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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/PostMortem33 on 2024-11-17 18:15:03+00:00.

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Orange narcotic strips and pink cotton candy clouds filled the sky. Two lovers sat on a bench, shared laughs and wondered about a life together forever. Children played in parks and drew chalk animals on concrete.

Summer’s end neared. Society and life would change forever. People would meet their dead relatives again. Moments later, millions of bright stars bloomed across the sky—the rapture, or a miracle from God? The small spheres materialized into existence as if by the flip of a switch, oblivious to any and all effects against humanity. The daytime stars exploded into an orange-purple dust—a silent process save for the distant boom at the end.

A blanket of strong light covered the sky. People took shelter or averted their gaze. Nations didn’t know how to react, except for the 999 witnesses of the entire event. Gathered as one big family, those people opened a church and streamed weekly masses online. The first man to see the full explosions became the leader. Nathaniel Sullivan, once a plumber, rose to fame as the number one televangelist in the world.

Three weeks after the event, dubbed The Bloom, the 999 announced Ambrosia, a miracle medicine.

“Dearest people of this world! Do not be afraid and have faith! Do you miss your dear family and friends who’ve passed away? Do you want to see them again? Ambrosia is the way; Ambrosia is the light!” Nathan Sullivan preached live on air.

The preacher said the 999 conducted internal tests. If it all went well, Sullivan would see his wife and daughter again. The man ingested Ambrosia. His body tensed and jerked on the leather chair. His pupils dilated to an abnormal size. The reverend calmed down moments after and fixated the camera with bloodshot eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks, and white thin lines brought back memories from the past.

After a few seconds passed, the image changed to static. Reverend Sullivan kneeled before only what he could have seen. The man stared at a fixed point in the room with hands clenched together. More tears streamed down his cheeks, and his lower lip trembled.

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said with arms extended, waiting for a long hug that never came.

“Daddy, come to us,” a boy’s voice whispered from a distant place. Devoid of life, it gurgled; water stuck in its throat. Yet, Nathaniel Sullivan’s eyes could not have betrayed him.

“I am. Right now,” Nathaniel Sullivan said. A concrete certainty washed over the man’s mind and body, and immense joy filled his broken heart.

Reverend Sullivan scanned the room and stared in confusion at every person in the room. The preacher moved with slow steps toward the large window and jumped from the 10th story of the sect’s church. A large crowd gathered around the mangled body. People touched the corpse as if Nathaniel Sullivan was a miracle man, a saint, a messiah sent by God to heal the entire world, end wars, eradicate famine, destroy addiction and bring closure to grieving families.

Several reruns of the incident reported no faces in the static. Social media platforms dissected the situation from one end to the other. Millions of people reported seeing the woman and boy in the static if only for a moment. Online and televised hysteria engulfed humanity’s hive mind. The sect announced a two-hour break to assess the situation. The next livestream’s numbers exceeded the first with a peak audience of 750 million people.

The doomsday cult had elected a new female leader. The live feed showed the woman in the middle of over a hundred members standing on the edge of the roof. Each pair of teary eyes studied the horizon. The preacher swallowed the Ambrosia pill first, and the rest followed suit. Seconds after, like death dominos, all the members leaped. The world heard continuous thumps and splashes, a grotesque symphony of broken bones and sinew.

Formal accusations could not be brought to what remains of the sect. All people who committed suicide did so out of free will. The remainder of the sect grew more powerful. Influential people across the world infiltrated it and the new religion became the fastest growing in history.

Ambrosia too became the fastest selling drug in the world. Entire families wanted to see deceased relatives or friends; parents forced kids to ingest the drug because grandparents waited to meet on the other side. Others only chased the high or wanted to see if the drug worked as advertised.

The sect’s shadow leaders, the people behind the curtain, spoke through government representatives or powerful media figures about the drug. The short press release read: The 999 is aware Ambrosia might be perceived as unethical, but it is a product like any other. The free-market dictates supply and demand, and no one is forced to buy it. The miracle pill has immediate and permanent effects, and we understand that. But one should look at this from another perspective: it brings closure to the end-user and allows for a final meeting with loved ones.

Priced at only $9.99/pill, the sect tailored Ambrosia for all budgets—over 100 million doses sold in the first day. People walked out of drug stores, grocery stores, markets and malls smiling and excited to see people long gone. With a 100% success rate, Ambrosia delivered on its promise: just one more moment of happiness.

News reports became hard to read or listen to. Corpses piled high, and graveyards hit maximum capacity, open fields the same. Crematories have become one of the most profitable businesses in the world.

Salmon pink and lavender purple skies blessed people’s sights with a sense of false serenity. Post-explosion Bloom dust still hung in the air, like ashes of a thousand-year burning flame, recently extinguished. People breathed in colored glitter, a disease of alien origin.

Police officer Robert Newson despised the new reality and hated to see people rushing to their deaths.

“Listen to that, Bob. They’re boasting about numbers again. This goddamn news makes me sick,” his best friend Vince said. “Damn, what this world has come to.”

“Screw them, man. It’s damaged way beyond repair. Heard the reported number of suicides now caps at 1.5 billion, but who knows the real numbers?”

“Yeah, it’s crazy. What frightens me most is that society acts like it’s normal. The sects sell Ambrosia like lollipops, and no one does anything. It’s all a gigantic mass depopulation plan. Fewer people means they’re easier to control and lie to.”

After paying the check at the diner, the men headed out for a walk and met a family. The mother, father and daughter hung from a branch of the oldest oak in town. The suicides had taken places just moments before.

“Jesus Christ, why? Why would you do this? You killed what most people would kill for,” Robert shouted at the dead parents.

The police officer thought about his wife’s and daughter’s funeral. Both stood silent, still and lifeless. A drunk driver had hit their car three years back—full frontal collision. The drunkard had fled the scene, unscathed and never to be seen again. Vince put a hand on Robert’s shoulder, removed his cap and didn’t say a word. Both knew prayers would not bring back the dead—no matter how much love existed in the world.

Society went through drastic changes. People had learned to adapt to a more gruesome reality, and to live under different circumstances and new laws. Robert Newson’s job almost became obsolete. Most people couldn’t be saved. World governments forbade police forces to intervene in cases of suicide.

A man stood in a pool of blood on a front porch with long slits on his forearms. Death embraced people with loving and cold arms and never let go.

“Will this insanity ever end, Vince?”

“As long as there’s demand for that stuff, I don’t think it will.”

Robert and Vince reminisced about the good, old days—family visits, kids playing, wives laughing, eating delicious barbecues and cracking open cold ones. Good years had gone by, and the world had morphed into a living hell.

The two best friends reached the woods at the edge of the city and walked on the trail towards the lake. Over a dozen bodies floated face down on the silvery surface. Death had become the number one pollution factor worldwide. The men stood frozen with mouths wide open.

“Jesus Christ. I just don’t understand how any of this works anymore,” Robert said.

“Let’s… Let’s just head back to my place and crash on the couch.”

Vince grabbed the remote control and flipped through the TV channels.

“A pilot crashed a plane in Romania, all 125 passengers dead.”

“A new wave of mass suicides in Japan. 85 people plunged to their deaths in Tokyo, 64 in Yokohama, 36 in Nagoya.”

“45 people at an Anti-Ambrosia protest sliced their throats open with a box-cutter.”

“A New-York man allegedly ingested Ambrosia and is still alive,” the news lady said, “and our colleague is right there with him setting up for a live interview.”

Robert and Vince looked at each other in disbelief. Could such a thing even be possible?

Jim Marshall, a blue-collar worker, had bloodshot eyes and cracked lips. The first and only known Ambrosia survivor’s face showed signs of seeing unfathomable beasts. The man rocked back and forth in the armchair.

“So, Mr. Marshall, could you tell us about your experience with Ambrosia?” the interviewer asked. “I’m sure our viewers at home want to know all the details.”

“Nothing is real. Ambrosia brings only madness and death. It’s a mere gat...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Dopabeane on 2024-11-17 18:02:33+00:00.

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I know how to make people talk.

It’s a pretty helpful skill. It’s even saved my life a few times. But every once in a great while, it gets me into massive trouble.

The first time it got me in trouble was in elementary school. It started with one of those guessing games with which frazzled teachers tend to end the day.

“It’s called ‘Truth or Lie,’” Mrs. Waters told us.

I could tell just looking at her that she was making this up off the top of her head. Practically pulling words out of thin air. Words that would grab our attention, words that would focus us, words that would make us do what she needed us to do.

“We go around the circle, and we each tell one truth and one lie. The person across from you has to guess which one is the truth and which is the lie. If the guesser gets it wrong, they go back to their desk. If they get it right, they stay in the circle and we move on to the next person. Who wants to start?”

I was insufferable then and I am insufferable now, so I shot my hand into the air. “I want to go first! Mrs. Waters, pick me, pick me!”

She almost rolled her eyes, which was no surprise; I had that effect on people back then. “Okay, Rachele. Tell us a truth, and tell us a lie.”

“No!” I said. “I want to be the first to guess!”

Mrs. Waters really did roll her eyes this time. “All righty. Sarah —” She turned to the girl sitting straight across from me — “tell us a truth, and a lie.”

I don’t remember what Sarah’s truth was, and I certainly don’t remember her lie. But I remember how she pouted when I correctly guessed which was which.

The class had gone halfway around the circle by the time we had our first elimination — Ben Markham, who burst into tears on his way back to his desk.

The circle shuffled closer to fill in his spot, and we continued.

When it was my turn again, I guessed correctly. And again on my third turn, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth. 

But my wins were quickly growing stale, and I was getting bored. The problem was, these truths and lies were so stupid. Worse, they were silly. Megan Knight’s truth was she had a cat named Corky, and her lie was she had a giant snail who ate cars. Scotty Spitzer wasn’t any better: his truth was he had a little brother named Tucker, and his lie was that Stone Cold Steve Austin was his big brother.

But when he made that claim — specifically, when he gleefully spouted the word “big brother” — I noticed that the girl across from me shifted weirdly. She turned in on herself, like a flower blooming in reverse. 

I locked in on her, suppressing a smile. "Celina, tell me a truth and tell me a lie."

"I have a new puppy named George, and an uncle who lives on the moon," she giggled.

“Those are dumb, Celina,” I complained.

Her smile froze.

"Come on." I focused on her, noting the way she twitched, how her left ankle kept rolling in and out. “Tell me something that’s actually interesting.”

“I — I can speak Spanish. But my mom doesn’t like me to.”

“Your mom being stupid isn’t interesting, Celina.” Following an instinct I didn’t understand but never denied, I kept my voice gentle. “Tell a truth that’s important.”

“Stop,” Mrs. Waters said sharply. "Right now."

I ignored her. “Tell us a truth about your brother, Celina.”

Celina immediately said, “I found my brother hanging in the garage. He had no shoes. His feet were purple and his tongue was too big for his mouth. I was in kindergarten when…when,” she finished lamely.

Then her eyes went wide and white as the oversized bone buttons on Mrs. Waters’ sweater, and she burst into tears.

I will spare you the fallout of that particular incident and move on to more important things.

As I grew older, I got better at making people talk. Better at finding words that grabbed attention, words that focus my targets, words that made them do what I wanted them to do.

When I turned twenty-one, I decided I wanted to be a cop. I was really good at it. So good I promoted three times in five years. I was a sergeant by age twenty-six.

I was on the verge of promoting to lieutenant when private industry came calling.

A law office, specifically. The attorney paid me well, but not as well as the lawyer who came knocking after him, who ended up not paying as well as the one who came knocking after her. 

When you get really good in the public sector, the private sector comes after you. When you get really, really good in the private sector, the government comes calling. 

And the government isn’t always good at being told “No.”

Officially, I worked for human resources as an interviewer. Unofficially, I was an Internal Affairs investigator on steroids. You would not believe the things I learned, or the catastrophes I helped avert.

That all went up in flames a few months ago.

During a very unconventional interview, the situation went off the rails in spectacular fashion and my subject told me things I wasn’t supposed to know.

Once again, I’ll spare you the details of the fallout.

Let’s just say that by the end of it, I was in almost incomprehensibly big trouble. As a result, I was terrified. When you’re that scared, you’ll do anything you’re told.

Sure enough, I was given a choice: Die, or do exactly as I was told.

I was told I would continue to work as an investigative interviewer for a multi-agency task force with the unassuming, weirdly charming name of the Agency of Helping Hands. I was told I would work under the supervision of an exceptionally brilliant and highly specialized psychiatrist. I was told that if I played my cards right, I’d be able to earn my own degree while working for this doctor.

I knew it was too good to be true. I knew it in my very core. But I also knew I didn’t have a choice.

So I took the job. 

I learned that the Agency of Helping Hands runs a prison. Officially, it’s called the North American Specialized Containment Unit, or NASCU. 

But everyone here just calls it the North American Pantheon.

That’s where I work now. My job is to interview the inmates. Some of these inmates are horrifying. Some are monsters. Many have never spoken a word to anyone. The rest gibber and taunt and terrorize, but they don’t ever say anything. 

They don’t really *talk.* 

And for a lot of reasons I cannot begin to explain right now, it is vitally important that they start talking. 

That’s why the agency needed me. It’s the only reason I’m alive:

Because I can make them talk. 

The agency started me with the easiest inmate in the facility, I guess to make sure I can really do what they need me to. They had me do a full forensic workup, the kind of thing I used to do for law offices. Personal history, physical report, mental condition, circumstances, and a transcript of the interview with my insights. 

I cannot describe this job. I really can't. This facility, these inmates, even the other staff — I don’t know. I don't what to do. I’m so scared. I freak out every time I think too hard. Panic attacks and night terrors have become my steadfast companions these past few months. But I guess that’s what happens when your understanding of the world has been inverted, and when that inversion has been burned to the ground. What happens when you live in a state of fear. 

So, rather than try and probably fail to explain it all — what I have to do, what I have to deal with, what will happen if I don’t — I’m going to just share that first report on that first prisoner. He goes by Numa.

For what it’s worth, I was told that Numa is the least dangerous inmate in the Pantheon.

Numa

Classification String: Noncooperative / Indestructible / Gaian / Constant / Moderate / Teras

On November 12, 1928, authorities received a distress call from a remote logging village deep in the Canadian Rockies. There is no extant proof of the village’s existence. Given the circumstances, the Agency of Helping Hands undertook extensive effort to ensure removal of all traces of the village and its inhabitants from the historical record.

A recording of the transmission exists in Agency archives. The recording is seventeen seconds long. Translated, it says this: “It came down from the mountain! It came for us! It’s here!”

What follows is a low, unsettlingly singsong roar – a sound without parallel, a sound that evolved to send the deepest, most primal core of the human mind into a panic. This panic does not recognize that a century has passed, or that thousands of miles now lay between it and the place that sound was made. 

Extreme weather and difficult terrain precluded timely assistance. All the authorities could hope for was to clean up the mess, whatever it was, as soon as they could. When they finally set foot in the village, they found death. 

Blood stained every inch of the village, coloring the snow and the ice beneath. Limbs, hair, viscera, and flesh were strewn across the paths. Wild animals and domesticated dogs alike were feeding on the carnage.

The initial hypothesis was that a pack of starving wolves had set upon the village, or perhaps that an unusually large bear woken prematurely from hibernation. Given the extent of the damage, some officials even postulated that the animal in question was an undiscovered and possibly isolated specimen of giant prehistoric cave bear woken by the constant rumble of the lumber mill.

Shellshocked authorities began to catalog the damage, so intent on their work that they failed to notice that one of their number had vanished – until one of the searche...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Sipixre on 2024-11-17 12:27:10+00:00.

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Ask anybody in the industry and they'll probably disagree with me, but I think there's really two camps: stuff that moves and stuff that doesn't. I did event lighting. Epileptic roving beams over a fog machine? Mechanized glowing set pieces? Rainbow colors? I did the fun stuff. The dynamic stuff. The rest is piddly shit, trying to hawk $80 residential floodlights or convince an office building your 6” recessed cans are slightly different and more better than someone else's identical cans that nobody is ever going to notice anyway.

I'm not big time famous or anything. I had a decent reputation and it's a small field, so I got crew jobs that were beneath me on all star tours, or I got to be the big fish in the small pond being the lighting designer for off-broadway shows and MLM “conferences.”

I had recently come off tour with an artist famous enough to need a pretty large crew but not famous enough to have a properly planned tour. The whole thing was an utter disaster. I don’t know why they went. This person was not prepared to be traveling through the countries they were in. There were power outages, vandalism, theft, even some assaults. The scary kind, not like, drunk people climbing shit and punching each other, which you get at even the best run shows. The expression “the show must go on” is the mantra that everyone in this industry lives by, so I kept things running as best I could, but by the time we were at the end of the tour we didn’t really have any cool effects. It was all I could do to keep the lights on. 

When I got home I was absolutely fed up with splicing wires together because some local vandal sliced up another one of my cables. I resolved my next few gigs were going to be corporate events and rich people's parties. Rich people can be difficult in their own way and I don’t love dealing with them, but there are significantly fewer stabbings or homeless people scalping copper when you’re at a $500,000 wedding at someone's summer estate in Connecticut or whatever. Those events typically get planned more than a year out so I wouldn't land many quickly. Conferences get planned well in advance too, but they always need substitute AV guys. The pay isn’t good… but it is pay. 

But then someone approached me. I got a sort of cryptic email from a colleague introducing a client who had a job for me. The client wanted to meet in person at his house to discuss. I googled the address and it was in the rich part of town. The multimillion dollar home part of town. I was hoping it was a wedding like I wanted, or maybe like a fancy renewal of vows. The guy sounded older on the phone but it could be for his kids.

I pulled up to his house at the appointed time. It was nice. It was old-money nice, not garish at all. Perfect.

I walked up to the door and rang the bell. An older gentleman answered the door 

“You must be Mr. Dones,” he said, shaking my hand. “I’m Eric Bukowski, we spoke on the phone.” 

“Marc is fine, Mr. Bukowski,” I said.

“Sure thing. Come on in,” he said, waving me into a very luxurious sitting room. “Can I offer you anything? Water? Ice tea?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“So, Marc,” he said. He paused for a moment, fidgeting. We were seated facing each other over a coffee table that cost more than my van. 

