open to look for a drink and almost had a coronary. The bottom and middle shelves were lined with mason jars, each one full of what at first appeared to be entrails. Human organs.

I took a closer look and felt my heart start beating regularly again. Various roots and leaves sat submerged in some kind of pickling agent, each jar containing a separate curiosity. I grabbed one at random and turned it in my hands. It appeared to be a bundle of Sandalwood, like the uncoated tips of hippie-shit incense sticks. Another had a tight knot of thin tendrils, taproot maybe. I set it back down and grabbed a soda from the top shelf. I was parched. I’d of course take the empty can with me once it was time to leave.

Closing the door, I scanned the room for the knife block. I’d have to clean and replace the murder weapon before I left; even the dumbest cop would note a missing knife. Spinning in a slow circle, I cracked open the can and scanned the room once more. Fancy microwave, chef-level mixer; this girl clearly enjoyed cooking. Finally I found the block perched beside a row of neatly stacked cutting boards. Two neat rows of pristine damascus knives glared...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1fc3l18/the_odd_job/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/euseby on 2024-09-08 15:06:10+00:00.

---

For the past 7 months I've been finding weird photos in my camera roll that I have no memory of taking. The timestamps on them indicate that they were taken late at night and in the early morning when I was asleep. At first I thought I might've been rolling over onto my phone and doing this by accident somehow, but that explanation doesn't make sense given the angles of the pictures.

I have no real history of sleepwalking, at least not in my adult life. When I was a kid, I did go through a period where I'd sleepwalk when I had to use the restroom, and apparently I peed on the floor a couple of times. Regardless, that's a farsight away from unlocking my phone's 6-digit passcode before navigating to my camera to take somewhat deliberate looking photos. That said, I can't think of any other rational explanation.

For context- I'm a 24 year old man living alone in a one bedroom basement-level apartment. The complex has been around since the 70s and it's a bit of a shithole, but I stay in one of the more recently renovated units. I've been here for a little over 3 years now and haven't experienced anything like this before.

This neighborhood is considered the worst part of one of "America's Best Small Towns 2024", so it's still pretty nice. The crime rate is very low and I've never even felt the need to lock my car, but I'm precautious enough to lock up my apartment at night and when I'm out.

The reason I'm elaborating on all of this is because I find it very difficult to believe that anyone but myself would be responsible for taking these photos. I'm not entertaining the possibility of an intruder and I'm certainly not entertaining the possibility of anything supernatural. All the same, the photos are pretty strange.

The first one was captured on March 2nd at 11:17 PM-

It's of my bedroom door, ajar. Before anyone jumps to any conclusions- no, I don't usually close my bedroom door before I go to bed. I leave it open slightly because this helps with airflow while the ceiling fan is on, so there's nothing inherently suspicious about the contents of the photo. But it unsettled me when I first saw it. If I'm being honest, it's still unsettling.

Following the first, I noticed several indistinct black and blue pictures pop up between April and June. It was 6 months before the second notable photo appeared in my "Camera" folder.

This one was taken on August 11th at 2:43 AM-

I don't know how to describe it except as a vaguely anthropomorphic shadow. It looks like an almost cartoonish hand reaching out from my door toward my bed. There's nothing in my bedroom that'd cast a shadow that shape.

I've noticed a few more recently, but they don't have any discernable features; just black and blue blurs again. I'll keep you all updated in the event some new, more readable ones show up.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/CallMeStarr on 2024-09-08 13:00:34+00:00.

---

Hate to say it, but deep down I thought my grandma would never die. The old bat. Now, don’t get me wrong, part of me loves her dearly – but damn, she was mean. At least now I know why.

“Byron,” her voice hoarse, just above a whisper, “there’s something you need to see.”

Her veiny blue hand trembled as it pointed to the old chest on the bedside dresser. The chest, which she’s had for as long as I can remember, was locked. The chest is modest sized and heavily jeweled. It looks important. And the fact that she brought it with her confirmed this. As a child, I often wondered what was in it, but over the years, I stopped caring. Probably just old photos.

I opened it, using a tiny gold key plucked from her key ring. As suspected, a plethora of old-fashioned photos spilled out. A young Grampa, with his long hair and tie-dyed gear posing in front of the shiny new GTO. Classic. Stacks of old report cards; and to my surprise, a Beatles concert ticket dating back to 1964. I was awestruck. How could my grandma – same grandma who raised me with a whip – same grandma who never let me out after dark (until I turned 16, and stopped listening to her), be cool enough to see the Beatles in concert? Who knew?

She was getting frustrated, watching me rummage through the relics. It was obvious she had little little-to-no interest in these items, and that I’d better stop mucking about. Even in her current state, I feared her. When she’s angry, she turns wicked and cruel. Like the time she locked me in my bedroom for an entire weekend, sneaking food scraps and water while I slept. All because I stood up to a bully at school. Jeesh.

Drops of drool drizzled from her pasty lips as she flapped her wrinkled finger. Then I saw it: An old pamphlet, so old I could barely read the words.

“This?”

Her head started bobbing, her lips moving wordlessly. Her expression changed so suddenly, I dropped the pamphlet, just in case. She snatched it with remarkable speed, snapping like a crocodile. Her mouth shrank to the size of a pea. I groaned. The sooner I was out of this room, the better. In fact, I was wishing I’d never bothered coming here, as bad as that may sound.

Grandma’s eyes swelled. Tears trickled down her furrowed cheeks. She stared at the pamphlet for an uncomfortable length of time, then she did something I’ll never forget: she spat a loogie and made the sign of the cross. I was stunned. Worse, I was terrified. Fear, as real as the falling rain battering the window outside this dimly-lit hospice, flooded my heart. One could imagine her final fit of revenge before she leaves this cruel world.

I seized the pamphlet, careful not to get her snot all over me. To my amazement, the pamphlet was older than the Beatles ticket. It was dated July 11, 1957. Grandma would’ve been 13.

She started convulsing, so I called for the hospice lady, who put a cold cloth over her head, gave her a shot, then left the room. Whatever was in the shot worked, because soon thereafter, Grandma started speaking. In fact, she seemed better than she had in years, if only briefly.

“Byron,” she said, slowly, deliberately, “there’s something you need to know.”

She coughed. It was an awful sound, like a sputtering old train. She was pointing to the pamphlet, which read: Clarington’s Summer Camp for Girls.

“Something happened,” she said slowly, “ a very long time ago.”

And for the following half hour, I sat next to her, cooling her forehead with a damp cloth, listening to my cruel and dying grandma’s bedside confessional. It’s not what I’d expected. Not even close. But it explained a lot. Here’s what she told me:

Life was simpler back then, but certainly not easier. Papa died in the war, so Ma took care of us. Me being the youngest of 7 siblings. We grew up poor. So poor, we only got one gift for Christmas. One! Which we shared! Of course, Sean and Judy, the oldest, always got first dibs.

When I turned 13, Ma made me get a job, so I worked as a camp counselor. I’d been going to that camp since I was six or seven, and I liked it. Most of it, that is. The camp was run by a wicked nun named Sister Christina, who would put the fear of God in you, let me tell you. And she did, on many occasions. You’d never believe the things she did.

The camp had a strict schedule. First thing in the morning, we’d all jump into the lake. Rain or shine. We’d share a bar of soap, if they had any, then clean up before mass. Problem was, I never could swim too good. But I learned to fake it. I had to, or else. You see, back in those days, you never disrespected your elders. Especially the clergy. If they said swim, goddammit, you swam!

Anyway, I’ll get to the point. I can tell you’re getting restless. You were always restless, Byron. Especially as a boy.

(Grandma pauses for a sip of water.)

You ever seen someone die?

(This time it was me who coughed.)

Well, I did. It was the summer of '57. My first week of being camp counselor.

Dorothy was her name. I’ll never forget her, even if I tried. She was a wee little thing, no older than 11. I knew Dorothy couldn’t swim, so when it came time to jump in the lake, she’d stand at the end of the dock, wailing. Being in charge meant I had to force her in the lake. There was no other choice. Rules were rules, they’d say.

Remember, our parents and grandparents were war heroes. Tough as nails. Failure was frowned upon, lemme tell you. If we misbehaved, we’d get the strap, our mouths washed out with soap, or sometimes a good old-fashioned beating. You young’uns could use a bit of this tough love, if you ask me. You’re too soft, selfish. But what do I know? I’m just a dying old coot.

Anyways, being afraid of the water myself, I could sympathize with Dorothy. But sympathy was a weakness. If Dorothy didn’t get her skinny butt into the lake before Sister Christina came out, there would be hell to pay. Take it from someone who knows.

Once, back when I was her age, maybe younger, I refused to jump in the lake. As punishment, I was boated into the middle of the lake, and tossed in. “You’ll sink or swim,” the nun said. I watched, terrified, as the boat floated away. Cruel as it was, it worked. After the longest minute of my life, screaming for help that never came, I swam. Goddammit, I swam!

Dorothy, the poor child, was fragile and weak. I had to do something – and quick – so, while the other girls were laughing and splashing about, I kicked her into the lake. SPLOOSH. She flew headfirst. Right about that time, the nun came marching towards the dock, carrying her dreaded pointing stick, and scolded us for making too much noise. It was almost time for church, she reminded us, so hurry it up!

Sister Christina pulled me aside, said something about the itinerary for the day, then she disappeared inside the chapel. When I turned my attention back to the lake, relieved I wasn’t reprimanded, I noticed one kid was missing: Dorothy. By now, most of the girls were drying themselves off, giggling about whatever girls giggled about back then. Probably, boys.

“Where’s Dorothy?” I asked.

They shrugged. I did a head count, just in case. Twelve, not thirteen. Ugh. This was my first week on the job, like I needed this. I ran down to the edge of the dock, calling her name, scanning the white-capped water.

“There!” someone shouted, pointing.

I followed her hand until I saw the girl, bobbing up and down.

“Do something!” another girl shouted.

I was in charge, and by the looks of the others, no one was going to help. No one dared call the nun, so it was up to me to save the girl.

Now I know what you’re thinking: You can’t be a camp counselor unless you can swim, right? Correct. But like I said, I learned to fake it. Had to. There were no other options.

Before I could chicken out, I jumped in the lake, holding a life preserver. Being tall for my age, I managed to walk most of the way, the water inches below by my chest. How cold the water was, I remember. Cold and dark.

I hated the feeling of my feet touching the lake’s floor. I could imagine all the gross stuff grabbing me, the fish nibbling, the rocks scraping my toes. The seaweed. But I kept going. By now, Dorothy disappeared. I plunked my head under water, looking for her. The lake was murky and green. I couldn’t see her. By now, the water reached my chin, even on my tippy toes. Not knowing it, I was crying. I hated my mother for making me do this stupid job. I told her I was unqualified. That I couldn’t swim. Also, I hated the nun, who surely would punish me for this.

“Help!”

Dorothy was to my right, floundering. I swam. It’s funny what you’ll do under duress, because suddenly I felt like an Olympian. Like a dolphin. The lake was furious, white caps pounding me into submission, and soon I grew tired, but my adrenaline was strong, and kept me going.

As I swam, something latched onto me – something strong – and I let go of the life preserver, and watched it float away. Whatever latched onto me wasn’t letting go. Panicking, I kicked and clawed, unsure what was happening, until suddenly, I bumped into her. The girl’s eyes were frozen with fear. When I reached out my hand, she grabbed it, and started pulling me under.

We struggled. Somehow, I managed to free myself, and resurface. When I tried calling for help, I started choking. I was losing strength. Something stabbed my foot. A stick, perhaps. But not likely. We weren’t alone. There was someone – or something – in the lake.

We’d all hear...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1fbx7wo/grandma_told_me_something_terrifying_on_her/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Kosmic_Scribe on 2024-09-08 12:17:32+00:00.

---

I don’t post things often, but I discovered something quite unusual and frankly quite terrifying the other day. I’m not sure how else to put it but I haven’t been able to think about anything else. I was hoping someone could help me make heads or tails of it.

A little background first. I’m an assistant curator at a pretty famous museum. I won’t say which, as I would like to maintain my anonymity. All you need to know is that we have an unbelievably large archive of artifacts, art, and research. Takes a lot of manpower to organize, manage, and digitize them. Anyways, I was going through boxes of records from field teams the other day when I came across a satellite communication device. It’s just an audio recording device that lets field teams, who probably don’t have internet where they work, to record logs on what they find. This isn’t anything out of the ordinary for me. I do, however, absolutely hate coming across them as it was my job to transcribe the hours of recordings on these devices. I love my work, but every job has its tedious duties. Thankfully when I opened the files, there were only 22 logs. I should mention that the device that I have is not the original recorder the team had with them, but is only a receiver. We don’t receive the recordings in real time as it takes an exhaustingly long time for any data to be transferred between these devices over great distances. It is, however, a reliable way to keep records. Usually the team would arrive home before their recordings do. This is only done as a precaution if the original device is lost.

