nosleep

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

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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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

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

---

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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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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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...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1fb5kqi/my_daughters_teacher_has_been_passing_her_strange/

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.

---

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...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1farh7m/the_miraculous_singing_jimbly/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Negative-Sea0x on 2024-09-07 05:32:58+00:00.

---

The pipes hadn't stopped dripping for months.

It was the middle of February when I heard it first. A slight pattering and tapping amongst almost inaudible drips by the kitchen sink in my apartment. I hadn't thought much of it then, as it was the middle of the night and I had only popped in to grab a drink and head back to bed - only taking a brief mental note to mention it to the landlord in the morning.

The back and forth between the landlord continued for about a week, before they begrudgingly gave way and got a contractor to look at the pipes in the kitchen. All was fine, they said. No leaks, sounds, or anything to suggest any fault with our system. I didn't give it much thought after that, since I hated being a bother even though the issue persisted.

The slight drips and patters became a full cascade of water parading and dancing inside the pipes over the coming weeks - but the strangest thing of all, was this sound was inaudible in the day. It would only occur between 1 and 5 in the morning, then it would fizzle out, as if not to disturb the neighbours. The sounds would continue even if I turned the water off, even though I could feel it vibrating through my pipes under the sink. It was like everyone was running water between this time, the pipes whirring under continuous strain.

Then one night, quite recently, I fell asleep on my sofa watching some mind numbing video on the TV. Even though this sofa was from the landlord, and probably older than I am - it feels all too comfy after a long day, just ready to relax and drift away. My blissful, yet unfulfilling nap had abruptly ended - with a jet like hiss coming from the kitchen.

Through unadjusted eyes I lifted my head and peered into the kitchen - the illumination of the TV only just highlighting the glint of water pooling over the hardwood floors. I peeked over at my phone, 3:41am.

"Fuck", I muttered to the teleshopping ad on the screen, reeling in my annoyance that I couldn't contact anyone to stop this leak for the next few hours. Sitting myself up from the couch and composing myself, I stumbled over to the light switch to assess the damage just before I ran to get a towel.

Moving my eyes onto the floor, still adjusting, the water appeared the slightest red - just a hint, maybe it was just my eyes. Maybe.

After grabbing all the towels I could muster, forming a perimeter around the strange water so it couldn't go further, I ventured towards the kitchen sink.

Getting closer, the noises it was emitting had a slightly different tune. Rather than gushing, it was gurgling. I pinned that down to the leak, and swung open the under sink cabinet with confidence.

A deep red encased the burst pipe, my eyes already undoing and redoing swift sweeps of the cabinet - the interior identical to a neatly wrapped crime scene. A quick swipe over the redness with my finger and a smell confirmed what I had already subconsciously known.

Blood.

I didn't know what to do, I instinctively took a step back. Scrambling over to my phone, I rang the only number alive at this time - the emergency line.

"Hello? Police please". I didn't think to give them any time to ask which service I needed, any manners previously learnt disappeared into the folds of panic looming over me.

"Hello, what is your address?",

Stuttering, I complied with the question to get someone sent out immediately.

"And what is the reason for your call?",

"There's blood all over my floor",

"Whose? Should we call an ambulance to your adress also?",

"I don't know whose, or where it came from. Please just come quickly",

"A car has already been deployed, it's estimated arrival is 4 minutes. Please stay on the line to ensure your safety".

I left the phone on speaker so I could bundle my now stained hands around my face, the gurgling of the pipes plaguing my ears.

Two police officers arrive not too long after, a male and a female. After jittering the locks for what seemed like minutes, they come through with unsure authority - not yet knowing if I'm the threat or victim of this call.

"It's in the kitchen", I say through the lump in my throat, thickening with dread.

Their brazen faces turn sour as they open the door into the kitchen. A shimmer of relief, with accompanying annoyance appears on their faces.

"Ma'am, plumbing isn't a police matter", muttered the male officer, combing a hand over his stubbled face. His pointed nose overshadowing his police cap, hiding his tired yet sneering eyes.

"You need to look in the cabinet under the sink". Wincing from his grumbling, I look away as he advances towards the cabinet. He grips the handle and shines his flashlight tentatively inside, and a small gasp escapes his now puzzled face.

"Come and look at this, will you?" He commands the other officer, closer to me than she is him. I can tell that she's more understanding of my call, with her mouth twisted into a slight frown when being called forward.

She slinks over, takes a peak and turns away - muttering over the radio. While the words were indistinguishable, a wash of heaviness passed over me, just knowing that they weren't able to help.

They closed the cabinet and stood up, explaining to me that they weren't equipped with the knowledge or equipment to fix a leak. They made a couple suggestions to the red colouring though, such as a filtering issue or someone washing animal blood down the sink. After all, all the pipes in the apartment are interconnected. I could tell they were just as tired as I was, aching to get off of their shift - though, they were softer with their words after discovering what was under the sink. And they were right, they couldn't help me then.

After they left, I couldn't help but fall down against the front door, crying into my hands. It was only 4:12am, they'd only been gone 3 minutes, and my only options were to wait - alone. The leak had been mostly dried up with the towels now, but that dreadful gurgle was audible all throughout the apartment. I knew I wasn't going to be able to sleep until it could be fixed-

A sharp, yet soft pattern of raps echo across the door.

I shoot up, and use my door viewer to see who on earth was there.

It was a slightly stodgy and older man, large nose amongst thin lips curved up into a weak smile accompanying his wrinkled dark brown eyes. It was like he knew I'd be looking through my viewer, as his eyes were intently fixed upon it - staring straight into mine.

With the chain lock still on the door, I gently tilted the door open, and was met with a brief greeting and kind face.

After a weak and inquisitive hello, I asked him who he was and why he was at my door - once again, my manners hadn't returned since I was in panic mode.

He gave a quick introduction;

"Sorry to bother you, the name's Andrew. I live in apartment 132, just above yours. I couldn't help but notice a lot of commotion goin' on and then the bright blue lights not too long ago. Are you okay? Looks like you've been crying".

A sudden rush of emotion swept over me, it was like he knew I was panicked and just needed someone to ask me something - anything. I started to sniffle and he rustled up a packet of tissues and offered me one. I plucked one out and emitted a loud and disgusting blow of my nose.

"Sorry.. Thank you", a small laugh escaped me then, a small wave of comfort amongst the crashing heaviness and discomfort of still being in this damn apartment.

"I'm not sure if this is weird, but looks like you need somethin' to drink. Would you like to pop upstairs and I'll make you a cuppa? Only a quick one", that same kindness emitting from his face.

I let out a small okay, grabbed my keys and stepped out of the apartment. Andrew took a step back whilst I was locking my door, but even then I felt his eyes burning into me, watching every muscle twitch.

We walk up the fire exit stairs, as they're incredibly close to my apartment and his. With uncanny precision he unlocks his door, and gestures me inside.

My first thought is that it's neat. Very neat. Minimalist, even - the hallway adorned with one pair of slippers, one pair of hiking boots, and one spot missing for the running shoes he had hastily put on. A slim dresser opposite the shoes, with a basic lamp dimly lighting the hallway.

The layout was exactly like my apartment, so it was easy to navigate around his place.

His living room just as bare as the hall, a two seater couch with a coffee table - a small TV sitting on a plain stand, and a deep green trunk decorated with paisley gold pattern nestled in the far right corner.

The deep green trunk was the most colourful thing in his beige and monotone palette, almost sitting out of place. It was quite large, too - easily 6 feet by 4 feet, maybe 3 feet deep. You could tell it had been opened and closed, locked and unlocked frequently with it's dinged up lock protruding from the long side.

"Make yourself at home".

I jumped - I was too busy scanning the room to notice Andrew had already moved into the kitchen, next to the sink, kettle in hand.

I went towards the green trunk, naturally, curiosity peaking. Andrew faultered, then. His smile tightening up, his thin lips conveying annoyance - then, back to normal.

"If you don't mind, I'll sit there. You see, it's the spot I've sat in for 7 years, and I've made quite a comfortable dent in it", returning to his kind voice.

I obliged, and sat in the seat further away from the illustrious green trunk.

Andrew brought the te...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/EnragedDuckie on 2024-09-06 23:47:36+00:00.

---

We all heard the rumors that quiet stretch of road between towns. How if you drive on it at night supposedly, the man will appear in your rear view mirror. It ain't my first rodeo with ghosts and ghouls. Like that picture mom took of me when I was 8. The face in the window. Or when I was sixteen and my friends were playing with a ouija board, some weird stuff started to happen, like the planchett, turning the point directly at me.

My brother asked me if I would come with him to drive down that desolate stretch of road. I know he didn't want to go alone He knows I ain't afraid of no ghost.

So I grabbed my lucky silver pendant, we got in the car and set off on our drive, singing along to the real slim shady on the way. Just like any other ghost, on the highway story, you've got to turn off your headlights and drive in the dark, nobody else around. So we did drove real slow or wrong, that desolate stretch of road aaannnddd. Nothing. We worked ourselves up on the way over nothing. We went home disappointed. Its been about 10 years some odd months after that I got a job that took me out of town. I have drive that desolate stretch of road every single night.

It was a night like any other. I put on my uniform, got in my car started driving. Listening to a podcast about ghost stories. When sure enough, they started telling one about the headless man with the axe on the desolate road in my town. They called him Charles. I was listening intently to the story, not really paying attention, listening to the lore about how he was a man in the eighteen hundreds that had his head chopped off by his wife when she caught him cheating. Listening to how if you drive down the desolate stretch of road and say his name in the dark, he will appear in your back seat.

No sooner was I about to turn it off. I caught a glimpse of something in my rearview mirror a person. I kept driving at first afraid to look in the mirror when curiosity got the better of me and there he was. Staring me down holding his head between the seats. The bloody axe, laying next to him on the back seat of my Chevy.

The smell of musk and iron suddenly filled the air. "Charles?" I said. When out came the the voice of a man who sounded like he hadn't drank water in days sounded like he just swallowed a fist full of gravel. "Victor" my name. He said my name. His hand let go of the side of his face and he held his head by the hair. He grabbed the ax. I don't know what happened after that. I woke up on the side of the road with a paramedic. They said that I had swerved and hit a tree and I was lucky to be alive. At the hospital, they said that it was mostly minor injuries, scrapes and bruises. What they couldn't explain was the distinct cut in my right shoulder that it looked like it had come from a blade a wood cutting axe to be specific.

They stitched me up. I had nightmares for weeks. I stopped driving that desolate road, but no matter where I am sometimes I think if I look real quick. I'll catch a glimpse of him in the back seat of the car, holding my severed head.

My nephew asked me if I wanted to go drive down that desolate stretch of road "uncle vic.You ain't afraid of no ghost right?" Yes, I am kid. I''m afraid of that

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Saturdead on 2024-09-06 22:02:03+00:00.

---

I had a lot going on during the Covid pandemic. My dad passed away from an unrelated illness, and lockdown was driving me mad. I’d always been a bit paranoid, but being locked inside turned it all up to 11. My home was converted into a makeshift prison; an asylum where I was supposed to be my own caretaker.

I didn’t have much trouble switching to remote work. I usually worked exclusively with overseas clients anyway, so the only thing that really changed was the software, the chair, and my pre-rendered background.

But as days turned to weeks, it became increasingly obvious that I wasn’t okay. I’d sleep anywhere from 2 to 12 hours a night, and with no discernable pattern.  I’d wake up crying without knowing why. Sometimes I couldn’t even open the bathroom door, as I tricked myself into believing there might be someone on the other side.

Having lost my dad, I was feeling more mortal than ever. The news, the internet, and the radio were all saying the same thing; going outside was the end. And at that time in my life, I couldn’t handle more death.

 

Everything feels different when you’re forced to stay inside. The walls seem closer, and your chest tightens. It feels like the air grows thinner; warmer. You can feel your breaths enter your lungs, but they don’t sustain you. Your knick-knacks and doodads look like souvenirs from a place you can’t go back to. A mockery; like notches on a prison wall.

Sometimes when I slept, I’d forget what was going on. Waking up, the nightmare would fall on me like a rock, knocking the air out of my lungs. I’d grow increasingly scared of going to sleep, as if that rock would grow heavy enough to crush me.

And yet, it was all better than going out there, among the others. I couldn’t take a step outside my door. Even if the lockdown was to be lifted that same day, there was no way for me to convince myself that everything was gonna be fine.

Nothing was fine. And it wouldn’t be for some time.

 

My colleague, Dana, was the first to take notice. I’d been up for about 53 hours. She pulled me into a chat after a remote meeting, telling me I looked sick. I melted. I poured my heart out about anything and everything, barely forming a coherent sentence along the way. If someone asked me to recall what I said that day, I could only hazard a guess. Dana tried to understand but must’ve realized this was above her pay grade.

“I get it. It’s a lot right now. It’s a lot for all of us,” she said. “It might be time to talk to someone.”

She reminded me that we had an agreement with one of our main partners, Hatchet Pharmaceuticals. They handled our health insurance, which also included mental health treatment. In fact, they’d expanded on it since the start of the pandemic.

“They got a remote counselling program,” she said, holding up a brochure. “Just use your company login and sign up for a session. What do you think?”

There wasn’t much to say. I was willing to try anything.

 

I filled out a questionnaire and got a response within a couple of hours. I was sent a link to a calendar app and got to pick a name from a list. There were a couple of short descriptions by each available counselor, giving me a bit of insight into what kind of person they were. There was a man named ‘Gareth’ who had an empty calendar. It was strange. See, each counselor could be sorted by seniority and number of patients; and Gareth was at the top. He was, by a good margin, their most experienced employee. So how could his schedule be so empty?

I signed up for a session with Gareth the next day. It felt like a stone settling in the pit of my stomach. I was nervous, and I didn’t even know why. Maybe it was the prospect of a changing routine that scared me, or maybe it was the thought of opening up to a stranger. Either way, it affected me way more than I thought it would.

I went back and forth on cancelling the whole thing. I wandered around like a cat on a hot tin roof, feeling the walls closing in. I ended up on the floor, gasping for air, curled up like a ball. I just wanted it to be over.

 

I took a day off work to have my first session. It was just past lunchtime. I’d prepped a cup of earl grey and a microwaved cinnamon bun as comfort food, but that wouldn’t stop my hands from shaking. I got a popup on my screen with a blue sunflower logo. Clicking that “Connect” button felt like dipping my heart in ice water.

Gareth popped up in a little video feed. He was a man in his late 50’s with combed-back salt-and-pepper hair. He had bushy eyebrows, a trimmed goatee, and a white shirt with a black tie. It looked like he was in a large office with wide, open windows. It looked pleasant. Airy.

“Good afternoon!” he smiled. “I’m glad you could make it. It’s difficult to take that first step on a new path.”

“It really is,” I nodded.

“But I’m glad you did!” he said. “Now, how about we talk a little bit about who we are? Would that be alright?”

 

We took turns talking about ourselves. We shared our names, our professions, our age, and a little bit about our families. Gareth was 57 years old and had worked as a mental health professional for 23 years. He had two sons who lived in Philadelphia, just like my mom. We spent some time talking about how we’d adapted to the pandemic, and how we felt about having to stay inside, wear masks, and the way it affected the way we looked at other people.

I barely noticed it, but Gareth had accidentally made me reveal my issues without me even realizing it. He was good. Real good. I had told him about how difficult my life felt; that I felt trapped in my own home, but that the outside was even worse.

“You’re describing it like you’re sailing a frying pan on a sea of fire,” Gareth said. “Like there’s no way out. That must be stressful.”

He was spot on. It felt hopeless, like spiraling down a black drain. But he just smiled and nodded.

“We can work with this.”

 

I decided to see Gareth twice a week. I could book any time I wanted, his calendar was wide open. I wanted to ask him about it, but I didn’t. There was a part of me who didn’t want to get too personal. Gareth seemed nice, but he was also just doing his job.