I perked up. This was weird. Might not be a real job, but at least it was going to be an interesting conversation. Nobody looks this awkward when hiring a vendor for a party. An orgy? Was I getting invited to an orgy?

“Your colleague Mr. Martin says you’re the right person for the job. He said you’re the man who can keep the lights on.”

“Well, sure,” I said. “I just came back from a tour where we barely had a power grid. But that’s usually not the hard part of the gig. Is this… event in a remote location?”

“Power is not an issue. The building is connected to the grid and I have them installing backup generators.” He didn’t say house. He said building. He bought or rented a whole building. A clue? I didn’t know where this was going. Usually orgies were in people’s houses, right?

“Okay,” I said, and I sat back. I’ve found that sometimes that’s the best way to deal with people like this. Let them do the talking. If I peppered him with too many questions he would likely get offended. I am, after all, only “the help” to a rich person.

“I’m not sure how to explain what is going to happen. There is of course, the risk that you laugh in my face and walk out the door. There is also the risk that you laugh behind my back, take the money, and do not take the job seriously, which is unacceptable, as this is a matter of life and death. I had considered leaving you completely in the dark, if you’ll pardon the choice of words, but a man deserves to choose his fate and not be led blindly.”

This was a weird talk. The weirdest talk I’ve ever gotten. As biased as I am towards the importance of my own profession, it’s not life or death. It’s never life or death.

“I’ve settled on a middle course, I think. The equinox will be in a few weeks. I own a property upstate. It’s fairly large and it’s fairly remote. It is connected to the power grid, so you don’t have to worry about that. There are battery banks and backup generators. It is however imperative that we keep the lights on for one hour–”

“Excuse me?” I said. Was this some kind of prank?

“Do you have a question?” he seemed perplexed, as if this was not the part of the talk where he was expecting questions.

“An hour?”

“Yes, one hour. At the time of the vernal equinox.”

“Just the regular lights? There’s no event? You don’t need lighting design?”

“There’s no artistic design needed, no. White lights. Floodlights. You may bring your own and set them up how you wish, in addition to what I’m having installed. They need to be kept on.” 

“For an hour.”

“Is that an issue, Marc?”

I was already composing a scathing email in my head, back to Alvaro, the stupid, smug Spaniard. Thinks he’s better than me? Thinks he’s Leo fucking Villareal? Sending me this childish assignment because he thinks I’m the “right man for the job”?

“No, of course not,” I said. I was still going to take the money, damn Alvaro. “More the opposite. I do more complex stuff and frankly I’m wondering if you need me for this. If you just need to keep them on, maybe you need an electrician. I’m fairly expensive.” I’m not, but I was thinking about what I could get away with. Double my usual fee? Triple?

“Don’t concern yourself about the money,” he said. “We’ll discuss full payment after it’s done, but I will put you on retainer for $250,000 and advance you $25,000 of it today if you agree to take the job.” 

This set alarm bells ringing. That was too much money, first of all, and the rest didn’t make sense. A retainer? Discuss payment after the fact? I revised my email to Alvaro. It was going to read, “WHAT THE FUCK” all caps, no punctuation.

“Hold on a minute,” I said. “I think I want to know what I’m getting into before I agree to this. And I will need to have my attorney look over anything that’s not my standard contract before I sign.”

Eric smiled at me. “Of course. If I may continue?”

I nodded.

“I need someone who is going to take this seriously. It will not be easy. We– I have reason to believe that this will in fact be very difficult. I had reached out to Alvaro Pérez Martin because he worked on a commission for a friend of mine, and I later saw the installation he did at the embassy. Very technically challenging from what I’m given to understand. And this is going to be a challenging assignment.

“Let me ask you a hypothetical question, if ghosts were real, how would you defend against them?”

“Ghosts? Like… are we talking Casper, or like The Poltergeist?”

“Imagine for a moment there is an entity. It’s invisible. It’s mostly incorporeal. It can pass through people and things. It can for a brief, limited time, interact with objects. Flip switches, knock over plates, that kind of thing. You can’t catch it, any box you put it in, it will glide right through.”

“Well,” I said, thinking deeply. “I suppose at first glance it seems like you can’t.” I paused. “But…” I paused again. “No, I’m pretty sure you can’t.”

Eric laughed. “But you have to try, Marc. You have to try.”

“Well, what do you propose?”

“It’s the simplest but maybe the most costly option. You replace what it breaks. You keep replacing it, even if it keeps breaking it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s either that or it becomes corporeal and wreaks havoc.”“I don’t think I like where this is going.”

“Let’s say for a minute this entity needs darkness to appear. It reaches the height of its power during the equinox. If it happens during the day, it’s out of luck. If it happens at night…well, moonlight will pose a problem for it. But if it’s overcast, it will be ready and waiting. And remember, it can move things. Small things. What do you think it will do?”

“The lights.”

“Exactly so.”

“So you want me to do what, exactly? It can reach through walls. I don’t think we can stop it from turning them off.”

“It has a very limited ability to physically interact with things. So we build a system with as few points of failure as possible and we bring backups of our backups. No extraneous light switches in the building, for example. Auxiliary power. And you.”

This guy was a lunatic for sure, but there was something kind of flattering about being told you have the kind of reputation where people thought you were able to successfully fi...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Stxaar on 2024-11-17 08:46:50+00:00.

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It started as an innocent rabbit hole on YouTube. I had been scrolling aimlessly through suggested videos late at night when her face stopped me cold.

Samantha.

She’d been missing for over three years. Our whole high school had been shaken to the core when she disappeared without a trace. Posters went up around town, search parties were organized, and theories swirled: maybe she’d run away, or maybe something worse. Eventually, people moved on. But seeing her face in the thumbnail of a makeup tutorial froze me.

The video title read, “Soft Glam Look That’ll Make Him Love You! 💋”

It had to be her. Same fiery red hair, same piercing green eyes. But something about her looked…off. Her skin was too pale, her smile too stiff. I clicked the video.

The intro was bubbly and upbeat. “Hey, lovelies!” Samantha chirped, brushing her hair back. “Welcome back to my channel! Today, we’re going to do a soft glam look that’s just to die for!”

That voice. It was definitely her. But there was something robotic about her delivery, as though someone had written a script for her and she was forcing herself to sound cheerful. Her movements were too precise, almost unnatural, as if she were a puppet on strings.

I kept watching, trying to ignore the growing chill running down my spine. Halfway through the video, when she started blending eyeshadow, her hand slipped, smearing dark powder across her cheek. She froze. For a second, her bright, toothy smile faltered, and she looked directly into the camera—into me.

Her eyes weren’t just green. They were bloodshot, filled with an almost imperceptible plea for help. The video glitched for a moment, and when it resumed, she was smiling again, the smudge gone as if it had never happened.

I clicked on her channel.

There were dozens of videos. They all followed the same formula: Samantha doing her makeup, offering tips, and giving unnervingly cheerful commentary. But the more I watched, the more I noticed the cracks. Shadows moved in the background where there shouldn’t have been any. Faint whispers occasionally bled into the audio. And then there were her eyes, which sometimes darted to the side, as if checking for someone—or something—just off-screen.

The strangest part? The upload dates. The first video had been posted two weeks after she went missing.

My heart raced as I scrolled through the comments. Most were from people praising her makeup skills, but occasionally, there were odd ones: • “Why does she look so scared?” • “Anyone else hear the crying in the background at 3:17?” • “This channel gives me the creeps. Something’s wrong.”

I decided to dig deeper. I downloaded one of her videos and ran it through audio software, amplifying the background noise. What I heard made my stomach churn: soft, muffled sobbing. And beneath that, a voice—deep, gravelly, and angry.

“Keep smiling, or else.”

I slammed my laptop shut and tried to shake off the creeping dread. But I couldn’t let it go. I needed answers.

The next day, I skipped class and drove to her old house. Her parents had moved away after her disappearance, but the house was still empty, a FOR SALE sign swaying in the overgrown yard. I parked across the street and stared at the dark windows, trying to piece together what to do next.

Then my phone buzzed. A notification from YouTube.

Samantha had just uploaded a new video.

The title made my blood run cold: “Special Guest Does My Makeup! 💀”

I clicked it. The video started normally, with Samantha smiling brightly at the camera. But then she said, “I have someone very special here with me today! Say hi!”

The camera panned to the “guest.”

It was me.

My heart stopped as I stared at the screen. There I was, sitting stiffly next to her, my face pale and expressionless. She picked up a makeup brush and started applying blush to my cheeks, giggling like nothing was wrong. “You’re such a great model!” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

The version of me in the video didn’t react. He—I—just sat there, staring blankly ahead.

I scrambled to pause the video, but my phone froze. The screen flickered, and the video glitched, Samantha’s face warping into something grotesque—her smile stretching impossibly wide, her eyes hollowing out into dark voids.

Then, the video ended abruptly.

Before I could process what I’d just seen, my phone buzzed again. A notification. A comment on the video.

From Samantha.

“See you soon. 💋”

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Roos85 on 2024-11-17 02:55:09+00:00.

---

No, I don’t have the source for the movies and before you ask, it's not mainstream porn you can find by just googling my name. They’re videos of me being murdered. Where would you even find those types of videos? Dark web maybe, I don’t know. I don’t like watching myself being murdered.

What I can tell you is I’ve starred in over 50 and according to the guy that distributes them I’m the most watched and most sought-after snuff star in history, If that's even a thing.

You’re probably wondering how one would even get into that business. Well, the short answer is by accident. You don’t wake up one day and decide you want to be murdered.

In my case, I answered an ad looking for an amateur porn actress. I was just starting in the business and the pay seemed reasonable. When I arrived at the location which was a house in an upmarket location, it didn’t raise any red flags. It all seemed legit until I asked to be paid upfront, and the response was let's see how you die first. Before I knew it, I was being held down and the cameras began rolling.

All I can say is dying is like going to sleep during surgery, it's painful, yes at the start and scary, but when your heart starts slowing down you get a rush of euphoria before everything goes silent before the lights go out.

I couldn’t tell if there was an afterlife. I don’t stay dead long enough to find out. It's like going to sleep without dreaming, there’s a nanosecond of darkness before you wake up again.

You would think that a guy whose business is death could be easily scared, but when I suddenly woke up as they were loading me into a shallow grave in the woods he screamed like a little girl.

It took some time to calm him down. You would swear it was him that was just brutally murdered with the way he reacted, but once the initial shock wore off he look me dead in the eye (no pun intended) and said, I’m going to make you a fucking star.

I can’t go into details on how I get snuffed out, but I can say, the money is great. More than I could ever make being in mainstream porn.

The problem isn’t the fact that my employer is a death dealer of women. Actually, no women have been murdered apart from me of course, since I started. The problem is the reaction I'm starting to get the more my popularity grows.

The surprising thing is the people who notice me are the most ordinary people you could imagine. Not monsters that hide away in the shadows fantasizing about murdering women. I mean school teachers, doctors, and even young teenagers.

The biggest shock for me was when I was sitting in a cafe and I was approached by a young dad who had his two young daughters with him. He sat staring at me while his daughters sat eating chocolate muffins. I knew why he was looking at me even if he didn’t. As I was finishing up my latte I looked up to see him standing next to me with a strange grin on his face.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” He suddenly asked.

I was in my comfort clothes, a baggy t-shirt with a pair of sweatpants and the tattoo of a pentagram on my arm was on show. He began studying me to figure out how he knew and when I was just about to speak, he noticed the tattoo on my arm. It was like a light switch on in his brain and he suddenly realized where he knew me from. His face turned deathly pale and he began to stutter a bit before he hurried himself and his daughters out of the cafe.

I was never really worried about being noticed before, because the men that watched me expected me to be dead. I also never gave a second thought to my tattoo being the thing that gave me away. I mean how many girls out there have the same tattoo? When I got it done I was told it was a popular choice. That all changed when I got a phone call from my mother.

My poor mother had no clue about the type of business I was in. She always thought I was into some lifestyle stuff, like a trainer to the stars or something. I think the dream was better than the reality and always told her friends I was a successful businesswoman of some sort. Technically she wasn’t wrong.

All that changed when she rang me in hysterics. She could barely contain herself over the phone. “You’re alive, you’re alive, is all she kept on repeating down the phone. After I calmed her down and reassured her I was very much alive I waited until her breathing had slowed to a more relaxed state.

“Alison, for a moment I thought I was speaking to a ghost.” My mother was always my biggest fan in life and it broke my heart to hear her this upset.

“The police were here. Men in suits, detectives I think they were. They told me you were dead. Oh my sweet girl they told me you were dead. They had found blood and something about a tape or the internet. The bastards gave me a heart attack. I knew you weren’t dead.”

That night, I went to stay with my mother. Just to reassure her that I was still physically present and to just hug her. Mainly to reassure myself that I was definitely still present in this world. Deep down, I knew what this was about. Of course, someone who wasn’t a degenerate monster was going to watch my movies and try to put a name on the woman who should be somewhere in a shallow grave. But I always thought people would think the movies were just great fakes because you can only be the star of one snuff movie, not fifty.

A few weeks had passed and apart from my losing a year or two off of her life things had settled down.

I had decided to quit, it was never going to be a long-term thing, but if I was going to stop, my final movie was going to be my best. Go out with a bang I always say.

It was the day of the shoot and on the way to the location, I couldn’t escape the feeling I was being watched. I put it down to my nerves because I was going to die in the most brutal way possible. It was going to be so bad no one was ever going to think it was faked. And the fact it was going to be the last video of me, made it sound all the more believable.

I knew it was going to be painful, but the pain never lasted and all I was thinking was, it's going to be a spectacular death and it was. But as the euphoria swept over me and I began to slip into the darkness, I watched as men in swat gear burst into the room followed by men in suits.

As always I came back to life with a big gasp of air, like a baby taking its first breath after being expelled from the womb. I was expecting to be in the room where I was murdered, but this time I found myself on a cold metal slab. As I looked around what looked like an operating room I saw two men in suits. One was smiling, while the other appeared to hand over money from his wallet.

“Hi, welcome back. I just bet my colleague fifty dollars that you would come back from the dead,” he said as he put the note into his top pocket.

“I must say, I am a big fan of your movies. Damsel in the Dungeon is my personal favourite,” said the smartly dressed man as he smiled down at me.

This was the first time I had ever felt in danger. A sudden panic washed over me as I tried to get up off the table.

The two men in suits smiled at each other before handing me a hospital gown.

“Where am I,” I asked nervously.

“You have nothing to worry about, it's not like we are going to kill you,” said one of the men as they burst out laughing.

The two men walked me to an interview room and sat me down at a table opposite them.

“You still haven’t told me who you are and my reasons for being here.”

The two men adjusted themselves into a more serious posture.

“Sorry for the confusion. My name is Agent Harris and my colleague here is Agent Butler.”

“I look across at the two young agents sitting across from me as their frozen expressions fixate on me.”

“Agents? Are you F.B.I. or something,” I nervously asked.

One of the agents gave a disgruntled laugh as if I offended him.

“Close, we’re with the CIA.”

“What do you want with me? I didn’t know dying was illegal.”

The two men sat upright as one of them put a picture of a woman in front of me.

“We need your help with a delicate situation. It’s of the utmost importance to the security of this country.”

I looked down at the picture of a woman who looked strangely enough like me. Apart from her expensive-looking attire and different-coloured hair, we had the same facial features and we looked to be the same height.

“The woman in the picture is the wife of the Russian minister for defense Sergei Shoigu,” said the Agent with a sound of urgency in his voice.

“What does this have to do with me?” I asked.

“She has a lot of secrets that could be very important to us. The problem is her husband isn’t a nice man. Fortunately for us, her husband isn’t a nice man and treats her like a dog. So she wants a way out of the marriage, but being the man he is, he’s not going to let her go so easily.”

“I still don’t get what this has to do with me.”

The two agents look at each other before fixating their stares at me again.

“Sergei is a very powerful man. Even if we got her out of the country we couldn’t guarantee her safety. The only way we could do that is if we faked her death, but it has to look convincing and that is where you come in.”

It suddenly began to make sense. I remember a guy friend of mine who was big into conspiracy theories and would always bang on about how the moon landings were faked in a studio.

“So would I be correct in thinking you want me to make another movie given my special talent?”

The two agents ...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gt40rs/im_a_snuff_film_superstar_but_im_starting_to/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Scineronic on 2024-11-17 01:57:53+00:00.

---

My story begins in a cemetery like all those horror B movies that I watched as a kid. My sister and I were burying our father. Fucking cancer got him. That was horrifying in its own right. Well, I am going to skip over my father's death and burial. It's not really important to this story. Right now, all that needs to be said about his funeral is that it was short and sweet and brought a tear to everybody's eye. He was a good man, and people loved him.

After the funeral, my sister and I went for a walk in the cemetery. Looking at the gravestones was like going back in time through history. Each name had its own story to tell, I just wished I could hear it. Oh, the irony. When my mother had died during my childhood, my father had taken my sister and I on a walk through the cemetery after her funeral. At one point we stopped at a grave from the 19th century. I know it sounds like a fucking Hallmark movie, but I still remember what he said. "How many people do you think remember his story? Not many, I would venture. If any, that is. That's the tragedy of history—it can never be complete. There are stories that will always be lost to time. Make sure that your mother's story is not one of them."

I went in my own head during that walk with my sister. Her voice was like the crunching of leaves beneath our feet—just noise. I was too busy thinking about death. How long would people remember the stories of my parents? How long until they became another lost piece of history, even after what I've done? How long until my story will be lost to history? I mean how many people will read this post that I'm writing? And how many of those that read it will think that I belong in the fucking looney bin? A lot, I venture.

It was in my head that I first heard my father's voice. I thought it was the grief speaking, but his voice kept speaking. It gave me a migraine. My sister saw the state I was in and drove me home. She offered to stay with me, but I told her that I would be fine on my own. My father was still speaking to me. I decided to respond to what I thought was my own grief. What do you want, dad? He of course responded. He wanted to tell his story.