The other files, along with the satellite device, included information on the research team and other files pertaining to their mission. I won’t be specific, but the team was sent to the outskirts of Jordan to investigate a previously undiscovered Mesopotamian ruin. 

Anyways, I’m just going to put the finished transcriptions here for you guys. I’ll be adding additional notes of what I think I hear in the background. The names of those involved have been changed. I hope you understand. Date and time listed are in (mm/dd/yyyy hh:mm:ss) format. The following logs were received in September of 2020. 

 

Log 1 (05/11/2019 09:13:42)

Milo: Hey, what’s up guys? Just casually making history out here. Or uncovering it I suppose.

Carter: Milo, put that down, it's not a toy.

Milo: Just having a bit of fun. Alright, gotta go. Don’t forget to hit that like and subscribe.

Carter: MILO!

End of Log 1

  

Log 2 (05/11/2019 23:33:02)

It sounds like it’s raining heavily in the background.

Bob: How does this thing work? 

Milo: Just hit that button on the top. 

Bob: There’s like four buttons on the top.

John: Is the red light on?

Bob: Yep.

John: Then it’s working.

Bob: Oh. Okay, the progress here is slow. Well, we haven’t even begun to investigate the site yet. A massive freak storm hit us the moment we got here, and we’ve just been waiting it out. That’s it, right?

Carter: Yeah, that’s all for now. Looks like we’re gonna be waiting a while.

Milo: OH SHIT!

Milo’s comment is immediately followed by the sound of thunder.

End of Log 2

 

Log 3 (05/12/2019 12:16:05)

Milo: Let me tell them.

Carter: No. I’m the team leader here, so I get to tell them.

Milo: You won’t say it with gravitas.

Bob: Come on, let’s go. We’ve got things to prep.

Milo: THIS IS MOMENTOUS CARTER!

Bob and Milo’s voices and footsteps die down.

Carter: Alright. You would not believe our luck. So, the storm has passed but a lightning bolt last night struck the site. There’s a massive crater, yes, but don’t worry, it gets good. It opened up an untouched tunnel system under the site. We found it earlier today and by the looks of it, we think it’s manmade. Can’t be sure yet. We’re going in to investigate tomorrow. We won’t go in too far. However old it is, I doubt its architectural integrity. Don’t have much to report right now. Hopefully, I’ll have more tomorrow. Don’t want to get my hopes up but we might be standing on something huge. Maybe Milo was right about me lacking gravitas.

End of Log 3

 

Log 4 (05/13/2019 08:34:18)

Milo and Bob can be heard yelling in the background at the start of the recording, although I can’t make out what they’re saying. Everyone’s voices in this log are noticeably echoing.

Carter: It’s exactly what we had hoped and maybe more. We’re at the tunnel system right now and there are carvings and symbols all over the walls. I don’t recognize what culture they belonged to, but it definitely isn’t Mesopotamian. The architecture  doesn’t match any of the ruins above.

John: It doesn't look like any ancient language we have records of. This might actually be something new.

Carter: You hear that? We might have found a new ancient civilization. This changes the entire timeline of human history. This could be fucking Atlantis for all we know.

Bob: Carter! John!

Footsteps gradually grow louder in the background.

Bob: We found a door.

John: Holy fu—

End of Log 4

 

Log 5 (05/13/2019 08:39:56)

Milo: Can’t we just grab a few sticks of dynamite? We did pack some after all.

Bob: No, you idiot. You want to destroy priceless artifacts and bring this entire tunnel down on us?

Milo: One stick of dynamite.

Carter: Guys, shut up. Okay, we’re at the end of the tunnel system. It’s about three hundred meters from the opening we came in from. I know I said we won’t go in that far, but this is really exciting. Anyways we found a … door?

John: More like a wall, honestly. Looks angry too.

Carter: It’s a massive flat circular rock that’s blocking the tunnel. There’s a face carved on it. Milo got some photos, so I won’t bother trying to describe it. John’s right though. It does look quite ferocious.

Bob: And ugly.

Carter: We’re documenting everything here, don’t worry.  

End of Log 5

I didn’t find any of the photos they described among the files.

 

Log 6 (05/13/2019 16:21:22) 

Carter: Quite the day we had. God, I still can’t believe how lucky we got. This is incredible. We’ll go investigate further tomorrow but we’re gonna have to wait for a larger team to arrive. We don’t have the manpower or the equipment to handle something of this magnitude. Some of us want to force our way through and as exciting as that sounds, every brick and stone in that tunnel are considered artifacts and evidence of this civilization. Can’t have them damaged. Maybe if we pry it open somehow. Just thinking out loud.

There’s yelling in the background.

Carter: What are they doing now?

End of Log 6

 

Log 7 (05/13/2019 16:24:10)

John: Give me that.

Carter: Hang on. Just, run me through what happened again.

John: Milo and I were bringing back the equipment we left near the tunnel.

Carter: Right.

John: And a man came stumbling out of the tunnel system, yelling at us.

Carter: What do you mean he came out of the tunnel?

John: I mean I— well Milo saw him first, but we watched him crawl out of the tunnel.

Carter: There’s nothing in the tunnel. It’s a straight shot to the dead end.

John: Yeah, I know that. I’m just telling you what I saw.

Carter: Did he come from the direction of where the tunnel is or did he actually–

John: Carter, I’m fucking telling you he came out of the tunnel. I don’t know, maybe there's another opening we missed.

Carter: You said he was yelling?

John: Yeah. Well, I don’t know. I turned my hearing aids off cause Milo was being annoying. Milo heard it, though.

Carter: Milo? Milo!

Milo: Huh? Yeah?

Carter: What was the man saying?

Milo: I don’t— I don’t know. I didn’t understand it.

Carter: And where is this man now?

John: I don’t know. He’s just gone.

Carter: Into thin air?

John: Well, there’s not a whole lot of places to hide out here so yeah, maybe. Didn’t get a good look at him. Milo, tell him.

Carter: Milo? Where’s Milo?

End of Log 7

 

Log 8 (05/13/2019 22:07:11)

Carter: Alright, we’re all back at camp. Milo’s not feeling that well right now. Hopefully he gets better in the morning. I still want to go back to that tunnel tomorrow. Maybe see if that door would budge.

Bob: What happened out there? Milo is really shaken up.

Carter: I don’t know. They said they saw a man coming out of the tunnel.

Bob: What?

Carter: You think this is another one of Milo’s antics?

Bob: I’m not sure about that. Have you seen the state he’s in? Besides, didn’t John say he saw the man too?

Carter: Yeah.

Bob: What do we do?

Carter: There’s nothing to do except our job. How do you delete recordings on this anyway?

Bob: You’re asking the wrong person.

End of Log 8

 

Log 9 (05/14/2019 09:33:48)

Carter: I don’t know how but the door is opened. I was bringing our equipment for today’s excursion, and there it was. The circular stone face had been rolled aside. Still can’t really believe it. I’m going to go get the others to take a look inside. Gonna need to bring some headlights. This is big. I can feel it.

End of Log 9

 

Log 10 (05/14/2019 10:56:27)

Once again, everyone’s voice is echoing.

Bob: This whole thing must be massive.

John: Be careful. Nobody touch a thing.

Carter: John’s right. We’re just here to observe for now. Milo, hand me the lamp.

Milo: I’ve got a bad feeling about this place.

John: Yeah. Especially what we saw yesterday.

Carter: Enough of that.

Bob: Carter, bring the light here.

Carter: Yep.

Bob: How far down does that go?

Carter: Can’t even see the bottom. I suppose these carvings would...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Alarming-Leg-3804 on 2024-09-08 07:07:13+00:00.

---

I wished I could get help, and I don't know if I'm here asking for help. I mean, this is the only place I can think of where I can be believed at least, but I don't know if anyone can actually help me. I have even thought of telling my therapist, but she can't do anything and she'll think I'm out my mind. And I can swear that's not the case.

I'm sorry if this is poorly written, but, first of all I'm not an expert and second and most importantly, I'm too scared and terrified to be able to think how to write properly.

But enough rambling, I'll cut to the chase. I have a very strong sense of smell, or at least I think other people aren't like this. I can even smell myself, which I know others can't. I can tell people's scent, beyond the products they might be wearing. I've had this "skill" (for lack of a better word?) since I can remember. Most people smell like ... Humans, I guess, with variations of course but the type of smell is pretty much the same. Some people though, have a particular smell that really stands out and is not like other's. One example was my grandmother, she had a very peculiar smell which made her stand out from the rest. It was ... Unique. She had it her whole life and it was very prevalence when she was around.

Throughout my life I have met a few people with a unique scent just like my grandmother, but they haven't been many. One of them however, is the man I married.

The first thing I noticed about him when we met 18 years ago was his smell. It's undescribable, but it was always there, even if he had just showered and used perfume. I got used to his smell, and to me, it's like his identity. We were friends for many years, and although we always liked each other life sent us different ways and couldn't really be together. But we always kept in touch, and every time we could see each other we wouldn't miss a chance. Every time I saw him, his smell was there, and it felt like home.

Years went by like this, until he returned to my life last year. This time, we has both worked hard so we could stay together and we did. We got married. But, when he arrived this time, his smell was gone... completely gone. I have tried to brush it off. I have tried to ignore it or forget about it... to no avail.

The more time goes by, the more I am more scared about this. Where did his smell go? There's absolutely no trace of it. The more time goes by, I can't help but feel and think that it's not really him, but someone... Or something... That looks like him.

This is terrifying. If it's not him, who or what did I marry to? And, worst of all .... Where is the love of my life? How do I recover him? Will he forgive me for believing "his copy"? What do I even do when I don't even know what I'm facing?

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BadandyTheRed on 2024-09-08 01:36:39+00:00.

---

Do you believe in curses? I didn't consider myself a superstitious person. I didn't believe in the paranormal and generally considered the ramblings of superstition to be more like modern mythology. People just taking allegories of concepts and held beliefs and trying to give them solid meaning and agency by attaching some force to it that moves beyond the belief of what our own eyes can see.

Recent events though, have forced me to reconsider my beliefs on the paranormal. What I have come to learn and to fear, is that not believing in superstition, might not change how it can affect you. Despite not believing this sort of thing myself, I might have to start. See I think I might be cursed. Silly thing for a skeptic to say I know but I will tell you the story of the last few days and maybe you can tell me if it sounds like I am or not. Maybe I am just being paranoid. The tragedy of recent events having drown my skeptical mind in a wave of the paranormal beliefs of others. Though I fear the nagging feeling that it could be real. If this is all real, then I think I am in trouble.

Two weeks ago, my girlfriend Heather and I were on the way to a somber event. It was the funeral service of her best friend Gwen and she was trying her best to compose herself but having a hard time.

“I don’t know if I can do this.” She said for the third time since we had departed. Her sleeve wet with tears before we had even arrived. I tried my best to comfort her but she was taking the loss of her friend hard.

“It will be okay honey; I know it’s hard all of this has been, but I know she would have wanted you to be there to remember her, along with all her other friends and family.”

I told her that, not really knowing if it was true, since I did not know much about her friend Gwen before she had passed so suddenly. I put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, without diverting too much attention from driving through the light traffic in the small town the service was held at.

“I know I just, just can’t believe she is gone.” She said while wiping her eyes a final time as we arrived at the funeral home. It was a gloomy day outside; clouds shrouded any possible rays of sunshine. The sky threatened rain, yet was not quite ready to unleash the downpour. Very fitting day for a funeral, I thought to myself and I opened Gwen’s door and helped her out of the car.

We stepped out and saw a large group of people in dark colored clothes gathered near the entrance. Moving towards the group Heather noticed Gwen’s parents and suppressed another sob. I tried to reassure her again and we moved to greet them and express our condolences. It was tough seeing the pained resolve on their faces as many cried around them but they did their best to stay composed and thank each person for coming.

The service had not started yet but apparently the viewing had. We were told to head inside and to pay our respects and view the body if we wished, or to just write a memorial note.

Heather decided she was feeling strong enough to go to the viewing and I held her hand as we entered. There were others there softly crying or solemnly looking on in quite respect. Two individuals caught my eye though, I supposed Gwen’s family was religious but these two looked a bit extreme. They were wearing some sort of religious regalia and holding crucifixes. They seemed to hold them up and mutter some sort of prayer. Not too odd if they were priests or something, but it got strange when I heard something whispered quietly about how, “The lord banishes all evil.” and “Through his light we ask for an end to this bloody reaping, we pray for forgiveness.”

The robed figures finished the chant and made the sign of the cross one last time and left the body and the viewing room, looking back at us as they left in an oddly paranoid way, like they did not trust something about us being in the room.