I was asked to sit by an open window during work hours as an exercise; a way to get used to the sounds of the outside world. It was nerve-wracking. Every passing car felt like a freight train, and every stray voice from a passer-by felt like a threat. But slowly, day-by-day, it turned to background noise. And with that, the world started to feel a little bigger. The walls breathed again.

Over the next few sessions with Gareth, we tried a couple new exercises. Leaving the window open when I slept. Leaving the front door unlocked during work hours. And, by our fourth session, he asked me to try something new.

“About half an hour a day, right before you go to bed, I want you to open your front door,” he said. “Stand or sit there, taking in the sounds of the city.”

 

That night, I tried it. I opened the front door and sat down. I tried to mentally record everything I saw, one thing at a time. The walkway down the road. The ill-kempt playground. I counted the cars, the windows on nearby buildings, the light posts, the parking meters. I put some conscious thought into observing things from a new perspective.

But through it all, the one thing that made me want to go back inside was the sight of other people. It wasn’t just the threat of a spreading pandemic; people seemed nefarious to me. Ill-willed. Dark silhouettes roaming about in the night, their wants and haves a mystery. If the news were an indicator of anything, everyone was struggling to make ends meet. Everyone was a potential assailant. At best, they were indifferent.

Perhaps I had it all wrong. Maybe it wasn’t the virus closing my throat that was the greatest issue; maybe the real problem had been people all along. Looking at the nameless shapes staring at me from the windows across the street, that sentiment felt more true than ever.

 

The more sessions I had with Gareth, the more I realized my priorities were changing. I was letting go of my claustrophobic tendencies, but I couldn’t help but to feel threatened by the people around the neighborhood instead. Gareth seemed very interested in this, asking me to describe my feelings and mapping out my day. It was very thorough, and I got new exercises to deal with my anxieties.

I was asked to record my nightmares and worries. Another day, I was asked to write down stray thoughts on paper. Another day, we had a session about how to practically deal with intruders, and how it made me feel that there might be people out there who wanted to harm me. We talked about the many ways people could disappoint you, and how easy it was to retreat from the public.

But I didn’t get a good read on Gareth. It seemed to me like he wasn’t really trying to treat me anymore. The exercises he suggested did little but to zoom in on the worst feelings that lingered in the back of my mind. My anxieties were emphasized; not examined.

 

But one thing that remained was my nightly routine to sit with an open door, looking out over the neighborhood. I’d stopped mapping the objects I could see; instead focusing on the neighbors. Strangers walking past in the night. I had convinced myself that they wanted my money, my car, my brand name clothes… all of it. I had this feeling that if I were to leave my place for a night, I’d come back to it being ransacked – if I came back at all. It was eas...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Muted-Entrance-7091 on 2024-09-06 16:45:12+00:00.

---

My great-grandmother was the most beautiful girl in her village. In a village where everyone had black or brown hair and dark or brown eyes, the girl with green eyes and blond hair was like something from another universe. All the boys were in love with her, and the women dreamed that she would become their daughter-in-law.

In 1924, when she turned 13, they began to get invoy with her. In those days, girls were married at the age of 13-14, and boys were married at 15-16. Despite the large number of matchmakers from different families, her father refused everyone, claiming that she was still young. My great-great-grandfather had seven daughters, and all of them except my great-grandmother were already married by that time.

Among the matchmakers there was one case that stood out. Usually women came to wory, but one day a 45-year-old man came. My great-great-grandfather received the guest with all honors, but when he found out that this man came to ask for his daughter's hand for himself, he angrily kicked him out of the house, warning him that if he ever looks at his daughter, he would be left without eyes, and if he came up and touched her, he would be left without limbs.

A week later, the man was seen in the village again, but he did not approach to my great-grandmother and did not see her. They said he was come to some old woman.

One of the days, when the great-grandmother was returning from a walk with her best friend Alia, an old woman joined them. The girls were terrified of her, because they knew that she was famous as a witch. She talked to them with a smile, praised their beauty, especially my great-grandmother. When she stroked great-grandmother's head, touchingly, she felt a small prick on her neck, but did not pay attention to it.

That evening, when the great-grandmother was sleeping in her room (her parents were gone, they went to the neighbors), she heard someone's whisper. Someone's female voice was calling her, and she woke up. When she woke up, she looked around, but didn't see anyone.

"Get up," suddenly a whisper was heard again, and she automatically got up. Despite her open eyes and awareness of what was happening, the great-grandmother felt like in a dream. She didn't get up by herself. Suddenly her legs started moving. She opened her closet, put on a beautiful white dress and took a white veil with her. She was terrified inside. She saw her body moving by itself, and there was nothing she could do about it. It seemed to her that it was some kind of terrible dream.

After getting dressed, she went out the gate of the house and headed towards her friend Alia's house. When she reached the gate, she stopped. Her hand went up and knocked on the gate. Alia came out. She was surprised what the my great-grandmother was doing here and why she dressed up. Great-grandmother's lips automatically came into motion, and she said she was getting married. Deep inside the great-grandmother was terrified, she wanted to scream, ask for help, but her mouth did not move. Alia was also shocked and asked if she was joking. Great-grandmother spoke again, explaining that her parents agreed and she is now going on a nikah with a man. She needs a witness for this. Alia was shocked, but great-grandmother's voice persuaded her that everything is fine and they need to go now. Alia asked where to go, and her great-grandmother said she would show her the way.

Alia was still shocked by what she heard, so she asked great-grandmother to wait and went back home. She went out with her older brother. She explained his presence by the fact that it's dark now and someone needs to see them off. Alia's brother was a tall and strong 14-year-old boy.

They walked silently. Alia's brother carefully watched how great-grandmother walks and behaved. Great-grandmother tried her best to stop, scream, but there was a smile and calmness on her face.

They walked for about 15 minutes until they reached the house with a high gate. Great-grandmother's hand went up and knocked on the gate. A woman opened them and invited guests. Alia looked at her brother. He nodded, and they came in. After passing through the courtyard, they entered the house, in one of the rooms there was a mullah (priest), another stranger and a 45-year-old man, who had come to court her a couple of days ago. Great-grandmother was terrified. He was dressed in the groom's traditional clothes. Mullah asked the guests to pass and sit in front of the groom. Alia's brother looked around all this, apologized, said that he was going home on business and would come back when it was all over.

Alia's brother left, and the great-grandmother and Alia entered the room and sat down opposite the men. Mulla started the process of nikah, the great-grandmother begged God inside to save her. Alia looked at her, then at the groom with and his witness.

Having finished with all the preliminary words, the mullah, as usual, asked if my great-grandmother took this man as her husband. No matter how much she tried to refuse, no matter how much she shouted the words "No" inside herself, her lips agreed. Then the mullah asked the groom, and he also agreed. Declaring them husband and wife, the mullah gave the groom a bowl of water. He drank from it and gave it to the bride. The bride took a sip of water and handed the bowl back to the mullah. Mullah read the last prayers, congratulated them and left the room. The groom escorted the mullah to the gate with his witness and returned alone. He asked Alia to go home, as he and my great-grandmother needed to "consolidate their marriage".

Alia was confused, she didn't know what to do. She wanted to talk to great-grandmother, but great-grandmother told her that everything was fine, and she could safely go home. The great-grandmother's face still had a smile and calmness, but with one nuance - her eyes were brown.

Alia, breathing heavily, reluctantly left the room. Closing the door, a man with a lustful look came up and sat down with my great-grandmother. She wanted to close her eyes out of fear, but she couldn't. He took off her white veil and started undressing her. His breath was nasty and foul-smelling, he was excited, but he was not in a hurry.

Great-grandmother began to pray to herself. A loud bang of the door hitting the wall, Aaliya's brother bursts into the room, dragging the old witch by her hair. He throws her to the floor and goes up to the man. Before the man can even get up, he gets punched in the nose and falls down. "Another punch, and he goes unconscious. Aaliya's brother crouches down and looks into the great-grandmother's eyes. Then he goes over to the old witch, grabs her by the hair, and drags her to the great-grandmother, throwing her down next to her."

"Fix it now?" he says.

"What? What are you talking about?" says the old woman.

"Don't play innocent here" said Aaliya's brother. "You saw them today. You're fuckin witch and you touched her. She has green eyes, but now they're the same color as yours, with the same spot on the iris. So either fix her or it will get worse."

Alia enters the room in tears. The old woman laughed. "Or What?" - before she could say it, the knife stuck into her thigh, and she screamed. Alia's brother pushed it so deeply that he came out from the other side.

"Fix it, NOW!" he said, twisting the knife to the left. The old witch felt unbearable pain and screamed, "A needle! There's a needle on the back of her head!"

"Aaliya ran to great-grandmother, tilted her head, and removed the needle. As soon as the needle was out, the smile and calm on the great-grandmother's face were replaced by a grimace of pain and fear, and she screamed at the top of her lungs. Aaliya embraced her, and they both cried. The great-grandmother got up and, in a fit of rage, began kicking the old witch in the face. Aaliya's brother calmed her down and, leading them out, walked them home.

Here’s the text translated into conversational English:

The whole village hears about it. The next day, the man shows up with a mullah and a witness, claiming that my great-grandmother is his lawful wife and that he wants to take her back. The mulla confirm his words. My great-great-grandfather is furious but keeps his cool. Calmly, in front of the neighbors, he says he won’t give his daughter to anyone, no matter what anyone says. The man insists that he has "sealed the marriage" with her. She’s not a virgin. Aaliya’s brother steps in, saying he broke the suitor’s nose before he even touched her and the only thing he did with his dick was piss himself. The man won’t back down, saying he won’t grant her a divorce and any of her relationship with another man would be illegal and sinful for her.

"My great-great-grandfather doesn’t say anything. He takes my great-grandmother and her mother into the house and steps outside with a bundle. Suddenly, there are cries, screams, and a heartrending male groan coming from the street. My great-grandmother rushes outside and sees her suitor lying in a pool of blood, without arms or legs. She is horrified and, looking at her father, sees him holding an Arabic curved sword, a family heirloom. All the neighbors gathered around are in shock

"You wanted to say something" my great-great-grandfather says to the groom.

"Forgive me! Forgive me! I'm sorry!!!!!" - he screams, writhing in pain.

"And?" said the great-great-grandfather.

"I gave the money to the witch! I asked her t...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/crimzonprizm on 2024-09-06 23:02:46+00:00.

---

Link to my original post here!

It seems like my last post may have garnered some good press! I'm glad everyone enjoyed the first foray into my weird life experience. If you haven't read the first post yet, please do. It gives pretty much gives context to everything I write from here on out. I'm sure the next series of posts will flesh things out more though. With that, I guess I can start off where we left off, the Curried Goat dinner.

The letter was handwritten by who I can only assume was Mr. Rags. The night before had terrified me, but I had just a slight sense of relief to know that the goat fiasco wasn't all bad. I sat for a while with a battle of thoughts rushing in my brain. What the hell happened last night? Did I actually see the man killing the goat, or maybe he had just found it and put it out of its misery? Do I go downstairs for dinner? I'm not even sure what time dinner is, so maybe I should just hang back. It was my second night there after all, and I didn't exactly sleep well the night before. An early night in with a good night's rest would surely help me collect my thoughts on the mat... Before I had time to even complete the thought, a knock at my door interrupted it.

"Hello? Mr. Zach, I'm headed down for dinner now. I really would love it for you to join us!" said Mr. Rags. I could tell it was him even through the muffle of the closed door. He didn't sound angry or evil at all. I sat there a second before mustering up the courage to respond.

"Uh, yeah, yeah just hold on a second. I'll be right there" I said.

I grabbed my phone and decided to start a voice memo, then threw it in my pocket. I walked over to the door and opened it, being greeted by Mr. Rags, same exact look as the day before.

"Oh, you don't need to worry Mr. Zach. What you saw last night will be explained in due time. I promise, I'm not here to hurt you or any of the other residents in the complex." he chuckled whilst gesturing to my pocket. I froze. Did he know I was recording? There's not a chance he could know, right?

He just chuckled again and gestured to follow him to the elevator. We hopped in and he clicked the button for the ground floor. Again, the ride took a much shorter amount of time that you'd imagine, as if we skipped floors getting there. As soon as the doors opened, the robust aroma of curry and jasmine rice wafted through the doors, filling the elevator and the entire room. Mr. Rags breathed in deeply, taking in every bit of scent there was before strolling off into the lobby. The cafe was just inside the main doors to the right, which opened up into a large room with what looked like vintage tables and chairs of all kinds, as if they were collected over the years. It was a hodge-podge of furniture, but it was all uniquely detailed and clean as it was whenever it was created. There was a stereotypical cafe style serving bar in the back which had plenty of room for all the residents to flow around it while getting their evening meals. Mr. Rags shuffled along, beckoning me to follow him to the serving bar. There were already plenty of residents sitting around, eating, chatting and laughing, talking about the weather and what had happened that day. There was a sense of weightlessness to it all, everyone seemed to be really enjoying each other's company.

"Aha! Mr. and Mrs. Campanella, I'd love to introduce you to our newest resident, temporarily perhaps, Mr. Zach. He's from out of town staying with us as his vehicle is taken care out of town."

"A pleasure Mr. Zach!" shouted the man jovially. "We're the Campenella's, my wife Susie, and I'm George. We sorta run the bistro down here as I like to call it. You better fill up that plate, this goat is fresh as ever!" he laughed to me, as though it was some kind of inside joke.

"Oh George, you always think you're just so funny huh?" she snickered. "I'm Susie, sweetie. If you ever need something to eat around here, do not hesitate to ask, especially if it's something particular or special! I love trying new things. We're just up on the 15th, apartment 1509 in the corner. Anytime honey, do not hesitate to knock!"

Mr. Rags interjected, "These two keep the entire operation running. We've got lunch and dinner every weeknight, sometimes on the weekends we'll do something special, but there's plenty to reheat and eat whenever your heart desires. We also like to host extravagant meals for the holidays, but you'll be able to experience that in due time!"

The couple both laughed and started making me a plate, full of curried goat and rice, some veggies on the side and a half loaf of some kind of bread and butter. The smells coming from it all were enough to make my mouth water. I hadn't had anything this good to eat in what seemed like weeks, after surviving on Taco Bells and other small fast-food joints. I thanked them both and looked over at Mr. Rags who seemed entirely pleased with the interaction. We shuffled over to a table in the corner where Mr. Rags pulled out a chair for me. I sat down as he walked away, seemingly to get himself a plate of the magnificent meal. I could hardly wait staring down at the feast before me. I took out my utensils and dug in. I honestly can't remember the last time something tasted so good. The Campanella's knew exactly what they were doing. I took a few bites, sitting in splendor over the tastiness of the goat, when I stopped in my tracks. It was an amazing meal, but this was the same exact goat that... I shrugged it off. It had to be my error. I was tired, I saw something weird, but it was just my imagination. Mr. Rags had found the injured goat, put it out of its misery and instead of wasting it, had this lovely couple whip up a fantastic recipe with it. I'm completely sure that was it.

The crowd started to hush itself as a clinking sound rang through the air. I pulled away from my delicious plate to see Mr. Rags standing on a small pedestal near the front of the room. He had taken his little wicker hat off to reveal a head of silver/gray hair pulled neatly into a bun. He stood with a smile on his face as he looked around at each and every one of the residents. I could recognize some of them from the other day, standing out on the church lawn. They all looked up to Mr. Rags as he began to speak.

"My dear, dear friends, I am so glad you're here tonight. As some of you may know, we have a new addition, a guest amongst us." he said, as he pointed slyly my way. "Mr. Zach here had some car troubles down the way and our very own Mr. James Van Winkle was kind enough to bring him help in his time of need."