I've written the occasional short story now and then. I thought this was my grief trying to inspire me. What the hell, I thought and sat behind my computer. No, my father said to me. Use a pen and paper. I think that was the moment I thought that this might be a little more than a son's grief over his dead dad. Nevertheless, I grabbed a pen and some paper and began writing. Word by word, my father told me his life story. I transcribed every word exactly, and little by little my migraine lessened. He told me stories that he had never shared before, stories that would put a living man to shame. I guess the dead rise above that kind of human sentiment.

When I penned the last word of his story, I realized that my migraine had completely disappeared. I also realized that I had written well into the morning. If I hadn't taken a few days off work for my father's funeral, I would have had to wake up in just a couple hours to get ready for work. Thank God for minor miracles. It didn't matter any way, I couldn't sleep if I wanted to. I sat back in my chair and looked at the pile of paper in front of me. It was a hell of a lot longer than just a short story. It was the story of my father. His fucking life. And I had written it.

When the cemetery opened up, I was one of its first arrivals. I first went to the grave of my father. The dirt was still new. I spoke to him. I wanted him to speak back, but apparently he had already told his story. He had found his peace. I walked around cemetery, hoping for something to pop out at me. Another story. I did eventually find someone who was willing to share their life to me. I wrote that one down too. Since then, I've heard and written down many stories.

It's been a while since that day in the cemetery. I've written down the stories of all my family that I can find. I've written the stories of friends that have gone too soon. I've also written the stories of complete strangers. Sometimes these strangers are good people. Sometimes they're not. The bad ones make me wish that I had never been "blessed" with this power.

I've written the stories of murderers and rapists and anything else you can think of. The evil hidden beneath the surface (literally) is unimaginable. The worst of them laugh as I transcribe their story. Every evil, every heinous act, is a fucking joke to them. And I am forced to transcribe it. I don't have a choice. The second I hear a voice of the dead, I have to write. With one monster, I tried not to, and it almost killed.

Stephen Martin—that was his name. I found him in some rural cemetery that I now can't even remember the name of. I've been to hundreds of those bone gardens. The names all get mixed up in my head. He told his story, and I did the best I could to keep my hand away from the damn pen and paper. I tried to restrain myself. I didn't want to write down something that horrific. Martin hadn't always lived in that rural area. He had gone there after "retirement." For most of his life, he had lived in the city. And the children... there were so many children. So many parents that had no idea what happened to their kids. And this cunt got away with it. Got away with it all. These children died, their parents mourned over a body they would never find, and he got a fucking retirement. It made me sick. After hearing the briefest synopsis of his life, I promised myself I wasn't going to write down this fucker's story.

The sweats, the fever, the chest pain—those were only some of my symptoms. My sister came over during that time. I begged her not to, but she did. She screamed at me much to my surprise. Hell of a thing to do to your dying brother, I thought. She wanted to know why the hell I hadn't gone to a doctor—why I hadn't tried to find out what was fucking killing me. The problem was, I knew what was killing me. It was that piece of shit in my head. He was tearing me apart from the inside. Another issue was that I also knew how to cure myself. I just needed to put pen to paper. On this front, Martin mocked me. He mocked how I was dying. He mocked how fucking stupid I was to let him kill me. He said that I would be the first son of a bitch killed by a dead man. Unfortunately for him, I just no longer gave a shit. Let him fucking kill me, I thought.

As you might have guessed by the fact that I'm writing this, I did eventually write his story. Something clicked in my head: this bastard's piss-poor life shouldn't be the reason that good people would lose their stories to time. My father's words echoed in the back of my mind: "That's the tragedy of history—it can never be complete." I'm not naive enough to assume that I can create a complete account of history, but I know I can do my damnedest. So I wrote Martin's story. At first I would constantly vomit—and then dry heave—over every graphic description of Martin's deeds, but eventually I became numb to it. I hated that. After I finished his story, I went to bed, but before I did so, I locked the pages of Martin's story in a safe. I wanted to burn his fucking story, but I feared that would make him come back. I put him in a different safe than all the other ones. This bastard didn't deserve to be with my father. His pages deserved to rot alone for all eternity.

I guess it's time for me to present the proof that backs up all this shit. Surely, you didn't think that I would tell you all this without some proof? If I did, they'd lock me up in a goddamn looney bin. A couple months after I transcribed Martin's story, I realized I could give the parents some closure. I knew where their kids were buried. Martin had bared his entire soul—miserable thing that it was—to me. One day, I left an anonymous message to a police precinct in the city where he did his killings. They found them. They found them all. Their parents got closure and were able to bury their kids. I hope that caused Martin to roll in his grave. Maybe someday I will write down their story too. Be able to live through all the good of their lives before they met Martin. But probably not for a while. I already know the end of their stories. And those are not stories I want to rehear anytime soon.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Holeysweaterguy on 2024-11-17 01:24:49+00:00.

---

So I was overseas on business last week and we stayed at a pretty nice hotel in a mid-sized city. It’s not the richest place in the world and we were advised to take precautions, use the safe overnight, make sure the door is locked from the inside, keep together outside the hotel etc.

I’m always fairly cautious anyway when I stay in hotels anywhere, and I like to push a chair up against the door handle as an extra precaution before going to bed at nights. Sometimes I’ll wedge a shoe under the handle but in this place the back of the chair went right up to the handle. So that was fine.

This room had a bed on legs so I had a little look under there each night as well, just in case a robber or someone was hiding (which I’d read about happening in this particular country). On top of that I’d quickly check the wardrobe. Call me paranoid but doing all that helps me sleep more soundly.

Anyway, forward to the third night. When I came into the room after a day working the aircon wasn’t turning on. Reading the panel beneath it said, “If the unit doesn’t switch on check that the balcony door is closed.” Sure enough it was slightly ajar. I looked out onto the narrow balcony, not much more than a ledge, which was completely empty, slid the door shut and then the aircon started working again. I figured the cleaning staff must have left the door open to air the room.

Anyway I went through my ritual of putting the chair against the door, checking under the bed, looking in the wardrobe. All seemed clear and I went to bed. But I had a really fitful night, which I put down to stress from the work I was doing out there, and had a bad dream that there was someone looking over me muttering in my ear. Waking from the nightmare around 4am I sat up in bed but couldn’t see anything. I thought I heard some kind of shuffling noise but nothing happened, and when I turned the lights on all seemed normal. Nothing was missing, and my valuables were in the safe anyway.

We travelled home the next day without a problem. I unpacked my things, realising that I left one of my T-shirts behind in the room, but otherwise all was good…. until I reviewed my photo reel that evening. I had taken a photo of the room on the first day as I always do, as I’ll send it to my folks. The photo showed the view from the door. The bed, coffee machine, panel TV, and the work desk which comes out into the centre of the room just beyond the bed, and the big windows beyond. Behind the desk between it and the window you can see the chair, the area under the desk being a clear space so you can see the chair’s base and wheels.

You’re probably thinking that’s not strange at all, and it’s not. But here’s the thing. I also took a photo on the morning of the day I checked out, which was directly after my fitful sleep the night before. And the room looks exactly the same, except for one detail. This time, the area under the desk isn’t clear. Instead the space between tabletop and floor is covered by a panel…

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/NotJustSomeNumbers on 2024-11-17 00:15:37+00:00.

---

When I was fourteen, I was kicked out of my house by my parents. I don’t feel like explaining what led up to the fight that ended our relationship. I jumped around between different friend's places until I ran out of friends.   

I knew unless I contacted my family, I would end up on the street at some point. Still being stubborn, I refused. When my last friend said I couldn’t stay the night, I was alone with nowhere to go and only a few bucks in my pocket. The other issue was it got unseasonably cold. Before night fell, I could already see my breath. By some luck, I found a rundown building I could break into and stay out of the wind.  

I ran through any ideas of what to do in my head. If I could stand being outside for a night, I can go to school tomorrow. I didn’t really do work in class, but at least I could stay warm and take scraps of people's lunches no one wanted. It was how I normally got food during the day. The gas station offered free hot water. If I could scrape together enough change, an instant noodle bowl for dinner would warm me up. Without anything else to do, I curled up on the ground using my backpack as a pillow to sleep.  

That strategy of using the school for heat and bits of food worked for a few days. I could use the showers there, and a friend let me come over to his place to wash my few pieces of clothing. His parents were strict about who came over so I was out of the house before they got home and that meant staying over wasn’t an option. At least he was nice enough to endure his parent's wrath if we got caught so I would have some clean underwear.  Overall, the kids at my school were pretty nice. Or maybe that was just the ones I hung around with. We all had terrible home lives in some way so we all banded together to help out if we could. None of us could do anything about our home life, but we could make sure our friends were fed.  

They begged me to just go back home. I refused thinking I was doing alright. They were my support system and the old broken-down building wasn’t that bad until I could find something better. My friends kept bringing up valid points of other people on the street seeing me as an easy target. I could be robbed, murdered, or sold into trafficking and no one would be able to help. Being on the street as a kid was dangerous in too many ways to count. And yet, I still didn’t go back home.  

The problem came when the temperature dropped below freezing. Another friend gave me a jacket that was too small for him. Some gave me extra pairs of socks. And another found some old mittens he wasn’t using. And yet, it wasn’t enough. As I found my way to the old building to get settled in for the night I wondered if I would be able to make it. The sun hadn’t set yet, and I was shivering, I wore all the clothing I owned. I placed the small jacket on the ground because I heard it was warmer to sleep on something. A terrible win blew outside as I curled up in my layers of clothing wondering what to do.   

There were some places I could hang out. The issue was other people knew about those places. I’ve come across some pretty threatening people in the same situation as myself. I almost felt bad about being uncomfortable around those people because they had issues they couldn't control. But I also knew if I tried hanging out inside the warmer places with the other homeless population, I would have issues with them.  

There was also a chance that someone actually cared about a kid being on the street and called the cops. As I shivered, I stayed where I was thinking freezing would be better than getting stabbed for my shoes. Or be forced to go back home. I could see every puff of breath. My nose hurt from how cold it was and my fingers and toes refused to warm up.  

I thought about why I was sleeping on the cold ground and my chest tightened. I was angry at my parents for creating a home in which I felt so unwelcome. It was as if dying from hypothermia was better than being with them. I tried being a good kid but gave up when nothing I did mattered to them. If they punished me for nothing I might as well do whatever I wanted and this is where I ended up.  

My body hurt from shaking and yet I couldn’t stop. Even if I wanted to call the cops on myself just to be somewhere warm, I was too weak to get up from only an hour on the hard ground. I suppose it wasn’t just that hour. It was a week of sleeping outside, and not getting regular meals. Before then, I wasn’t aware of how painful the cold could be.   

My chest hurt from shaking, my lungs hurt from the cold air, and my toes felt as if they were going to fall off. I wanted nothing more than a hot meal and a warm bed. Tears started to form, but I forced them down, knowing the wetness on my face would just make me feel colder.   

Just as I was nodding off convinced, I wouldn’t wake up again, I heard something echo through the dark cold building, A tapping sound, I searched my brain to figure out where I heard the sound before. It kept getting closer. It was so dark I couldn’t see what was causing the sound and I was too weak to even sit up. I felt scared to death and yet my eyes refused to open as the sound got closer. And closer. Suddenly, I felt a puff of hot wind on my face. Something in my brain clicked as I realized the sounds I heard getting closer were similar to dog claws tapping on a hard surface. I wanted to open my eyes to see what kind of beats were in front of me, but my body simply shut down.   

I passed out completely defenseless. I woke up a short while later feeling as if I couldn’t breathe. Something was crushing down in me. An odd smell came as my eyes fluttered open but I couldn’t see anything through the darkness. And for some reason, I was warm, almost hot.  

I struggled to get my arm free that was pinned under my body. When it moved, I felt something rough. A fur-like texture surrounded me. Then, I realized some animal was sitting on me, or curled around my small form. I didn’t know about any wild animals that would be this big. Panic started to rise. If it was a bear, or a big cat that escaped from the zoo, or a private collector I was toast. Once it woke up, I would be mauled when it realized I was a tasty treat. But why did it curl itself around me in the first place? Was it also cold and just using me for body heat?  

I was still weak and tired. The pressure behind my eyes was a sign of an illness. I soon drifted back asleep while listening to the rhythmic breathing of the creature hold me hostage.  

When I woke up again, the cold overtook my body again. My face was flushed and my throat was sore. I couldn’t sit up without getting so lightheaded I needed to sit back down. Harsh coughs wracked my chest. That was a problem. Aside from being sick and still in the harsh weather, it was dangerous being loud while alone. I’d been silent the entire time I stayed in the building. This time I hoped a security guard found me. At least then I might get some treatment before getting shipped back home.  

I couldn’t move that day. Fever chills shook my body down to the bones. I had some water but couldn’t even keep that down if I could only move and find a payphone to call for help. And yet, I was too ill to do anything. As I lay on the floor drifting in and out of sleep for the day, I noticed something in the cement that hadn’t been there before. Deep grooves in the floor in front of where I was. Almost like massive claw marks.  

As the sun fell with the temperature, I heard the tapping sound again. I was too scared to keep my eyes open even though I was awake. Pretending to be asleep, the creature from the night before roughly curled around my sick body. I could only tell it was huge and had dark long fur. No animal I knew of would fit the description. Maybe I was hallucinating because of my fever. It was scary as hell, but at least I was warm.  

Again, by the time I woke up the mystery creature was gone leaving more claw marks. I was feeling well enough to move and got packed as fast as my body would move in the dawn light. That was when I was finally discovered. A pair of men dressed in layers of rags came through the same broken door I’d found. They hadn’t made a move just yet. They watched trying to decide what to do based on my actions.   

They either just wanted my spot, or wanted something of me I couldn’t give up. I looked around trying to find another way to escape. I figured this building was meant to be an office that was never finished. I was on the second floor. Each window was broken or not installed. Jumping might not kill me. The only way down the stairs was to pass the two poorly hidden men. I got ready to make a break for the window as they rushed out first.   

I only got a few steps when I felt someone grab my backpack to bring me to the ground. I screamed trying to get their hands off as they pulled at my clothing trying to get anything they could. A knife glittered in the dim sunlight and yet I still fought trying to get free. Both of them reeked. A mixture of the smell and still being ill made me gag between screams. Neither weren’t well-fed, but could easily overpower a kid still in high school. I was going to die, or worse. I should have if it wasn’t for what kept me warm the past two nights.  

Out of nowhere the man who was holding the knife suddenly didn’t have his head. Blood sprouted from the wound causing me and my attacker to stop to sta...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gt0ywj/i_encountered_something_while_sleeping_in_an/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/11velociraptors on 2024-11-16 21:18:58+00:00.

---

The first time it happened, I almost dismissed it as a dream. It was the middle of the night, and I opened my eyes to a dark bedroom. The house was cool, pleasantly so, and the comfort of the blankets around me almost lulled me right back to sleep. Before I slipped into unconsciousness, I became aware of a faint whisper. 

Turning onto my side, I was surprised to see my wife sitting up in bed. Her body was turned away from me, angled towards the far corner of our room. I assumed at first that she was speaking to me, but her words came out in a constant, almost desperate stream. Once I became cognizant enough to decipher her hushed speech, I recognized it as a prayer.

Gemma, though what I'd call a "casually practicing" Catholic, had never prayed in her sleep before. In fact, in the decade we'd been together, I hadn't known her to talk in her sleep at all. I found myself unsettled by the intensity of her words. Sitting up, I placed a hand on her back, and the touch seemed to startle her awake. She jerked forwards and opened her eyes, looking at me in confusion. 

"Hello?" She said, and something about the indignant way she said it dispelled the tension in the room. 

"Sorry to wake you but you were talking in your sleep. Reciting the 'Our Father,' actually." 

She found this amusing and was asleep again in no time. I, however, had a much more difficult time falling back asleep after that. Something told me to stay vigilant, though I couldn't for the life of me figure out why. Even as Gemma slept peacefully beside me, I kept finding myself sitting up to survey the dark corner she'd been angled towards while praying. 

A full week passed before it happened again. This time, when I awoke in the middle of the night, I could tell immediately that Gemma wasn't in bed next to me. I got up and walked into the hall, checking the upstairs rooms to no avail. When I went downstairs, I heard Gemma before I saw her. I followed the sound of frantic whispering into the living room, where she stood in front of the fireplace mantle, praying before a silver urn. 

As I drew nearer, I saw that Gemma's eyes were still closed. When I called out to her and didn't receive a response, I realized that she was still asleep somehow. I was thankful she hadn't fallen down the stairs, but I was also concerned with the sudden escalation of her parasomnia. The one thing I knew about sleepwalking was that you weren't supposed to wake the person up, so I gently put my hands on Gemma's shoulders and started to walk her back towards our bedroom. She didn't stop whispering as we walked, and, even stranger, I realized after a while that she wasn't speaking English. I thought it sounded like Latin, which wouldn't be too weird, right? Lots of Catholic prayers were originally written in Latin after all. That explanation was enough to reassure me as I walked through the dark house beside my sleeping wife. Or at least, it was enough until we reached the bottom of the stairwell, at which point Gemma opened her eyes, looked at me, and said: 

"You're both going to die in this house, Marco." 

For a moment, I was frozen in place, surprised by both her words and the absolute certainty behind them. It was only after her macabre statement that Gemma seemed to fully awaken. She blinked slowly, looking blearily at our surroundings. 

"Marc? What's going on?" 

"You were sleepwalking." 

"What? I've never sleepwalked in all my life." 

"Yeah … And you said something a little creepy at the end there. Do you remember anything? Maybe a dream that might've spilled out into real life?" 

As it turned out, Gemma had been dreaming, though not about me or the house. In her dream, she'd been laying immobile inside of a glass casket. She described two humanoid silhouettes on either side of her, one made of shadow and the other of pure light. The former poured water into the casket while the latter tried to scoop it out. She was unable to move as the water level crept higher and higher, threatening to cover her nose and mouth as the bright figure tried its best to slow the flood. 