I brushed it off and Heather did not seem to notice or care about the strange priests or whatever they were, or the weird sermon about evil they seemed to have had with her friend's body. We approached the coffin slowly and Heather began crying again. I looked down into the finely carved casket and saw her. The embalming process always alters the look of people no matter how skilled they are, it's just not quite them anymore. I felt terrible for Heather and how she lost her friend and I felt even worse for Gwen of course. To have a heart attack at thirty-four was a genuine tragedy. She had had no underlying health issues of note and lived a fairly active and healthy lifestyle so it was even more puzzling to everyone who had known her.

I had been holding Heather's hand but as we stepped closer, she broke away and reached down and touched the hand of her friend and said her last goodbyes. I looked on and felt moved by the touching scene and felt a shade of the deep sadness that she had felt for her lost friend. In my sympathetic reverie I received a sudden flash of deep and profound sadness which I thought made sense. What I was not prepared for was what felt like a strange buzzing tension in the air and a feeling of unbridled anger like when a furious person is staring someone else down. I looked over my shoulders and across the room but no one else was in there with us at that moment. Then I felt a strange pain in the back of my ears, almost like they were suddenly ready to pop. It felt very strange but I had no idea what was happening I was just standing there unmoving, looking at Heather hold her friends' hand and say her goodbyes. Then I noticed her hand and saw something disturbing.

As Heather held Gwen’s right hand, I noticed what may have been an oversight by the makeup and mortuary workers who are supposed to prepare the bodies for viewing. There were fairly pronounced scratches in irregular patterns on the top portions of her fingers. They were initially hard to see but were definitely there, down about halfway on each digit.

I had a strange fancy that they brightened and thrummed in time with the disturbing feeling in the air and I did not like the weird synchrony. I moved closer to try and put a hand on Heather's shoulder but suddenly the bubble popped and the pressure in my head exploded as it felt like both my eardrums popped and the blinding headache almost made me cry out. Before I could though I heard Heather cry out first, not in grief but in pain.

She was startled out of her own grieving by the pain of something and she clutched her own right hand and looked down at a small but deep cut on her right index finger. It was bleeding a good bit for how small it seemed and I quickly grabbed some tissues nearby and helped her cover it.

“What happened? Was there something sharp left in her casket?” I asked her, while still holding her hand and trying to steady her.

“I, I don’t know there was nothing there I was just holding her hand. Her poor hand, whoever did her makeup and preparation should be ashamed, she hated that color and whatever it was in there cut her hand as well.” Heather responded, looking on the verge of crying again and trying to distract her grief with temporary anger over the thought of her best friend's preparation not being perfect.

We both saw another group waiting to enter and realized our time was up so we exited the viewing room. I was able to get a band aid from the cars first aid kit for Heather's cut. By that time, it had stopped bleeding even though it looked disturbingly deep. I bandaged it anyway and disinfected it just to be safe and Heather let out another whimper of pain.

I apologized profusely and we composed ourselves and went to the main hall for the ceremony. The main service was set to start in about twenty minutes, but we never sat for the service we had to leave about ten minutes later. We were settled in and I thought we would be okay but I heard Heather quietly mumble,

“Not now, not now.”

I asked her if she was alright and she groaned in pain again and held a hand to her forehead.

“No not right now, I can’t I can’t do it I need to go. We need to go.”

She stood up grabbed my arm and we left. Not too many people noticed us leaving since we were close to the back but I shot an apologetic look at those who did. Rushing through the hall I noticed the robbed figures again and they seemed to regard Heather and I with a new apprehension and they cleared out of our way and crossed themselves as we moved quickly down the hall and past them. We moved quickly since Heather was pulling me along but as we departed, I thought I heard one of them say something in Latin or something, it sounded like, “Maledictionem.”

We rounded the corner and I realized where she had been rushing. She had made it to the restroom and promptly went in and I heard vomiting followed by sobbing and then the sink running and the door opening again.

“It’s a migraine, right now of all times. It is so bad I can barely see straight and I puked at Gwen’s funeral. I can’t believe this. We can’t stay we have to go I can’t do this now I said my goodbye to her, we have to go. I am so sorry Gwen.” Heather said while she continued to cry and clutch her head. I held her arm and we quickly moved back out to the car and headed home.

On the way home the sky finally decided to open up and a torrential rain began. Despite the pounding of the rain on the car I could not hear much over Heather’s anguished moaning. I did not know what was worse for her at that moment, the migraine, or the sadness...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/j4ybugg on 2024-09-07 08:13:05+00:00.

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I work ad a delivery driver for a small courier company. Its a pretty solitary job, but it pays the bills.

Last week, I was assigned a late-night delivery to an address that wasn't in out usual system—a big, old nansion on the edge of town. I didn't think much of it. Sometimes clients use our service for unusual hours or locations.

When I arrived, the house was almost completely shrouded in darkness—everything matched up. The large iron gates creaked open slowly and I drove up the winding driveway to the front of the mansion.

I knocked on the heavy wooden door, and it swung open almost immediately, revealing an elderly woman in a long, dark dress. Her face was obscured by shadows, but her voice was gentle and firm.

She thanked me for coming and asked me to leave the package inside for her, as she was too frail to carry it herself.

I carried the package—an unmarked, simple cardboard box—into the foyer. The inside of the mansion was dimly lit, with dusty, antique furniture and an oppressive, musty smell. The woman left me to a small, candle-lit room with a large, ornate mirror.

She pointed to a table in front of the mirror and told me to put it there. I set the box down, and as I did, I noticed something odd about the reflection in the mirror. The room behind me appeared perfectly normal, but the reflection showed a much older version of the same room, with cobwebs and decay.

I turned to ask the woman about it, but she was gone. The door behind me was now shut tightly, and the light flickered erratically. I felt a sudden chill and a creeping sense of dread. I knocked on the door, but there was no response.

A soft, unsettling whisper echoed through the room, and I noticed that the reflection in the mirror was starting to change. The old, decayed room in the mirror was growing more chaotic—shadows seemed to move and twist, and ghostly figures appeared briefly before vanishing.

Suddenly, a cold draft swept through the room, and candles flickered out. In the pitch-black darkness, I could hear faint whispered growing louder, mingling with my own panicked breaths.

I tried the door again, but it remained stubbornly closed. My heart raced as I fumbled for my phone to call for help, but my signal was dead. The whispers grew into incoherent murmurs, and I felt a presence closing in.

I was desperate now, I reached for the box I had delivered, hoping it might somehow offer an escape or answer. As I lifted the lid, I found it empty except for a small, old-fashioned key and a note, although I remember it feeling heavy.

The note read: "Thank you for your service, you may stay as long as you wish."

A freezing cold hand touched my shoulder as I read, and I spun around to find the elderly woman standing there, her face now visible and twisted in a grim, knowing smile. Her eyre were hollow and black, and the room seemed to distort around her.

Without thinking, I grabbed the key and forced it into a lock on the side of the ornate mirror. The mirror's surface rippled like water, and I had just enough time to step through before the room was consumed by darkness.

Now, I'm trapped on the other side. The mansion is as old and decayed as the reflection showed, and the whispers are all around me. Every night, I see the delivery driver through the mirror, and I know that the next person to answer the late-night call will end up just like me.

The room I'm in, it holds a sense of comfort and unknowing. I've seen a cap, just like mine, and I swear I've seen some bones laying around. I'm scared.

And the worst part? I don't think anyone will notice I'm missing.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/DarkPlaces on 2024-09-07 06:10:49+00:00.

---

I was having a dream much like any other I’d had before. There was some loosely strung-together plot, apparent only in retrospect—somewhere I had to be, an object of my pursuit that seemed to elude and taunt me. I moved forward without understanding why. There were people around me, and who those people were changed without warning, and sometimes I was no longer acting but instead watching myself act as if viewing some abstract and esoteric film. That all changed when I found his wallet.

It was brown leather. Worn and scuffed from many years of going into back pockets, then back out, from being tossed on the counter when he got home, from being sat on. It was sitting in a puddle under a bridge I did not recognize and could not find again if I needed to. I picked it up and turned my head, looking for whomever it could belong to; noticing, only then, that I was alone. The faceless and shifting and impermanent throng of dream travelers was no longer with me. It was gray January and gentle rain fell everywhere except under the cover of the bridge and the wallet was damp with cold and I was alone holding it.

There was money inside the wallet—red and blue bills with faces on them that I did not recognize. Strange, nonsense denominations: a six note, a thirty, one thousand units of whatever currency this was. My instincts told me to take some. Just one of those dream thoughts you have no control over. I stuffed a few bills in my side pocket. I remember a moment of pause as I realized I was wearing an old pair of cargo pants that, in reality, are sitting in the back corner of my closet, unthought of for some time. His ID was in the front flap behind a thin plastic film. His name was Harold Heaying-Harris and he was smiling like he knew something. Something about me. I decided I didn’t want the wallet and dropped it in the puddle where I’d found it.

Strange dreams often stay with you for a few moments upon waking. At least that’s how it is for me. Usually I come back with only a few pieces. I lay in bed, hesitant to move or change anything, scared that motion will draw me further into the waking world. All I ever want is to go back to sleep. I live my days in anticipation of that moment. Climbing into bed, pulling the covers up until they cover my mouth and my nose, breathing my own exhales. The way your body eventually starts to dissolve. You feel heavy, half-paralyzed; there’s a comforting warmth as your stomach goes up and down with each breath, drawn autonomically. 

Laying there, trying to preserve my comfort. That’s usually when other pieces of the dream return. That night—it was still dark, somewhere in the quiet moments preceding twilight—I lay thinking about where I’d just been. Somewhere familiar in many ways, the dark evergreens, the gunmetal sky, but not anywhere I’d ever actually been. Likely not a place that truly exists, I thought, just a creation of my mind. I remembered the rain. How cold it had been. I thought about the puddle, and suddenly I remembered the wallet. The strange bills. Harold’s picture. I could see it so vividly. Could see his name. I rolled over in my bed to face the window. It’s always been my theory that if you want to fall back into the dream you’ve just woken from, your best bet is to stay in the same position. Don’t move a muscle. Close your eyes and let yourself drift back to the place you just left. I imagine it has something to do with blood pooling in certain areas of the brain. Our thoughts occupy physical space inside our head. The things our imaginations conjure are not entirely intangible. A lot of people don’t get that.

I had no desire to go back into that dream. I feared it. So I turned over, hoping that would help. Icy rain pelted my window in wind-driven bursts. Every time I closed my eyes my thoughts returned to the dream—walking in a crowd, pursuing some undefined thing that was just beyond my ability to recall. Finding the wallet. Harold Heaying-Harris. 

I sat up in bed. I have enough experience falling in and out of the same nightmare to know how this was going to go unless I did something to stop it. What you need in those moments is an interruption. Get out of bed. Go to the bathroom, get some water, walk around for a minute. Anything that functions as a reset. After making the circuit—bathroom, kitchen, back to bed—I decided to check my phone. I don’t remember seeing what time it was. I don’t even remember opening Google and typing in his name. I suppose I thought it might help to quickly confirm what I already knew, that Harold was not a real person, that he was simply a thought inside my head. 

What I found was his blog. It was a Wordpress site. They’re easy to identify—the one I built to post my writing years ago had a similar layout. Nearly one hundred entries, each with his name at the top. There was a small picture next to his name in the byline. The same picture from his wallet. The same smile. I turned on my bedroom light and waited for sunrise.

Harold appeared to be some sort of lifestyle blogger. That’s as close as I can get to describing what I found. He lived in a city called Khadash and wrote about his days there. I skimmed the entries. Most were boring. “Today I went for a lovely walk down 21st street. The leaves are beginning to turn. If you’re looking for a delicious cup of coffee in the area, consider…” Stuff like that. A few, though, were strange. I began to wonder if there might be something wrong with Harold, some sort of condition, and if this blog might best be viewed as almost voyeuristic insight into the mental degradation of a sick man. “Earlier today, in the gray hours of the morning, all the birds fell out of the sky in unison. Did anyone else see this?” I was ready to stop reading until I stumbled upon that line. I kept scrolling to see if it was an outlier. I found others. This one, buried at the end of a long entry about the best thrift stores located on the sleepy main strip: “I noticed the cashier from Second Chances following me to each subsequent store I visited. He was hiding behind a clothing rack in Exchange. I found him sitting alone in a locked dressing room in Moonlight Jewels. I’m worried he may have followed me home. I took a much longer and less straightforward path back to my place, but couldn’t shake the feeling someone was behind me, lagging just far enough back to stay out of sight. He made me very uncomfortable and I don’t think I will be returning to the store, despite their excellent selection of second-hand cutlery and china.”

Each post contained a link to a map which traced his path. Places where he stopped, like restaurants and bakeries and shops, were noted. I zoomed out from one of these maps, curious to see where in the world Khadash was located, and was disturbed to note it was in my state, not far from my home. I’d nearly driven past it many times. It was north and west of me, close to the Pacific Ocean. Strange that I’d never heard the name before. I checked the map on my phone, comparing it to Harold’s. I zoomed closer and closer, but where Khadash was on his map was nothing but empty green space on mine. A featureless spot in the woods with no roads and no shops and nothing else of note except for a small lake. The lake was on both maps. I found an entry of Harold’s which involved it.