I noticed now that Winkle had been sitting in the other corner of the room, giving himself a pat on the back and grinning ear to ear. He seemed entirely too proud of himself but in an endearing way. The residents alternated looking over my way, over to Winkle and back to Mr. Rags.

"As you know, Mr. Potter from apartment 87 sadly up and left without so much as a goodbye, but his space is now being occupied by our new friend Mr. Zach. I'm sure he wouldn't mind well wishes, and I know you all will be oh so kind to him!"

I felt an unease, but I think it was just on my part. I never liked being the center of attention so having all the eyes on me was not sitting very well.

"Tonight, I'd like to thank the Campanella's for their gracious assistance in preparing this meal and give a toast to new friends found!" he joyfully rang as he brought a glass of red liquid to his lips. I didn't look like wine to me, but I was pretty entranced by the whole things, so I wasn't paying too close attention.

Everyone rose a glass along with Mr. Rags and cheered slightly as they gulped down whatever drinks they had. I raised a glass of water that was already on the table and drank it down. The rest of the meal was quite pleasant. A few of the residents took turns coming over and introducing themselves, talking to me about the place and what not. It was a nice evening all in all. I've always been terrible with names, so I never really retained them that night; it took the next few weeks to really get into the groove of knowing the others. Near the end of the meal, Winkle came over and plopped down next to me. I barely noticed as I was fixated on Mr. Rags and Mrs. Campanella. He'd walked over to her for more of his drink, and the bottle looked oddly more like a decanter than a bottle of wine. I brushed it off as Winkle slapped me lightly on the shoulder.

"What'd I tell you dude! Mr. Rags is the best man. He's always super nice, and he actually does like everyone here, I think. Heck, he even helps me out from time to time, for nothing in return! He's awesome. How're you feeling about the place?" he asked.

I hadn't really thought about it until then. This place seemed weird, wrong in some sense, and peculiar in every way; but it had already started growing on me. The comradery in the room was palpable and I had already felt welcomed by almost everyone there. A few odd glances from a few of the residents came my way but never felt threatening. Some people just don't change, I thought.

"Winkle, has anything bad ever happened here? Everything seems almost too nice." I spoke.

"Well, I mean people have died sure, but it's never been anything malicious. Sometimes people get sick, or sometimes people are just old. Mr. Rags takes it pretty hard though I will say. I think he actually ...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/No-Glass-3279 on 2024-09-06 21:39:01+00:00.

---

I never thought a person could have this kind of power over me. When I took the job at the store, I had no idea how quickly things would spiral out of control. Rachel seemed like an average manager—older than me, sharp, and maybe a little intense, but not out of the ordinary. At first, she was just kind, almost too friendly. I brushed it off as her trying to be nice to the new guy.

It started small—a few lingering glances, standing a little too close when she spoke to me. Then, there were the notes. The first one was simple, left on my desk in the break room: “Hey Adam, I hope you have a great day! - Rachel.” It seemed innocent enough, even sweet. I chuckled, shrugged it off, and went about my work.

But then they kept coming. Almost daily, there was a new one waiting for me. “You looked really nice today,” read one, or “I love your smile!” at the bottom of my timesheet. It was strange, but harmless, I thought. I figured she was just being friendly… at first.

But then, the tone started to shift. The notes became more personal, more suggestive. “You’ve got such strong hands… I bet you’re good with them,” one read, and I felt a cold sweat break out on my neck. Another: “I can’t stop thinking about you. I dream about you.” I felt my stomach twist.

I started to avoid her, ducking around aisles and trying to stay busy whenever she was nearby. But that only seemed to make her try harder. Her notes grew more intense, more explicit. “I want to feel you against me,” she wrote once, the words scrawled in loopy cursive, with a red lipstick stain at the bottom. Another note, slipped into my back pocket when I wasn’t looking, read, “You should see what I’m wearing under my clothes right now.”

I felt trapped, suffocated. I couldn’t concentrate. My anxiety skyrocketed. I couldn’t sleep at night, and my skin crawled when I saw her out of the corner of my eye. The way she watched me—like a predator stalking its prey—made me feel like I couldn’t breathe.

I decided I’d had enough. I walked out without notice, without explanation, and never looked back. I didn’t care about burning a bridge—I just wanted to be free from her. I blocked her number, changed mine, got my shift changed to nights-and prayed that would be the end of it.

For a few weeks, it seemed to work. I found a new job and even started dating Lisa, the bartender from my favorite restaurant. Things were getting better. I could finally breathe again. Rachel seemed like a distant, unpleasant memory.

Then the letters started.

They were in my mailbox, unsigned but unmistakable in her familiar handwriting. The first was almost mournful: “Why did you leave me? We were perfect together.” I ripped it up and threw it away. But more came, and they got worse. “You’re mine, Adam. You belong to me,” one said, and another, “You can’t hide from me. I know where you live now.”

I started finding things left for me. One morning, there was a single red rose under my windshield wiper, the petals stained with what looked like blood. Then, a photo of me and Lisa at her bar, taken from a distance. My stomach dropped when I realized she’d been there, watching us.

I got more paranoid, started looking over my shoulder everywhere I went. My sleep was plagued by nightmares of Rachel’s eyes staring at me from the darkness, her voice whispering in my ear. I told myself it was just my imagination, that she’d eventually lose interest.

Until the day I came home and found Milo, my cat, nailed to my front door.

The sight of him—his small, furry body splayed out in a grotesque parody of a crucifixion—made my blood run cold. His paws were spread, blood smeared across the door, and his mouth was frozen in a silent scream. I stumbled back, my legs shaking, bile rising in my throat. I didn’t need a note to know who had done this. I knew. Rachel. Who else would do something so horrific?

I called the police, desperate for help, and got a restraining order. They told me they’d look into it, but without proof, there wasn’t much they could do. The letters continued, slipping under my door, inside my mailbox, under the windshield wiper. “You’ll pay for leaving me,” she wrote, and then, “We were meant to be together, forever.”

I installed a doorbell camera, hoping it would give me some peace of mind. For a while, it did. Until one night, a motion alert woke me up. My phone buzzed, and I checked the screen. There she was—Rachel’s face filling the frame, her eyes wide, unblinking, lips pulled into a grotesque smile.

She took a step back, still staring at the camera, and that’s when I saw it. She was holding something in her hands. My heart stopped when I realized what it was—a head. Lisa’s severed head.

I don’t remember screaming, but I must have. I don’t remember dialing 911, but I did. I remember the officers arriving, the flashing lights, their faces pale and grim. They found her outside, covered in blood, laughing. She didn’t even resist.

They arrested her and took her away. A year later, she was put on trial. They deemed her mentally unfit, sent her to a maximum-security psychiatric prison. I thought it was finally over. I could breathe again, start to piece my life back together.

Then, four months ago, I got the call. She had escaped. They didn’t know how. They had no where she was. Just that she was gone.

And now… now, I’m writing this because I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. Every sound, every shadow feels like her. I check the locks three times before bed, the windows, the doorbell camera. I haven’t left the house in days.

I don’t know how much longer I can live like this. I keep thinking I see her in the dark corners of my apartment, hear her whispering through the walls. I keep thinking about that night, her face in the camera, her eyes—those unblinking eyes.

If you’re reading this, and live in Southern Kentucky, keep an eye on the news. If something happens to me, if I disappear, it was her.

I just hope it's quick.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Ithal_ on 2024-09-06 21:20:36+00:00.

---

I just wanted a bit of extra money. I’ve always been a really charismatic guy, not exactly unattractive, and I know how gullible some of those middle aged “spiritually active” women can be. I know I’m an asshole but I needed the money, I didn’t want followers, I wasn’t going to make anyone drink poisoned kool aid, I didn’t want a hundred wives, I was going through a rough patch financially and just wanted a bit of money.

To my credit, it worked. It worked well. One of my exes had been real into crystals and astrology and meditation and all that so I had a pretty good knowledge base to run with. I set up a website, called it Eternal Enlightenment, and paid for an ad service to promote it on various “spiritual” websites. My business plan was pretty straightforward, I wore a white shirt, white pants, sat cross legged on some cushions on my apartment balcony at golden hour, and talked into a camera for 30 to 45 minutes about chakras and energies and the power of the divine feminine and how one could achieve enlightenment just like I had. Clips of these videos were available for free on my website with the full versions and exclusive videos available for $99 a month, only $800 if you paid for an entire year up front. Imagine how well that took off among my target demographic, enlightenment? Access to secrets of the universe for less than a hundred bucks a month? The money came rolling in pretty quickly, I had nearly 40 members after the first six months, and triple that at the end of the first year.

Things were going really well for a while, I even had some members “promoted”, telling them and everyone else that they were truly enlightened and would send them out to conferences and things to host talks and Q and A’s. I even took on a phony Sanskrit name, “Shri Dipa”, holy light, that I said was given to me by buddhist monks during my training in India. I’ve never been to India.

By the 20 month mark I was making nearly $75,000 each month, and the lies had grown even more outlandish. I would bathe myself in light in my videos to make it look like I was glowing, use careful camera angles and more light tricks to make it look like I was hovering a few inches above the cushions I was sitting on. I had even had a place built out in the desert called “Shri Dipas Enlightenment Retreat” that I moved to and would host seminars at.

Things started to slow down at around two years though, instead of averaging 30 to 35 new members per month I was barely getting two. I knew I needed to avoid stagnation, I needed something big to get people’s attention again.

I settled on something one of the members of my “inner circle” called a transmission of enlightenment. I was skeptical at first, but she actually could read sanskrit and had some book of supposed buddhist or hindu magic. To be honest I thought it would be too outlandish to be believed. Even though I peddled all this esoteric nonsense I hadn’t fallen for it myself and knew, or thought, that nothing would come of the ritual. I explained this, in a roundabout way to avoid exposing myself, to this member and she agreed to be the first person I would transmit enlightenment to.

A few days later everything had been set up at the retreat. It was in a small, private, room away from the main pavilion where I would host my regular seminars, and it was attended by only a dozen or so members of the “inner circle”, for a hefty price. I had one member operating a spotlight to shine on the volunteer when I touched her to really sell the illusion. Things went well at first, I gave some short speech of gratitude to everyone in attendance, how far they’ve come, how none of this would be possible without them and how appreciative their friends and family would be if they were also convinced to sign up to be enlightened for only $99 a month.

I was really trying to sell this ritual, I had swapped my normal white clothes for gold and red robes, there was incense burning on a small table between me and my volunteer, the lights were dimmed and a recording of some chanting was being played at a low volume. She stepped forward, and I butchered some sanskrit incantation I had poorly memorized from her book. I raised my hands above my head and instructed everyone in the room to “fill me with their energies” as I reached out and made contact with my volunteer. The tip of my middle finger rested on her forehead for a fraction of a second before she fell to the floor, bathed in the spotlight that had been set up. There was a collective gasp as her body writhed and contorted before going stiff, her eyes rolling back into her head, her body slowly withering into a grayish husk of what it had been before. Thinking on my feet I instructed a couple members to take her body away before quickly explaining that she must have had impure intentions, and I quickly shocked myself away to my room.

It’s been four days since the ritual. The skin on my right hand, the hand I touched her with, has turned a sickly gray color and become dry and cracked. It’s spread up my arm and I can’t move it anymore, streaks of gray are reaching towards my chest. I’ve had constant nightmares of horrific creatures ripping at my flesh, tearing me apart. At the time of the ritual there were about 80 members at my retreat. My inner circle have tried keeping them at bay, but people have questions that I don’t have answers to.

I know I’m going to die soon, but I’m not sure what is going to kill me… The rot that’s consuming my body, or the people I’ve conned who are banging at my door.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/googlyeyes93 on 2024-09-06 21:13:36+00:00.

---

When you grow up in a military family, there’s a certain pressure to join up yourself when you come of age. My grandpa served in WWII, my dad in Vietnam, and we bled red, white, and blue in the name of freedom. I’ve since changed my views on things like that but, hey, can’t do much to change the past. I ended up signing up for service in my Junior year of high school, getting training out of the way in the summer between Junior and Senior year so I could get that out of the way.

This was back in the late 2000s/early 2010s, so the military was all about throwing people all over the world. My first was in Germany, then I got a little bit of time in Guam, but my last deployment before getting out was in Japan. Ended up in the Kanagawa Prefecture, super nice place, good access to the city and the mountains not too far away. It was amazing to get leave for a couple of days and go hiking with a couple of friends. The city was pretty nice too, and god, the FOOD. Everything was so fresh it made coming back to food in the States feel like I was eating field rations all the time. It was so cheap, too.

Except Japan had a little more of a sinister side to it, usually when the sunset. I learned from a few locals working on base when I got there that some weird shit happens on occasion, and just to roll with it and act as normal as possible. Hell, a couple of them recommended I visit a shrine and just make a prayer offering. I heeded their advice about two weeks later after my first couple of encounters.

Thank FUCK the first thing I ran into was one of the more harmless spirits. I was still in my mid-20s at the time, and not out of my partying days quite yet. Ever been to a karaoke room? They’re fun as hell, and the alcohol is usually included or super cheap. Get a few friends, have a few drinks, sing a few songs with the passion of Freddy Mercury while realizing you sound more like Yoko Ono, and have a good laugh.

Now, with the amount of alcohol included, it was very understandable that we got wasted. Don’t think we finished up until maybe half past one that morning, stumbling out in search of food before heading home. There are a ton of all-night places around, which helps a lot, but I was too tired to really care about food. Luckily it was SUPER easy to get anywhere in the city while you’re totally sloshed thanks to the rail system and everything.

I told the others I was going to head back home, making my way back to the little apartment I was set up in for housing. A couple of train rides and I was at the nearest station, just a few of blocks away, enough to walk in probably thirty minutes considering I was still hobbling a little.

Maybe halfway there, on a particularly dark street, I saw a figure standing about ten meters away. They were small, facing the same direction I was heading so I could only see the back of their bald head. The gown it was wearing looked like the robes a monk wears, so my drunk mind immediately went to “Oh, little monk. Wonder if he’s lost?”

Look, I know the US teaches us to be cautious of people on the streets, especially at night. But after living in other countries you learn that people aren’t nearly as violently out to get you as in America. It was pretty common here for young kids to travel alone on trains, walk the streets, and even run errands for their parents. Bad things still happen, obviously, but most people were a lot more respectful of other human beings at least.

So seeing a little kid alone on the street around two in the morning, I figured they might need some help finding home. There was a police station down the road, so I approached the kid. The nearest street light at the intersection flickered, casting us into darkness for a moment. In the absence of light, I saw a small blue light the kid was holding. As I got closer I finally spoke up.

”Hey there! Are you lost? Do you need help?” I said, louder than intended. The kid didn’t respond, and it took me a second to realize I was speaking English so they might not understand. Look, I’m not too smart when I’ve had a few drinks. So I decided to try again, even in my broken-ass Japanese. The southern accent I still couldn’t shake from being born and raised in South Georgia wasn’t a huge help. “Kon’nichiwa? Shit, what’s the word for lost… uh… ushinita? No that’s not it, shit. Oh! Ushinatta?”

The kid finally turned toward me after I got the words out. The little blue light it was holding grew brighter as it turned, illuminating their face. It looked normal for the most part, like a regular kid, but instead of eyes, there was one singular eye, massive in the middle of their face. That single eye was staring me down now, and I couldn’t move despite my brain screaming at me to get the hell out of there. My legs turned to jelly, giving out underneath me as I fell to the ground, barely catching myself before my head hit the concrete. I still couldn’t move while the thing shuffled toward me, blue light oppressing me even further as I sunk to the ground, trying to look up at the thing.