Gemma and I, both fully alert at that point, went to the kitchen to drink some tea and wait for our nerves to settle. As the tea steeped, I found myself thinking of my mother in law, Thérèse, and not only because our cups had once belonged to her. Gemma's mother had lived with us for the last year of her life, and had passed away only a month prior to Gemma's first sleeptalking incident. As a result, there were reminders of her all over the house—her tea set in the kitchen, her mirror in the corner of our bedroom, her portrait hanging in the hall. But it was Gemma's words, not her mother's things, that made me think of Thérèse. You see, my name is Marc, and everyone in my life refers to me as such, with the exception of my mother in law, who used to call me "Marco." How strange it was that Gemma had called me that in her sleep. 

Two weeks passed, and while I sometimes awoke to Gemma murmuring quiet prayers in her sleep, her sleepwalking seemed like a one-time incident. While Gemma continued to have nightmares, and while I continued to be somewhat creeped-out by the sleeptalking, it wasn't a major impediment to our lives, and thus we both did our best to ignore it. That is, until this morning.

It was just after one when I awoke. I'd grown accustomed to having my sleep interrupted by Gemma's prayers, but this time, I opened my eyes to find my wife's side of the bed empty. I rolled onto my back and was startled to see Gemma standing at the foot of our bed, facing towards the bedroom door. Her hands were clasped in front of her chest, her head bowed and her lips moving rapidly. Annoyed at having my rest disturbed yet again, I started to get out of bed when an odd sensation befell me. Before my foot touched the ground, I felt the overwhelming urge to stay put. For no reason that I could discern, I felt a compulsion to pull the covers over my head and hide like a child. 

"Gems?" I called out, and she raised an open palm towards me, signaling for me to stay put. 

"It's here." She said. I pushed down the urge and got out of bed, coming to a stop beside my wife. The air in the room was very, very cold.

"Who?" I asked her, though I'm not sure why. I knew she was only sleep talking, but she just sounded so damn certain. Gemma didn't answer. I looked towards the bedroom door and realized that at some point after I awoke, it had opened. 

My heartbeat quickened at the thought of an intruder in our house. Retrieving the baseball bat I kept under our bed, I began walking towards the door when Gemma suddenly moved, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me backwards. 

"Don't. Move. Don't you move, Marco." 

That name again. 

"My love, what is going on with you? Why are you calling me that?" I gently pulled my free hand from her grip and put a palm on her cheek. When I touched her, I found that her skin was damp with tears. I felt a pang in my chest. Poor thing was probably having that same nightmare again. 

"Please wake up." 

For a moment, my wife was quiet. Her whispered prayers ceased and she stood there motionless as I willed her to awaken. 

Then, suddenly, she gasped, inhaling like someone who'd been holding their breath for a long time. Her eyes fluttered open, locking with mine. 

"Gemma?" I said, and then the house erupted with sound. The wall mounted mirror came crashing to the ground, as did our framed family photo hanging near the door. Instinctively, I pulled Gemma close and wrapped my arms around her as the sound of shattering glass filled the room. A shard from the mirror had wedged itself into my calf and I cursed sharply. I waited for the tremors to subside, but after a minute, I realized that there were no tremors. It hadn't felt like an earthquake at all. Instead it almost seemed like the mirror and photo had flung themselves off of the wall of their own volition. 

Gemma stirred in my arms and I let her go. She was fully awake by then, and so after telling her to be careful of the glass, I picked my way around the mess on the floor to check out the rest of the house. The scene was … bizarre. Some objects had fallen and shattered in every room, but many of their neighboring items remained perfectly intact. The tea set in the kitchen, for example, had fallen from the shelf, but the row of glasses right next to it hadn't moved an inch. It looked like someone had walked through each room in the house and picked out a few specific objects to destroy. 

I found my wife in the living room, staring down at the carpet. The silver urn had been knocked from the mantle and the ashes within it were strewn all over the floor. I felt so bad for Gemma—between her mother and her parasomnia and now this earthquake, she'd been through so much in the past few months. I gave her a hug and told her I was sorry, and strangely, instead of tearing up as I expected, she smiled at me. 

"It's alright, dear. Nothing we can't replace, right?" She stretched her arms above her head and yawned. "I'll help you clean up in the morning. Too tired at the moment." Without another word, she turned around and made her way back upstairs to bed. 

How she was so calm, I had no clue. I spent some time tending to my leg and was pleased to see that the cut was quite small and probably wouldn't need stitches. After making sure there was no glass left in my skin, I patched myself up and got to work cleaning. ...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gsxa8q/my_wife_has_started_to_pray_in_her_sleep/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/DivineAnime1 on 2024-11-16 20:52:19+00:00.

---

They told us the truth under oath: aliens aren’t coming from the stars—they’re already here, hiding beneath the oceans. When former NASA scientists and Area 51 workers testified before Congress, the world shook. The media couldn’t get enough of it. Official reports hinted at sonar readings too symmetrical to be natural, structures too deep for any human to build, and something alive, moving in the darkest parts of the ocean.

At first, people thought it was a hoax, another conspiracy theory to stir the pot. But then funding for deep-sea exploration tripled overnight. What scared me wasn’t the testimony itself but the silence that followed—the way the governments of the world seemed to drop the conversation as if admitting too much would doom us all.

I didn’t believe in any of it, not really. I was just a deep-sea diver trying to make a living. But when Merrick, a billionaire with an ego the size of the ocean, offered me a fortune to take him and a marine biologist named Dr. Evelyn Park to the Mariana Trench, I couldn’t say no. He wasn’t subtle about his intentions. “We’re going to find proof,” he said. “Proof that they’re down there.”

The Mariana Trench isn’t just the deepest part of the ocean—it’s the closest thing we have to another planet. At over 36,000 feet deep, it’s a place where the human body wouldn’t last a second. The pressure is so intense it can crush steel. The temperatures are so cold they border on freezing. It’s pitch black, silent, and utterly alien.

Merrick had spared no expense in chartering The Nautilus, a state-of-the-art submersible designed to withstand the crushing depths. As we descended into the abyss, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were trespassing, crossing a threshold humans weren’t meant to cross.

By the time we passed 10,000 feet, the light from the surface was long gone. The world outside was a black void, broken only by the occasional flicker of bioluminescent creatures. Evelyn marveled at every glowing jellyfish and deep-sea anglerfish that floated past the viewport. “Look at them,” she whispered. “They’ve adapted to total darkness. They’re not just surviving—they’re thriving.”

Merrick wasn’t interested in the lifeforms we could see. His eyes were glued to the sonar, where a faint, rhythmic pulse had been growing louder with every meter we descended. The signal had been picked up by satellite arrays weeks ago, emanating from a specific part of the trench. It was what had drawn him—and us—here.

“It’s not geological,” Evelyn said, studying the signal. “The intervals are too precise.”

Merrick grinned. “Exactly. It’s artificial. A signal. Someone—or something—is down there.”

I didn’t like how certain he sounded.

At 22,000 feet, the ocean started to feel different. The water itself seemed heavier, colder. The submersible creaked and groaned as the pressure mounted, but that wasn’t what unnerved me. It was the silence. The sonar, which had been steadily pinging, now returned strange echoes—delayed, distorted, like something out there was answering us.

The rhythmic pulse we’d been following grew louder, more defined. It wasn’t random. It was a pattern, deliberate and mechanical. And it was close.

Then we saw it.

The floodlights illuminated a ridge on the ocean floor, and beyond it, something impossible: a structure. It was massive, partially buried in sediment, with smooth, curving lines that glimmered faintly in the light. It wasn’t made of stone or metal but something else, a material that seemed to shift and flow like liquid but held its shape.

The structure was covered in intricate patterns, lines and grooves that pulsed faintly with light, like veins carrying some alien energy. Evelyn stared, her face pale. “That’s… that’s not natural. It can’t be.”

Merrick leaned forward, his face alight with greed. “It’s a monolith,” he said. “Proof. This is it.”

Evelyn was scanning the structure with every tool at her disposal, but nothing made sense. “The readings are… inconsistent. The material doesn’t match anything on Earth. And it’s… emitting something.”

“What do you mean, ‘emitting’?” I asked.

“A low-frequency hum,” she said. “It’s resonating through the water.”

As if on cue, the hum grew louder. It wasn’t just in our ears—it was in our bodies, vibrating through our bones. The lights on the monolith flared, and the entire structure seemed to come alive.

Then they appeared.

From behind the monolith, shapes emerged. At first, they blended into the structure, their shimmering bodies reflecting the light. But as they moved, it became clear they weren’t part of the monolith—they were something else entirely.

They were humanoid in shape but impossibly alien. Their limbs were elongated and webbed, their skin a liquid-metal sheen that shifted and flowed like mercury. Their heads had no eyes, no mouth, just smooth, featureless domes that seemed to absorb the light. And yet, I felt them watching us, their presence suffocating.

One of them tilted its head, and a ripple passed through its body. The sonar fell silent.

“They know we’re here,” Evelyn whispered.

Merrick didn’t seem scared—he seemed thrilled. “Get closer,” he demanded. “We need to document this.”

Before I could stop him, Merrick activated the submersible’s maneuvering thrusters, bringing us dangerously close to the monolith. The creatures reacted instantly. One of them surged forward, its liquid-metal body twisting and elongating as it slammed into the viewport. The sub shook violently, alarms blaring as the glass began to crack.

“Merrick, stop!” Evelyn screamed, but he was too focused on the controls. “They’re testing us,” she said, her voice trembling. “We’re intruding!”

The creature struck again, this time with more force. A long, clawed appendage shot out from its body, piercing the side of the sub. Water began to flood the cabin. The pressure difference dragged Merrick toward the breach.

“No!” he yelled, clawing at the console, but it was useless. The water took him in an instant, pulling him out through the jagged hole. The force shredded his body before he even cleared the sub. Blood and fragments of flesh clouded the water as the creatures descended upon him.

Evelyn and I watched in horror as the creatures swarmed Merrick’s remains, their bodies undulating as they tore into him. The monolith pulsed in response, its grooves glowing brighter, as if feeding on the carnage.

“They’re distracted,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “We need to go.”

I activated the safety protocoll for emergencies to seal off the submarine and slammed the controls into reverse, praying the sub would hold together long enough to get us out of there. The creatures didn’t follow—not because they had let us go, but because they were still busy with Merrick. The sight of them, their fluid bodies shimmering as they devoured him, would haunt me forever.

The monolith’s hum began to fade as we ascended, but the silence that replaced it was worse. It wasn’t peace—it was a warning.

Evelyn clutched her chest, her breathing shallow. “They didn’t let us go,” she said. “They… they were done with us.”

The ascent felt endless. Every creak of the sub’s hull, every groan of the pressure, made me think we wouldn’t make it. But somehow, we broke the surface, the sunlight almost blinding after the abyss.

The official report listed Merrick’s death as an accident, the result of equipment failure. Evelyn and I were sworn to secrecy, our footage confiscated by government officials who offered no explanation but plenty of threats.

I tried to move on, to forget what I saw, but the hum never left me. It’s faint, almost imperceptible, but it’s there, resonating in my chest like a second heartbeat. Evelyn says she hears it too.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, I dream of the monolith and the creatures waiting behind it. I see Merrick’s broken body, and I hear the hum growing louder.

They’re still down there, watching, waiting.

And I know someday they’ll call us back.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Obvious-Secretary151 on 2024-11-16 19:21:52+00:00.

---

I never should have opened that email.

It came late one night, buried in the sea of spam clogging my inbox. The subject line was simple: "Play the Game. Win the Prize." I don’t know what possessed me to click it. Maybe I was bored, or maybe the insomnia had scrambled my brain. Either way, I clicked.

The email had no text, just a link. Against every ounce of common sense, I hovered over it, hesitating only a second before clicking. My browser opened to a black screen with a single line of text:

"Welcome to The Game. Will you play? Yes / No."

I stared at it, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. It had to be a prank or some kind of viral marketing stunt. I typed "Yes" and hit enter.

The screen flickered, and new text appeared.

"The rules are simple: Do what we ask. No questions. No quitting. Win, and you’ll receive a reward beyond your wildest dreams. Lose, and… well, you won’t."

A countdown started in the corner of the screen: 30 seconds. Underneath, a new message appeared:

"Level 1: Knock on your neighbor’s door."

I laughed. Was this it? A weird scavenger hunt? My neighbor, Mrs. Kline, was a sweet old lady who baked cookies for the whole block. I figured I’d humor the game and give her a laugh.

I grabbed my phone and walked next door. The house was dark, but I knocked lightly anyway. No answer. I tried again, harder this time. Still nothing. As I turned to leave, my phone buzzed.

"We didn’t say ‘lightly.’ Knock harder."

I froze, staring at the screen. How did they know?

Heart pounding, I raised my fist and pounded on the door. This time, the lights flickered on, and Mrs. Kline opened the door, looking confused but unharmed. I mumbled an apology about a prank and rushed back to my house.

My computer dinged.

"Well done. Level 2: Leave your front door unlocked for the next hour."

This time, I hesitated. My neighborhood wasn’t exactly crime-ridden, but leaving my door open at night? No way. I hovered over the browser’s close button, but the screen glitched and froze. My phone buzzed again.

"No quitting."

Against my better judgment, I unlocked the door. Then I sat on the couch, staring at it for what felt like forever. Nothing happened. No shadows moved across the porch, no footsteps crept up the stairs. Just silence.

When the hour was up, my computer dinged again.

"Good. Level 3: Look under your bed."

A chill ran down my spine. I hadn’t looked under my bed in years—not since I was a kid and convinced monsters lived there. It was ridiculous, I told myself. Still, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling creeping up my neck.

I grabbed a flashlight and knelt on the floor, shining it into the darkness under my bed. At first, I saw nothing but a few stray socks and some dust. Then something moved.

It was quick—just a flash of pale skin and fingers too long to be human. I jerked back, heart pounding. But when I looked again, it was gone.

My computer dinged.

"Did you see it? :) Level 4: Invite it out."

I slammed my laptop shut, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Whatever this game was, it wasn’t a joke.

But it wasn’t over. My phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t a message. It was a video.

The shaky footage showed my bedroom—my bedroom, filmed from the corner near the ceiling. The camera zoomed in on the bed, and slowly, something crawled out from underneath it.

The thing was impossibly thin, its limbs bending in ways they shouldn’t. Its face was a blank, pale expanse with no eyes, no mouth—nothing but smooth, featureless skin. It tilted its head toward the camera, as if it knew I was watching.

The video ended. A new message appeared on my phone:

"Level 5: It’s inside now. Hide."

The sound of footsteps echoed from upstairs.

I didn’t think. I grabbed my keys and bolted out the front door, sprinting down the street as fast as I could. Behind me, I swear I heard the sound of laughter—low, guttural, and wrong.

I spent the night in my car, parked in a well-lit gas station. When I finally returned home the next morning, the house was empty. My computer was gone. My phone, too. It was like the game had never existed.

But I know it did.

Because sometimes, late at night, I hear those footsteps again.

And I wonder if I ever really stopped playing.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/googlyeyes93 on 2024-11-16 18:33:28+00:00.

---

“Alright, off the wagon. I ain’t taking any animal o’ mine through here.” The rough voice came through my dreams but didn’t quite register. There was a light approaching in my dream, something beautiful, a star maybe? “I said off!”

Pain started in my shoulder and my stomach dropped as I hit empty space. I barely had time to register my dizziness before my fall, I briefly saw the hanging lantern spinning in a rush before I crashed to the damp ground below, taking a face full of grass and soil. I pulled myself up, spitting out dirt and trying to ascertain my whereabouts. Water was splashing in the distance. Were we finally there?

“You’re on your own.” The driver didn’t even look at me as he climbed back up on the wagon, barely giving a thought as he started off and left last words trailing back to me, “If your brother was there he’s probably dead. You do have my condolences.”

Stop. Stop thinking about it. I couldn’t let myself believe him dead. He had signed up without hesitation, leaving me back home with the choice to stay or follow. I felt the twinge of pain in my ankle where it had been broken, keeping me home and apart from him. We had been a team since I could remember, storytellers from the beginning…

I was brought back to the present by a howl coming from the nearby forest. The small port lay ahead, lanterns burning low, barely illuminating the encroaching darkness as their reflection played off the dark river ahead, making eyes in murky water that followed me as I walked. I could see a glow coming off Tybee, dim against the dense forest of the island.

Whether he was here or not, that would be my last stop on this journey. I started walking after grabbing my belongings off the ground, though it wasn’t much other than some dried beef and a canteen in my bag alongside the small bowie knife he had given me three Christmases ago, still shining bright as the day it met my hands. I gripped the cold leather on the hilt as the small tavern overlooking the port neared, hesitating as the hand under my long coat gripped the knife hilt while I pushed the door open.

Sound hit me in waves, as the smell of beer and tobacco hit me harder, overpowering my senses and almost knocking me over like the breakers crashing below. My grip loosened as I moved, stepping into the tavern’s warm embrace. The smell of roasting meat and baking bread overpowered the alcohol finally, and I relaxed my hand on the dagger. There was a friendly-looking girl standing at a nearby counter, filling a glass from a massive bottle of dark liquor.

“Be right with you sweetheart!” She shouted to me, taking the glass over to a table where one man sat alone. He gave her a nod and smile as she walked back to me. First thing I noticed was the blue army coat he wore, buttons fraying off. The second thing I noticed was the massive scar running down his face, only separated by the eyepatch covering what I assume was his now vacated socket. The barmaid was in front of me suddenly, flashing a bright smile and giving me a warmer welcome.

“Alrighty darlin’, you lookin’ for food, booze, a room, or the whole deal?” I snapped back, trying to pretend I wasn’t staring intently at the man. The squalor around us made a decent enough cover as I took a seat at the bar. She couldn’t be older than fifteen and looked to be running this place herself. Don’t know how she managed but she was standing at attention with a hand ready on a spatula behind her, waiting for something on the stove to finish.

“Uh, drink, please. Cider if you have it.” I said though she didn’t catch me at first. I tried yelling it louder when she finally understood me, moving back with a fresh glass from the nearby shelf to a cask at the far end. A soft, pink-orange liquid poured into the glass and foamed up. Peach cider… hadn’t had that in a long time. Not since meeting him here in the city, all those years ago…

Lost myself again for a moment before she handed me the cider, looking expectantly at me for any other questions.