“Walked to Kressman Lake today. There’s a bench at the edge of the water where I like to sit. You’ll find a lot of flat stones at the base of this bench, perfect for skipping across the glass-like surface of the water. It’s a good place to spend an afternoon when you need to clear your mind. I worry that he will return soon. I see him in my dreams.”

The lake—Kressman, to him, unnamed, to me—was a 90-minute drive from my house. I had no plans for the day, nothing to stop me from filling it with three hours of driving, round trip, plus however much time I would spend at the lake. Doing what? Looking for him? I didn’t stop to think. I opened my closet and packed a few changes of clothes, quickly, feeling an urgent need to get on my way. Logic would necessitate that all I needed were the clothes on my back for such a trip. That makes me wonder if I knew even then what I was going to find. If I knew, somewhere in that part of my brain which can’t speak—not out loud, at least—where I was going.

The first hour of the drive was navigating from my residential street to the highway and then heading due north. It was the same boring, uneventful drive I’d done hundreds, if not thousands, of times. I chased bright blue skies up the round of the Earth. It was an unseasonably beautiful day; blue and gold with viciously cold wind. The weather lifted my spirits. It was easy to forget what I was doing. The mountain was on my right, slowly falling behind me with each mile I drove. I watched its white, snowy bulk travel from my passenger window to the rear window to the rear windshield, before vanishing altogether. It was time to head west.

Two miles further along the road I’d exited to, a nondescript state road with numbers for a name, my GPS commanded me to turn right onto an unnamed, unmarked dirt road that carved a path through gray, barren trees. I could see that it went straight for a few hundred feet before curving, out of sight, to the left. The road was wide enough for one car, and full of dips that shook me from side to side as I passed over them, going no more than ten miles per hour. Somewhere along this road—which connected with so many ...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/IgnisAurumProbat19 on 2024-09-07 16:52:24+00:00.

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The inquisitive looks on everyone’s faces as I arrived at the party made me want to hide. They looked at me with equal parts concern, pity and curiosity as I made my way into the crowd, trying to locate the birthday boy so that I could say hi, spend the least amount of time I could without being rude, and head home.

It’s been four months since I’ve gotten out of the psych ward, but I’ve managed to avoid most social events, pretending I needed to rest, so I’m not yet used to getting those looks. Matthew’s birthday, however, I could not avoid. He’s been my friend since kindergarten, and he’s one of the few who came to visit me at the hospital.

It was the worst possible return to a social life, though, because she would be there too.

And before I could even spot Matthew, there she was, laughing with a friend, a drink in hand. Beautiful, warm, perfect. Her eyes met mine and her smile fell, before returning in a slightly embarrassed, barely curving at the edges way. She waved. I waved back. I knew better than to try and talk to her, that was what got me into the psych ward in the first place. The girl I once knew, the woman I’ve loved for a decade, was gone.

I met Stella on my first day of college. She was dating my roommate, both of them elated to finally be out of their hometown, to finally be where real life happened. She was sweet, she was cute, and so clearly in love that I often found myself wishing I had a girlfriend that loved me like she loved Andrew. Which made it harder for me to keep my mouth shut when Andrew started taking home girls who were not Stella, a neverending string of forgettable women who he somehow manage to talk into accepting being the other woman, all of them unaware that they were several to share this ugly title.

I caved in right before Christmas break. When she came around with a homemade advent Christmas calendar for him. I told her the whole truth, watched her heart break in front of me and while I felt terrible both for the pain I caused her and the hell I was putting myself through by having to endure the rest of year living with someone who now hated me, I knew I was doing the right thing. And I gained a friend, our bond created in the trust she now put in me, in this moment of shared vulnerability when I was the witness of her worst pain.

We stayed friends through college, texting regularly, going for breakfast sometimes on Saturday morning, supporting each other through exams and failed dating experiments.

I always knew what I felt for her was more than just friendship. What I did not expect, however, was for my feels to be reciprocated and for her to lean in for a kiss at the graduation party. The feeling was exhilarating, like everything clicked into place. The right person, the right time, the right everything.

The next two months were a blur of perfect moments, the smell of her skin, the smell of pancakes eaten in my bed in the small studio I had gotten while I worked as a barista in the town near our campus, the smell of her cup of tea cooling down on the coffee table when I came home to her and found her sending resume after resume, doing interviews on Zoom, honing her Linkedin profile. She was trying to find her first “big girl job”, as she said, just like I had done, my first day looming mid-september. Real life felt like a distant threat, something we could ignore for as long as we needed, something so vulgar and crude compared to our love that it didn’t even feel real.

It was mid-july when she finally got hired. She jumped into my arms when I got home from work, acting as if it was great news that she was leaving me for a job on the other coast, waiting for me to congratulate her as if my whole world wasn’t shattering. We can facetime, she said. I’ll come for thanksgiving, you’ll come for Christmas, we’ll figure it out. It’s just a first job, we’ll make it work, it won’t last forever, she begged.

But I could not stand it. I could see it, clear as the day. The phone calls, long and daily at first, but getting cut short more and more as we both got busy with our lives, our jobs, our new friends. The facetimes, making it more evident that my sunset was her dark sky, my dinner her late night snack, our watches always discordant. The slow, painful death of love, the goodbyes getting less and less poignant, the agonizing realization that building a life together would mean uprooting everything, for one of us or both of us.

And so I ended it before it could die. I buried myself in work, in the gym, in new hobbies, new friends, new women. She was in the back of my head, every minute of every day, but I had made the right decision, I was so sure of it, I had to be the brave one, I had to prevent more pain in the future for both of us, and while her naïve, love-conquers-all mindset was touching, it was no match for the reality I knew I was avoiding for us.

It was five years before we saw each other again.

I wouldn’t have come if I knew she was there. She was in town visiting a college friend, and one of our mutual friends invited her over for our monthly escape game night. We’d been doing that for over a year, finding a new escape game to try every month, getting burgers and beers afterwards. It was fun and it helped us stay in touch, though everyone wasn’t available every month, this ritual meant we still got to see one another regularly. For that month’s night out, only three of us in the group of us answered present : Tony (one of my best friends since childhood, the third element to our golden trio with Andrew), his fiancé Ellie, and me.  

It was mid-October. Halloween was just around the corner. Going to an horror themed escape game made sense, even though I never liked horror movies.

I hate them even more now.

DARK AND TWISTED, the entrance said. It was an industrial building, slightly out of town. No decoration on the outside, no skeleton, no skull, no pumpkin.

“It looks kinda cheap, doesn’t it?” Tony said when we parked in front.

“They’ve only been opened for two weeks, babe. They’re probably still working on it. The Google reviews are SO good though”, Ellie answered, putting her hand through his hair as he started unbuckling his seatbelt.

I was silent, staring right ahead at the silhouette standing in front of the building. Stella.

“Yeah, dude, I know I should have told you but come on, you would have bailed. It’s been five years. You guys can’t keep avoiding each other, it’s getting annoying. You know our wedding’s coming up next year too, so you know, Ellie and I thought it would be better if you two saw each other beforehand so it wouldn’t be awk-“ Tony stopped as I shot him a dark look and opened the car door.

This is gonna be the worst night ever, I thought. Man, was I right.

 

One awkward hug later, the four of us got in Dark and Twisted, and the horror began.

“GOOD EVENING LADIES AND GENTLEMAN”, a voice erupted from the dimly lit hallway.

As our eyes got used to the obscurity, we started to discern a tall, meaty man with salt and pepper hair and a plump, rosy-cheeked redhead woman, both of them in their fifties or early sixties.

“We’re Connor and Molly”, she said, almost chanting. Clearly it was an act they had rehearsed, and there was something deeply touching about that.

“WHAT ARE YOUR NAMES” Conor shouted – his usual manner of communication, we would soon learn.

“Erm, Ellie, Stella, Tom and Tony. Hi.”

“GREAT ! ARE YOU READY TO PLAY?” His Irish accent was thick as butter.

Stella and I shared a look, and she smiled. The spark. Oh the spark. It was still there. I needed to kill that shit now. I looked away, keeping my face as straight as I could as we started to follow Connor through a bright red corridor, Molly walking right after us.

“ALRRRIGHT LADIES AND GENTLEMAN. THE RULES ARE SIMPLE. FOUR OF YOU MEANS YOU GET ACCES TO FOUR ROOMS. YOU CANNOT MOVE TO THE NEXT ROOM BEFORE YOU’VE UNLOCKED THE PREVIOUS ONE. YOU CANNOT WALK BACK INTO THE PREVIOUS ROOM ONCE YOU’VE MADE IT TO THE NEXT. ANY ATTEMPT TO DO SO WILL BE PUNISHED. IF YOU DON’T UNLOCK THE NEXT ROOM BEFORE THE COUNTDOWN IS UP, YOU WILL STAY TRAPPED FOREVER. YOU CANNOT ESCAPE IF YOU DO NOT RESPECT THE RULES.”

There was something pathetic about his little act. Like he was trying to be a bigger man than he was, and still could not make himself be intimidating despite his height and build. His top hat and black tailcoat looked cheap and did not fit him well. His face was warm and kind, his grey moustache perking up at the edges. I guess we all wanted to be nice to him, so we overdid our enthusiasm.

“Alright !”  “Yeah !” “Let’s do this, team !”, we all high fived, electricity sparkling in my palm as it touched Stella’s for the first time in five years. Last time I held her hand, I thought, was when she was sitting in my bed, crying, begging me to give us a chance.

I darted my eyes towards the floor, and when I looked up, here was Molly, looking at me fondly.

She stepped closer. Smiled. Put one hand on my cheek, and whispered “Good luck, dear. Good luck.”

As Tony grabbed me by the shoulder and gave me gentle push towards my friends, who were entering the first room, I looked back at Molly, perplexed. Connor was putting his arm around her shoulders, his big smile already gone, a concerned look on his face. The corridor was too dark for me to be certain, but I swear I saw tears in Molly’s eyes.

 

FIRST ROOM

The first room was completely empty...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ilexaqui on 2024-09-07 22:22:17+00:00.

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I first got him in January. I was volunteering at the animal shelter when he was brought in, skinny and shivering. Lou said he’d been left outside, probably dumped there by an abusive owner as their first and only act of kindness towards him. He was terrified. I brought him home with me that evening.

By February my hands were covered in little scratches and I’d well and truly learnt my lesson about cuddles. He was a very proper cat, if he sat too still you could almost mistake him for an ornate china ornament - with his sleek black coat and pointed ears. Even though he’d been through an awful time of it, you could just tell there was a very proud cat waiting to reappear. I named him Raymond, which he seemed to approve of. He started eating his dinner on the floor next to me, and would occasionally let me stroke his head without a hiss.

By March he would come to greet me at the door when I got home from work, skipping down the stairs from wherever he’d been dozing. His ribs had disappeared beneath his healthy coat, and his shiny green eyes seemed to smile at me.

We were both doing well in April. My once scared cat had now become a confident, cuddley boy. I’d get to kiss him on the head goodbye as I left for my first few dates with Owen.

Owen was charming, and everything I’d ever dreamed of. I’d spend evenings with him in fancy restaurants, laughing away and hanging onto his every word.

One evening in May, I was walking home from another wonderful evening when I tripped and fell smack bang in the middle of the pavement, leaving angry red grazes on each hand and knee. I hobbled home feeling sorry for myself, and was greeted by a familiar mew at the door. I tried my best to give myself some first aid, and when I climbed into bed Raymond appeared at my side. He sniffed at the haphazard plasters and stared at me, his green eyes big and curious. ‘Nothing to worry about Ray, I just tripped is all’ I told him. Owen was always joking about how clumsy I could be. Raymond seemed to frown, wiggling his black tail in the air. Then, he leaned forward and gently pressed his head against my grazes. I’m not sure how he did it, but his eyes seemed to roll back into his head - and I could’ve sworn they then began to glow. He sat like that, completely still for a few seconds before drifting off to sleep.

When I peeled the plasters off the next morning, every mark had disappeared. I couldn’t believe it. I spent ages running my fingers over my now-smooth skin. Raymond just sat in the doorway and stared, his head tilted to the side.

I wondered if I’d dreamed the whole thing, but in June it happened again. I’d been moving my things into Owen’s flat when I’d caught my finger on his door latch, leaving a rather deep cut. Owen just tutted and went to pick up the box I’d dropped. Later, after Raymond had inspected our new home he came for his evening cuddle. Owen was at the pub by then and he seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

The poor cat was still so wary of certain people. I felt guilty for moving us in with Owen in a way, but he had insisted, and how could I say no? Raymond came to sit on my lap and upon noticing my finger his eyes immediately rolled back into his head and definitely glowed this time. I took off my bloody bandage to find again that any trace of the wound had vanished. Raymond purred softly as I stared at him, mouth agape.