Something I will NEVER forget. God typing it out makes it come back. I can still feel it, the thing leaning down toward me on the ground, looking me right in the eye, and licking my cheek up to my temple. The tongue was scaly, with little points coming off of it that scraped roughly against my skin. I had just shaved that morning, making it feel even worse, closer to me. It was like a cat licking but more slimy, while still being rough against every small patch of flesh it could reach. This little shit licked me, stood up, looked me in the eye, and walked away like nothing fucking happened.

I couldn’t move, heart racing trying to figure out if I was just sloshed and assaulted by some weirdo on the street, or thinking that what I saw was some kind of ghost. After a few minutes, my strength returned, finally able to stand up and make my way back to the barracks. I couldn’t fall asleep the entire night. Almost took a scouring pad to my cheek to try and get rid of the feeling it left on my skin. It was driving me fucking insane.

I must have looked like a wreck the next day, not too surprised. A couple of the guys from karaoke the night before must have noticed, too. I was sitting with a few of them in the mess hall, stirring spirals into my soup absent-mindedly.

“You alright?” Matt, another soldier asked. “Look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

”Uh.” I said, taking a minute to shake the fog out of my brain. You ever sobered up from being absolutely ripped without a nap? It sucks. Like, SUCKS. “Might have, to be honest.”

”Oh? Who did you run into?” Ryu, a local working with us on base, asked. He was dozing off just moments before, but suddenly he was fully awake, a look of concern on his face.

”I uh… I don’t really know. I thought it was a kid at first, like I could only see them from behind. Bald, wearing monk robes. I asked them if they were lost then it’s like… I don’t know like I just suddenly collapsed? I couldn’t stay on my feet. Then it looked at me. Thing had one eye.” I said, babbling on and still stirring my soup. “When I was on the ground though it… it licked me? I don’t know man, I feel kind of violated.”

Ryu snorted, Matt and I both unsure of what was happening as it began to turn into full-throated laughter.

”You got lucky. Hitotsume-kozo. Cyclops children.” He said, still laughing. “They’re harmless, though they can be… well, weird, as you experienced. Could have been worse.”

”Sorry, worse? It gets worse than being licked by a dwarf cyclops?” Matt asked, “Gonna need the lowdown here, boss.”

”Oh, yeah. Yokai can be very dangerous if you come across the right ones. You heard of the Kuchisake-onna?” Ryu asked, leaning forward. “There was an airman a while back, maybe two or three years ago. They covered his death as a suicide for his family. It was the Kuchisake-onna though. The Slit-Mouthed Woman.”

”Nope. Don’t like the sound of that.” Matt said, turning away.

”You should take warning.” Ryu said again. “If you run into a woman hiding the lower half of her face, you’ve found the Kuchisaka-onna. She’ll ask you if you think she’s pretty.”

”Should I also ask her on a date?” Matt asked, snorting at his own joke. Ryu only gave him a tired side-eye, used to his shitty jokes by now.

“You can’t run away immediately. She’ll take that as calling her ugly. Tell her she’s pretty, then she’ll show you the lower half of her face, mouth cut-“ He made a motion from one ear, down across his mouth, all the way back up to the other side. “Into a huge grin. She’ll ask you the question again. Tell her she’s not pretty, she kills you with huge scissors. Tell her she is pretty, she’ll slice you just like her. They found that airman with his mouth slit.”

”So you’re just screwed either way? That’s shitty.” I said, thinking back to last night. That was already awful enough, I didn’t want to run into more. I just felt gross, my skin tingling again with the feeling of being licked.

“The best method for getting away from a yokai is to confuse it. This goes for a lot of them, from Kuchisaka-onna to Aka-mondo. Ask them a question in return and you’ll have time to run.” Ryu looked us both in the eyes now, like a command to take him seriously. “There are others to just avoid entirely. Run into some of the more vile ones, and you’ll be… well, as Americans say, fucked.”

”Cool. Never leaving the base again, I guess.” I said, practically sl...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/CreepyStoriesJR on 2024-09-06 19:25:36+00:00.

---

It was well past midnight when I finally arrived at the Elmwood Hotel. The journey had been long, the roads winding through dark, unfamiliar territory. By the time I reached the hotel, I was utterly exhausted, my eyelids heavy and my body aching from the hours spent behind the wheel. The Elmwood was the only place I could find in this remote area, a grand old building that seemed to have been plucked straight from a different era. Its faded brick facade and dimly lit sign were barely visible in the fog that clung to the night.

I stepped inside, grateful for the warmth of the lobby, which contrasted sharply with the chill outside. The place was quiet, eerily so. The front desk was manned by a single clerk, an elderly man with thinning hair and a weary expression. He looked up as I approached, offering a tired but polite smile.

“Welcome to the Elmwood Hotel,” he said in a low, gravelly voice. “How can I help you?”

“I’d like a room for the night,” I replied, my voice sounding just as tired as I felt.

The clerk nodded and reached for a large, dusty register on the desk. He flipped through the pages, his fingers moving slowly, almost methodically. After a moment, he looked up at me, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“Not many guests this time of year,” he remarked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “But we do have a room available, room 714.”

He handed me an old-fashioned key, the kind with an ornate metal tag attached. The number 714 was engraved on it, worn but still legible.

“Your room is on the seventh floor,” the clerk said, pointing toward the elevator at the far end of the lobby. “Enjoy your stay.”

I thanked him and made my way to the elevator, my footsteps echoing in the empty lobby. As I rode up to the seventh floor, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. The hotel had a strange, musty smell, and the decor was outdated, faded wallpaper, dim lighting, and threadbare carpeting that seemed to belong to a different time.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, revealing a dimly lit hallway that stretched out before me. The walls were lined with old paintings, their colors muted and their frames tarnished with age. The carpet underfoot was thick, but the pattern was faded and worn in places. I glanced at the numbers on the doors as I walked, each one labeled with a brass plate, 710, 711, 712, but there was no sign of room 714.

The hallway seemed to go on forever, the lights growing dimmer the further I walked. Just as I was beginning to think I’d made a mistake, I spotted it, a door at the very end of the hallway, almost hidden in the shadows. The brass plate on the door read “714,” though the numbers were slightly askew, as if the plate had been hastily attached.

I hesitated for a moment, a strange feeling of unease settling over me. But I was too tired to care. All I wanted was to collapse into bed and get some rest. I inserted the key into the lock and turned it, the mechanism clicking softly as the door swung open.

The first thing that struck me about room 714 was how old-fashioned it was. The furnishings were all impeccably clean, but they looked like they hadn’t been updated in decades. The bed was a massive four-poster with heavy drapes that hung down on all sides. The wallpaper was a deep burgundy with an intricate floral pattern, and the carpet was a rich, dark green. A large wooden wardrobe stood against one wall, and an ornate vanity with a round mirror occupied the opposite corner.

The room was illuminated by a single, dim lamp on the nightstand, casting long shadows across the floor. There was a television, but it was one of those old boxy models from the 1980s, sitting on a wooden stand near the foot of the bed. The air was cool, almost cold, and there was a faint smell of mothballs and something else, something I couldn’t quite place.

Despite its age, the room was spotless. The bed was neatly made, the linens crisp and white. The wooden furniture gleamed in the soft light, free of dust or grime. It was as if the room had been preserved in time, untouched by the years that had passed outside its walls.

I set my bag down on the bed and let out a deep sigh of relief. My exhaustion had overtaken any feelings of unease I might have had, and all I could think about was getting some sleep. I quickly changed into my pajamas and climbed into bed, the mattress firm but surprisingly comfortable.

As I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about the room. It was too quiet, too still, as if the air itself was holding its breath. But fatigue won out, and before I knew it, I had drifted off to sleep.

I don’t know how long I slept, but I was jolted awake by the sound of a phone ringing. The noise was sharp and piercing, echoing through the silence of the room. I sat up, disoriented, and looked around, trying to pinpoint where the sound was coming from.

It was an old rotary phone, sitting on the nightstand next to the bed. I hadn’t noticed it before, it blended in with the rest of the room’s outdated decor. The phone continued to ring, insistent and demanding. My first instinct was to ignore it, but something compelled me to pick it up.

I lifted the receiver to my ear, expecting to hear a voice on the other end. But there was nothing, just silence. I waited for a moment, my heart pounding, but still, no one spoke. Just as I was about to hang up, I heard it, a faint whisper, barely audible over the crackling static.

“Please… help me…”

The voice was distant, distorted, as if it were coming from a great distance. I felt a chill run down my spine as I strained to hear more, but the line went dead. I quickly hung up the phone, my hands trembling.

The room felt colder now, the shadows longer and darker. I glanced at the clock on the nightstand, it was just after 3 AM. The unease I had felt earlier had returned, stronger than before. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone in the room, that something was watching me from the darkness.

I tried to brush it off, telling myself it was just a prank call, a glitch in the phone system. But as I lay back down, I couldn’t shake the image of the voice on the other end, pleading for help.

The television flickered on by itself, the screen filled with static. I bolted upright, staring at the old boxy TV in disbelief. The remote was on the nightstand, untouched. I grabbed it and tried to turn off the TV, but the screen remained lit, the static hissing softly.

And then, through the static, I saw something, a figure, faint and shadowy, standing in the center of the screen. The image flickered and jumped, but the figure remained, unmoving. I couldn’t make out any details, but it was clear that the figure was a person, watching me through the screen.

My breath caught in my throat as I stared at the screen, unable to look away. The figure began to move, slowly at first, and then more quickly, as if approaching the camera. I fumbled with the remote, my hands shaking, and finally managed to turn the TV off.

The room was plunged into darkness, the silence deafening. I sat there in the dark, my heart racing, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Had I imagined it? Was it some kind of glitch, a trick of the light?

But deep down, I knew that wasn’t the case. There was something wrong with this room, something deeply, terribly wrong.

I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep after that. My nerves were shot, my mind racing with fear and confusion. I needed to know more about this room, about what was happening here. I got out of bed and began to search the room, hoping to find something, anything, that would explain the strange occurrences.

I checked the wardrobe first, half-expecting to find something hidden inside. But it was empty, save for a few wooden hangers that clattered together as I opened the door. The vanity was equally bare, its drawers containing nothing but dust.

Finally, I turned my attention to the bed. I lifted the mattress, expecting to find nothing, but my heart skipped a beat when I saw it, a small, leather-bound book, wedged between the mattress and the box spring.

I pulled it out, my hands trembling, and opened it to the first page. The handwriting was neat and precise, the ink slightly faded with age. The first entry was dated nearly fifty years ago.

“July 3rd, 1972. I’ve checked into room 714 at the Elmwood Hotel. The journey was long, and I’m exhausted, but there’s something about this room that doesn’t feel right. The air is heavy, and the shadows seem to move on their own. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.”

I felt a chill run down my spine as I read the entry. It mirrored my own experience so closely that it was uncanny. I flipped through the pages, skimming the entries, and found that they all told a similar story, guests who had stayed in room 714, all reporting strange occurrences, all feeling a sense of unease that grew stronger with each passing day.

As I continued reading, I noticed that the entries grew increasingly frantic, the handwriting becoming more erratic. The guests reported hearing voices, seeing figures in the shadows, and feeling an overwhelming sense of dread. Some entries even mentioned the phone ringing in the middle of the night, just as it had for me.

But it was the final entry that sent a wave of cold fear through me.

“August 15th, 1983. I can’t take it anymore. The voices won’t stop, and the figure in the T...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ConnectionFit4696 on 2024-09-06 18:45:22+00:00.

---

I will never forget that name and the nightmare it brought me. When I finally turned eighteen, my parents bought me a tiny home near the college I would be attending. I was more than grateful for that; it meant a lot to me to have my own place.

I liked the privacy that came with it, the alone time I had there that I didn’t have back when I was living with my parents and three younger siblings. However, I did have a creepy neighbor, Mr. Smith. He was an older guy, kind of scraggly and worn down. He lived right beside me, and our yards were only divided by a chain-link fence.

He would go outside and just stand in his yard, staring at my house, or walk up and down the sidewalk from his house to the end of mine and back to his. He never walked the full length of the sidewalk. He stood weirdly too, tall and skinny with a hunched back, and he always kept both hands in his pockets.

About six months into my stay and settling into my place, I noticed Mr. Smith had stopped walking the sidewalk, and I hadn’t seen him outside in a few days. I shrugged it off and was actually kind of glad that I didn’t have to deal with his weird behavior. I was sure it would pick back up, though.

Two more months went by, and still, I had seen nothing of Mr. Smith. Now, he may be a weird man, but he was elderly, so I thought maybe he had a heart attack or a stroke. I didn’t know if he lived alone or not, so I called the police for a wellness check.

The police checked his house out. They said he wasn’t there, and there were no signs of foul play. They said he probably just moved and didn’t say anything to anyone. I thought it was weird, but I didn’t think much of it. I was glad that the creepy old man was gone.

A few weeks later, I was putting groceries away. When I finished, I went to take a shower. While I was showering, I heard some kind of commotion coming from the kitchen, so I made it quick and headed out there. I looked around and noticed my whole loaf of bread was gone. It had completely vanished. Weird stuff like this would happen all the time.

My toothbrush went missing, toothpaste went missing. My hairbrush, my sweater, my lighters, my blankets, a pillow, more food, and even my damn toaster—like, come on. It was almost comical until it wasn’t. I began to hear heavy breathing, seemingly coming from my walls.

Whispers at night or slight chuckles. I could have sworn sometimes a very bright light would flash in my room and then suddenly stop. I could hear what sounded like footsteps, cabinet doors opening and closing. I got so freaked out I called over one of my guy friends from college to stay a few nights with me.

"So, you believe your house is haunted?" he asked with skepticism and sarcasm. I sighed and truthfully replied, "Yes. You'll see after a little while." He stayed for three nights, but nothing ever happened. He joked at me and left.

As soon as he left, though, the strange occurrences began. Night after night, I would hear rummaging, walking, whispering, and laughing. The flashes of light continued until I finally got tired of it. I decided to investigate myself.

I stayed up late and waited for the noises to happen. This time, I followed the whispers and footsteps. I went down the hall, through the kitchen, and into the guest bathroom. That's when I found where the noise was coming from: my vents.

I slowly stood on the toilet and peered into my vent. At first, I didn’t see anything; it was too dark. I was about to look away when I noticed something. Eyes opened up—bright blue eyes. I screamed and backed away immediately. I ran out of my house and called the police.

When the police arrived, two officers came to talk to me while two more went inside to investigate. As the officers were talking to me, I watched as the other officers came charging out of my house with Mr. Smith in handcuffs. I passed out after that.

I woke up in the hospital. I was fine, just passed out from the blood rush and shock. The horror and disgust overwhelmed me. Had he been watching me this whole time? A little while later, the same two officers I had spoken to before came into my room.

They told me that the person in my house was indeed a 58-year-old man named Emery Smith. They had searched the vents and found pictures of me and signs of someone living there. My stomach turned as I heard this. I felt as if I was going to pass out again.

When I got out of the hospital, I moved back in with my parents. I’m 22 now, and I don’t think I’ll ever move out again.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/nubats on 2024-09-06 11:53:18+00:00.

---

Maybe I should describe what I mean by that before everything else causes unnecessary confusion. It never started. It was just there from the beginning. It’s always been normal for me because until you leave the age of naivety behind, most things feel like a given. For the most part, my perception of time is probably similar to that of the people around me, but every now and then it gets a little confused. It can be slower or faster, almost standing still or too fast to process.

In the past, especially during school, these, let's call them events, were a plague. Because a little too often I skipped several weeks without really realizing what had happened during them, and so I had to repeat one or two exams involuntarily. But it often went the other way as well. As clichéd as that may sound, the endless math lessons often really dragged on for an eternity. I would have to estimate that the longest of them would have taken a whole "real" day. But something that has never happened before is happening right now while my fingers are drumming on the small cell phone keypad.