“I need to get over to the island. Do you know if a boat is running in the morning?” I shouted across at her again. I saw her face pale, turning the shade of a new moon. Looked like one of those ghosts in the stories he would tell me…

“Hell, sir. Ain’t nobody wanted to go to the island in years. Not since Sherman at least.” A general hush fell over the nearby patrons when she said that, bringing them to glare at whoever had said the name before realizing it was the girl supplying them booze, overriding their cares about the Union with love of alcohol. “Chamber’s takes people on occasion, but he usually ends up comin’ back alone. There’s still bodies out there that just couldn’t be brought back. My papa’s probably one of ‘em. S’what mama says at least.”

She pointed toward the scarred man in the back, wearing the blue colors that seemed to be so prominent around these parts. I didn’t see many back home displaying their blues out in the open, even back home in the swamps. Hell, nobody wore their grays when we were back in Boston just a few years ago. This guy was either a hero or an absolute bastard and I wasn’t ready to find out. She spoke, even though I already knew what she was going to say. “He might be willin’ to help you.”

I nodded to her in thanks before taking my cider, walking over to the man as he trained his eye on me. I had seen the waters down past Florida once when I was young, where the water was the bluest thing on earth I’d ever seen. That’s what was in this man’s eye as I waded into its unknown depths. He swore under his breath as I approached.

“Dammit, Millie. What?” He asked in a voice like the shale outside was scraping his throat. I saw the beard growing gray under his sunken blue eye now, teeth missing and nose awkwardly cut short at the tip. Two cavalry sabers sat on the seat next to him, uninviting anyone nearby. I took a gulp of my cider before sitting across from him.

“I need your help.” I started out before he waved a hand and cut me off. He took a sip of his liquor, not showing any sign of tasting the pungent alcohol even I could smell coming off of it across the table.

“You want on Tybee? Go fuck yourself.” He started, still training his eye on me before going in again. “I’ve stopped taking you assholes there to ‘survey the land’. You never pay up frontfffffffffffff then you fuckin’ die before you can pay me. The government can either bring in some actual troops to figure shit out over there or just do what Sherman should have and finish his damn march.” He finally left off, taking a deep breath before chugging more of his drink in a quick gulp.

“I’m not looking for anything like that. I need to know if someone was there.” I started in before seeing his face change, from anger to… pity. “Shit…” He sat back in his chair, raising a hand and rubbing his scruffed hair back. He stroked his beard and looked at me, sizing me up. I looked back at him, never moving my gaze from his eye. “My condolences. Who was it, if I might ask.”

It was my turn to hesitate, wondering what I should tell him based on the coat over his shoulders. He must have noticed my apprehension, because he patted the coat fondly before dropping it down his back, letting the tattered grays show under it.

“I ain’t a traitor to the Union if that’s what you’re wondering.” He gave a half-hearted laugh as I eased back a bit in my seat. “No, I picked this off a particularly nasty bastard I had a grudge with, and one coat ain’t keeping me as warm nowadays. I’d stand up so you could see where I took my grudge but we all bleed red in the end. Someone in the war, I take it?”

“I… I know it’s a lot to ask,” I hadn’t expected such a level of observation, nothing I could have ever imagined in this barnacle-soaked coast outside Savannah. I had to steady myself, preparing to tell him the truth. “I’m looking for a soldier, he was-” I bit my tongue almost rather than say it “-is a negro, sir. He fought for Sherman, the last message I got from him was that he was stationed on the island until things were settled. He never came back after…”

“If’n he was one of Sherman’s he’s a brother of mine. I was part of the march too.” He took another drink throwing his head back and draining the glass, “Fuckin’ ceasefire was barely a week old when the stars fell.” “I know he’s probably not alive. I’ve heard the stories about the island…” I started mouthing off whatever I could to tell him I knew the risks. I had to go. “I made a promise. Even just borrowing a boat…”

His face softened as he looked at me. I tried to concentrate my gaze on the cider but couldn’t stop tears from dropping in, making ripples as the cider fizzled. There was a boulder, sitting right behind my tongue and threatening to let loose a landslide if any pebble of a word slid through. “I was there.” He offered up, looking me in the eyes, He nodded as if to reinforce his point. “I know what you’re going to find, but I owe the dead there some respect. If that means bringing peace to one of their friends, that’s a start.”

He stood now, hoisting the two sabers off the other chair and tightening their belt around his waist. He looked at me expectantly, still sitting with my cider and looking at him. I couldn’t believe he had agreed so easily to take me, much less that he had empathy for my plight. If he was out there… he was smiling at me when I entered that tavern.

“I didn’t get your name, sir?” I choked out, at least hoping I ...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gstov6/fallen_stars_will_guide_us_home/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/HughEhhoule on 2024-11-16 18:27:11+00:00.

---

For anyone that missed yesterday's events:

So it seems like my advice followed 2 main lines of thought, rip and tear, and Home Alone. I've got to say, might seem like the obvious options, but that is only from the outside. The help was appreciated. I'll adress some of the things brought up to help you guys be my cutmen (and women).

Yeah, I'm not really a brawler, I'm no teacup, but in a straight up fight , I don't know how well against …demons I guess we will call them?

As far as upgrades, well I'll get to that in a bit. But other than that, I'm not to sure that works. I don't know if I should be working out or finding an arc welder or what. Guess I'm going to have to do some experiments.

Getting outside seems like a good idea, I'm going to be honest though, I have no idea what outside is like. Where I am is one of those things my creator did not feel the need to equip me with. But I guess it's obvious I'm in a residential neighbourhood. Maybe garages or something could work?

Which brings me to the next point, I do need to figure out more of what is going on. Truth be told I know a lot more than I can tell you , creator blocking me ruining her plan.

I tried to put some of this to work. Some success, some failure. Here it goes.

My first setback was lack of access to anything scarier than my teeth, and the 4 inch blades I can swap out my hands for. See, the problem isn't that I wasn't well equiped this time, I actually have a regular sized chest , covered in a tarp in the attic where my creator assures me rests all kinds of implements of death tailor made for me.

It's made of a dark splintered wood, secured with a massive black iron lock with no keyhole. Faded (purposely antiqued would be a better word) paint trying to look jaunty and creepy all at the same time reads "Tickle Trunk" in large letters on the top.

The problem is, that lock has no key. It won't open for me, nor anyone else until my mission begins. Leaving me in a rather sad situation offense wise.

I rolled over every option I could think of. Reading the books downstairs? No idea if I'd even understand them. Contacting my creator? Not the killing demons type. Physical force? Tried and failed. These Are just a few of the ideas I had before I heard the door to the house smash inward a little after midnight.

I scuttle into a vent to try and figure out what's going on , I find a good angle from a floor vent and see a new oddity.

The door was indeed smashed to splinters inward, steel reinforcements and thick locks twisted and mangled , standing in the middle of this was a new person who I had no real right to judge based on weirdness , as an evil doll, but I was going to anyway.

He was a stoutly built guy , mid to late thirties , close to six feet. Square jaw and a dozen or so nasty scars across his face. His hair was cropped short and He had on a thick brown leather bomber jacket with several hooks and holsters holding various pieces of modified weaponry. A clean white t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans reinforced with bits of leather and steel completed his outfit.

The strangest thing about this guy though, was his right leg. It clicked and whirred as he moved, and as I looked close I could see the hard edges of mechanical parts show through tears in the jeans.

Casually across his left shoulder he held a massive pump action shotgun, the barrel welded and drilled into an agressive pointed muzzle. In his right he held a slab of sharpened steel reminiciant of an oversized cricket bat, a yellow and black 'danger' symbol painted on one side.

He holds the shotgun one handed and fires into the ceiling, the shot makes almost no noise but the effect is immediate and cacaphonous. A piece of the ceiling the size of a child's pool explodes upward raining down plaster and wood.

He walks forward with confidence, his right leg gouging and cracking the hardwood floor as he walked.

" Hey Padre! I'm here for midnight mass" the man says swinging the sword like object into a wall in a burst of plaster and sparks as a power line is severed.

Faster than I can register, the bishop is at the top of the stairs. A smile that has no effect on his dead eyes spreading across his face.

"I was wondering how long it would take the choir boy to find me. 2 decades, that's a little long to hold a grudge , don't you think?" The bishop says, slowly walking to the bottom of the stairs.

"This is a long time coming old man. I've killed a lot of shit worse than you on my way here. I've became more than the result of your little party in the 90s. Choir boy? Asshole, the only thing I'm going to sing is 'raindrops keep falling on my head ' as I piss on your corpse." And with that the man aims and fires his gun at the bishop, the old man glides back up the stairs in a black blur.

"You think your the first kid with a gun to come after me? You arnt even the funniest." I notice an accent from the bishop, Dutch maybe. From under his robes several thick white tentacles begin to snake forth. They are studded with what look to be giant jagged fingernails.

He anchors them to the wall and raises his body, swaying and moving like a spider in its own Web.

The man smiles for a second and throws his shotgun, somehow as it spins toward the bishop, it fires four times , blowing the four tentacles to pieces. He catches it as he charges, slamming it into the bishop's face , the gun, upgraded as it is, stays in tact, shattering one of the bishop's eye sockets, the dead orb flying across the hall.

A fifth tentacle, easily twice the size of the previous ones slams into the man, he keeps his balance on the short flight down the stairs and lands , sword held at the ready.

"First round to me there your worship. Don't worry though , I got plenty more for the collection plate. " the guy says with a swagger that gives me hope.

"You got me there. Don't worry though, there won't be a round 4." The bishop says as he snaps a finger.

One of the cherubic things stalks silently from the kitchen. A high pitched hollow noise I assume is laughter comes from deep within it.

"Should have known you'd have something to fight your battles. Couldn't you afford legs for this thing?" The man, who I'm thinking of as 'the hero' says.

I notice him flick a switch on the butt of his shotgun before tossing it to the ground. He draws out a bulky sub machine gun, a two foot chain anchors it to his wrist. The gun is spiked and studded , all its fragile parts scaled up and shielded. He spins it once like a flail and grabs it by the grip, drawing the monsters attention.

He looks at the bishop "Thought you'd like this toy. " he says shifting his gaze to the monster " But I got something you are really going to get a kick out of big fella."

He unleashes a kick that sprays shrapnel toward the beast, it shuts it's stretched massive eyes against the debris, making itself completely vulnerable to the steel, piston-driven leg immediately behind the stinging cloud.

It's jaw shatters, and it stumbles backward, but the hero keeps his momentum , firing a clip from his machine gun into its chest, then swinging the firearm in a devestating arc into the top of the creature's head. Pale grey blood sprays and rotted looking yellow bone is exposed as the monster slams into the kitchen wall.

It screams and catches the sword that blurs at its neck, the hero reloads his gun single handed using an ingenious little rig and fires another clip , point blank into the creature.

It's hurting, but it's not out of the fight.

It rips the sword from the heroes hand and unleashes a massive headbutt that sends the man to the ground, his nose a pulped ruin.

The monster picks him up single handed and tosses him back down the hallway, stomping toward him before he has a chance to rise.

The man delivers a series of kicks from the ground that stun the beast. Bones deep inside it's twisted form breaking and splintering.

He kips up with a spray of dust, and begins wildly beating the creature with his firearm. He dodges it's attacks, spinning and slamming the weapon into the thing.

But out of no where the creature spins on one arm, catching the hero off guard with a massive backhanded strike. I can almost feel his arm shatter and his ribs break as the wet cracking noise echoes through the hallway.

He screams and holds his right arm as he tries to rise. The monster stalks toward him , bloodied and looking on the verge of death itself.

"Wait!" The hero says, defeated.

The monster lets out a high pitched chuckle and shakes it's shredded head at the hero, expecting some kind of plea for mercy.

Instead the man starts his own laugh.

"Just needed a second , thanks for that." The hero says as a gyroscopic whining can be heard from the shotgun laying on the floor. It aims itself at the creature and fires off over two dozen rounds that make the effect of the first few seem petty.

The monster explodes apart in wet chunks, defenseless against the torrent of lead and phosphorus. By the time the gun starts dry firing the demon is nothing more than an ankle deep pile of gore.

The hero stands, he still seems hurt, he is breathing heavily but he is obviously running on endorphins and rage alone.

"Looks like we get round three after all. I'm feeling it, but not enough to keep from breaking you until dawn." He starts to limp toward the bishop, picking up ...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Saturdead on 2024-11-16 17:47:44+00:00.

---

[1] – [2] – [3] - [4] - [5] - [6] - [7] - [8]

It’s difficult to adjust to having something change the way you do or see ordinary things. Like brushing your teeth. After getting stuck with SORE, I got a lot more conscious about my teeth and mouth. It took some time getting used to the feeling of having something in my throat ready to shoot out like a coiled snake.

Or having breakfast, knowing there was something lurking in my stomach, resenting me – wishing to take the reins. It was still there, but after my run-in with the lady in the blue kaftan, it’s as if I knew for a certain that it wouldn’t kill me. That, and it wouldn’t be an infection risk to others. That didn’t mean it was gone though.

 

Getting back on patrol with Nick, he was the first to notice I was behaving differently. We’d stopped for our bi-weekly gas station hot dog, and I got myself a pre-packaged sushi instead. There was something about less processed, and more raw food, that just made my stomach rumble with delight. Nick made the observation, acknowledged it, and let it go. He trusted me enough to tell him if something was up.

We were having a proper Minnesota summer, meaning rain when you least need it. The DUC had pulled back on their resources, leaving Tomskog PD to focus on setting up a more permanent station. According to Nick, there’d been talks about the Yearwalker getting himself killed or leaving the state, which meant peace and quiet – and the potential for something worse down the line. The whole reason for keeping the Yearwalker from getting killed was strictly because of a devil-you-know kinda deal. Someone else taking up that mantle could mean trouble.

But in our everyday life, Yearwalkers and the DUC were the farthest thing from our minds. Instead we picked up drunk teenagers, stopped speeding cars, or scolded shoplifters. Nick and I were even invited to speak about being in law enforcement at a local school. It surprised me how much Nick changed when he had an audience of kids; he blossomed up there. He was smiling ear to ear, engaging with the audience, and there was a sort of enthusiasm there that I hadn’t seen before.

Asking him about it, he had no idea what I was talking about. He shrugged it off as just getting along well with children.

 

One day, we checked the northwest trail around Frog Lake. It was an on-foot kinda path, so we used it as an excuse to take a longer walk. Nick wasn’t happy about it, but it was better than being cooked alive in a poorly-ventilated patrol vehicle. It was probably the hottest day of the year.

We were coming around the bend where the northern road curved back south. The left-hand side of the road, past the lake, was covered in pine trees. Walking past it, something stirred in me. Just a twitch. I stopped to look around.

Off in the distance, between the trees, I could see a man. He was about 6’5, bald, and dressed from top to bottom in a pitch-black trench coat. It looked so out of place that I couldn’t believe what I was seeing at first. I poked Nick and pointed the man out.

“Yeah, no, that ain’t right,” Nick said. “Should I shoot him?”

“We can’t just shoot people, Nick.”

“Then why the hell do I carry this badge around?”

He took couple of steps forward and whistled to get the man’s attention. There was no reaction. We gave each other a questioning look as we spread out a little, covering two angles.

 

Without turning away from us, the man backed off. Going further into the woods, there was a short section where we couldn’t see him. I hurried forward, yelling at him to stop, but once we got a bit closer he was already gone. But that stirring feeling in my stomach, that was still there. Nick caught up with me.

“We oughta’ tell the sheriff about this one,” Nick huffed. “Guy looked like a pervert.”

“He was something alright,” I agreed. “But I don’t know what.”

“Why are you saying ‘what’ and not ‘who’?”

“I dunno,” I shrugged. “Feels like a ‘what’.”

 

Getting back to our makeshift station at the old fire department building, we went upstairs to have a chat with sheriff Mason. He was already talking to someone, but they weren’t overtly secretive, so we figured it was fine to approach.

The sheriff turned to us with a plastered smile. His guest didn’t make an effort to step away, giving me the impression that this was someone in-the-know. It was a man in his early 50’s. He had a faded blue shirt, a black tie, and black jeans. But I think what stood out to me the most was his pocket protector. People still used those?

“Hank, these are two of my patrolling officers,” the sheriff said.

“Hank Dudley,” said the man, offering a hand to us. “Hatchet Pharmaceuticals.”

“I think I’m wearing socks from you guys,” Nick said with a grin. “Nice to meet you.”

We took turns shaking hands.

“You had something to discuss?” the sheriff asked.

“Yeah, we just wanted to bring something up,” I said. “But, uh…”

“Don’t mind Hank, he’s good people,” the sheriff said. “Let’s hear it.”

 

I told them about our patrol around the lake, and the man with the trench coat. And how he, seemingly, disappeared.

“Just gave me a bad feeling,” I admitted. “I dunno why.”

Hank gave me a curious look, as if making a mental note. The sheriff pondered his options for a bit, leaving the floor open for others to chime in.

“I think I know what that is,” Hank smiled. “And if it is what I think it is, we really need to be on the lookout. Sheriff?”

“Agreed,” sheriff Mason said. “Oughta’ make sure we’re all vigilant. I’ve heard of this thing, but it usually sticks to its home.”

 

As the sheriff walked away, and Nick went to get a coffee, I was left alone with Hank for a bit. He adjusted his tie and square-shaped glasses.

“Miss, what did you feel when you first saw this man?”

“Like a… general worry, I guess. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“You feel that way a lot?”

“Not really, no.”

He quieted down, giving a once-over to make sure no one was close enough to listen in.

“Did you by any chance know Adam Salinger?”

I was going to deny it, but my reaction had already given away my honest answer. I sort of half-gasped, and turned it into a smile.

“Yeah, Adam,” I nodded. “Didn’t know his last name.”

 

Hank nodded as Nick returned with a coffee. There was something about Hank’s look that just screamed at me to run for the hills. We were law enforcement, yes, but this was one of the Hatchetmen – and in corporate America, people like him make the laws.

“If you see that trench coat man again, I suggest you call it in,” Hank said. “I don’t think it’d be a good idea to confront him.”