By the end of August, Raymond had healed a fair few scrapes and bruises for me. I’m ever so clumsy of course, which Owen always ridiculed. If I’d known better I’d have said he liked seeing me upset. Sometimes, he would come home drunk and accidentally push me. On one occasion, he did this when I was cooking at the hob and Raymond seemed to use all of his might healing my seeping burn.

I spent an awful lot of time in pain, and the rest lonely.

I’d stopped volunteering at the animal shelter a few weeks before, when Owen and I decided I should be working more hours to help pay the rent. I missed Lou, and I missed my friends. We lived quite far from my parents too now, and I missed having friendly conversations that weren’t just with Owen on a good day. I still had Raymond though.

September went by in a bit of a blur. I found myself stuck in an unnerving state of trying to do everything just right. I would walk home from work slowly, savouring my time in the cold and the dark. But not too slowly, or Owen would question where I had been, and with who? I didn’t see anyone nowadays. I would make sure the dinner I made was exactly to Owen’s standards, even though I knew that most of the time there would be a tiny, unseen detail that would set him off. He’d leave in a huff, taking my car to the pub round the corner. I’d sit in silence with Raymond while he was gone. I felt trapped. Raymond would give me a nudge, or a purr, anything to get my attention. But I was frozen. I only moved again when I heard the door slam. I would look down at Raymond. He knew he was in for a long night too.

In October, on Halloween, things reached rock bottom. I was lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling when I heard Raymond gently push open the door. I’d been so worried about him. Owen had come home drunk, again, and almost tripped over Raymond who was sleeping peacefully on the rug. I’d instinctively jumped up, rushing to keep my precious cat safe. Owen didn’t like that.

Now I was on the floor, and I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t do much of anything anymore. ‘I’m sorry Raymond’ I whispered, feeling my lip begin to bleed again. I started to cry and the tears stung my swollen eyes. ‘I’m sorry I brought us here’. He gently brushed his face against my blackened cheek, and I felt like dirt. My tears splashed against the cold floorboards. Raymond deserved so much more than being stuck with me. I couldn’t even keep him safe.

The door slammed suddenly. I had to grit my teeth to keep from screaming when my broken bones ground together as I jumped.

Owen was home.

His heavy footsteps dragged through the hall, the sickly smell of whiskey surrounding him like a storm cloud. He swayed as he came into the room. His bloodshot eyes quickly focused on me.

He walked over and let out a chuckle, giving my snapped leg a swift kick. ‘Get up, then’ he sneered.

Every muscle in my body was screaming at me to move, but the sharp pain in my chest pinned me to the floor. My breath was coming in shallow gasps, and my broken ribs felt like knives carving into my lungs.

‘Pathetic’ Owen spat ‘Laying there, feeling sorry for yourself. This is your fault. It always is’. Raymond began to growl beside me, but Owen ignored it. He dug his fingers into my swollen face. ‘You’re completely useless, now’.

Raymond hissed. Something had changed in him. His sleek black form, normally so calm, was now tensed. His muscles rippled beneath his fur and his green eyes honed in on Owen. They began to glow eerily under the flickering light.

Owen laughed, releasing his grip on my jaw. ‘Oh look at this. Your stupid cat. He’ll protect you’.

Before Owen could reach out for him, something in the air shifted. The pressure dropped, and the room felt heavy. Raymond’s growl deepened, sounding far more primal. His eyes weren’t just glowing anymore; they were burning.

Owen staggered back, his face contorting into confusion and then pain. ’What the hell-‘ he started, his words cut off by a scream.

I could only watch, wide-eyed, as Owen’s body began to jerk violently. His arm twisted, the bones snapping with a sickening crunch. He screamed again, the sound ripping from his throat as his skin began to stretch and split. Hot blood oozed from the cracks like lava.

My own injuries - the burns, the broken bones, the bruises, began to fade. I felt them peeling from my body as Raymond had done a hundred times before. But this time, he was putting them straight into Owen.

His knees buckled as another snap echoed through the room. His leg was bent at an impossible angle, the flesh tearing as though he was being pulled apart from the inside out.

‘Raymond, no-‘I whispered, but the word felt hollow. Could I even stop him? Did I even want to, really? The cat’s gaze never left Owen. His tail flicked in a deliberate motion, and Owen screamed again. This time it was louder, higher-pitched, as his ribs caved inwards with a wet crunching sound.

Despite everything that he’d done, I hoped that the alcohol was dulling some of the pain. At least a tiny bit.

Owen convulsed as his spine twisted, vertebrae snapping like dry twigs. Blood sprayed from his mouth and his hands clawed uselessly in the air. He was reaching out for me.

Over the next few minutes I squeezed my eyes closed as I listened to every crack and snap. It was slow, and deliberate. Raymond was savouring this.

Finally, Owen collapsed onto his front. His body was barely recognisable, and a shudder wracked through me as I realised it was a mirror image to how mine had looked only an hour before. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. He looked at me, trying to plead, his eyes wide with terror. He was a wounded animal.

I don’t know what came over me, but I looked over at Raymond and nodded.

I looked away when my cats jaw began to unhinge, stretching wider that it should ever be able to. I still heard though, the sound of Owen disappearing into the gaping maw. I heard the crunch.

When I turned back around, Raymond was a cat once more. He licked his paw and used it to wipe a drop of blood from his sleek head. ...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/googlyeyes93 on 2024-09-07 22:09:23+00:00.

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It’s lonely out on the ocean. Especially at night, when the only light you have is from the stars and your own weak lights. The darkness comes in, oppressing everything and taking over like a scourge, nothing but pure black on a cloudy night. I thought I had seen the worst isolation the world could offer working at Palmer Station in the Antarctic. At least it wasn’t as cold out here at Point Nemo, I guess.

The furthest point on earth from any land in every single direction. Point Nemo might be one of the most remote locations on earth, with a population of zero. Most of the time, at least. There’s a small research rig out there, not quite as big as an oil platform but decent enough sized. I got an offer a couple of years back to go out there and do some studies on the ocean biology out there. Since Nemo is so remote, with relatively stagnant currents, there’s a surprising lack of biological life out there

Honestly, it was exciting just for the chance to say I’ve been to one of the most secluded places on earth. Getting to study the biome and sea life that was there though? Goddamn, I was over the moon. Ecstatic was the understatement of the damned century. I arrived on the platform, a couple of clicks away from the actual Point geographically, early in the morning. Clear skies were reflecting off gentle waves in every direction. The deep blue of the ocean here was beautiful, virtually unmarred by human intervention. If anything else, I got some time to read in relative solitude while I was off duty.

There were five of us at the station. An older guy called Flam was the lead researcher (I don’t know how he got the name, either). There were two assistant researchers- Shannon, a woman in her mid-30s, and Hap, a younger man with a specialty in deep-sea biology. The last person was a mechanic, Sandy, who made sure the everyday maintenance of the rig was maintained. I was the happiest bitch in the world stepping off the chopper and meeting everyone, getting the full tour of the base, including the rec room, gym, mess hall, three separate labs, and a surprisingly cozy library. Everyone was nice enough, though Flam was a little… neurotic to say the least.

Probably important to mention how this place was set up. If you’ve ever seen a free-floating oil rig it’s a lot like that, just without the ecological destruction. Think of it like a very large ship supported by pontoons, with some parts extending under the water with a larger building up top. What you would call the ground floor is the mess hall, rec room, and gym, with the labs on top and, the library nestled in the center of them. Our barracks were below sea level, extending a down with the maintenance area underneath housing generators, gas, etc. It was a nice place, all things considered. A cabin in the middle of the ocean, basically.

Settling in that first night was rough. Sleeping underwater essentially was a little terrifying, kind of claustrophobic, and completely fucking nauseating. Despite the large pontoons holding us up, the waves still rocked us, making me feel my welcome dinner warming up for an encore as I swayed. Sandy came walking through, going to the shared bathroom between our rooms.

“You alright, Ellie?” She asked, looking concerned. All I could do was shake my head, making the nausea take hold harder in the process. Oh god. She was watching while I puked into a trash can. Hell of a way to make new friends, Ellie. I was surprised when she walked over and grabbed my loose hair, holding it back and rubbing my back with her other hand, gently soothing me as I evacuated everything I ate today. “All good. Happens to everyone on the first day.”

”Please tell me it gets better.” I said, gasping for breath and only getting the stench of vomit back.

“Oh yeah, just need to adjust. Come on up to the deck and get some air though, it helps.” She led me up, walking single file on the narrow staircase. I bumped my shoulders countless times, unsteadied by the surf moving us. At one point I started falling back, losing my balance, and reaching out to steady myself but only swiped the empty wall. Suddenly her hand darted out, grabbing my forearm and steadying me. She pulled me back to the step, making sure I was upright before moving further, now holding onto my hand as guidance. Soon she was chuckling, “Hope you’re better above deck than you are below.”

”You and me both.” I gagged again just trying to talk, my head still spinning. The fresh salt air when we emerged from the outer door onto the wraparound platform was like opening a valve for me. I was taking in the deepest breaths I could, finally clearing out the vomit smell stuck in my nose. She leads me over to the platform railing, the dark night settling in around us. I was immediately distracted from my nausea by the beauty in the sky above.

There were a decent amount of clouds covering the sky, but what wasn’t covered was some of the most amazing stargazing I had ever been privy to. Every single constellation was clearly definable beyond the clouds, with a full moon shining through, sending light in patches to reflect off the water. An infinite sea of stars in every direction. It was beautiful, something that’s only on par with seeing the Northern Lights in their full glory as far as I’ve seen. Even in the imposing dark out at Point Nemo, millions of points of light shone through.

“What’s that?” I said, noticing movement against the water. At first, it looked like the shadow from a cloud passing over, disturbing the stars below. Then a cloud moved from in front of the moon, casting bright light down in all directions. I could see clearly that it wasn’t a shadow, but a giant, walking through the ocean step by step. From the distance, it was… maybe five clicks out. Even then, I could make out its features of it clearly thanks to the size. It towered larger than a skyscraper, by my best estimate, each leg had water reaching up to around the knee. It honestly looked like it was going to break the clouds with its head, but it paid no mind as it whipped them away. “Oh my god.”

I was speechless. I don’t know if Sandy was too, but she was staring off into the distance alongside me. If she was shocked, nothing showed on her face, but there was the faintest of smiles hiding underneath.

“Your guess is as good as mine, science girl,” Sandy replied. I could see clearer now that more were walking behind it, heading to the west of us in a straight path. “We’ll need to go downstairs before the waves reach us, though. Sucks for this to happen on your first night.”

”What? You’ve seen this before?” I asked, still not tearing my eyes away. The giants were humanoid in build, just like massive versions of people. Their faces were a little more… odd. Eyes were larger than normal proportions, and there was a smile on their small mouths that looked like the head was deflating from the bottom like a balloon. Didn’t even realize I was shouting when I started talking to her again, gesturing at the goliaths wading by. “They’re… they’re massive. How is something this big physically possible? This completely disregards every single law of physics!”

”I just run the machines!” She shouted back. “Come on, let’s go inside before we get completely soaked.”

Oh god. Now I could see what she meant. Every step they took was sending waves our way, crashing into each other as rambling gaits tried to overtake each other. Sea foam was high in the air, and at one point while backing up to the door I swear I felt the water spray from overhead like a spring shower. Then Sandy pulled me back, still gawking at the behemoths as they walked away to whatever strange destination would host them. Barely getting the door closed, she braced her and me both against the wall, holding on.

”Uh. That’s forward.” I said, now looking her right in the eye as my hands pressed into the narrow wall behind her.

“Sorry. You’ll thank me.” She said, barely finishing the sentence before the entire base was hit hard, turning into a steep angle that sent me falling forward into her even more. Another wave hit, bouncing us briefly into the air as we braced ourselves, trying not to fall down the tight staircase. We tilted back, standing upright once more though swaying heavily, now back to a calmer sea. “Best to get back to our rooms before the next patch hits.”

We scurried back quickly, nausea coming back to me. I couldn’t tell if it was that or the contact we just had that was making me warm, blushing as we walked into the small hallway adjoining our rooms. I sat on my bunk, looking at her still standing in the doorway.

”What are those things?” I wanted a straight answer, though I don’t know if she had one. “Like… they were giants. I get that, but what the fuck did I just see?”

”Beats me. None of us have been able to figure it out.” She shrugged, leaning against the doorway now. “You’ll see a lot of weird shit out here. Don’t know if the others told you that upfront, but they’re a bunch of hardcore skeptics anyway.”