Time stands completely still. Just as I walked through the narrow doors of the subway and was about to make my way home, everything froze. Without warning. The lights above me stopped flickering, the people around me froze from one second to the next. But I didn't. Not only is everything completely frozen, but the entire environment is also impossibly quiet. No echo of the stressed footsteps, no announcements over the trains, not even the draft of air that usually freezes my neck moves through the many corridors and tunnels.

Normally, the sudden changes in perception don't really bother me and the people around me have never noticed either. Just because time passes differently for me doesn't mean that I'm no longer subject to the laws of physics. My body always moves according to the circumstances. If time slows down for me, I move and speak more slowly and vice versa; the only thing that is detached is my mind, which is why my current situation seems so strange to me. I move and think at my usual speeds, even though according to my usual logic, I should be frozen as well but able to think.

At first, I thought everything was just one of my normal events; it didn't feel that different in the beginning. Of course, it annoyed me to a certain extent, after all, I have no control over the length and extent of my distorted understanding of time. As far as I know, this can either stop before I type the next sentence or continue like this for the rest of my life. As you can testify here, the former unfortunately did not happen.

For the first few minutes, I wandered around randomly and even enjoyed it a little. People look more interesting when they stand still and as my steps carried me through the great hall, I really became aware of their facial expressions. Most of them blank until you look more closely. A woman who was inspecting the timetable had small tears in her eyes, probably from overexertion or something that I couldn't decipher. A young man in baggy clothes and huge headphones over his close-cropped hair wore a small smile as he stood on the stairs. With every face and posture that I looked at more closely, I noticed how little attention one normally pays to their surroundings.

I also noticed that I was probably completely excluded from temporary petrification, as my stomach began to growl loudly after my short inspection walk, but fortunately there were a few supermarkets nearby. This was where my first problem would arise. The automatic doors were closed and since the sensors and electric door openers also seemed to be subject to the state of time around me, I had no choice but to keep looking for supermarkets until I found one with open doors because I couldn't go home.

My little "command center", as I like to call the apartment, is still seven train stations away. So, I started my foray into supermarkets when I heard a noise behind me, or at least I think I heard something. At that point, the only sound waves that reached my ears were the rubbing of my clothes, my breathing and the echo of my shoes ramming their heels into the ground with every step. But what I heard was none of that. It sounded more like a deep piano note played by an old, detuned instrument that was carried through several train station alleys, bouncing off the stone walls again and again until the sound waves hit me. I dismissed it as my imagination and immediately tried to forget it. My hunger was in charge for the time being, demanding food and telling me to worry less and force more calories down my throat.

My foray picked up speed again and after too many steps and a walk through half the station area, my eyes fell on an open door to a bakery. I entered with a smile on my face; the smell of pastries and sweet goods immediately made my stomach rumble. Out of habit, I stood behind the short line of frozen people for a moment until I realized that I would probably rot before they could place their order. I realized that paying now was really just optional as I walked around the counter and reached for the doughnuts myself, since the seller was just as approachable as I usually am early in the morning. No one would even notice that I had been here; I was basically free to do whatever I wanted. But reason trumped my malice and I put the exact amount on the glass counter. As the coins left my fingers, they immediately froze in the air below. Surprised, I tried to drop the doughnut I had just bought, and it too stayed where it was. I unwrapped the paper from the doughnut and raised it to my mouth, letting it go immediately, watching it get stuck in the void. Without touching it any further, I ate it whole while it hovered helplessly in front of my mouth. I walked out of the store laughing loudly, amused by the absurdity of the situation, or at least I wanted to.

My chest rose and fell, but no sounds came out of my throat. Confused, I tried again, this time urgently forcing laughter, but again no sound came out. That had never happened in any of my prior phases of warped perception, but I had never eaten hands-free before either. I tried to speak, whisper and shout, but nothing audibly came out of my mouth. The more often I tried, the stranger and more insecure I felt with each attempt. As if I were breaking a rule. My throat began to cramp; it filled with mucus and my vocal cords refused to vibrate any further. Slowly, the slight insecurity turned into something else. Even though I didn't want to admit it to myself, fear rose within me. How could it be that I could hear my footsteps, my breathing and my clothes but not my own voice?

I wanted to try screaming again but stopped myself. I don't know what would have happened if I hadn't, but I wouldn't want to find out. Because there was actually a sound. Not caused by me but by something behind me. A long, impossibly deep "NOOOOOOOOOOO" rang out like an ice storm through my ear canal and crept into the last fiber of my consciousness, erasing everything and leaving nothing but sheer panic. My blood froze immediately, and I did as well. It didn't sound like a human sound, nor like wind or any kind of machinery. It sounded like something indescribable was right behind me; I could almost feel a breath in my ear as it spoke into it; the sound seemed so close. I can't describe it any better now, only the unbelievably cold feeling that shot down my back immediately afterwards. Pure misery spread through my whole body, flowing into every last cell, every last bit of existence that I could feel of myself. Fear is miles away from what I felt running through my head when the noise disappeared again. Unfortunately, it didn't take the feeling with it.

Slowly and with more caution than I would normally have ever been able to lay down, I turned around. A few meters behind me stood only a man, frozen in time. He must have been about eighty; his long gray hair fell down his shoulders like a river of oil, flowing seamlessly into his beard. His dirty clothes hung in stiff shreds to the floor as he was stretched out across the pavement trying to grab something that was no longer there. I looked into his eyes, and they were as calm as the rest of his body. Eventually I gathered up all the courage I had left and dared to breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe I had just imagined it all. Maybe my head was just going a bit crazy because the whole situation was so unfamiliar. Yes, exactly; that had to be it. I was just a bit paranoid due to the situation and one or two auditory illusions could probably just be a byproduct. I’ve been through enough unfamiliar experiences, and this is just one of them. This thought helped me calm down a bit, but only until I looked at the green eyes again, streaked with cataracts and burst capillaries. Because now they were looking back, staring straight into what felt like my soul.

All the panic that had built up at that moment shot into my legs, screaming at them to give it everything they had. And that's exactly what they did. I've never run so fast before, and I didn't even know what I was running from or why. I ran until my lungs burned and my legs gave way. Every now and then I risked a few glances over my shoulder, but no one was following me.

I don't think I'm alone here, and I don't believe this is just a false perception of time. I may be the only one who can move, but if whatever just happen...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1fad9d5/time_for_me_has_never_behaved_the_way_others_have/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/IslandGirl8412 on 2024-09-06 00:38:25+00:00.

---

The sound made me jump, a drop of red wine splashing out of my glass and onto the fabric of the couch. Shit. I dabbed at the spot with my sleeve, wondering if I had imagined the knock. After all, I wasn’t expecting a visitor, and the distant rumble of thunder suggested the storm was moving closer. Perhaps the wind had picked something up and tossed it against the side of the house.

Tap, tap, tap.

No, I hadn’t imagined it—someone was at the door. I tossed aside the book I was reading and placed my wine glass on the coffee table. As I approached the front door, I stole a quick glance at the wall clock in the hallway. Quarter past nine. Out the frosted panes of the front window, I could see three silhouetted forms huddled together on the front porch. I hesitated for a moment, and then realized that one was smaller than the others. My feeling of trepidation vanished. It was a family.

I turned the deadbolt and peered out at the three rain-soaked strangers outside. My gaze first fell on the small boy who stood with his head down, staring intently at his shoes. The father wore an oversized raincoat with the collar turned up and though his lips were turned upwards in a smile, it gave the impression of being neither friendly nor happy. His wife spoke first.

“Terribly sorry to bother you, but our car broke down.” The woman gestured down the road, her soft voice barely carrying over the sound of the wind. “Can we use your phone?”

I hesitated at the thought of letting strangers into my home, and for a moment considered grabbing my phone from its charger rather than offering the landline in the kitchen. But then I noticed that the little boy was shivering, and I knew I couldn’t leave these people out in the cold.

“Of course,” I held the door open wider and moved aside, but the family didn’t move towards the entrance. I realized that they were likely as nervous at entering a stranger’s home as I was letting them in, but I was getting chilly now and wanted to curl back up on the couch with my book. The faster it took to get things sorted, the better. I forced a reassuring smile and gestured inside. “You can come in, the phones in the kitchen. It’s one of those ones with the cords, I know it seems weird, but I like the nostalgia of it.”

I watched as they suddenly moved through the entrance, their movements strangely stiff. Of course, they had been standing out in the cold, and were probably freezing. I turned my back to them, noticing as I closed the door that there was no car in sight. “How far did you have to—” As I spun back towards the hall, my blood froze. The family was gone. An icy claw of fear pierced my heart and for a moment I stood alone, listening to silence, telling myself not to be silly. They had just continued into the house to use the phone. I noticed a set of muddy footprints headed down the hall just as a clatter came from the kitchen. I forced a breath and the lights flickered again. It suddenly occurred to me that I wasn’t prepared for a storm. Once these people were gone, I would pull out some candles in case the power went out.

I was about to walk down the hallway when I noticed something odd. There was only one set of footprints headed in the direction of the kitchen. I stepped back towards the front entrance and saw the others — one set of prints headed in the direction of the living room, and more headed up the stairs. What the hell? I thought about grabbing a weapon, then shook the thought away as I remembered that there was a child here. I wasn’t in danger; these people were just assholes. I made my way to the kitchen, following the footprints, but stopped in my tracks at the doorway. The kitchen was empty.

There was a roar of wind that shook the house, and the room was thrown into darkness so abruptly that my surprise caused me to stumble backwards. I grabbed onto the side of the doorframe just as a flash of lightning tore through the sky, illuminating the hallway so briefly that my mind barely had time to register the presence of another person beside me before the hallway was bathed in blackness again. I gasped

"Who's there?"

Straining my eyes, I looked into the darkness, and a second flash of lightning confirmed what I already somehow knew: no one was there. A floorboard creaked above me. Still holding onto the doorframe, I pulled myself into the kitchen and felt my way through the dark room, grasping blindly at unfamiliar surfaces. Another flash of lightning lit up the sky, and I used the quick burst of light to help me find my way towards the drawer that I knew held candles and matches.

My hands were shaking as I lit the first candle. From somewhere inside the house I heard a moan that sounded almost inhuman. I listened in horror, trying to make sense of the sound. Was it one of the children? The house was quiet again and I registered a familiar shape across the kitchen. The phone. I jumped across the kitchen to grab the receiver, a lifeline to the world outside. I lifted it to my ear and almost laughed in relief when I heard the ringtone. I had never loved this old phone more. I dialed 911 and almost sobbed in relief when I heard the dispatcher’s voice on the other end.

“Hello, what is your emergency?”

“Please help me. There are strangers in my house.”

There was a strange hollow clicking on the other end, then a familiar moan broke through the small speaker, growing in volume. I dropped the phone, almost crying out in terror myself. The receiver fell towards the ground, but it was stopped by the long cord before it touched the ground. Even though it hung inches from the floor, I could hear the moaning grow louder.

I ran.

I clutched the candle in my hand, the flame threatening to go out as I dashed through the hallway, my thoughts fragmented. I had to get out of here. To the car. Where were my keys? Jacket pocket. Grab my jacket, get out, drive. Drive where? Police station, hotel, anywhere.

I was so blinded with terror that I didn’t see the figure in front of the door until it was right in front of me. I gasped in surprise, realizing it was the little boy. His head was bowed, just as it had been when he stood on the front porch, and as he slowly lifted it, I saw, in the dim candlelight only darkness where his eyes should be, and a mouth wide open in a silent scream. I screamed and ran backwards, falling onto the stairs. The boy started to move stiffly towards me, and I pulled myself up, taking the stairs two at a time. I could see the empty bedroom at the top of the stairway, and launched myself into it, throwing the door closed with a slam that seemed to make the house shake. I twisted the small lock beneath the handle, glad to have one extra barrier between myself and this insane family.

The candlelight flickered and a sob escaped my throat as I heard footsteps stop in front of the door.

Tap, tap, tap.

I had a sudden flashback of the knock that had led me to this moment, and another sob wracked my body. I knew that even if they couldn’t get in, I would have to leave the room eventually, so I looked frantically around the room for a weapon, anything to defend myself. The only thing I could think to grab was my laptop but picking it up I knew it wouldn’t be much use as a weapon. I went to the small window and looked down. If I broke the glass, I might be able to squeeze through the opening. But a fall from this height might kill me.

Thud! Thud! Thud! This time it was not knuckles rapping against the wood, but a fist that shook the whole door.

I’ve stopped crying now. The power has come back on, but it hasn’t dulled my terror. There have been more noises: scratching at the door, wailing coming from somewhere else inside the house. Sometimes they knock and other times I think they’ll break down the door. It might only be a matter of time until they do. But that isn’t my main concern. I’m scared because I saw the lights of a police cruiser pull in front of the house.

And the lights flickered when they knocked on the front door.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/No-Original890 on 2024-09-06 10:51:33+00:00.

---

Hi everyone, not sure if this is the right sub as it came up when I searched about insomnia but I feel like I should tell this here because I don't think anyone else would believe me if I posted it anywhere else.

Anyway, my posting this all started with my weird neighbour. He moved in next to me a couple of months ago and has mostly been a shut-in. I've only seen him a few times, and he creeps me out every time. The first time I ever met him was when he moved in- he looked relatively normal, albeit a little sweaty and dirty- and gave me this strange look as I walked up to greet him;

"Hi, welcome to (blank)! It's really nice to meet you, I look forward to seeing you more!"

He turned around, smiling widely

"Have you heard of him?"

"Of who?"

He looked at me like I was speaking a different language, before bowing his head almost reverently and gasping the next words like a chant;

"Him. He who speaks the gruesome words in prayer, who gives dire sermons in the abhorrent. He shows us the way in the revolting and paints the horrific in unholy murals."

He eyes twinkle with every word, body shaking with rising intensity as he grabbed my shoulders and pulled me close, whispering hoarsely into my ear

"He guides us in what is unnatural and teaches us to be his children. You’ll know him soon”

With this, he laughed huskily, shoulders shaking as he shuffled away into his house.

Ever since then, every night, I can hear him laughing and whispering through the walls. He thumps his hands against the walls and the floor and screams. I can hear someone else talking, it's not as clear though- more like a deep murmur than the high-pitched warbling voice of my neighbour. I've tried to researched about whatever he was talking about when I met him but nothing has ever came up. In all of my searching, only one result had ever came up- writings and reports from someone called Detective W. I've skim read it, but one passage really stood out to me. It was someone else who W reported on someone who also obsessed over 'he who shows us in the way in the revolting’ Whatever that meant.

'She kept chanting- over and over- about him. She has devolved into being locked into her room, stamping the floor, shouting about how he will 'save her'. She has made a large dent into the walls of her room where she repeatedly smashes her head, and when eventually she started bleeding, she would rub the blood into strange sigils on the ground and roll around in them, while crying hysterically, as we saw in the final inspection into the room before she shut herself in completely. My team and I did manage to break the door down, but we were far too late. Whatever I could attempt to depict about the scene that was presented to us as we entered the room would not manage to emphasise the gravity and horror of her condition. She was too far gone. There was no saving her now.'

It just stuck in my mind. My neighbour had started down that same path as this mystery person who was 'too far gone after a while'? I know it wasn't my place, but I started to spy on him. Just to be safe.

For weeks, I would watch him through my window and try to catch him when he was rarely outside of the house. He had become more of a shut-in than usual, only coming out to pick up food orders and to check the coast was clear. I reasoned with myself, that I was just concerned for my neighbour, and worried for his safety, but I knew deep down I just wanted to see whatever 'too far gone' was like.

There was one night last week where I saw my neighbour open his door like usual, to pick up his takeout order- but there was nothing to pick up? He didn't appear at the door either, just quickly unlocked the door and then ran out, leaving it swaying gently in the breeze of the night. I tried to fight my rising curiosity, but I felt my legs move to creep to his front door before I could reason with myself any further.

Opening his door slowly, I called out my neighbour's name- with no response.