“We’ll keep that in mind,” said Nick. “There’s coffee in the break room, if you want.”

I shook my head. That stuff tasted like a tire fire.

 

The sheriff made an official order later. If we saw the strange man again, he was to be taken in for questioning. Patrols were actively encouraged to seek him out, and upon encountering him, call for backup and await further instruction. We were given a couple of recommendations. One was to not be stingy with tasers, and another to not engage even if the suspect looked unconscious. There was also a mention that a strong spearmint spray could be used as a repellant.

Yeah, that last one gave me pause too. Clearly they knew more than they were letting on, but it was useless to push for more. The sheriff was still seen walking around with Hank at his side, and the two of them seemed to have come to some sort of understanding. And they weren’t letting anyone in on their secrets.

 

Over the weeks that followed, there was this sort of cat-and-mouse deal with the trench coat man. Patrols would report seeing him around the high school at night, and there were people calling in saying they’d seen him standing on rooftops. This wasn’t just a one-time thing, it was recurring, and in proximity to ordinary people. But no one had been hurt – yet.

We saw him a couple of times too, but only in the distance. Once when cruising down the highway. It was just in passing, but he was there. When we stopped and doubled back, he was already gone.

Another time was when we came out of a pub downtown. We were taking in a woman for public intox and disorderly conduct when I saw the trench coat man on a roof across the street. As soon as he saw that we’d noticed him, he fled.

But what bothered me the most was my unease. Every time he was near, something stirred in me. A tickle of something unpleasant. And sometimes I’d feel it even when I didn’t see him, as if he was close by – but just out of sight.

 

It was late July when I got a call from Nick. I’d been at home for about two hours, relaxing after work, so I’d already kicked my shoes off and had dinner.

“He’s here,” Nick said.

No hello, no anything. Just that. I sprung out of my couch.

“Right now?” I asked.

“Right now,” he answered. “He’s right outside. I think he’s looking for a way in.”

 

I...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/FinsterTor on 2024-11-16 16:49:56+00:00.

---

I think I really messed up. I've always been a huge fan of horror and enjoy researching rituals, cursed places, creatures, and stuff like that. So, when I received a letter in my mailbox last week, containing something along those lines, I was immediately excited.

Some people might have questioned why they'd receive such an anonymous message, but not me. I specifically have a website with my address for this very purpose—so I can receive these kinds of letters. Of course, I also have an email address for it, but for some reason, many people still prefer good old-fashioned paper for this sort of thing. Anyway, here's what the letter said:

"Dear Mr. Jackson,

I’ve read about your interest in the paranormal. Here in Lago Sagrado, we have something that will surely captivate you—assuming the distance doesn’t deter you from visiting. As you might guess from the name, our humble village is by a lake. This lake is why I’m writing to you.

It’s beautiful, no question, especially under the moonlight, but it harbors a secret. Allegedly, an ancient lake monster feared by the Native Americans before our time dwells here. Stories passed down through generations all revolve around what happens every 99 years during the tenth week of the year at this lake.

If you are brave—or foolish—enough, I invite you to find out for yourself. I’ll meet you at the edge of the village on the Sunday of the ninth week next year and guide you to a secluded house where you can stay for the week. If you know others who might be interested, feel free to bring them along, as the house has five beds."

 

On the back was a hand-drawn map showing the way to Lago Sagrado. At first, I wondered why someone would use a map in this day and age. But when I tried searching for the location on Google Maps, nothing came up.

I should have dismissed it as a prank and moved on. Instead, I photographed the letter and shared it in a group chat with my friends—most of whom aren’t as into creepy stuff as I am—asking if they’d be up for checking it out. After some back-and-forth, we decided to take a trip. Worst case? If the place turned out to be a bust, we’d drive to the nearest city for a week’s vacation instead.

So, we—me, Josh (my childhood best friend), his girlfriend Brittany, Marc (a school friend), and Marc's twin brother Anthony—set off for Lago Sagrado. I believe Josh and I were the only ones in our group who truly hoped the village was real.

After hours on the road and crossing a border, we came to the first turn, which wasn’t on Maps but clearly existed in reality, even though it was an unpaved road. Brittany protested, but curiosity got the better of us guys, and with Marc driving, we pressed on.

About half an hour later, on unmarked roads, we reached our destination. From a distance, we saw the letter’s author—a very old man with a long white beard and a bald head. Despite the chilly weather, he wore thin, outdated clothing. He introduced himself as José Guzman and led us to the village.

The village looked old but impeccably maintained. There were only about 50 houses, and most of the residents we saw were as elderly as José but looked quite friendly. After a brief tour, José showed us to the house where we’d be staying. It was spotless and stocked with food, as the village had no shops, and supplies allegedly arrived only on Sunday mornings for all residents.

Since it was already quite late, we spent the rest of that Sunday making ourselves something to eat and inspecting the house from the inside. Unsurprisingly, the interior also looked like it was straight out of the early 20th century. There was no television or internet, but there was a very retro-looking refrigerator, which had a lot of meat in it. For some reason, we simply assumed that the inhabitants were extremely nostalgic and that the ageing population was a result of younger people moving away due to the village’s isolated location. Obviously, this was a gross underestimation of the reality, but the actual truth was beyond anything anyone could have anticipated.

The next morning, José knocked on our door promptly at sunrise. None of us were awake yet, and he didn't seem like he was going to stop knocking until someone answered. Begrudgingly, I dragged myself half-asleep to the door to ask him what he wanted. He insisted that everyone in the village had to gather at the main square within 400 seconds of sunrise. When I pointed out that my friends weren’t even awake yet, he remained adamant, warning that if we didn't make it in time, we’d have to leave immediately and that he’d invoice us for the overnight stay. He even mentioned we could come in our pajamas if necessary.

Reluctantly, I woke up my friends, and we hurried to the square in our sleepwear and jackets, determined to comply, if only to uncover more about the lake creature. When we arrived, the villagers were just starting to count down the last 20 seconds in unison. As they hit zero, José closed the small gate that marked the only entrance to the fenced-in area where we stood. Following that, a list of all the residents was read aloud, and each person raised their hand in response, acknowledging their presence. We couldn’t help but laugh a little, as it felt oddly reminiscent of roll call back in school.

When they finished, they read our names as well. We raised our hands, and afterward, everyone was free to leave. On the way back, Brittany scolded me, accusing me of having given out our full names, and likely even our addresses and phone numbers too. However, I began to feel uneasy because while José could have known my name from my website, I had not shared my friends' names anywhere. I resolved to ask him about it at the earliest opportunity.

That opportunity came soon enough, as about 15 minutes later, José returned to our house. He wanted to show us the lake and encouraged us to swim in it, claiming it was a thermal spring and therefore comfortably warm despite the season. When I asked how he knew my friends' names, he simply replied that we had told him the previous evening and must have forgotten. In hindsight, I am fairly certain that was a lie, but at the time, it seemed plausible enough.

So, we put on our swimsuits and followed José to the lake, which was only about 100 meters away. It was surrounded by stone walls, making it accessible only from a single entry point. Admittedly, swimming in a lake rumored to harbor a monster wasn’t the brightest idea, but most of us didn’t believe in monsters anyway. Josh and I, eager to search for signs of the creature, brought snorkels and diving masks I had packed for this very reason. However, the water was so opaque that even with the snorkels, we couldn’t see the bottom despite its shallowness. Disappointed, we gave up our search for the day after an hour and joined the others for a bit of water play before heading back to our house for a late lunch.

The rest of the day was spent lamenting the lack of internet and passing time with board games. The following two days were quite similar: we attended the bizarre attendance checks, searched for clues about the lake monster, swam, and entertained ourselves with board games. We had little interaction with the villagers, most of whom seemed to speak only Spanish—which, to be fair, was not unexpected in a Spanish-speaking country.

On Thursday, however, things took a stark turn. One of the villagers, a man named Hernando Lopez, was late for the morning roll call and tripped on his way to the gate, missing the cut-off as José closed it just a meter before he arrived. Hernando broke into tears and walked toward the lake. His absence from the roll call was met with nothing more than a somber “desafortunado”.

The rest of the day unfolded as usual for us, until Josh found Hernando’s coat at the edge of the lake that afternoon. Without telling the others, we took the coat to José’s house. To our surprise, he opened the door before we even had a chance to knock. Laughing, he said he had been missing “his” coat. When we pointed out that it seemed to belong to Hernando Lopez, José denied the man’s existence, claiming no such person lived in the village. Unwilling to let him gaslight us, we refused to hand over the coat unless he showed us the roll call list. Begrudgingly, he agreed—and sure enough, there was no Hernando Lopez listed.

Though unsettled, we decided to drop the matter, leaving the coat with José and returning to the lake. There, we asked the others if they remembered the man who had stumbled during the roll call. Strangely, they all denied seeing anyone fall. That day, during our diving attempts, I discovered a small cave entrance underwater. However, it was too late in the day to explore it, so I resolved to investigate it the following day.

On Friday, Anthony, who had been nursing a sore throat the day before, joined us for the roll call, which now lacked an Hernando Lopez, but chose to stay in bed afterward. He said he felt too unwell to swim or play, preferring instead to sleep. During our search at the lake that day, I stumbled upon a muddy imprint on the shore—a large fin-like mark far too big to belong to any fish that could live in such a small lake. Excitedly, I called Josh over and snapped a few photos. We were both ecstatic, far more than we should have been, given the circumstances. We called Brittany and Marc over to show them, but their reactions were far less enthu...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/S_G_Woodhouse on 2024-11-16 15:00:22+00:00.

---

I'd always thought the rules of my high school library were too strict, but that was before.

Derek had spent the whole week telling me about this mysterious “trapdoor” hidden behind the gym.

“Josh, tonight at 10 p.m. Sarah and I are going to explore what's behind that trapdoor, are you with us?” he asked me as he and Sarah sat down at the table where I'd set up to study.

I glanced incongruously at Sarah, who was standing next to Derek with a big smile on her face.

“Sarah, seriously he got you into this?” I whispered so the library supervisor wouldn't yell at us.

“Doesn't it intrigue you? I want to know what they're hiding there. Besides, what's the risk? Teachers don't go round the gym at night,” she replied.

I leaned back in my chair to think. Derek was a notorious troublemaker, Sarah wasn't, but she was starting to follow him a bit too much for my taste. I'd been friends with Derek since grade school, so I knew he wasn't dangerous. But imagining Sarah alone with him... Who knows what trouble his impulsiveness would bring them.

“Pfft, alright, I'm in,” I said.

They cheered a little too loudly, which earned us a remark from the librarian supervisor.

I'd come with them first and foremost to make sure they wouldn't get into trouble. But I must admit, I was also curious, like them, about what we'd find.

That evening we found ourselves at the spot Derek had pointed out to me on google maps.

The three of us were standing in front of the mysterious trapdoor, equipped with nothing more than a flashlight each, bought at the corner store for the occasion. Derek smoked a cigarette absent-mindedly.

“So that's it,” I said, examining it.

It was strange, to be honest. It had obviously been concealed by vegetation and vines were still attached to the metal handle. It was thick and perfectly smooth, apart from that there was no indication of what might be behind it.

The 3 of us set about lifting the trap door.

Once on its side, we pointed our torches inside.

A stone staircase stretched so far into the darkness that even our lights couldn't reach the end.

“It goes in the direction of the school,” said Sarah. “Do you think it allows access like a secret passage?”

“Maybe,” I replied. “Or maybe there's an old bunker down there that the school was built on.”

Derek stepped onto the stairs and looked at us, smiling: “Only one way to find out, let's go.”

And with that, we headed down the tunnel.

The walls of the tunnel were made of stone and looked solid, apart from a few water seepages here and there.

We walked down for a good 15 minutes before the stairs stopped and a corridor went straight ahead. We kept walking. The light-hearted chatter of the beginning gradually dissipated, leaving only a heavy silence.

“You’d better not be claustrophobic,” said Sarah, peering into the darkness behind us.

It's true that we'd been walking for a good 10 minutes now and it was getting worrying. We didn't know where we were going, and all it took was a rockfall and we'd end up buried alive.

“Hey, I see something,” said Derek while I was lost in thought.

He was right, there was finally a structure in front of us.

We ran the rest of the distance to it, excited to have finally found something.

“What the fuck, is that?” said Derek loudly once we got to the front.

I came up behind him with Sarah to discover the object of his confusion.

It was a simple wooden door with writing carved into the wood.

“Library rules...” I read aloud.

“The library? Seriously we came all this way for this? To find the school library's book stash? Talk about a find...” Derek said with a dejected look.

“No wait,” I replied. “Look what it says underneath. I know the school library well, and I've never seen these rules anywhere.”

The rules inscribed were as follows:

Rule n°1 : Any student entering the library must work there for at least 1 hour.

Rule n°2 : It is forbidden to damage books in any way.

Rule n°3 : Borrowed books must be returned to the place where they were taken.

Rule n°4 : Be quiet.

Rule n°5 : It's forbidden to look the librarian in the eye.

“What the fuck why couldn't we look the librarian in the eye?” asked Derek.

“Maybe the one who worked here was shy...” replied Sarah.

The three of us looked at each other warily.

“Shall we go in?” I finally offered, to Derek's surprise.

“I was ready to get the hell out, but since for once you're taking the initiative : After you,” Derek replied, waving me in.

I grabbed the door handle. For a moment, I wondered if I was making a mistake. I was supposed to be the voice of reason in the group, but in the end, I wasn't as reasonable as I thought when it came to something that interested me.

The door opened with a creak that would wake the dead.

We pointed our three flashlights cautiously inside before entering.

“Hello?” I said instinctively.

“Seriously?” said Sarah, raising her eyebrows.

I admitted, the place clearly hadn't seen a living being in a very long time.

A long, low-ceilinged room stretched out before us.

The stone walls were now hidden behind rows of shelves full of dusty books. Even our footsteps inside raised the dust that had accumulated on the floor for decades, or perhaps even longer.

There were also shelves in the middle of the room, creating 4 corridors.

We split up to explore a little on our own with our flashlights.

I moved to a shelf on my right and began to run my finger along the edges of the books, reading their titles as I went.

Despite the time I'd spent in the real high school library, I didn't recognize any of the authors or titles. They all seemed esoteric. The recurring themes were divinatory art, alchemy, astrology, ceremonial magic and... satanic rituals.

“Hey look at this,” Derek said to the row on the other side of mine.

He showed me the cover of the book he was holding: 'The Art and Usage of Human Sacrifice'.

“Not likely they'll teach us that in high school,” he said, laughing and setting the book on top of several others.

“Derek put it back...” I started to say before he went any further.

But it was too late.

“Bad boy,” said a female voice that sounded ancestral.

What looked like an old woman emerged from the shadows just behind Derek.

She was at least 6'5 ft tall, her long, dirty gray hair falling to her bare feet with their yellow, damaged nails. She wore a drab gray dress and her face... her face was skeletal, to the point where the dry skin stretched over her features looked as if it might break at any moment. Her bulging, lidless eyes stared at Derek with frightening intensity.

He began to turn to look at her.

“Don't look back!” I said eagerly, fear reducing my voice to a whisper.

Suddenly her gaze landed on me and I instantly looked Derek in the eye, my whole body shaking.

She turned her attention back to him, gently grabbed the hand he'd used to pick up the book, and in one swift motion, she snapped two of his fingers.

Derek screamed at the top of his lungs.

“QUIET IN THE LIBRARY,” the thing screamed at the back of his neck aggressively.

Derek held back his scream and tears, biting his lips.

We just stood there. Meanwhile, Sarah had returned to us and was staring at her feet, tears running down her eyelids and falling onto her shoes making little noises in the absolute silence.

Eventually, the thing, which was obviously what the list of rules referred to as the “librarian” went further back.

We rejoined at the other end of the shelf.

“Lets get the fuck out of here,” I whispered to them. They both nodded silently and we quietly made our way to the library door.

As Derek held his aching hand and Sarah stood beside him to help, I gently grasped and lowered the door handle before pulling it gently towards me.

The door wouldn't budge.

“What, what's happening?” asked Sarah.

“It's stuck, I can't open it”

“Force it harder”.

I pulled with all my weight.

“I'm trying but it won't open” I whispered anxiously.

Then I remembered.

“Fuck, Rule #1: Any student entering the library must work there for at least 1 hour.”

We were stuck here.

We heard the old woman's footsteps coming towards us this time.

“Back to work, unless you want to be punished,” she said menacingly.

Trembling like leaves the three of us slowly made our way to a bookshelf together.

“We have to work, take a book, it doesn't matter which one,” I whispered.

We each took a book at random, but all three of us beside each other to make sure we didn't forget where to put them down. Who knows what she'd do to us if one of us repeated the mistake, this time she wouldn't just break our fingers.

“What the hell is that thing, you're not going to tell me it's a human being?” whispered Derek as we made our way to tables spread out in the middle of the library.

“And have you seen these books?” I replied. “They look like they're hundreds of years old, sometimes the titles aren't even in English.”

“What's this room doing below the school? Do you think they know about it?” asked Sarah.

“No way,” I replied. “This place. We're probably the only ones who've set foot in here in a long time.”

“We've got to get out of here,” Derek said as we arrived in front of the tables. “There's nothing to tell us that another one of these things won't fall on us and kill us just for the fun of it.”

He was right. We'd only just discovered this place. We still had no idea of the dangers that could be lurking here in addition to this old woman.

We had to stay ...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/gore-and-grit on 2024-11-16 11:28:24+00:00.

---

By the time dinner rolls around, my excitement has fully kicked in. The nerves are gone—no more worrying about Charlie or whether I’ll get caught. I can't wait to tell my parents about what happened today. It feels like the kind of thing they'll be proud of.

“So,” Dad says, spearing a piece of steak with his fork, “What did we learn in school today?” 

I grin, finally letting it out. “Charlie came to our classroom!”

“Did he now?” Dad raises an eyebrow, setting his fork down and wiping his mouth. “Did you look at him? Talk to him?”

“Nope!” I say proudly, puffing out my chest. “He tried real hard to trick me, too. He came right up to my desk, but I didn't say a word.”