”So they’ve seen it too and didn’t think they should maybe tell the new girl about it? What if I was out there alone? I would’ve died!” I was almost screaming, now terrified at the proposition of spending six months here.

”Please, they try to tell me it’s a trick of the light and isolation. Hell, I thought maybe I was going crazy but you’ve helped me out big time here. I finally have a second witness.” She said, raising h...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Hobosam21 on 2024-09-07 19:27:49+00:00.

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previously

Hey, Kylie here. First things first, Allyson and I are both still alive. Thanks for the tips and thoughts. I've been a bit busy so sorry for the late update.

Secondly, to the prick that sent me the angry DM because he couldn't find me in Greenbrier Michigan… Wrong state asshole.

Someone suggested Allyson should buy a gun, she can't really. She's only 19 so she can't own anything semi automatic or a hand gun in this state.

But I can.

I told the guy I wanted something that could handle a bear, I might have lied about a trip to Alaska… anyways, after test firing a few I settled on a 10 millimeter gun. He called it a two stack, so instead of eight shots I have sixteen.

I wanted something that I could use to protect us because we went right back to work. I know it sounds crazy, Jordan insisted.

And it makes sense, people still need to be able to contact 911. Chuck and Andy can only handle it on their own for so long.

With Allyson’s parents still in Europe she would be safer at the call center than alone at home. The police department had a cruiser sitting there as well.

And I'm glad they did because this town is going crazy.

Did you guys know you can buy a gun, pass the background check and then you have to wait ten business days to pick it up??

Not ideal when you’re in a situation where you might be attacked at any moment.

Luckily I have friends, I won’t say who but someone lent me a Glock. He made me go to the range with him three days in a row before he would let me take it home but that’s still better then what the gun shop is requiring.

Like I said earlier we went back to work right after the attack. Jordan basically said show up on time or be fired. And since I have a mortgage and like eating here I am.

On the bright side the doors are back in place, the gate has been fixed and now closes. Oh and there’s a patrol car parked across the driveway. So I’m actually not feeling too bad about coming back.

Allyson was a little more reluctant but when the alternative is staying home alone she quickly agreed to come in.

A few of you brought up some good points, how did the killer lumberjack find Allyson? Why was Jordan so calm in the face of death?

I don’t have an answer for either, maybe he heard her voice on the phone? Or he’s following her? I don’t know.

Jordan is an enigma himself, I don’t hate him like my coworkers do. But I’m not a fan of him either, but then after he stood up for us like that…

I don’t know, his past is pretty blank and he’s super quiet about his personal life. But there is one thing that happened.

So I came in to work with Allyson. Just like normal Jordan was in his office, but then the stars aligned.

Allyson was on a call with a very unhappy resident concerning their missing groceries and Jordan went outside.

I don’t know if he’s ever gone outside during a shift. Or even used the rest room.

Anyways his office was left unattended. I don’t know what came over me. I rushed over to Jordan’s office, a quick glance at the monitor showed he was outside walking the perimeter of the building.

His desk was mostly bare, two call reports lay on one side and a note pad on the other. The note pad was blank but lots of pages had been ripped from it. The first drawer I opened was filled with reports. I glanced at the monitor again, he was rounding the third corner. I didn’t have much time.

The second drawer on the right hand side was locked. Shifting my focus to the left hand side I opened the bottom drawer. The only thing inside was a black leather book.

Jordan was entering the lobby, I flipped through a couple pages. Names, nothing but names. They all had green or red lines through them. I heard the first metal door open.

I turned and rushed back to my stall and put my headset back on. I let out a shaky breath just as Jordan entered. He walked to his office, paused, turned to look at me for a moment then went in his office.

I hadn’t recognized any of the names, I googled a few that I could remember but didn’t get anything solid. I’ll have to bid my time and try again later.

*

I would say I'm pretty friendly with everyone at Greenbrier PD and FD. I'm probably closest with one of the newer officers, Dean has been with Greenbrier PD three years now.

Dean and I grab drinks at the diner occasionally. I wouldn't say we're dating. We just hang out one on one from time to time.

One of these times they had a $2 long island iced tea special. $38 later we were sloshed, there was no way either of us was going to drive.

My house isn't far from the diner so we stumbled our way there and crashed on the couch.

This wasn't uncommon, we'd often sleep off the night. Him on the couch and me in my room before heading our separate ways in the morning.

But something was bothering Dean that night, he was uncharacteristically quiet. I asked him about it once we were settled in.

At first he didn't want to talk about it, maybe the alcohol loosened him up or maybe it was just the vibe we had going that night but he told me his story.

“Did you see that boat being towed past the diner as we walked out?” I shook my head, I hadn't noticed any boats but I wasn't exactly looking either.

Dean leaned back on the couch “that was a 21 foot 1972 Starcraft Starchief”. He stared at my ceiling quietly. I responded tentatively, unsure of what brought on this somber mood. “I wasn’t aware you were a boat guy”. A small laugh died on my lips when I saw the tear running down his cheek.

“I wasn’t a good kid in high school” he began, “not like drug use or anything like that. I was just super edgy and thought I was too cool to be friends with other kids. Looking back I was just a dick for no reason”.

“I barely graduated, I think they just wanted to get rid of me really. After that I enlisted. Not because of some sense of duty, I didn't want to work and the army seemed like a way to make money. And I thought it would make me look cool”.

“You would think that would have straightened me out but instead I spent six years doing the minimum. I never left the country and when it came time to reup it was made clear to me that I shouldn't”.

“So I went back home, I squandered my GI bill on some dumb online college courses. By this time my parents were about done with me. They told me to get a job or get out of the house. They would support me for three more months and then that was it".

Dean smiled at the memory, “I tell you what, at the time I was pissed. Now I can see they had way more patience than I deserved. Anyways, that's when I applied to be a cop. There was a shortage so I had no issues getting in”.

“I’ll skip all the boring parts, what changed everything for me happened on a rainy October day. I was mad before I even arrived at the call”.

“A simple domestic disturbance, a homeowner called to report someone on their property. I was the rookie and it was raining so I got sent out to deal with it”.

He paused for a moment. The memory weighing heavily on him.

“I arrived at a very nice beach house. The homeowner was a lady in her 60’s, she was polite enough. She explained someone had beached their boat in front of her house and was acting weird”.

“I made my way to the back yard, sure enough. Just a dozen feet off the shore was a ragged Starcraft. And attempting to push it into deeper water was a gaunt looking woman. She was probably in her early 20’s but the soiled clothes and sunken skin made her look older”.

“She had that trademark erratic movement about her that all tweakers have”.

“It wasn't uncommon, drug addicts would often acquire boats and live in them for a time. Often times they would sink or like this one get stuck somewhere”.

“And that was my first mistake, I assumed she was just another junky. I yelled at her to come ashore, she ignored me and kept trying to push the boat. The tide was going out, she was never going to move the boat until it came back in”.

“I yelled a few more times but she wouldn't listen. I radioed in and they told me to figure it out. So I walked through the knee deep water absolutely livid. My boots and pants were soaked with sea water.”.

“She kept screaming about how she needed more water, I tried to grab her but she ran around the boat. I chased her in circles a few times cussing her out the whole time. She had this illogical panic about her, she kept pleading with me to listen but I was done listening. Ask, tell, force, that's what I had been taught when it came to noncompliant suspects”.

“She wouldn't stop running and she was a good deal faster than me. So I pulled out my taser and popped her. She went rigid just long enough for me to grab her. It was like giving a cat a bath, she screamed and clawed. She begged me to let her go back to the boat”.

“I didn't listen, I dragged her inch by inch to the beach. By this point she was sobbing and begging me to let her go. I wouldn't. I threw her onto the beach and loaded another cartridge into the taser. I didn't need it though, she lay on the beach convulsing, her eyes so wide and filled with terror I thought they would pop out of her head”.

Dean sniffed and wiped another tear.

“I had spent so many years fantasizing about being a hero you know? I wanted to be the guy everyone respected, maybe even feared. I wanted to be the guy that stopped people from hurting others. Instead… instead I stood over the body of a terr...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/EmmaWatsonButDumber on 2024-09-07 19:43:35+00:00.

---

I am a forensic pathologist. If you are not familiar with the term, simply put, my job is to perform autopsies and find out the cause of death of a body. It is not a profession for the weak, and I can certainly say it has given my life a grim hue, but I've learned to live with it.

I'm fairly good at my job, and respected amongst my colleagues. The only way I can do my thing is if I dehumanize the body in front of me, and just view it as a... specimen of some sort. I try not to think about the life it had, and just be done with it as fast as possible.

I got to a point where I tune it out and never get grossed out or creeped out — I could have my lunch break next to a corpse and I would not give a fuck.

Last June was when our small town started talking about this... incident.

An 18 year old had been found dead in a well.

We don’t really pay attention to this kind of news — it’s not helpful in any way, nor does it impact our everyday lives. This time the crime was everywhere, due to its… gruesome nature. His teeth were found stuck on his back. I don’t know why, but that creeped me out, and I don’t get creeped out easily.

Fast-forward to Thanksgiving, and another grim day — this time, two bodies: an old widow and an engineer with a wife and kids. People were talking about the teeth, stuck to their backs.

Stories began circulating of this new serial killer — they called them Teeth, just that. There was no online coverage, because in this small town people don't believe in the media.

Soon, the next killings followed: men, women, children.

All found in water wells, all with teeth stuck into their backs.

Police had an ongoing investigation, and multiple suspects. One particular man, whose real name I won't disclose, so we'll just call him Keith Paulson, had caught their eye for his antisocial behavior and his constant lurking at the scenes of the crimes. Finally, one day, forensic research matches his prints to a set found at the newest tragedy.

That was it — Keith Paulson was Teeth.

However, a day before his court meeting, he went missing.

Everyone panicked. At night, I couldn’t help but think. What if he got to my son? My wife? I began losing sleep - countless nights followed, until the next day, when he was found dead.

I breathed a sigh of relief: finally, the torment was over. I could finally rest, knowing we were safe. I hated the whole situation, and I'd assumed the bastard had taken his days, afraid of what he would have gotten done to himself in jail.

I got a call from the chief that very night. Sitting at my desk, looking through my computer, and the phone rings. It's 3AM, so it did startle me. I knew, even before I answered, what it would be about. I didn’t want to. I really didn’t. My head was racing, silently pleading he wouldn’t ask me what I suspected.

“Mr. Simmons?”

“Yes? Ralph, is that you?”

“Yeah. Listen, uh, we have a… situation. We might need your expertise.”

“Don’t you have your guys for that?”

“We do, but given your experience and… dexterity, you’d be more suitable for the job.”

“All right.” I responded, fixated on the window. “What time tomorrow?”

“We might need you tonight, actually.”

My blood ran cold. What could be so urgent, that they couldn’t wait?

“Are you sure? Why is it so urgent?”

“Just… the faster we get it done, the better.”

“What is it?” my wife asked, from the hallway.

“They need me for a job.”

“Now?”

“Yeah. On that… teeth guy.”

I saw her eyes widen. “No. That whole thing is really fucking creepy. Can’t you just pass?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Ernie, it’s the middle of the night.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to go to sleep knowing you’re out there opening a serial killer up. Plus, what if he isn’t the killer? What then? You, out there, alone?”

“I’ll get an assistant.”

“Don’t go.”

“I’m sorry.”

I got dressed and drove off into the night. I never get creeped out, but this was… different.

Alone, in the car, I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d killed himself. I guess I was about to find out.

As I got to the hospital, I could see the police cars lined up. I got out and met Ralph. “So, what was so special about this that couldn’t wait?”

“It’s just, it really looked like a suicide, but it also looked like he had crawled into the well by himself.” I assumed they wanted to get it done as fast as possible, because if Keith was just a victim, the real deal hadn't been caught, and with someone so active and thirsty for blood, you cannot waste another day.

I frowned. “I’ll need an assistant.” I knew I actually didn't, but for some reason I didn't like to be alone with that guy at 3AM.

“I’m afraid no one is available now. I’ve spoken to the others, and no one wants to have anything to do with him.”

With that said, they left me in the hospital's basement, accompanied by fluorescent lights and the smell of sanitizer. The top two floors of the hospital were active, but the night patrol, on this side of town, wasn't so numerous. Just a few nurses and some doctors sleeping on the watch. Rarely any emergencies.

Basically, I was alone.

I usually work in the middle of the day, and I really wanted to just go back home, to my bed and my family. The sooner this is over, the better, so I better get to work, I thought.

This is how an autopsy works. First, the pathologist - me - reviews the deceased's medical history, circumstances surrounding the death, and any relevant details provided by law enforcement or medical personnel.

As I read through the report, my mind kept flashing back to me the same words: It looked like he had crawled into the well by himself.

Then, the external examination follows. The body is visually inspected for external signs of injury, trauma, or abnormalities - bruises, lacerations, rashes. Skin color, lividity, and rigor mortis are noted.