The stench of rotting food hit my nose in a damp waft; his house was in seeming disrepair. Dark stains on the floor and walls, rotten food smothered into the carpet and piled up high on the counters, and dishes and other decorations smashed into the walls, gathering into piles in the floor. It looked like he had been robbed. I began to think that he wasn't home, but then I heard a shuddered, faint sob from one of the rooms upstairs. Moving up the stairs quietly, careful to dodge the piled-up trash and mysterious damp stains, I came to the hallway lime-lit in crimson. Red light seemed to be streaming through a sliver in the door frame of the room the sob came from. All I could hear was hushed breathing and uncontrollable sobs from whoever was in the room, followed by silence. I had to look closer.

Through a sliver in the doorframe, I saw- bathed in a reddish glow, there kneeled my neighbour. He had a video playing on his laptop that could only be described as a deep warbling audio of someone speaking, followed by the occasional laugh and another deep voice of someone replying. I couldn't make out what was being said, but my neighbour's shoulders shook as he weeped along to whatever was being said. Then, there was a reprieve.

Whatever was playing on the laptop, stopped- only faint static could be heard. Finally looking up, my neighbour reached around behind him. He had tears still streaming down his face. A shaking, apprehensive sigh and a solemn look on his face, he sawed a finger off.

I could feel my pulse roaring in my ears. I was unable to tear my eyes away from what was unfolding in front of me. With the finger now gushing blood, my neighbour cried out. He jabbed his finger on to the floor and drew something; an ornate and jagged sigil that read the letter ‘H’

His body began to writhe and shake in a crumpled heap on the floor. The blood from the sigil smeared on the floor and over his clothes as he wailed and screamed. It looked like something was moving around underneath his skin. His arms and legs bent in unnatural angles, rolling over before somehow getting to his knees like before. He screamed and screamed, over and over, horrific wailing filling the room- before finally- it all stopped. His body stayed there, in that kneel, until his eyes rolled back and his mouth opened to an unnatural degree.

Red, viscous liquid flooded from his eyes, nose and down his chin as a loud, booming voice came out of him like a speaker.

"HE IS HERE. HE WILL ACCEPT YOU INTO HIS DIRE LIGHT ONCE YOU GIVE YOURSELF AS A VESSEL FOR HIM. FOR HE SHOWS THE WAY IN THE REVOLTING AND PAINTS THE HORRIFIC IN UNHOLY MURALS."

My neighbour clamped his mouth shut before his neck bent into an unnatural angle to face me, looking me directly in the eyes. His bones creaked and moaned as they bent his legs and arms. He went from kneeling to galloping unsteadily towards me in a split second, leaving me no time to react. He jumped towards me, screeching as he managed to grab one of my ankles in my mad dash away from him, as he dragged me into his room.

I got a good look at his face up close as he loomed over me. The red liquid from earlier had dried on his cheeks and his chin but still dripped from his eyes. His eyes had completely clouded over, with the 'H' sigil being seemingly burned into his forehead now. He grabbed my shoulders with shaking hands as he raised what was left of his finger to my forehead. I squeezed my eyes shut, unable to move, frozen in fear. He drew the sigil on my forehead before bowing his head to whisper in my ear.

"He'll be with you soon."

He then passed out suddenly, landing suddenly on the floor next to me.

I ran out of that house as fast as my legs would allow.

Luckily, none of my other neighbours saw me in that state- I don't care what happens to my neighbour at this point. I didn't even close the door behind me as I ran to my bathroom to scrub the sigil off of my forehead. I had five showers in a row since then, and I shower twice daily and scrub my face until it's red.

It's been a few weeks since then, and I've been having crazy dreams every night ever since. It starts off normal, then morphs into this face- it looks so uncanny- it has black eyes far too big for it's face and a wide smile with a few too many teeth that stretches it's face so far the skin tears. I don't sleep much now, and I haven't been going to work recently because of these dreams. I've started to research if other people see this face as much as I do, but nothing. I think I'm going crazy.

Whenever it's quiet in my house now, I feel like I can hear someone or something walking around downstairs and creeping up the stairs. Every time I open my door and check, there's nothing there and the noise stops for a few hours before starting up again. It's probably the sleep deprivation, but I can't function properly anymore. One night, I let the noise go further and further up the stairs, coming across the hall, before clicking open the lock to my door with ease. I rolled over as fast as I can and pretended to sleep. It knew I was awake.

It makes this faint, deep, warbling murmur from the back of its throat before breathing heavily for what seemed like hours.

I can feel it move closer to me, putting its large head close to mine, looming close enough that I can hear the squeak as it grinds its teeth. It stays there, staring a hole in the back of my head for hours as I can see the outline of its head from the shadow on my wall....

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1fac6pa/my_neighbour_is_a_creep/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/MediaRegular5636 on 2024-09-04 21:14:51+00:00.

---

I didn’t get much sleep that night. I sat up, my mind racing with endless questions. What could it all mean? Where was his body? Could he still be alive? Was this some terrible joke? And where was Angela? If it was murder, why the noose? The thoughts swirled in my head, loud and unrelenting. Little did I know, some of these questions would soon be answered.

The next morning, I woke up feeling like I had been run over. No one had contacted me about work, but I decided to go in, just in case someone was expecting me. When I arrived, I tried the front door, but it was locked. I headed to the back and used my key to get in. I set my bag on the breakroom table and quietly walked around the office, going room by room. I didn’t hear or see anyone, but something felt wrong. The air was thick and heavy, and the entire place seemed different. I told myself it was probably just the aftermath of last night's events.

When I reached Dr. Lance's office, I slowly opened the door. I half-expected to see him sitting there with a smile, asking about my weekend. If I hadn’t been so frightened of him after Friday, I might have even wished to confide in him about his own disappearance. But the office was as empty as I had expected. As I scanned the room, something caught my eye on the corner of his desk. I stepped closer for a better look, and my brain struggled to make sense of the grisly sight in front of me. It was a canine tooth crossed under a lateral, with a molar perched on top. The roots of the molar wrapped around the single-rooted teeth, acting as a sort of clamp. They were still bloody, the blood looking dried, but not completely—still holding onto its red hue. I stared at it, unsure of what to do.

I decided to run to the nearest operatory to put on gloves. Grabbing a sterile pouch from the lab, I carefully placed the strange tooth formation inside. I examined it for a few moments before sliding it into my pocket. I searched the room for any other signs of something unusual, but nothing else seemed out of place. The only thing missing was the small vial of teeth Dr. Lance had been staring at before he lashed out at me. I wondered if it meant anything, but decided to bring the evidence to the police and give them any information they might need.

As I turned to leave the room, I nearly collided with Angela, who was standing silently behind me. I screamed, jumping out of my skin. Once I realized who it was, I bent over, trying to catch my breath. “Jesus, Angela, you scared me half to death. I didn’t think you’d be coming to work today.” I waited for a response, but she stared blankly at the corner of the desk. “Angela? Are you alright?” I asked, growing concerned.

“What were you doing in here?” she asked, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. My face grew pale. Not this again, I thought. This strange energy was getting out of hand, and I felt like a frightened animal backed into a corner. “N-nothing, I just—”

“You have no reason to be in here. Get out,” she said, her voice lifeless. I completely understood, considering what had just happened to her husband. I nodded and slipped out of the room without protest. As I rushed back to the break room, a shiver ran down my spine. All of this odd behavior was getting to me, so I grabbed my bag and hurried out the back door. 

As I pulled out of the parking lot, I decided I didn’t want to go home just yet. There was so much going through my mind, and I needed to clear my head with a nice long drive. I drove around the familiar streets and backroads of the town for about forty-five minutes, lost in thought. Eventually, I decided to drive past the Lance's home, just to see if what Sadie had described was exaggerated or not.

I had only visited their white picket-fenced home once before. They had invited me over one Friday to play some board games with their twin niece and nephew. They were about my age, and we actually had a wonderful time. Being fairly anti-social, it was a pleasant surprise to get along so well with a four-person group. The whole family seemed picture-perfect, with their welcoming smiles and a home that smelled like warm coffee and vanilla. As I reminisced, I turned the corner onto their street, and my eyes were immediately drawn to the end of it. Their beautiful home, once a place of love and excitement, was now a sight that would make anyone feel sick. It made me wonder once more how things had gone so wrong so quickly.

The crime scene tape covered the closed garage door, the front door, and acted as a fence around the whole yard. It was completely void of life, and the beautiful flowers that once lined the walkway were shriveled and dried. I slowly drove to the end of the street and parked my car in front of the neighbor's house for a moment. My nose began to sting as tears welled up again. A single tear rolled down my cheek, but before I could really cry, I noticed one of the blinds in the upstairs windows being pulled down as if someone was trying to peek out without being seen. My emotions quickly shifted to laser focus. I couldn’t make out any person, and for a moment, I thought maybe the blinds were just broken and always looked like that. 

As soon as the thought crossed my mind, I received a text. I glanced down at my phone and saw “Text message—Angela.” I didn’t open it right away but looked back up at the window. The blinds were back in their original shape, as if nothing had ever been out of place. My heart stopped, and I sucked in a barely audible gasp before quickly shifting my car back into drive. I didn’t want to stick around to see who or what was watching me. I whipped out of that neighborhood like a bat out of hell and decided it was time to go home.

As soon as I got home, I sank into the couch and turned on the TV. Angela's text was still waiting on my phone. I let Face ID unlock it so I could see the preview. It read, “Don’t be messing with things that you don—” The pit in my stomach deepened. I hadn’t even read the whole text, but I felt like I was being threatened by the Italian mafia or something. “Fuck, dude,” I said out loud to myself. I was so tired of all this mess. At this point, I felt like begging my previous boss for my job back. I’d gladly take some Gossip Girl drama over whatever this was.

I braced myself before opening the full message from Angela. “Don’t be messing with things that you don’t understand, Amelia. I need you to return what you stole by tomorrow morning. If it isn’t returned, bad things will happen. I’m serious.” Now, I felt that my life was in danger. I contemplated my next actions carefully. Should I respond to her text or just leave it alone and call the police? I was scared. No, I was terrified. I wanted out of this situation and didn’t want to deal with whatever messy consequences would inevitably come from all of this. But I knew I didn’t have a choice. I decided to do both. 

I quickly typed back, “You’re really scaring me, Angela,” and hit send. I decided I would visit the police department first thing tomorrow morning. I’d bring them the odd tooth formation I found and show them the creepy text I received from Angela. I was beginning to think Angela played a big part in whatever happened to Dr. Lance. I got up and made sure all of my doors and windows were locked, just in case I really was in danger. I didn’t fully believe Angela’s threat, but I didn’t want to take any chances either.

As I made my way to the kitchen to make myself a light lunch, my phone chimed again. “Text message—Angela.” This time, I immediately opened it. “This is much bigger than both of us. I’m warning you because I care about you. Do as I say, Amelia, or you will regret it.” I nearly dropped my phone. What the hell was she talking about? I decided it was time to turn my phone on Do Not Disturb. This was all too messy and too much for my brain to wrap around. I made myself a PB&J and turned on YouTube. I watched Moist Critical police chase videos and crocheted until the sun went down. It worked. I managed to wash my brain of the issue that had been haunting me, even if it was only temporary.

Around nine-thirty, I took my dogs out and herded them into their kennels. Most nights, I let them sleep in my bed, but tonight I wanted them to stay in the living room so that if anyone tried to break in, they would alert me. I brought my katana, which normally hung on the wall for decoration, into the bedroom with me. I set it on the floor next to my bed and wrapped myself up in the comforter. Surprisingly, it didn’t take long for me to fall asleep, despite my current dilemma. The constant stress must have been wearing on me.

It was three-thirty on the dot when my eyes shot open. I didn’t hear or feel anything out of the ordinary, so I wasn’t sure what had woken me. My eyes drifted to the alarm clock, and I lay still and silent, just to make sure it wasn’t an intruder. But my dogs were quiet, which meant I was safe. I let out a deep, sleepy breath and rolled onto my side, ready to drift back to sleep. That’s when I heard it—a plastic-sounding scrape coming from under the bed.

I froze, straining to listen. The floors were real wood, so I thought maybe one of the dog balls was rolling around with a draft, something that happened from time to time. But what I heard next was unmistakably horrifying: an impossibly deep, nearly demonic-sounding breath, like the sound CGI dinosaurs make in movies when they’re quietly hunting their prey. My skin turned to...

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Voodru on 2024-09-06 03:31:16+00:00.

---

My name is Besser. I’ve always been a man of many faces, a master of disguise, and a thief with a complicated past. An ex once said my life teeters on the edge of legality. An intricate dance of survival and deceit, all wrapped around a heart of gold. Sounds about right.

I have a knack for finding trouble—or maybe trouble has a knack for finding me sometimes. It’s hard to say which came first. But on this particular night, as the rain hammered against the pavement, trouble came in the form of a cryptic text message.

The words were simple: "We have one."

I continued my journey into a dingy bodega, the kind of place that attracts both lost souls and shady late-night characters. The owner, a wiry man, cast a suspicious glance in my direction as I entered. I was used to it. We exchanged a few vague words, and I left with a pack of cigarettes, my mind elsewhere.

The rain intensified as I made my way to, of all places, the morgue. Inside the bright yellow front door, I found nobody. I sat, waited, almost finding solace in the silence of the deceased until a man beckoned me through another door. In the backroom, two strangers awaited me, their faces tinged with anticipation. The men said their names were, Dr. Ramirez and Dr. Martin. Were those their real names? Probably not.

In the middle of the room, a barber’s chair caught my attention, its many attached wires and devices a chaotic mess—or maybe a puzzle. The wires, leading behind a curtain, were arranged in a way that didn’t exactly scream FDA approval. Ramirez noticed my curiosity about what was behind the curtain and offered, “Do you want to take a look?” I grimaced instantly. “Nope, no emotional attachments. I don’t need to know anything about it.”

My attention drifted just long enough for me to mutter, “500, right?” “Yeah,” Martin replied. I pulled a dog-eared wad of cash from my coat pocket, counted it, and tossed it toward the two white coats.

In the dimly lit room, I settled into the cold, metal chair. The air had the sharp scent of formaldehyde—a chilling reminder of exactly where we were. Ramirez and Martin positioned themselves at my side, their expressions barely hiding their cautious excitement.

“This is painless, right?” I confirmed.

“The transference should be instant and mild. Maybe a light static shock,” Ramirez assured me. The machine loomed before us, a marvel of backyard scientific ingenuity. Dr. Ramirez adjusted his spectacles with trembling hands as he prepared the apparatus.

"Are you ready, Mr. Besser?" His voice quivered with a mixture of trepidation. I nodded, trying to keep my heart from thumping so loudly it would give me away.

The machine hummed to life, its mechanical screech blending with the pattering rain and the rumble of thunder outside. Electrodes were attached to my temples, sending tiny jolts of electricity through my veins. My vision blurred, and reality faded into a whirlpool of darkness.

And then, with a surge of energy, I was transported into another world. Colors exploded around me—vibrant, clear. I found myself standing in a bustling city square, neon signs casting an otherworldly glow. The memories of another person flooded my senses, a wave of emotions and experiences.

I was no longer Steve Besser, the petty thief with a troubled past. In this strange fusion of two minds, I became someone else entirely. Unfamiliar faces flickered in and out of focus, their voices fragmented whispers. But I could taste their bitterness, feel the warmth of an embrace, and smell the stench of their fear.

Through the eyes of this other person, I saw a life teeming with affluence. A large penthouse apartment on Park Avenue, packed with extravagance—extravagance now unguarded.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, I jolted back into consciousness, my body drenched in sweat. Ramirez and Martin stood over me, watching intently, their eyes somehow filled with both awe and concern. The memory transference had given me a glimpse into another person’s world.