“Good job, buddy,” Dad says, giving me a high five. He smiles, but it's a tired kind of smile. “Proud of you.” I slap his hand, going for more macaroni. I chew for a second, then I remember. 

“Oh, but Alice sneezed and said thank you. He got her.” 

No one says anything for a moment, nothing but chewing and the sound of forks and knives scraping plates. Mom takes a sip of water and then places her glass back on the wooden table before speaking. 

“That poor girl. Didn’t her parents teach her anything?” Mom sighs, shaking her head as she cuts into her food. “They probably coddled her too much.”

Dad nods. “She should’ve known better.”

Mom sighs again, then smiles at me. “It's unfortunate, but the rules are the rules for a reason. You did good today, sweetie.”

I nod along, feeling more certain now. Alice deserved it. She should have known better. She broke the rules. 

I imagine Alice won’t be herself anymore. I’ve never met anyone who’s gotten caught by Charlie and lived. They usually never come back to school, I doubt they even leave their homes. But I picture she’ll be the way he left her forever. She’ll be like the dolls my sister used to have—the super creepy ones where the eyes were supposed to blink but sometimes one got stuck, so it just stared at you, even when you shook it around and tried to force it closed with your fingers.

“Speaking of,” Dad leans back in his chair, “did they ever find that girl's body? The one who broke Rule Two?”

“No,” Mom passes the salad, which I avoid. “But it's no surprise. Hopefully, the next one's smarter.”

“Nothing interesting happen to you?” I ask Jamie, my sister, who's been extra quiet today. She just shrugs, pushing around her food. 

“We saw something strange today too.” Dad begins, pulling Mom into a story about flickering street lights and his annoying boss. But dinner feels strange. Not just because of Charlie—Charlie days are always weird—but because of Jamie. 

She’s barely said a word the whole meal which is so unlike her. Normally, she’d be cracking wise about Dad's jokes, even though she swears they’re bad, but I think they're hilarious. Or she’d make fun of me for putting ketchup on everything. She should be flicking peas at me and acting like she knows everything about everything. But tonight? She’s barely touched her food, just staring at it like she’s forgotten what a fork is for. Her lips are pressed tight, eyes fixed on her plate as if she’s trying to remember the last time she was hungry—or when food seemingly stopped being something she cared about.

Mom doesn’t notice—or if she does, she doesn’t say anything. Dad doesn’t either. They keep talking about their day, about some boring teacher meeting, the men in white stopping by, the talking trees—random town stuff. Maybe they think it’s just a bad mood. Jamie’s been like that lately—distant, kind of moody. I thought it was because she’s a teenager and that’s just how teenagers are supposed to act. But tonight feels different. 

Dad goes on about some strange noise outside the garage, then rambles about the streetlights flickering in a pattern he swears is unusual. I’m not really listening, though. I can’t take my eyes off Jamie—she’s still staring at her plate, not a word leaving her lips. She won’t look at me—won’t look at anyone. Her face is pale, eyes puffy the same way mine get when I cry. But Jamie never cries. 

Dinner is quiet, even though we’re all talking. The clatter of forks against plates fills the gaps where real conversation should be. But my eyes keep darting back to Jamie. I can't shake the feeling that she knows something I don’t—like she’s holding a secret just under the surface, waiting to crack it open.

Then, suddenly, the scrape of chair legs grates against the floor, sharp enough to make me jump. Jamie pushes her chair back with a force that makes everyone at the table flinch. She stands up abruptly. “May I be excused?” she asks, her voice tight.

A pause follows, thick and uncomfortable. Mom and Dad blink at her, confusion flickering between them like they’re trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces.

“...Of course you can, just… just make sure to clear your plate before you go,” Mom finally manages, her voice softer now, almost apologetic.

Jamie nods stiffly and turns away, leaving the room without another word. I track her movement, the hollow thud of her footsteps fading down the hall. The conversation awkwardly picks back up, but I’m still staring at her empty chair, wondering what I missed.

I didn’t know what would happen next, how could I? But I wish I had, I wish could have done it all differently.

After dinner, I head upstairs, my feet dragging as I go. I’m in the bathroom, brushing my teeth when I hear something. A voice. Muffled, but…Jamie’s.

She’s on the phone. Her voice is quiet, but not quiet enough to keep me from hearing. Not when the house is this still. I spit out the toothpaste, my ears straining to catch what she’s saying. It’s faint through the wall, but I can hear it, and there’s something in her voice that sends a chill down my spine.

She sounds scared.

I press my ear against the wall, the one connected to her room, my heart pounding in my chest. I can barely make out the words.

“I don’t know what to do,” Jamie whispers, her voice cracking. “I… I didn’t mean to. I thought it would be okay if no one found out.”

My hands are shaking now. What is she talking about?

I crack the bathroom door open and walk into the hallway, coming to a halt right outside her bedroom door. I hear a soft sniffle. It’s not like her to cry, not unless something really bad happened. Maybe she got in trouble or Mom and Dad yelled at her after dinner for not finishing her homework. I pad across the hall, careful not to make the floor creak under my feet as I creep closer. Her door’s open, just enough to see the edge of her desk and her shadow moving behind it.

“I didn’t tell anyone,” she says, her voice trembling. “I swear, I didn’t tell anyone. I just… I don’t want them to know, okay?” She pauses, listening to whoever’s on the other end of the phone. “I know. I know I messed up, but if they were going to punish me, it would’ve happened by now—I, I mean they would’ve done something by now. Maybe…maybe it won’t happen. Maybe if I just don’t say anything…”

I push the door open just a little more, holding my breath. I can hear her crying softly now, the way someone cries when they don’t want anyone else to hear them. Something in my chest tightens. Jamie’s tough. Way tougher than me. Jamie never cries.

I knock on the door, peaking my head in. “Jamie?”

She jumps, turning to face me, her eyes wide. Her face is streaked with tears, her hands trembling as she holds her phone to her ear. “I—I’ll call you back.” She says quietly, into the phone, and then she hangs up, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. For a second, she looks like a deer caught in headlights, but then her expression softens into something sad. Tired, like the way Dad smiled at dinner. “Robbie… What are you doing up?”

“Can I come in?”

There’s a long pause, and I almost think she’s going to say no, but then she whispers, “Yeah.”

I shuffle in, feeling awkward. “I heard you talking… Who were you talking to?”

She shakes her head quickly, forcing a weak smile. “No one. Just a friend. It’s nothing.” I don’t believe her. I can see it in her eyes. She’s lying.

I step further into her room. The lights are low, casting long shadows on the walls. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, her phone clutched in her hands, her eyes red-rimmed and wet. She looks up at me, and for a moment, she doesn’t say anything. Then, she whispers, “Don’t tell Mom and Dad.”

“What happened?” I ask, my hands cold with fear. I feel like I already know.

Her lip quivers, and she shakes her head. “I… I broke a rule.”

My heart stops. The room feels like it’s spinning for a second. My legs feel weak, like they’re made of jelly, like how I felt in class but if the boat hit a hurricane, and for a second, I don’t know what to say. The rules are the rules for a reason. Everyone knows that. She knows that.  I feel like my chest is tightening, like I can’t get a full breath.

“Which…which one?” I manage to get out, my voice barely more than a croak.

She gets up from her bed and comes over to me, kneeling down so we’re eye to eye. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine.”

I swallow hard. “Which rule?” I ask again, because we both know it’s not fine. Nothing is ever fine when it comes to the rules.

She looks away, wringing her hands together. “It was Rule Four,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “I—I went outside after dark by myself…but I didn’t go far! Just to get my charger from the car.”

My blood turns to ice. I can’t move. I...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/PoemWorking6414 on 2024-11-16 06:38:18+00:00.

---

Nov 11 last week started like any normal day. I was getting ready for school, taking my time, and everything seemed fine. I got out the house and rode my bike on my way to school. Then, out of nowhere, it happened, I got into a car accident. It was brutal. I could feel my bones breaking, my lungs collapsing and it was the most real and painful thing I’ve ever felt. Then suddenly, this weird vibration hit me, starting in my head and running through my whole body. Everything went black for a second.

When I came to consciousness, I wasn’t in the car anymore. I was standing on the side of the road, watching the accident happen. I saw someone, lying there in the wreck—bloody, covered in glass, not moving. It didn’t feel real. I stumbled over to a window to check myself out, and I looked fine. No blood, no scratches, nothing. I convinced myself it was all in my head. Just some crazy, vivid illusion or something.

But then I noticed the crash scene, my bike, my backpack, all my school stuff scattered everywhere. That was definitely my stuff. But I was standing there, holding everything. It didn’t make sense. I didn’t know what else to do, so I just went to school and ride my bike like nothing happened.

The day went by as usual, but when I got home, the house was empty. It was around 5:30 PM, and I figured Mom was just out buying something for dinner. No big deal. I killed time by reading my notes in my class earlier, but by 8 PM, she still wasn’t back. That’s when I started getting worried. I tried calling her, but my phone wouldn’t get a signal, not even when I went outside. I knocked on the neighbors’ doors, but no one answered. It was like the whole world went quiet.

I tried to stay calm and told myself she’d be back in the morning. I went to bed early.

The next morning, my alarm went off at 6:30, and I finally heard noises in the house. I was so relieved. I ran out to see her, but she was busy packing bags and crying while talking on the phone. I asked her where she’d been, but she ignored me. I thought maybe she was too upset to talk, so I just followed her to the car and asked if I could come along. She didn’t respond, so I hopped in the backseat.

She drove us to the hospital, crying and yelling, I don't really remember clearly what she said but it's somewhere along the lines of “Why? Why did this have to happen?” I didn’t say anything, I didn’t want to upset her more. When we got there, she rushed inside, and I followed her. That’s when I saw it.

I saw me. Lying in a hospital bed, looking dead.

That’s when it hit me. I didn’t survive the accident. I wasn’t alive. The crash I’d seen on my way to school? That was me.

I broke down. I couldn’t believe it. My mom hadn’t been ignoring me all day she literally couldn’t see or hear me. Watching her cry and seeing her so heartbroken made it even worse. For three days, I just stayed in the house, trying to process everything. It all felt too real, the breeze, the smell of candles from my funeral, the floor beneath me. I thought maybe I was dreaming, but it didn’t feel like a dream.

Then, on the third day November 14, things got even weirder. This orb thing with a bunch of eyes came out of nowhere. It scared me so much and it was a horrifying sight. It was covered in light silk clothing and it has a bunch of different colored eyes and it had no mouth but somehow spoke. It kept whispering, “Do not fear,” over and over. I couldn’t move due to intense fear and even if I wanted to move, I can't. It got closer and closer, and then some warm hands picked me up and started carrying me into the sky.

For a second, I thought I was being taken to heaven or something. But we stopped, and everything changed. The warmth turned cold, and the orb’s whispers became angry. It charged at me, and time slowed down, like a scene in a movie.

I noticed an airplane flying overhead, getting closer and closer until it completely covered my vision. Then everything went black.

Nov 15 I woke up, I was back in my hospital bed. I was inserted with a bunch of tubes and my head hurts with every heartbeat and it feels like a knife stabbing my head a bunch of times. But now I don’t know what’s real anymore. Was it all just a crazy, vivid dream? Did I actually die? Am I still dreaming right now?

I can’t shake the feeling that I’m stuck between two worlds. It’s like I’m alive, but at the same time, I’m not. And honestly, I don’t know what to believe anymore. I feel really weird and the worst part is I accepted my death and bid farewell on everyone I loved. I don't know if I should feel happy or sad.

It's November 16 now and I still can't comprehend what had happened to me.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Middle-Monitor-5412 on 2024-11-16 04:31:48+00:00.

---

Hi Reddit, I’m posting my story here because of what is happening in my house. I need help, and I don’t know what to do.

I live in Minnesota. I moved here a year ago to start a master’s degree. The area I live in is beautiful, and I have already made a life here. I have great friends, an amazing girlfriend, and there are a lot of opportunities career-wise for when I graduate. This place is my home.

I live in a small rental house, just big enough for myself and my cat. It came at a cheap cost, especially considering the area I’m in. Of course, I knew it might be a paranormal red flag, but I took a chance anyways. Honestly, the idea of some activity was comforting in a way. You see, I have been having paranormal experiences since I was five years old. Every place I have ever lived in has had at least some activity, most of it harmless, some not so much. I didn’t get a weird vibe when I toured the place, and at that price, how could I say no?

It started off small, as these things tend to do. An object out of place here and there, and my hairbrush went missing only to return a few days later in the exact spot I had left it. Ok, harmless enough, so I left it be.

About a month after moving in, a friend I had made in one of my classes came to my place to eat some dinner and have a few drinks to wind down from a busy week. The red wine kept pouring, and soon enough, my friend had to use the restroom. She came back to the living room, laughing slightly. I asked what was funny, and she told me that I was the biggest neat freak she had ever met. I do like to keep things organized, but it’s not obsessive, and I’ve never been called a “neat freak” before. I gave her a quizzical look, and in response, she said, “Oh you know, the way you’ve organized your bathroom”. I kept things set up as most people do, so when I asked her what she meant by “neat freak”, she beckoned me to come look. As I walked into the bathroom, it looked nothing like it had before my friend had come over. Every single thing I kept in my bathroom was lined up in a perfect row, from the biggest item to the smallest. “Oh ha ha”, I said, clearly thinking she had done this as a joke. I didn’t know her all that well after all, so I thought maybe she just had a weird sense of humor. I stared at the formation for one more second, and after an awkward pause, we went back into the living room to finish dinner.

Things were quiet for about a week. Then one Saturday morning, I walked to my kitchen to start a cup of coffee. I stopped in my tracks as I saw the silverware. Every utensil I owned was sprawled out on my kitchen table, but not randomly. Every fork, spoon, and knife were in a perfect circle, all pointing inward. A chill crept down my neck. Somehow, this seemed more sinister than a missing hairbrush.

Two days after the silverware incident, I came home from class later than usual. I flicked on all the lights, said hello to my cat, and meandered into the living room. I froze. All the cans in my cupboards were stacked, one on top of the other. It looked impossibly tall and definitely not stable enough to hold itself up like it was. My breath caught in my throat as I looked further into my living room. Every piece of furniture downstairs had all been piled up, with one chair sitting on top. It looked like someone had broken in, built a Christmas tree out of furniture, and placed the smallest chair on top, like some fucked-up star. I had heard of these types of hauntings before, but in all my years of attracting entities, this was unlike anything I had ever experienced. Of course, I tried to think of anything logical that could explain this. Maybe someone had broken into my house and played the most insane trick on me, but there was no forced entry, and I had the only key. I took some deep breaths, and reminded myself that I wasn’t being harmed physically, and my cat seemed to be fine, so I took on the long task of undoing everything.

I was starting to feel really uneasy being home. Either my cat sensed it, or he was noticing things, too, as he started staring at random corners, tracking things with his eyes. Animals can sense things like that, and again, it wasn’t doing any real harm, so I reassured my cat, and we went to bed.

My cat always sleeps next to me, but when I woke up, he wasn’t in the room. Unlike him, but not unheard of. I got out of bed and felt the strong urge to check on my cat. I called his name, looking in every room, until the only room that was left was the kitchen. As I walked in, I screamed. There was my cat, covered in a red goo. My god, I thought, that can’t be blood, please don’t let that be blood. I approached him slowly, he looked at me nervously, but he didn’t seem to be hurt. I examined the substance, only to discover it was ketchup. I opened my fridge, and the ketchup bottle that had been nearly full was almost empty, with the cap still open. Up until now, this entity had only been interacting with inanimate things, but now, it was messing with my cat. I can handle a lot, but when something starts interacting with a living being, I knew that what I was dealing with was no normal entity. Fuck with me, sure, but leave the goddamn cat alone.

So I did what I always do with an unwanted visitor, I demanded that it leave and never come back. I told it it was not wanted here and was no longer allowed to be here. Somehow, this only made things worse.

I went to bed that night and made sure to lock my cat in my bedroom with me. Telling things to go away usually worked, but this was on a whole other realm. It was the most unrestful night of my life.

I woke up groggy the next day, running everything through my head that had happened so far. I needed help, but who could I turn to? As I was brainstorming who might be able to help me (a priest? A psychic?), I walked to my bathroom. I flicked the lights on, and almost screamed in horror. “Staying” was written all over the walls in various substances, from toothpaste to shampoo. I almost fell as I backed out of my bathroom. My eyes scanned every surface of the hallway, the living room walls, and all over the kitchen, only to be met with thousands of “staying” written over and over again. And balanced, perfectly upright on the kitchen table, was my biggest kitchen knife. But that’s not the worst part. Whatever this thing was had ripped a picture of some old friends and me off the wall. It had torn the picture up, leaving only my face intact. The picture of me was speared right through my eye with the tip of the knife.

Please Reddit, I don’t know what to do, I don’t even know what I’m dealing with. I don’t think moving out of this house will help. This thing will follow me. The house is not haunted, I am.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/devinkanal on 2024-11-15 13:27:14+00:00.

---

I work maintenance. It’s not glamorous, but it pays the bills. Usually, my jobs are at office buildings, warehouses, maybe a shopping mall. But three months ago, I was hired for a government contract in the middle of nowhere. No address—just coordinates.

When I got there, it looked like a military bunker built into the side of a mountain. The entrance was a massive steel door, unmarked except for a tiny keypad. A man in a black suit greeted me. No name, no smile, just a clipboard and a pen.

“Sign here. No phones, no questions. Follow orders.”

I signed. The pay was insane, and I figured it was just some secret government R&D lab. How bad could it be?

I regret everything.

Inside, the facility was pristine and sterile, lit by an endless stretch of fluorescent lights. I was given a uniform, a small ID badge that only said “Tier 1 Maintenance,” and a list of protocols longer than the U.S. Constitution.

Most of my tasks were mundane. Replace broken air filters, tighten bolts on high-pressure pipes, sweep up debris in the lower levels. But the deeper I went, the weirder it got. Sublevels 1 through 3 were straightforward: labs, living quarters, storage. But Sublevel 4… that’s when the rules started showing up.