Keith had been found in a well. That was essential, and I had expected him to look worse. Way worse. What I found and how he looked was horrifying.

Let me explain. I won't bore you with technical details, and just strip it to the essential.

Water exposure often causes bloating as gases accumulate inside the body during decomposition. The skin may turn a pale or greenish hue, especially in cooler water, due to bacterial activity. Keith did not look like that at all. In fact, it looked like he'd just fallen asleep. No bloating. The skin wasn't wrinkled or softened. He looked fine.

For obvious reasons, I wanted to see if his teeth were stuck to his back, and they weren't. I breathed a sigh of relief. That most likely meant he was the killer.

Next, photographs are taken, and detailed notes are made regarding the condition of the body, clothing, and any external objects found with the body. I snapped some pictures and kept going.

I was beginning to sweat, and couldn't understand why. I mean, the window had been open this whole time - it was a small window, really high, close to the ceiling, which corresponded to ground level.

I turned to check, and found out the window was closed.

I could have sworn I felt a breeze on my neck.

Moving on to the internal examination, and nothing was out of place. Absolutely nothing. No signs of drowning, poisoning, heart attack, anything. I felt as if I was examining someone still alive. In all my years of practice, I have never, and I mean never, not been able to find a cause of death.

I heard a sound in the hallway, distant, but piercing in the deafening silence. I felt a knot in my chest. I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. And again. And again.

Then, I stretched for a bit, and got back to work.

It was tedious, and the more I examined, the more I realized how utterly wrong it was. His body was perfect, and, apart from his broken fingernails and bleeding fingertips - which I assumed were what the chief saw that made him think he'd crawled into the well - nothing was out of place.

By the time I had finished the reconstitution, sunlight had begun to creep though the tiny window. I started filling out the report, but stopped halfway to check the pictures I'd taken, just to get the details right.

The first one felt like a punch in the gut. My body stayed still, but a wave of sheer terror washed over me, and my head became overwhelmingly light. I looked back at Keith, but could not bear to look back at the camera. My hands were shaking like crazy, and I could barely see two feet in front of me. My eyes widened, and, scarcely breathing, I took the clipboard with me, my phone, camera and car keys, and got the fuck out of that basement.

I didn't even lock the room, and left him on that table. I prayed no one would go inside. For their own good.

I locked the car and, there, I started filling out the autopsy report. My pen loomed over the Cause of death column. Suicide I wrote down, pressing hard into the paper.

After that, I called the chief. I was so dizzy, for the shock hadn't fully left my body.

"Anything out of order?"

"I wrote down suicide."

A break followed, then Ralph spoke softly. "Simmons, I trust you. Did you feel it was necessary for you to write that down?"

"I never said I lied."

"So that's how he died?"

"For now, yes."

"What do you mean, for now?"

My glassy eyes were fixated on the center of the steering wheel. Just start the car, take your wife and your kid and move out of this state. You don't have to tell him. You can just leave it like that.

"You said he looked like he'd crawled into the well." I said.

...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/SalamiMommie on 2024-09-07 15:07:35+00:00.

---

I remember it all still like it was yesterday. The guilt still eats me alive.

I was thirteen years old and living in nowhere, North Carolina. Me and a few neighborhood kids would ride around on bikes and get into all sorts of mischief. The year was 1979.

Old lady Bell would often times sit on the front porch of her old mill house and smoke Marlboro reds. She seemed to mind herself. It seemed like she was always eating muscadines too.

“I always heard that the muscadines are kids she captured.” Johnny stared off from her afar.

“I heard she was a witch.” Sally said.

Meanwhile Old lady Bell popped another muscadine in her mouth.

Bobby pulled out a bag of chew that belonged to his dad . “So, is her house the one tonight? We need to go buy some eggs.”

I stared off at the house and seen where plant vines and overgrown weeds were slowly taking over her house. A wind gust blew that made her chimes ring.

Sally spoke up “maybe we can throw some toilet paper over her trees too. Richard! Pay attention.”

I spoke up. “I thought If witches ate a kid, it makes them young. I mean she’s old and creepy.”

Bobby spit on the ground and laughed. “I bet she crossed the Red Sea with Moses.”

We took off on our bikes and decided that her house was the one to suffer from our shenanigans tonight.

We all snuck out of our homes and met near her home at an old gas station that was closed for three night. Johnny pulled a bag out of his backpack and the smell made me gag.

“Dog shit. I scooped some up and got it. Figured it would be funnier than throwing a few eggs. I brought my lighter too.”

I spoke up. “I don’t know if we should do that. She might be too old to get up and her house catch on fire.”

“Don’t be a wimp.” Sally spoke up.

We all walked by the bushes near her house. Johnny ran up to her porch and lit the bag. He knocked on her door and ran like a bat out of hell.

He tripped in her yard as soon as she opened the door. She let out a wicked scream and began to stomp on the bag.

“You damn hooligans! I see you all and you’ll pay.” She sounded so evil when she said it.

Johnny caught up to us and we all took off on our bikes. They all began laughing and we split off on the way home.

I crawled back through my window and threw the blanket over my head. I didn’t much sleep that night.

I walked in my kitchen the next morning and poured myself some cereal when my mom asked what happened last night. I tried to come up with a lie and she stopped me.

“The police came by this morning and said Ms. Bell caught you in your friends vandalizing her property.”

“Mom, I.”

“She’s not pressing charges. But she requested that you and the others go do some yard work for her. I’m so disappointed that you would do this.”

“Mom, listen.”

“Don’t you talk when I am. I already talked with the other parents and we think it’s a good idea. So you are going to go right after breakfast.”

I didn’t have much of a choice. I rode my bike over there to see the gang were already pulling weeds. Old lady Bell was sitting on porch with a lit cigarette.

“There you are. I have a lawnmower sitting right there. I need you to mow.”

“I’m very sorry for what we did. Honestly.” She put her hand up.

“Get to mowing.”

Her yard was pretty big. I made sure to be careful mowing and not destroy her flower beds or hit any trinkets. I stopped when I heard a the blades tearing up something. I bent down and it looked like a tiny piece of bone. I didn’t think she owned a dog.

“Lemonade!” She sat a few glasses on the porch. I was soaking in sweat and was so thirsty. “You kids deserve a small break before we get to the house work.”

We all ran up the porch and grabbed a glass. I chugged it as if I hadn’t had anything to drink in days.

She popped another muscadine in her mouth and spit out the peel. Sally fell over all the sudden. Old lady Bell looked like it didn’t concern her.

Bobby bent down really quickly to check on her. He dropped on top of her.

Old Lady Bell coughed up some smoke and let out a cackle.

Johnny took off running and fell as soon as he hit her bottom step. She looked at me and started to stand as I fell.

I woke up and heard Sally crying. My eyes were still drowsy as I noticed we all were tied up in her living room.

She blew some smoke and was cackling. The others began to open their eyes. “You better all stay on your knees.”

“You think you’re the first people to try and harass me? Oh no, no, no.”

A black cat appeared and was rubbing itself against Johnny and began to purr.

Sally spoke through her tears. “I promise if you let us go, we won’t tell anyone.”

Old Lady bell let out another cackle. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that my dear.” She stood up and walked over to a cauldron in the middle of the room. She began to stir it. “Besides, it’s about time for a new start again.”

“I’m the one who lit the bag.” Johnny spoke up. “Let them go, they didn’t do it.”

“One bad apple spoils the bunch.”

Bobby had tears in his eyes. “Are you gonna turn us into muscadines and eat us?”

“Muscadines? No.” She walked up to Johnny and forced his mouth open. She pulled a small bottle out of her pocket and forced it down his throat.

She was reaching in her pocket when Bobby stood up and trying to push his weight into her. It knocked her down.

“RUN!!!” He screamed. Our hands were behind our back. We got ourselves and our feet and tried to escape. She grabbed Bobby by the ankle and knocked him down.

“You damn hooligan!” She pulled out a knife and plunged it into his back. Johnny turned his body to open the door with his hands.

She drove the knife into Bobby several more times. She got up and chased us. We were faster.

We ran to Sally’s home where her dad was outside tinkering with his car. He quickly cut the ropes off us and listened to what we said. He got us inside where her mom was knitting and told us to stay put. He called Bobby’s dad.

We heard that a bunch of the neighborhood parents went to go confront her. They said a young lady was on the porch and was laughing, she said they would never see Bobby again. They said Bobby’s dad fired a rifle at her and it hit her in the stomach. She managed to get back in her house.

The cops came and quickly busted in. They found no trace of her or Bobby besides what was left in the cauldron. Some of the parents burned down her house later that week and the rumor was bright green smoke was coming out the windows. No one could prove who did it though.

My parents did what they thought was best. They put the house up for sale and we moved. A bunch of other families began to do the same.

Johnny ended up being put in a mental institution. They say he went crazy and became a danger to himself and others. To my knowledge, he is still there to this day.

I didn’t keep up with Sally really. I know her family moved to Florida after everything. I tried looking her up on Facebook recently and didn’t find any luck. Then again, it’s better she stayed part of the past.

We moved a few hours away to a nicer area. Once I got out of college, I moved to California where I met my wife. We have a three beautiful children and two grandkids.

I’ve tried my best to push this all out of my memory and forgive myself. I had plenty of nightmares and always wondered if Old Lady Bell was ever around me.

My wife just got back from the beauty salon and her hair looked gorgeous. She reached out and handed me a coffee.

“There’s a new girl at the salon. She said she’s new to the area and from North Carolina. We got to talking and she said she knew you.”

“Hmm. Is it Sally? We were childhood friends. I haven’t heard from her since I was a youngster.”

“No, no. I don’t believe that’s what it was. Her name was Margret I think. Margret Bell. She said she’d like you to come visit her one day. She sure was chewing on some muscadines before she cut my hair.”

I dropped my cup of coffee.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/genuinelygrim on 2024-09-07 12:16:57+00:00.

---

“YOU CAN USE THE BATHROOM NOW, MR. P.”

Bewildered, I gawked at the folded-over piece of paper sitting amidst a small pile of similar cards. I’d found them in one of my daughter’s inner backpack compartments while packing her school lunch. Look, I know what you’re thinking – ‘Ooh, Karen here doesn’t have any boundaries’, right? Well, first of all, my name isn’t Karen. It’s Margot. And Naomi isn’t your garden-variety teen preoccupied with obscure vegetable emojis. No. My daughter is seven years old!

I’d met “Mr. P.” during the numerous interim parent-teacher conferences I’d attended throughout Naomi’s first year at primary school – before I had my accident. His real name was Herve Paquet, but the French roots of his name were promptly trimmed down to “Packet” among English-speaking children. So, he’d started insisting that everyone – even the parents – refer to him as Mr. P.

Mr. P was in his late thirties and renowned within the parent community as an outstanding educator. He’d go out of his way to address any and all concerns expressed during parental meetings, expound the contents of each learning module in great detail, and allocate additional time to reassure us that little Richmond’s R’s were simply unparallelled despite his left-handedness, and that Fiona was whip-smart when it came to first-grade mathematics. 

Needless to say, I was pleased when my daughter returned from her first day of second-grade and announced that Mr. P. was “back”. After all, not having to question the quality of my child’s education was simply one less thing to check off on my list of parental duties. But now, as my eyes repeatedly scanned the handwritten sentence, I couldn’t help feeling that my initial happiness may have been somewhat…premature. 

I picked up and unfolded another white square, at random.

“I WILL COME VISIT YOU TONIGHT, MR. P.”

I gulped, patchy gooseflesh sprouting on the back of my neck. Just like the previous one, this note was in all-caps. Clearly, the message had been written by an adult intending to be read by a child. With clammy fingers, I fished another card out of the pile.

“I WILL COME VISIT YOU TOMORROW MORNING.”

And another. 

“I CANNOT VISIT YOU TONIGHT, IT’S TOO DANGEROUS.”

In spite of the stifling disdain I felt in that moment, my eyes welled up with tears. My daughter was obviously a victim of a heinous crime. There had to be at least two dozen notes. Cold claws clenched around my heart. Was Naomi meeting Mr. P. outside of school? But no. That couldn’t be. Giulia – our nanny – always saw her right to the gate and picked her up in the afternoon. Unless she was lying and was really out getting railed by some groundskeeper? Or was this all but a part of some twisted game – a class exercise that looked mega incriminating out of context? And what about–

“Mommy?” Naomi’s high-pitched voice chimed behind me, “Do you have my bag? Am I not going to school today? Giulia’s waiting in the car.”

I took a few deep breaths before turning to face her. Never in a million years had I thought I’d have to deal with something like this. But then again, what parent ever does? Right about now, we ought to be arguing about the new barbie doll that’s too expensive. I should be telling her I’m not made of money. Or–or that nail varnish isn’t made for little girls. That I don’t care if Simone’s mom allows it. That–

“Honey,” I began, willing myself to retain at least some semblance of parental composure, “W-what… Can you tell me what these are?”