"Everything OK?" Ramirez confirmed. I was speechless, still absorbing what had just happened, but I sat up and nodded as Martin removed the electrodes. “All that was from him?” I asked, pointing behind the curtain. Ramirez sheepishly nodded.

 “How many times have you done this… actually, don’t tell me,” I muttered as I got to my feet.

“You’ll be able to access the memories like your own, but stimuli help speed up the process. Here’s the deceased’s information. Once you’re a few blocks away, the ‘instincts’ should kick in,” Martinez instructed.

“And him?” I motioned to the body behind the curtain.

“He won’t go anywhere,” Martinez grinned.

In the heart of the affluent Park Avenue district, I approached the luxury apartment building from my visions. The fancy façade and opulent surroundings contrasted sharply with the shadows hanging over my own life. But I didn’t let that distract me. I needed to focus.

As I neared the entrance, the visions started to overlap with my own sight, swirling like a roadmap in my mind. I saw myself, dressed in a tailored suit, walking toward the doorman with an air of confidence. Mirroring the vision, I confidently said, “Grant,” as I passed the towering figure. He gave me a respectful nod, just as I expected.

With the visions guiding me, I approached the porter, my movements smooth and calculated. “Good evening, Barry,” I greeted him, echoing the memory. His eyes warmed ever so slightly, something about me triggering a vague sense of familiarity. With a curt nod, he gestured for me to continue.

I stepped into the grand lobby, my adrenaline rising with the thrill of the heist. In the elevator, I pulled out a set of lockpicks from my pocket, feeling the weight of each tool. Level 15. The vision guided me like a compass, and I marched down the hall, my instinct leading the way. When I reached the door, I manipulated the tumblers. The lock yielded with a soft click.

Once inside, my gaze swept across the lavish interior. I pulled out a handheld metal detector, a trusted companion on jobs like this. With a flick of a switch, it hummed to life, beeping faintly whenever it detected gold. Methodically, I moved through the rooms, my gloved hand plucking golden trinkets from display cases and tabletops. Each piece was swiftly stowed away in my trusty backpack.

Then, a golden family photo frame caught my eye. Handling it with care, I gently removed the photo and placed it on the desk. The frame, a valuable branded piece, found its way into my bag.

My attention was suddenly drawn to a key lying in the middle of the coffee table. It was just an ordinary old door key, but something about it demanded my attention. I picked it up, examining it closely. Aside from a red dot of nail polish, it held no real unique mystery. I placed it back on the table, as I decided I’d spent enough time in harm’s way.

But just as I prepared to make my exit, the sound of the front door knob turning sent a jolt through me. My heart skipped a beat as the door creaked open. A young woman, her expression was of total confusion, stepped into the apartment. The beam from my headlamp cast a harsh light on her as I froze, caught red-handed.

The woman froze. I, however, tried to remain composed, my mind racing to find the perfect cover. Without missing a beat, I slipped into the persona of a maintenance worker.

"Apologies for the intrusion, ma'am," I said, keeping my tone calm and authoritative. "I'm here investigating a reported power outage. Seems I've found the problem. It should be resolved shortly."

Her initial shock started to fade, my words reassuring her. She hesitated for a moment before offering a tentative smile.

"Well, thank you for taking care of it," she replied, still a bit uncertain but clearly comforted by my confidence.

"All in a day's work, ma’am," I said, making my exit before her suspicion could resurface.

Rain poured relentlessly over the streets of New York, turning the pavement into a slick, treacherous obstacle course. I stepped out of a pawn shop, navigating the narrow alleys with ease as the city’s towering skyscrapers loomed above like watchful giants.

In the heart of this soaked urban jungle, a dilapidated bar provided a much-needed refuge. The neon sign flickered weakly, casting faint light onto the wet sidewalk. I pushed open the door, entering a haze of dim lighting and the low hum of whiskey-soaked conversations. The pungent scent of stale smoke lingered in the air, exactly the kind of place I could lose myself in for a while.

Maggie, the barmaid with a knowing smile and eyes framed by smoky eyeliner, greeted me with a nod. Without a word, she poured me a whiskey, sliding the glass across the worn bar.

As the rain continued its assault outside, I found solace in Maggie's company and the Mets game playing on the TV. We talked, sharing fragments of our lives, our hopes, and the burdens we carried. My words flowed like the rain hitting the window, slowly and steadily. I confided in her about my foster father—the man who had raised me and now sat trapped in the fog of Alzheimer's. The mounting medical bills, the weight of his care, and the strain it placed on my meager earnings had driven me deeper into the perilous world of thievery.

Maggie moved gracefully down the bar, serving drinks while I let my gaze wander aimlessly until it landed on an oil painting hanging on the wall. It was an idyllic scene: a house with a bright yellow door nestled ...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/GeneralP123 on 2024-09-06 03:07:12+00:00.

---

"Great, another rat!"

I'd mutter this line to myself almost every day, You see, I just recently inherited a house from my late grandparents, it's a fairly large house and it didn't look to be in a rough condition, so my cat Bob and I decided to immediately move in, even if find out later on that the house has some hidden flaws, at the time I thought anything is better than paying rent for a tiny apartment, soon enough I found out how wrong I was.

The house itself is fine, actually it's great, it has tons of rooms and looked like it won't be much of a money drain, the only thing that requires a decent investment is getting the walls painted.

The problem, however is that it's almost impossible to push through a day without seeing at least a couple of large rats, What I'm dealing with isn't your typical rat infestation, it's so bad that I dread going to the bathroom because I fully expect another furry little bastard to greet me once again while excitedly chewing on my toothbrush.

Bob isn't really a rat hitman, but considering he's an old chubby cat that can barely remember where the litter box is, I'd say he's doing his best, he manages to defeat a rat from time to time in a rough one on one battle, but unfortunately goes to sleep right after the fight.

I tried using some rat traps, but they seem to be useless in the long run, they simply multiply faster than I can get rid of them, but I also must admit I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed, so I forgot where I put the traps and then I step on them every once in awhile, It's not my fault that my memory is probably worse than Bob's.

The worst place in the house is the attic or as I like to call it "The Lair".

The attic must be their favorite spot in the whole house, late at night I can hear the fuzzy beasts skittering in the attic, It sounds like there's hundreds if not thousands of them, soft fast steps, loud heavy thumps, screeches, not only that, but sometimes it sounds like they're opening the attic door just so they can sneakily steal some cheese from my fridge...

I don't have the needed courage to check the attic out for myself, I'd probably get a heart attack after opening the attic door and seeing a rat avalanche falling on top of me.

I've already contacted a rat exterminator, he told me he'll pay me a visit next week, so as far as I'm concerned he can deal with the attic.

Earlier, I made a joke about the rats stealing food from my fridge, but I was only half kidding. If I leave any food on the kitchen table before I go to bed, it will get nibbled on or straight up devoured overnight, I once left a nice meatball sub wrapped in foil on the kitchen table, In the morning I was surprised to see most of it was eaten, based on the bite marks it looks like they chewed through the foil and even enjoyed the taste of it.

Sometimes random items from my fridge go missing, but to be fair that probably isn't their fault, more likely I just forgot when I ate that food. Now that you know the most important points here's where things get weird...

One night I was watching a movie while Bob was being a good boy, snuggled up next to me like usual, all of a sudden he jumped off the couch, I was surprised to see my usually sluggish cat move that hastily. It looked like he found something next to the couch, but before I can even react to what he did, he jumped back on top of the couch, as soon as I looked at Bob's jaw I was frozen by a strange mix of confusion and fear, in his mouth he was carrying a small rat, that isn't what scared me, what scared me is the fact that this rat's head was missing, ripped bloody flesh was all that was remaining.

Only a couple of seconds passed and then it hit me, Bob didn't do this, he only found it, there's no way he could've ripped it's head clean off and swallowed it in seconds, even if Bob was a lightning fast rat murderer, the rat would've at least let out some sort of screech of pain before it's demise.

I put on my rubber gloves and threw the headless rat in the garbage while almost vomiting out of disgust, unfortunately it didn't end there.

Three days later I found another headless rat corpse under the carpet and two decaying rat heads behind the couch.

I read some articles online that say cannibalism among rats isn't uncommon, so at the time that was my only explanation.

A day passed after that discovery.

In the middle of the night I was shifting in my bed while Bob was sleeping in his his usual spot right next to my feet, once again I could hear the sound of rats screeching and running around in the attic, with each passing second I was getting more and more annoyed.

Finally, one more time I hear what sounds like the attic door opening and closing.

I brush that off, I thought I was mishearing things or just hallucinating because of the lack of sleep.

Suddenly, I realize that I have left half of my cheeseburger on the living room table.

I get out of bed slowly, trying not to wake up Bob, while groggily walking towards the living room.

Before entering the living room, I took a moment to mentally prepare for what I might see in the living room, I expected to see a couple of dirty rats munching on my juicy cheeseburger, what I saw was incomparably worse.

I immediately regretted turning the light on, instead of a couple of rats feasting on my food, I saw a sickly old man covered in warts and pimples sitting on the living room couch, he was so pale that I wondered if he ever saw the sun, he was wearing a dusty ragged black robe, he wasn't wearing any footwear, his feet were covered in warts just like the rest of his body, both his nails and toenails were long and charcoal black.

I was scanning him slowly with my eyes, completely stunned, even though I turned on the lights he paid no attention to me, he started opening his mouth, under the dry lips I could see a set of dark yellow teeth, then I noticed a rat squirming and screeching desperately in his hand, the sickly man brought the rat close to his mouth and without even a moment of hesitation he bit down on the poor creature's head, with a loud crunch he bit off the rat's head and swallowed it whole, an audible gulp instantly followed.

As he finished, his gaze turned towards me, his soulless gray pupils couldn't stop staring at me, his neutral expression slowly morphed into an expression of pure anger, I could see the veins on his bald head start bulging.

I was frozen solid in fear, I couldn't even take a step while the disturbing man jumped off the couch and unnervingly got on all fours like some wild animal, in what felt like a second or two he started sprinting on all fours, he pounced towards the window, he headbutted the window with surprising power causing it to shatter as he jumped out of the house and squealed like some sort of wounded pig.

He ran away into the darkness, while I was staring at the destroyed window in disbelief.

A couple of weeks passed after this incident, the house is finally rat-free.

After the police did their investigation, they were able to tell me a couple of things that were both informative and frightening.

They told me that the intruder was living in the attic for at least a month, they did a full sweep of the attic and found multiple rat corpses scattered around the attic, they also found bags and bags of rancid trash, their theory was that the intruder was gathering trash and bringing it to the the attic in hope of luring as many rats as possible to his location.

Surprisingly the most disturbing discovery wasn't anything that was found in the attic.

Under my bed, they found multiple headless rat corpses...

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Mintjump on 2024-09-05 18:38:35+00:00.

---

“Just come on Matt! It's gonna be fun.” Ron insisted on me joining the poker table at the end of a dimly lit alley on our way back from the club.

“You've had one drink too many you dumbass.” I brushed him aside. “We don’t know these people and it's night and well… It's a table on the streets. Let's get out of here.”

“Oh god you are such a chicken.” Ron made a chicken sound while flapping his arms before turning away and walking to join the table.

“Ah fuck it.” I say as I give in and follow him to the end of the alley where I see the old half broken wooden round table. Three people sat at the table who each held an interestingly creepy look.

Ron sat to the left of me. To the left of him sat a man who introduced himself as the ‘Prisoner’ and wore a dirty worn out orange shirt. To the left of him sat an old bald lady with broken glasses. She didn't introduce herself but held a gentle sweet smile that you would expect your grandma to have. To the left of her sat a slender young man who looked to be around 20 years of age. He told us that his name was Chad, if you can believe that. He looked like a nerd who would play poker by using some probability formulas in his head. And well… to the left of him was me.

I know, this whole situation feels crazy. Why are we- two drunk friends playing poker in an alley with three complete weird strangers? I would like to think that it was just Rons fault for getting me to tag along, but something in the air made me want to play too.

The granny, by whom I refer to the old lady, picked up the cards and told us that she would act as a dealer too. However, she momentarily turned her gentle smile into a stern expression and said something that made alarm bells ring in my head.

“Only one person leaves this table. You chose to sit down and play, so if you attempt to leave now… you will be shot. This is sacred.”

“What the fuck? This is so dumb. I am out of here.” I said and got up but Prisoner quickly pulled out a revolver and aimed it at me.

“Sit down.” Granny said while Ron tugged at my shirt to sit back. I did.

“We all will each have $100.” Granny continued. “Whoever runs out of money will die. This will continue until one of us takes it all.”

“But why?” I asked in an agitated tone that truly reflected how weird I felt, half unsure if this was some sort of weird joke. “Why death and all that? Lets just play normal poker?”

Granny just smiled her warm smile again, but this time it sent shivers down my spine. Chad answered for me.

“Well, sir, you see that we are performing sort of a ritual. And we were short of two people because they did not show up. But you will do.” He said with a bland expression. “You will do.”

And so began our long session of poker. Hand after hand after hand. Time felt stretched out. Night remained unchanged after hours of our play. We all carefully placed our bets and people never seemed to raise. By this point I was sure that this was no joke… and that I cannot afford to lose.

Thankfully, people started to lose their patience. I knew I just had to hold it together until the others couldn't.

Prisoner was the first to go all in. I folded, of course. But granny called. And granny won. And then granny took the gun, aimed at the prisoner, and with the sweetest smile in the world- she shot him.

We continued playing with his corpse still sitting at our table. Chad seemed to calculate all our expressions and probabilities of cards. He was going to be hard to beat… or so I thought.

Soon enough, Chad and Ron both went all in and showed their cards. Chad had a double ace, while Ron had a two and a three.

“You ran out of patience huh?” I remarked exhaustedly. “Goodbye, Ron. Hope this game was fun for you.”

“Shut up. I'm not gone yet.” He replied with a hate clearly noticeable from his voice.

And the Granny began to show the cards. Ace - Five - King

Chad laughed with excitement, which was unexpected because I didn't think he was capable of showing emotion. I just let out a sigh and accepted that my friend was going to die. But I didn't feel too bad. He was responsible for all of this after all.

Granny pulls out another card- Queen

And then she pulls out the last one- Four

“FOUR! I WON!” Ron cried out in excitement. “Fucking Chad, to hell with you!”

Chad reverted to his emotionless face and simply stared into nothingness. Granny aimed her gun at Chad and shot again. Two lifeless bodies on the table now. Two more to go.

We played for what felt like days, making small bets so as to not exhaust our reserve. But then I noticed that Ron was getting antsy again. He was raising a lot now, and while me and Granny folded, I knew he was bluffing to gain small advantages.

So, when he raised me when I had good cards, I doubled. He doubled. And soon we were all in.

“It's one of us now.” I spoke with a broken voice. Even though I blamed him for this, he was still the friend that helped me get through tough times. He helped me when my parents died. He helped me when I was broke. He helped me when I was a complete mess. And never asked anything in return.

He didn't reply. Just laid out his cards. I laid out mine. Granny did her thing and I won. I hated that win. I hate it now. I will hate it forever.

“I am sorry.” I whispered to him.

I looked down and braced for the sound of a gunshot.

Three dead bodies now.

I looked at granny who still held that sweet warm smile.

“Looks like it's just us now.” I said exhaustedly.

“Yes dear. Let us continue.” She spoke softly.

I shook my head.

“I am tired of this. Whatever hand I get, I am going all in now.” I tell her. I did not care then. My friend just died against me and I could do nothing. I am in the middle of this weird crazy game and the world has somehow stopped. I wanted to be gone, dead or alive.

“I understand.” She said and dealt the last hand.

She went all in too.

We both revealed our cards. She got a king and a queen. I got a King and a queen. But I had them in the same suit.

Granny pulled out the cards and in no time it was evident that I had won with a royal flush. What a way to end this sad pathetic game.

I looked at granny, and she looked at me. She nodded and put the gun to her chin, and pulled the trigger.

A table full of dead people… and me. I lived. I thank god that I got to walk away that day, and hate him for allowing such a game to be played in the first place.

I have stopped playing poker, for obvious reasons. To be honest, I have stopped living too. That day killed the desire to live within me. I am thankful to be alive, but no longer know what to do with my life. I write this down in hope that this helps me get over it a little, but deep down I know its of no use.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/CreepyStoriesJR on 2024-09-05 16:09:28+00:00.

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I had heard about the place long before I ever set foot there. It was one of those stories that floated around the fringes of journalism, whispered over drinks by veteran reporters who had heard about it but never dared to go. An apartment complex where tenants vanished without a trace, where strange events drove people mad, leaving only hushed rumors in their wake. No one knew how many had disappeared from there, but the number was enough to earn it a reputation,a reputation that drew me in like a moth to a flame.

I was a reporter, after all. And if there was a mystery begging to be unraveled, I was going to be the one to do it.

The place was called "Silvercrest Apartments." From the outside, it didn’t look like much, a shabby, aging structure in the outskirts of the city, tucked away from the bustling downtown. The paint on the walls was faded, chipped in places, and the windows were covered in a layer of grime that spoke of years of neglect. The kind of place you’d walk by and never give a second thought.

Yet, it was this unassuming facade that hid something darker.

I arrived late in the afternoon, the sky hanging low with clouds, casting a gray pallor over everything. The wind had picked up, pushing dead leaves and debris along the cracked sidewalk as I stood at the entrance. The caretaker had agreed to meet me, though he didn’t seem keen on the idea when I called.

The first thing I noticed as I approached was the silence. No sounds of tenants coming or going, no signs of life. It was unsettling for a building this size. I felt a chill, though the wind had died down.

At the door, a middle-aged man with a hollow face and a lifeless expression stood waiting. His eyes were dull, as though whatever spark of life had once been there had long since faded. He introduced himself simply as Mr. Carrick. He didn’t extend his hand.

“You’re the reporter?” he asked, his voice low and monotone.

“I am,” I replied, forcing a smile. “I appreciate you taking the time.”

He nodded curtly and motioned for me to follow him into the building. “You’ll want to hear about Rooms 201, 204, and 207. They’re the ones people always ask about.”

The inside of Silvercrest was worse than the outside, dimly lit with flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed overhead. The wallpaper was peeling, and the air was thick with an odd smell, a mix of mildew and something else… something metallic. It was the kind of place that had been forgotten by time.

Carrick led me through the lobby, down a narrow hallway lined with doors. The sound of my footsteps echoed unnaturally in the silence, each step feeling heavier than the last.

“We’ve had tenants come and go over the years,” Carrick began as we walked, his voice devoid of any emotion. “Most leave within a few months. Some leave without even packing their things. And then there are those who… don’t leave at all.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.

Carrick stopped in front of a door marked 201. He turned to me, his face still expressionless. “This was the first one. A man named Jacob Hadley lived here. Moved in around 1998. Quiet guy. Kept to himself. Paid his rent on time every month. Then, one day… he just disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “Did anyone report him missing?”

“They did,” Carrick replied. “The police searched his apartment, asked around the neighborhood, but they never found anything. It was as if he’d just… vanished.”

He unlocked the door to Room 201 and pushed it open. The smell hit me immediately, a musty, stale odor that clung to the air. The apartment was small, barely furnished. The walls were bare, the furniture sparse and covered in dust. It looked as though no one had lived there for years.

I stepped inside, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet. There was something off about the place. It wasn’t just the disrepair, it was the atmosphere. It felt wrong, like the walls were holding something in, some secret that had been festering for years.

Carrick stood in the doorway, watching me. “After Jacob, there were others. People who moved into this room, stayed for a while, and then… gone. Same story, every time. They’d vanish, leaving everything behind. The police stopped coming after the third or fourth disappearance. Said there wasn’t enough evidence.”

I walked through the apartment, running my hand along the dusty surface of a table. “What do you think happened to them?”

Carrick’s expression didn’t change. “I don’t know. All I know is that people who stay in this building for too long… they change. They stop being themselves.”

“What do you mean by ‘change’?”

He didn’t answer right away, but I could see a flicker of something in his eyes, fear, perhaps. “I’ve seen it happen. People start acting strange, like they’re losing parts of themselves. It starts small, they forget things, they stop talking as much. Then, they stop going out altogether. And then one day… they’re gone.”

I felt a shiver crawl up my spine, but I pushed the feeling aside. I wasn’t here to be spooked. I was here to find the truth.

“What about Room 204?” I asked.

Carrick didn’t respond, but he motioned for me to follow him again. We walked down the hall to the next apartment, the door slightly ajar. The faint light from inside flickered like a dying candle. He pushed the door open with a creak, revealing a room similar to the first, small, empty, and cold.

“This one was different,” he said. “A woman named Sarah Drummond moved in around 2005. She was… peculiar. Always talking about hearing things, seeing shadows in the corners of her eyes. She said the apartment was alive, that it was watching her.”

I took a step into the room, the air colder here than in 201. The walls were covered in scratch marks, deep gouges in the plaster as if someone had clawed at them in a fit of madness.

“What happened to her?”

Carrick’s face darkened. “She started seeing things that weren’t there, or maybe they were. One night, she called me, screaming about someone, or something, in her apartment. I rushed over, but when I got here, the door was locked from the inside. By the time I broke it down, she was gone. The only thing left was this.”

He pointed to a large mirror on the wall, cracked down the middle. I stepped closer, peering into the fractured glass. My reflection looked distorted, twisted in the jagged lines of the crack. For a moment, it almost looked like my face wasn’t my own.

Carrick must have noticed me staring. “She was obsessed with that mirror,” he said quietly. “Said she saw things in it, things she couldn’t explain. She was convinced it was showing her… something.”

I turned away from the mirror, trying to shake off the eerie feeling it left behind. “And she disappeared too?”

Carrick nodded. “Without a trace.”

I felt a growing sense of unease as we moved to the final apartment, Room 207. The door was closed, and this time, Carrick hesitated before unlocking it. His hand trembled slightly as he pushed the key into the lock.

“This one’s recent,” he muttered. “A man named Ethan Carlyle. He moved in last year. Everything seemed fine at first, but then… the same signs. He stopped answering his phone, stopped leaving the apartment. The last time I saw him, he looked… hollow.”

“Hollow?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

Carrick opened the door to 207, and I stepped inside. The room was darker than the others, the light from the hallway barely penetrating the gloom. There was an oppressive heaviness to the air, like the walls were closing in.

The apartment was a mess, clothes and belongings scattered everywhere, furniture overturned. On the floor, I noticed something strange: a series of symbols scratched into the wood, like some kind of ritual had taken place.

“What is this?” I asked, crouching down to get a closer look.

Carrick didn’t answer right away. He stood in the doorway, his face pale. “Ethan… he was trying to stop it. He thought he could… fight whatever was happening to him.”

“What was happening to him?” I demanded, my heart pounding in my chest.

Carrick’s voice was barely audible. “He said the building was alive. That it was feeding off the people who lived here. Taking pieces of them… bit by bit. He thought he could stop it by drawing those symbols, but…”

I stood up, the weight of his words sinking in. “But he disappeared too.”

Carrick nodded. “Just like the others.”

For a moment, the only sound was the creaking of the old building settling around us. The silence was suffocating, pressing down on me like a heavy blanket. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching me, something unseen, lurking in the shadows.

“This building,” I said, my voice unsteady, “what is it?”

Carrick’s eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw genuine fear in them. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “But whatever it is… it’s been here for a long time. Longer than any of us. It’s hungry. And it’s getting stronger.”

I felt a cold sweat break out across my skin. The stories, the disappearances, the strange symbols, it all sounded insane, like something out of a horror novel. But standing there in that dark, decaying apartment, I couldn’t deny the feeling in my gut. Something was wrong with this place. Something beyond explanation.

“I should go,” I said, suddenly eager to get out of there.

Carrick didn’t try to stop me. He simply nodded, stepping aside to let me pass. As I walked down the hallway, the weight of the building seeme...

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/crimzonprizm on 2024-09-05 22:36:56+00:00.

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For the past 9 years, I've been living in the same apartment complex, occupying apartment number 87, in a small little town smack dab in the center of New Mexico. For the sake of some anonymity, we'll say my name is Zach. It's idyllic to some, and a nightmare for others. See, this apartment complex is one of three or so things this 'town' has going for it. The complex, the church, and the gas station. A perfect little triangle of mediocrity. If you're into small talk, long days of nothingness, and the occasional 'ghost hunter' or self-proclaimed 'healer-preacher-whathaveyou', then this place is just a little slice of paradise.

Thirteen years ago, I left college halfway through my 2nd year after having a bit of a breakdown. I didn't know what I wanted to do, but I know I wasn't going to get any satisfaction wasting my inheritance on lectures and tuition. My parents and I had always loved a good adventure, be it hiking, camping, or long road trips to nowhere. Sitting in a stuffy dorm room for 2 years, then renting a dingey campus house didn't sit right with me. I sold a lot of what I had besides my phone, computer and car, and set off. I traveled West as far as my car could take me, hitting every little nook and cranny I could find, and that's how I ended up here. With a few sputters and some black smoke spilling from the exhaust, my destination was set for me. For reasons I'll get to later, I'd rather not divulge exactly where I'm talking about (i.e. some of you are crazy and this place doesn't need more of that).

Like I said above, we have the three main attractions of this desolate oasis. We can start with the church. It is in fact, just a regular old church. Nothing hiding in the basement (there isn't one), and no crazy sacrifices happening on the weekends. I know that the pastor, John, lives in the back room with his little dog Charles. He doesn't ever really step foot in the complex, even for food. Actually, as I'm writing this out, I can only think of two times I've ever seen him step foot near the complex. One of the second-floor tenants, Ms. Meyer brings him lunch and supper every day, like clockwork. There's a good handful of people that attend church every Sunday morning, religiously, and every couple of weeks there's some sort of happening in the yard adjacent to it, like a cookout or birthday party. We all usually attend those; it's a nice time and no one's ever pushy. The church is a nice little constant for all of us, even those who don't practice. Even in the worst of times, you can look out the window and see Pastor John tending to his little flower garden or taking his dog on a walk and it'll bring a smile to your face.

The gas station is the towns gossip center. Most people who pass through town stop in to top off their tanks, drain their bladders and grab an (albeit probably slightly expired) drink or snack before hitting the road again. You know the way gas station workers are depicted in 80's movies? A younger guy, a little burnt out and always just a little bit high. Now add about 65lbs, 25 years and a receding hairline, and BOOM; you've got yourself a Winkle. James Van Winkle to his parents, who he inherited the place from, and just Winkle to us here in town. You can't walk down the street without hearing the faint, fuzzy tubes of Night Ranger or Whitesnake playing through the aisles and open doors of the gas station. The station as I call it; seeing as it doesn't have a name, or even a real sign. I actually tend to spend a bit more time there than most of the other residents. Winkle is a cool guy and actually lives a few doors down from me in the complex. Sometimes he invites me over to watch movies, and yes, they are on VHS, but it's always a good time. He stays in the back of the station, a nice little room decorated like it's right out of Back to the Future, tube tv, posters and all.

The apartment complex is really the shining light of the town. It's basically its own little ecosystem and has been since the owner, Mr. Rags, built it sometime back in the 70's. I think it may have been part of a social/living experiment that just turned into a full-time thing. Mr. Rags sounds like a funny last name, but it's the only one he's ever given the tenants here. Nobody knows if it's just a fun joke he started, since he only dresses himself in linen shirts and pants, or if it is actually his given name. As is written in any story, he does live at the top of the complex, on the 17th floor. The highest occupied level is actually the 15th, and there isn't a button on the ancient elevator for the 16th floor. Everyone seems to think it's just a floor for HVAC or storage or something, but I have my own thoughts on that. Following the ecosystem-like setup, the complex has a kitchen downstairs that's communal, but it's always served as a cafeteria of sorts. A portion of everyone's rent goes into a fund and a couple that lives on floor 15 go to the nearest grocery with it, then cook lunch and dinner every weeknight. The rest of the time, it's fend for yourself, which really isn't bad considering we have plenty of leftovers in the fridges, a lot of easy to prepare food in the freezers, and a heaping stockpile of cereal and milk. The couple usually cooks extra meals though, for both the pastor and Mr. Rags.

As for the reason of my post, I guess it'd be two-fold. I've been here going on almost 10 years now, which is something I never thought I'd do. I didn't think I'd be leaving a 'claustrophobic' atmosphere of college labs and dorm rooms to end up loving such a speck of a town like this place. I guess I want to just get my thoughts down as a way to wrap my head around that, and the second reason. This place isn't okay. I don't have any other way to describe it. Waking up every day; going to sleep every night; something just doesn't feel right. It's a constant, but not one that drives people away. On the contrary, I think it brings them in. It's rarely ever been anything too malicious, or evil, but it's gotten very close to crossing that line more times than I, or the others would like. I guess, I think the stories I've heard and the things I've seen with my own eyes deserve a carved out little corner of the Aether. That'd be you, internet. I'll start us off with something light, right from the day I arrived.

It was July 3rd, 2015, and hot as ever. I'd just driven through a little mining town, its last remaining residents clinging to whatever they had left to call theirs. I was about 2 hours away from any sort of population center that I knew of, when my car started to make some not so nice sounds. It lasted every bit of 5 minutes until the black smoke started to pour out of the hood. I pulled off to the side of half-baked road I was on and opened up the beast's belly. I'd never been good with cars, so it was a futile effort. I sat there for about an hour, service on my phone going in and out, when I heard the low rumble of an old car cresting the horizon. It took a minute or two to come into view, but my savior was inching his way towards me. A wood paneled station wagon with none other than my would-be friend Winkle came into full view as he slowed down to see the burnt out mess on the shoulder.

"Dude, what's up? Everything does NOT look so good over there" he said, a look of genuine worry on his face.

"Yeah, I don't know, I was driving along, and it seems like she's really given up on me this time. You know any towing companies around? I haven't seen anything for miles."

"Uh yeah man" he chuckled, "There's not much out here at all. You're about 3 hours from the nearest... anything man. You wanna catch a ride with me into the Station? I've got a phone there you can use, or computer or whatever! No catch man."

He seemed alright, patting the seat excitedly.

"Okay man, I really appreciate it!" I said as I hopped into the car. It was surprisingly clean, aside from the few Moon Pie wrappers on the floorboards.

It was a pretty fun ride to be honest. Winkle started blaring some Def Leppard for a while then turned it down and gave me the same gist about the town that I did for you guys above. To say I was intrigued would be an understatement. This was just the kind of thing I loved to find while traveling. It took us about an hour to get into town, and we went right to the Station. Winkle excitedly showed me the place, taking me through the little history it had, about his parents and how he runs it all now. While we were inside, it seemed that word had somehow already gotten around that new guy was in town. A few of the residents were out on the church lawn with the pastor, peeking down the road to check on us. I think they thought they were being sly, but we could tell. Winkle showed me the phone, and I called down for the nearest tow truck. 'About 5 days, then we have to figure out what's wrong with it. Could be another 5 days" is what they told me. I think Winkle was eavesdropping, because as soon as they said it, he came ripping out of the back room. "You can stay at the complex! Or you can stay over here, but I've only got this old blow-up mattress, it kind of sucks. I'll introduce you to Mr. Rags!"

Before I had time to answer, he was out the door, jogging down to the 'complex'. The residents outside just watched as he bounced to the front entrance intercom and buzzed the number. "Mr. Rags, 1701." A few of the residents looked annoyed, like this wasn't the first time he's tried to get ahold...

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