I gestured at the clump of folded squares strewn across the floor with my chin. Naomi surveyed them earnestly, but I could see my reaction had caught her off guard.

“They’re… they’re messages,” she mumbled, “Mr. P. gave them to me.”

Electricity jolted through my veins as though a part of some repressed Eureka effect. I knew it! Although, of course, Naomi hadn’t said anything I hadn’t already figured out myself… I needed to dig deeper. What should I ask her next? Should I get straight to the point or should I spend some time analysing contextual clues? I couldn’t ask her what the notes meant because I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to know. But then again, how many ways were there really to interpret them? Why was Mr. P. monitoring her bathroom use? And when… when on Earth was he…?

“Are you angry?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“Naomi,” I started again, my heart thudding in my temples, “D-do you meet with Mr. P. outside of school?”

She nodded silently, her green eyes - saucers. 

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “When we’re alone.”

Paying no heed to the limited coherence of her phrasing, I whipped out my cell phone and dialled the number of Naomi’s school principal. A duality of fear and anger surged through me, ravaging my brain to the point where I feared my words wouldn’t be able to keep up. Had the circumstances been different, I would have marched straight into the school to confront Herve Paquet myself. I could already picture it – slamming his body against one of the whitewashed walls, taking off one of my high heels, and… Well, I suppose that–I glanced down at my leg brace–was hardly likely. But maybe Giulia could–

“White Oaks Primary,” a honeyed female voice emanated from the speaker, “This is Shirley, how may I help?”

I was all set to give her an earful right there and then, but held my tongue while little miss Tinkerbell figured out which buttons to press to transfer me to the principal. She has no power, I told myself. Keep it in check. But once I’d managed to explain the situation to the principal, I was met with a drawn out silence I hadn’t anticipated.

“Excuse me,” I snapped, “Have you heard a word I just said? One of your teachers is grooming my daughter!”

After a few more seconds of deafening silence the voice spoke, “I hear what you are saying, ma’am. But I am afraid the scenario you are describing is… impossible.”

“Wh–”

“Mr. P. hasn’t worked here since the last academic year…”

I stood transfixed by a scrap of peeling wallpaper next to the windowpane, a chill inching its way up my spine.

“Mrs. Walstone?” it appeared to be the principal’s turn to check-in on my livelihood.

“Y-yes. I’m here.” I choked, my voice barely louder than a squeak, “I-I’m sorry, there seems to have been some sort of misunderstanding? I am talking about Mr. P.– Herve Paquet? H-he teaches class 2A?”

“Mrs. Walstone,” there was a sudden edge to the principal’s voice, “We let Herve Paquet go last June, after some… incriminating information came to light. A parent-teacher conference was held about this. I presume you couldn’t make it?”

I gulped, “No, I have… No. I couldn’t. W-what incriminating information?”

“Well,” he drew in a deep breath, “Herve Paquet had been…stealing school property… Financial issues, apparently. Debt. That sort of thing. You understand. But I assure you, ma’am, the relevant authorities have been informed and Herve Paquet has since been apprehended by the police.”

I stared at my daughter, who was standing against the wall, observing  my every move.

“Naomi,” I said, jabbing at the “end-call” button and setting my phone down on the table, “Did…did Mr. P. give these messages to you last year?”

She looked as though she was struggling to choose between lying and telling the truth. You know that face children make when they know they’re doing something wrong, yet the honourable option doesn’t seem all too appealing? Well, that’s exactly what I was faced with. 

Where was the instruction manual for these types of situations?  What questions was I meant to ask? In what order? Did she have a new teacher? What had she meant then, when she’d said “Mr. P’s back” at the beginning of the year? How was he passing her notes if he wasn’t even employed by the school? Had he even been apprehended by the authorities?

“Can I have them back now?” Naomi was gazing up at me with a decidedly solemn expression, completely disregarding my question, “They are mine. Mr. P. gave them to me and I need them.”

I gaped at her.

“Of course you cannot have them, Naomi,” I probably sounded angrier than I had intended, because her eyes brimmed with tears, “What on earth do you need them for?”

She wouldn’t answer, instead turning her face towards the window. She seemed genuinely distressed.

“I’ll just put them here, okay?” I relented, stacking the paper squares on the highest shelf of her cupboard. I figured it’d be a provisional “compromise” until I could get to the bottom of this, “We can share.”

Although I couldn’t help questioning why she would need those vile pieces of paper to begin with. As a keepsake? For memories? Since when were seven year olds sentimental? I needed answers and I needed them fast. 

Well, that evening I got much more than I had bargained for. 

After I put Naomi to bed for the night and settled down in front of the television to watch reruns of EastEnders, I heard what could only be a child’s footsteps running down the hall. 

“Naomi?” I called out, pressing the pause button on the remote, “What are you doing out of bed?”

Silence.

“Naomi?”

Nothing.

Grunting, I heaved myself off the couch, balancing on my good leg. With heavy steps, I made my way towards her bedroom, ready to give her a piece of my mind, when something caught my attention. A piece of paper, half obscured by the door to the basement,  as though it was undecided whether it was coming or going. 

My heart hammering in m...

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/No_Fun_9464 on 2024-09-06 22:09:39+00:00.

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I am writing this as a warning. My daughter told me last night something that I simply can’t ignore, as I now fear that others will be subjected to the horrors I witnessed firsthand. It’s been years, but I still remember most of what happened clearly. Of course, parts are foggy now. Trauma has a way of making your mind wilt and crumple in a desperate effort to console itself. It began years ago when I was eight and a half years old.

I run along the streets, my eyes focused on the road ahead. The town where I live is small, so I know every step I take. My eyes eagerly dart here and there, consuming with a ravenous hunger the luxurious items lining the shop windows. For me, these items are precious, and only to be seen—though their ownership is a daily occurrence for others. I glue my face up against one window in particular, staring in at what looks to be a beautiful, gigantic, inflated beach ball. Along with several other beach-related products, it outfits this particular window with a great showcase, complete with a hand-printed sign in black ink that reads “GO BACK TO THE BEACH, PREPARED THIS TIME! SALE NOW!” But I am not worried about being prepared for the beach, as I have never been there before.

Eventually, with a sigh, I step away, shaking from my mind any wish I had to own something from one of these shop displays. I don’t really care which product, gadget, or gizmo, but  I wish I could own something for once. For a few moments more, I linger in front of the shop, unsure of where to go now. Off school for the day, I would prefer to stay away from my home as long as possible. With a drunkard of a father and an almost constantly absent mother, these streets seem much more inviting than the drab, dimly-lit hut my family calls home.

I feel a light tap on my shoulder and spin around, to see a tall man standing next to me. He is also looking into the window, his eyes resting upon the display I stand in front of. His long, hollow, gray face almost seems wistful.

“Want one of those, huh?”

“Yes sir, I really would,” I respond, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “Course, I don’t really have time, though.”

I don’t want to tell him the reason I can’t just walk up, right into the store, and purchase one with my allowance—namely that I have no allowance.

The man nods his head slowly, his eyes still locked on the display in front of us. He seems as if he is lost in thought. A second later, however, he crouches down to my level. In his eyes, there’s a flicker of kindness that contrasts with his face. He stares at me for a second, almost as if taking in my features.

“Tell you what,” he says, his voice gentler than it was a second before. “I have a wonderful, beautiful ball in my car. It’s not nearly as nice as this beach ball, but I’m sure it’ll do to play with. Want to go get it?”

I hesitate. My parents always warn me about strangers, but this man puts me at ease. Besides, the allure of this treasure—and the ability to avoid my family for a few hours more—is almost irresistible.

“I’m only parked down a side street a few blocks down,” he adds, noticing my reluctance and torn demeanor. “It’s just a few minutes away.”

He stands up and begins walking down the street. For a split second, I hesitate again but follow him. As we walk my eagerness and excitement grow. I can’t wait to see my new toy, play with it, and take it home with me. We turn into the side street, and suddenly out of the shadows springs several more men.

“Help! Help!” I shout, but they quickly stuff a cloth into my mouth and throw a rough potato sack over my head, muffling my voice. They roughly grab my hands, strapping my wrists together. They toss me into a vehicle, and the engine roars to life. As the long ride begins, I cry, sob, and squirm, but I can't break free. Several hours pass, and as the trip continues, I eventually fall asleep from exhaustion. When I wake, I find my hands are free.

I tear at the sack and pull it from my face. As I look around, my eyes quickly adjust to the darkness. In front of my face, a row of bars, with rust eroding their surface, is locked firmly into place. I desperately look around, but the bars are on all sides of me. Above and below me, they are shoddily sautered to a metal roof and floor to form a small crate that’s barely large enough for me to sit up.

The reality of the situation hits me like a tidal wave, and panic sets in. The air is damp, cold, and smells of metal. I am no longer in the vehicle. From the even darker walls in the distance, it looks as if I’m in some sort of warehouse. Through the cracks between the bars, I catch glimpses of flickering light—men walk past, talking in a foreign language and holding lanterns. My thoughts race wildly, blurred and desperate. Who are these men? Where am I? Where are my parents? Even my parents sound like a welcome surprise now.

Hours blur as my terror gnaws at my sanity, and I begin to flinch at every noise. Occasionally I scream, but they ignore me and continue to pass my cage. I notice something else. Occasionally, two men lug another, similar cage past mine. They carry it, one on each side, and inside the cage is another little boy—just like me.  On each cage, there’s a plaque with what I assume is the name of the boy inside, scribbled in rough marker. I fall asleep, and when I wake up, my cage is in a different spot. This time, it is closer to the center of the warehouse. More cages, all containing other little boys like myself, surround me on either side. In front of us is where the real horror takes place.

Two men approach one of the cages, hoisting it up and carrying it to the center of the warehouse, where a raised platform is. On the plaque of the cage, the name “Jimbly” is written, I notice as the men pass me. I can see more clearly now, the tears from my eyes dry and now a crust on my face. On the platform, there’s a bizarre contraption set up—a large metal frame with wires fixing it in position. The frame is somewhat spindly, with each metal piece extending to where it is fastened in order to raise the frame and suspend it, held in the air. On the platform itself sit scalpels, vials of strange colorful liquids, and long, thin metal bars that look something like rulers. Grabbing the boy and pulling him out of his cage as he screams, the men hoist him up in the metal contraption. They fix his arms and legs, wrapping some of the metal cuffs around his limbs, and pulling on the wires until he is unable to move.

With horror, I notice that each man looks exactly the same. Each one has the same gaunt, hollow, gray face that my captor had. Each one wears the same, gray and brown outfit, and each man is tall and almost unnaturally thin.

One man, maybe ever-so-slightly taller and thinner than the others, steps forward. He gestures to the boy, now suspended in the middle of the air like some comical spider being prepared for pinning to a board of some fascinated scientist, and ruffles through some papers on a clipboard. Then, he begins to speak.

“This is the last time you will ever hear, so listen up, Jimbly. The process will take a while. You’ll be able to feel everything, and your body isn’t going to shut down to let your mind escape from the pain. It’s…part of the process. For your own sake, I’d suggest holding as still as possible.”

And just like that, they begin. One man administers some sort of injection into the boy’s arm, a disgusting orange liquid that spreads throughout his body, making his skin paler and almost grayish. They shave his head with meticulous precision, as one man gently slides a scalpel over him to remove even the last of the hairs. The men even shave his eyebrows, until not a hair remains on the boy’s body. Noticing his nose is still intact, one of the men gestures toward it, and another man takes a razor blade, slicing it off in a clean motion before sewing up the hole where it used to be. As they work, his body begins to contort in some strange way, no doubt from the shot that now begins to take effect.

From inside my cage, I begin to sob, feeling my body heave uncontrollably as I finally register what will happen to me…eventually. But the little boy’s screams, once so vivid and loud, begin to fade. Watching, my mind suddenly comprehends a silence. Only for a second, the boy looks forward, still positioned in the air, his expression blank. And then, he begins to sing. A deep, dark song at first, but soon the pitch and intensity increase as he continues. His voice is tranquil for the most part, only breached so often by a pause, during which I see his eyes flash with terror before he resumes singing again.

But the men aren’t done. As he continues to sing, one takes a saw, and with immaculate movements, makes some incisions around the boy’s neck and face. He remains conscious, and singing, but no longer does he scream in pain or agony. I have no doubt he still feels it, but he doesn’t react. Blood drips from the incisions, until with one smooth movement a man takes a saw, cutting off his limbs. With some fire torch, they burn the limbs, cauterizing the bleeding stumps on his body. With extreme precision, one of the men cuts open his stomach, rearranging all the necessary organs and adding several new ones, forcing these crucial elements upward into his chest. The process is undertaken once again—new incisions, new cuts, and new burns.

Eventually, the only part of him that remains is the boy’s head and neck, along with some...

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