The first rule I noticed was posted at the door: “Do not speak to the staff on this floor unless they speak to you first.”

The scientists on Sublevel 4 were pale, jittery, and avoided eye contact. They whispered to each other in quick, frantic bursts and moved like they were afraid of being watched. There was a room I had to clean there—Room 401. The rule for that one was specific: “Never turn off the lights while inside.”

Room 401 was empty, just white walls and a metal table. Easy enough to clean, but the moment I stepped in, I felt like I was being watched. There was nothing in the room—no cameras, no vents, no windows. But the feeling was undeniable.

And then the lights flickered.

Just for a second. But in that split second, I swear I saw a shadow standing in the corner. When the lights stabilized, it was gone. I finished my work in record time and didn’t look back.

By my second month, I noticed the air was heavier the deeper you went. Sublevel 6 felt like breathing underwater. The signs outside the doors were increasingly ominous: “Emergency Protocol Alpha Only”, “Extreme Hazard: Class D Entities”, and my personal favorite, “Do Not Enter Without Clearance or Armed Escort.”

One night, I was called to fix a coolant leak on Sublevel 7. I didn’t even know there was a Sublevel 7 until that moment. My escort—a pair of armed guards with rifles I didn’t recognize—didn’t say a word to me as we descended in the elevator.

When the doors opened, I instantly wanted to leave. The hallway was freezing, and the walls were covered in frost despite the humming of industrial heaters. The lights were dimmer here, casting long, flickering shadows.

We stopped at a door marked “The Atrium.”

“Stay inside the yellow lines,” one of the guards said. It was the first time anyone had spoken to me that day.

Inside, the room was massive, like a stadium flipped upside-down. At the center was a huge glass enclosure filled with a glowing blue mist. Pipes and wires snaked around it like veins. I couldn’t see what was inside the mist, but I could hear it—low, rhythmic thuds, like a heartbeat.

My job was simple: replace a cracked coolant pipe attached to the enclosure. I tried not to think about the fact that the pipe was pumping something into the glass, not out of it.

While I worked, the mist began to shift. Something massive was moving inside. I saw an outline, like a figure pressed against frosted glass. At first, it looked human—two arms, two legs, a head. But then it moved again, and I realized it was far too tall, its limbs too long, its proportions all wrong.

The guards tensed, gripping their rifles. One of them muttered, “It’s awake.”

That’s when the alarms went off.

The room flooded with red light, and a deafening klaxon echoed off the walls. The mist inside the glass spun violently, and the figure slammed against the enclosure. The glass cracked—not a little, but a long, jagged fissure that stretched across its surface.

“Fix the pipe, now!” one of the guards shouted.

I froze, watching as the thing inside the mist pressed its head—or what I thought was its head—against the glass. It had no face, just a smooth, featureless surface. But I could feel it looking at me.

The glass cracked again, and a low, guttural moan filled the room. It wasn’t coming from the alarm or the guards. It was coming from inside my head. Words formed, not spoken but injected directly into my mind: “Let me out. I will make you more than human.”

I stumbled back, clutching my ears. The guards opened fire, their bullets tearing through the mist but doing nothing to the thing inside. The glass shattered, and the mist poured out, filling the room.

The last thing I saw before blacking out was the figure stepping free of the enclosure. Its limbs twisted unnaturally, like it was trying to decide what shape to take.

I woke up in the infirmary two days later. My contract was terminated on the spot, and I was escorted out of the facility by men in hazmat suits. They didn’t answer my questions, just handed me an envelope with a check and a warning: “Speak about this, and we’ll find you.”

That was three weeks ago. Since then, I’ve been having… episodes. Sometimes, I’ll wake up in the middle of the night, standing in my backyard with no memory of how I got there. Other times, I’ll hear whispers in the back of my mind, promising things—power, knowledge, immortality.

Two nights ago, I found frost on my bedroom window. It was 80 degrees outside.

Last night, I woke up to find my reflection staring at me from the mirror, even though I wasn’t moving. It smiled.

I don’t know what they’re doing at that facility, but I know one thing: they didn’t contain it. The Atrium is open now. And it’s looking for me.

And if you hear a voice in your head that isn’t yours, don’t listen. It doesn’t want to help you. It just wants to get out.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Trash_Tia on 2024-11-15 22:42:36+00:00.

---

My name is Millie, and I am 20 (Almost 21) years old.

I need help from someone not in this psycho town.

Not many kids can say they have a superhero for a father.

My Dad was an amazing man. He was the coolest person in the world.

Known as our town’s superhero, I guess you could liken him to one.

Dad doesn't wear a cape and I'm pretty sure he can't fly.

But he does use his newfound abilities for good, bringing down every psychopath who tries to play supervillain.

We are pretty small, impossible to find on a map, or even a Google search.

Dad has been protecting us way before I was even born.

Nobody knows how he and a number of others acquired their abilities.

There were rumors of a chemical explosion in the powerplant 17 years ago.

Some people even believe my Dad is from a different planet, while others are convinced he is part of natural human evolution.

All wrong, and a lot more easily explained.

Why don't the rest of the world know about our town?

My best answer would be because you can't.

On the outskirts of town, a mental barrier exists. It is invisible, only affecting you when you leave. I’ve only experienced it twice, and both times were horrific.

It's like having your mind picked apart.

Like drowning inside your own skull, every part of you bleeding away until you are nothing, a soulless, mindless shell sitting on the side of the road with barf staining your shirt.

Every memory of this town and its inhabitants is torn from us.

Last time, I remembered nothing but my name.

It didn't take Dad long to find me.

Last year, a popular Twitch streamer managed to sneak inside.

But, just like the mental barrier, everything that happens in this town stays.

He was pretty pissed when his stream failed to go live. The guy forgot our existence as soon as he stepped out of town.

Do you know the Sims 2 game on Nintendo DS?

I never played it, though I did watch walkthroughs on YouTube.

We are kind of like Strangeville. Minus the aliens.

Anyway, the reason why I'm writing this will come clear. I don't have long, and I'm sorry for over description, I want to get everything down as clearly as I can.

I want to tell you about my father.

Star-man.

He's just like a real superhero.

When I was seven years old, my father single-handedly stopped The Cerebral Drainer, a psychopath who took the lives of ten innocent people in the town square.

I remember watching an episode of Spongebob, and the TV switched to shaky camera footage of the bloodbath downtown. Dad saved a child live on local TV. He told the panicking crowd everything is going to be okay.

They believed him.

I believed him, watching through my fingers as he tackled The Cerebral Drainer to the ground.

I admit, I was scared of him at first.

Human beings aren't supposed to have freakish glowing eyes with the ability to rip through human flesh.

Laser eyes are fictional, but this is the closest I've seen to the real thing.

Dad explained it to me in detail, but I still can't get my head around it.

The mutation is most prevalent in the eyes, and acts kind of like a geyser…but with energy. Or something like that.

When I was twelve, Dad took down Rat Face, a homeless looking guy who filled the streets with disease ridden rodents.

Rat Face was more pathetic than scary. His beady eyes twitched like living things.

Our town eventually began to trust my father with protecting us.

In exchange, we were to protect his secret from the rest of the world.

Dad was known as the best superhero (and father) by day, and family-man and loving husband by night.

It wasn't out of the ordinary for the local press to be swarming our door when I got home from school.

Since town kids can't leave, unless they're either granted special permission or are the children of ‘villain’s’, the rest of us continue our education until we are 25 years old.

The idea of leaving town and immediately forgetting our identities isn't exactly appealing.

We call it The Third Senior Years.

First senior Years: 16-17.

Second Senior Years: 17-21.

Third Senior Years: 21-24.

After stepping off the school bus, I was already nauseous and wrestling a pounding in the back of my head, the type of pain Tylenol cannot fix.

The Myers household is fairly small. Just a regular house in suburbia. We even have the white picket fence.

Pushing through a crowd of my Dad’s adoring fans, I made sure to flash my my perfect smile at the cameras.

My phone vibrated, a text popping up on my notifications.

The vultures are at your door lol. Should I release the hounds?

Cam, a first senior boy who lived across the street.

With two adorable and feral chihuahua’s.

I sent back a skull emoji. The last time he set them on fans and press alike, I was unfairly grounded for three days.

Shoving my phone in my pocket, I forced my way through the crowd, trying and failing to ignore their stares.

As Star-man’s daughter, I was yet to reveal the mutation I had inherited.

I could tell they were gunning for it, their wide and frenzied eyes raking me up and down like a piece of meat.

Maybe they were expecting me to start shooting flowers out of my ass.

The older I was getting, the less patient the town was. Dad told them in a local press conference that I was just a late bloomer. I almost died of embarrassment. The girls at school ran with it of course, asking me if I was a late bloomer for anything else.

Channel 7 news was waiting for me at our front door, immediately sticking a microphone in my face.

I was told not to talk to the press. Dad made that very clear in his 100 slide PowerPoint presentation detailing every potential fallout scenario if I accidentally said the wrong thing.

But I was tired, my head was pounding, and the camera flashes were making me feel woozy.

Channel 7 news are obsessed with my family.

Almost to the point of it being scary.

The anchorwoman, Heather Carlisle, who was a usual suspect, was already yelling in my face.

I was yet to forgive her after she suggested live on air that I was a little slow. (it was 2am, and I was half asleep.

The neighbors were robbed, and I was dragged out of bed for my close-up. Because of course I was).

I noticed two things, even when I was slightly out of it.

Heather had definitely camped out in our front yard. She was wearing the exact same clothes from yesterday, a slightly creased black dress, and a matching blazer. Heather was also missing a heel. One of them was odd.

I noticed a single rose petal hanging from her fringe.

There was zero reason for this woman to be doing all of this to get ‘inside scoop’ on Myers family business.

“Millie Myers!” I got full-named, after straight up ignoring her and trying to shove past her army of camera guys.

Heather wasn't playing around. I backed down when she situated herself in front of me with one single heel clack.

“Is it TRUE your father is currently interrogating the SON of the INFAMOUS Six-Eyes?”

I swear a little bit of saliva hit me on the cheek.

Six Eyes was the opposite of my father.

Dad strived to protect our town and everyone in it. Six Eyes, who was locally famous for the mutation that came with his ability, sought to destroy it. If Dad could be compared to a superhero, Six Eyes is more of a villain.

The proportions of his face are all messed up. I've only met him once, and Dad made me wear eye protection.

It only takes one single glance at this guy, and he's got you.

Obviously, it's not like the movies. Six Eyes can't make mindless armies.

But he can greatly influence town leadership, slipping into the Mayor’s office with nobody batting an eye.

The problem was, if Six Eyes covers up his mutation, he looks like your average guy which puts him perfectly under the radar.

Nobody suspected the community college professor Marcus Caine to be a psychopathic maniac with the ability to contort the human brain.

Dad did manage to apprehend him, only for Six Eyes to break out of prison two weeks later.

His twenty year old son, Cartwright, wanted nothing to do with him, intentionally leaving town and stepping over the barrier to forget the town (and his father) ever existed.

I'm not fully sure how the mind wipe works, but I do know that spending too much time away from town causes physical symptoms.

I think Cartwright is drawn back every two to three months to avoid suffering an aneurysm. He had even legally changed his name to get as far away from his psycho father as possible.

The boy was only in town for a few weeks on vacation from college.

However, over the last few days, my father had reasons to believe Six-Eyes was in contact with his estranged son.

I twisted around, maintaining a wide smile. “No comment.” I told the cameras.

The anchorwoman nodded slowly, thrusting her microphone further into my face. I had to hold back a sneeze.

“But your father is interrogating him now, correct? Millie, can you tell us what… techniques he is using?”

She was trying to get me to spill or trip over what I was saying so my words could be taken out of context.

Dad didn't get mad easily, but his smile did start to slightly falter when I told Channel 7 our family's business.

Shutting the press down, I shook my head, making sure to stretch my lips into a big, cheesy grin. Just like my Dad told me. I cleared my throat.

“Rest assured, Cartwright is in good hands. I can prom...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gs8vsd/its_tough_being_the_daughter_of_a_superhero/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/TremontRemy on 2024-11-15 14:48:53+00:00.

---

For a long time, I’ve been reliving my own death, day after day. I know it sounds stupid. Who dies more than once? And if I’m already dead, how can I write this down? But please hear my side of the story. Because it’s a pretty tough one.

I had previously led a completely normal life with a normal family. In case you can call my family normal. My parents are workaholics and have provided a stable environment for me and my siblings once I was born. Besides me, there is my older brother Hutch and my little sister Julia. Since Hutch joined the army a year ago and Julia’s puberty phase became apparent when she stayed away from home for hours at a time, it was relatively quiet at home. I myself am a rather unsociable type and like my time alone in the house, which I like to spend watching TV shows or playing PS5.

Then October 15th came. I remember the day I first met my death vividly.

It was a special day because it was the first time Hutch came home to spend a few days with the family. My parents decided to have a picnic on the outskirts of town and then go shopping. I honestly wasn’t in the mood to go out. It was nothing against my brother, I loved him, but I would be seeing him for a few days anyway, so I wanted to stay in the house and just wait until he and my parents came back. Julia was at some party as usual, and I really hoped she wouldn’t call me later and ask if I could pick her up.

My parents left the house around noon. They were a little disappointed that I didn’t want to spend time with Hutch, but the joy of seeing their son again was too great. 

The afternoon was relaxing. I played on my console and finished watching the last episodes of the TV show that I had started last week. When I got bored, I even did my homework and solved the crossword puzzle in the daily newspaper. For lunch I ordered pizza and, since I can never estimate my hunger, I also put fries in the air fryer.

Eventually it was evening and the sky darkened. I heard nothing from my parents or Hutch. No one called. I assumed they were somewhere where there was no signal. They never put their phones on silent because my parents thought that was tactless. I also heard nothing from Julia, which I initially dismissed as a good sign. 

But when the clock struck eleven, I started to get worried. I wrote to my parents, to Hutch, to Julia, called everyone, just to make sure everything was okay. It was extremely rare that I was home alone late at night without a good reason. Or maybe I was just too worried in general. I’ve always been the more withdrawn and anxious type of person.

Eventually I got a message from Hutch. I was so relieved to hear from someone in my family that he was okay. He asked me to pick him and our parents up in my car since they had a flat tire and couldn’t get through to breakdown service. 

I didn’t even bother asking questions. I immediately grabbed my car keys and rushed outside. It was very windy and cold, and I had to fight the oncoming wind several times before I could reach my car.

Suddenly a newspaper hit me square in the face and I ran in different directions in panic. Before I knew it, I was standing on the street and a light shone through the newspaper, getting bigger and bigger. Before I could even take newspaper down, a truck hit me in the middle of my body.

I can still feel the overwhelming pressure very well. It felt so painful, so intense and so real. And how real it was. Or so I thought.

Right after the impact with the truck, I woke up with a start and saw my bedroom. My phone screen showed October 15th.

Dreams usually feel real and you only remember them in fragments, but I swear I’ve never had a dream that was so lifelike. I could also remember every detail, as if someone was thinking back to yesterday.

I didn’t think about it any longer and went to the kitchen to have breakfast. My parents and Julia were already sitting at the table. My mother seemed to be in a good mood as I saw her slap a perfectly fried omelette onto my plate.

I asked her why she was in such a good mood and she said: “Your brother is coming back today, remember?”

Hutch? Hadn’t they met him already? No, that all happened in my dream. So they hadn’t met him. Not yet. Was my dream also a vision?

“We’re going to have a nice picnic somewhere in the park and then I thought we’d go to the mall and do some shopping”, my mom continued.

That’s exactly what she had planned in my dream. 

“Without me”, Julia interrupted. “I’m meeting up with Holly and a few friends." 

“By ‘meeting up’, you probably mean some kind of party again”, Mom said sourly.

The whole thing seemed very odd and creepy to me. I had a strange feeling of déjà vu when I got up, but with every second that passed, everything became more and more recognizable.

Just to be really sure that I had hopefully only dreamed all of it, I opened my homework assignment that I had done yesterday or in my dream. The page in the math book that needed to be done was blank. I could still remember writing down the answer to each math problem. What was going on here?

Around noon, my parents left. I didn’t come with them again because I was still too confused and had to make sense of everything.

Instinctively, I wrote to my parents and Julia directly and asked them to keep me updated about their whereabouts and to call me every hour. I tried to sound as serious as possible without explaining too much.

An hour later, the first call came from my parents. I was relieved when they told me that everything was going well, and Hutch had arrived safe and sound. There was no call from Julia, as I had expected.

I spent the afternoon doing my homework, even though I had already done it, and ordering pizza and heating up fries. I already knew how my current TV show ended, even though Netflix showed me the notification that I still had three episodes left.

After another hour, my father called to tell me that the three of them were sitting in a park having their picnic. Julia didn’t call again. 

When the next hour rolled around, there was no call from Julia or my parents. I was sure they had simply forgotten about our agreement, so I texted each of them to call back. No one received my message. 

Later that evening, Hutch called me and asked me to pick him and Mom and Dad up because of a flat tire.

As I had done before, I grabbed my keys and ran outside. Only then did I realize the danger that had cost me my life the other time. It was very windy and cold, but I fought my way through the wind with small steps.

Suddenly a newspaper came flying and smacked me in the face. I immediately stopped and ripped it off me. Not this time, I thought to myself.

I finally got to my car and drove off. On the way there I grabbed my phone and texted Hutch to tell me where they were. I was apparently way too excited because I wasn’t paying much attention to the road.

That ended up being my fate because before I knew it I crashed straight into a tree and flew forward.

I remember feeling like my head had been pierced. The feeling was insanely awful. But it didn’t last long, as I found myself safe and sound in my bedroom. My phone screen showed October 15th.

I hadn’t dreamed. I hadn’t had any visions. I was caught in a time loop that always ended in my death.

I really didn’t know what to make of it and what caused it happen. I was panicking at the thought of having to live the same day for the rest of my life. 

This went on for a while. I don’t know if I just wanted to keep testing the time loop or if I was just getting depressed, but I decided to take advantage of that time and altered my daily routine every day. One day I blew all my money gambling. Other days I hooked up with Tinder dates or just trashed the house. Every day was different, as was the way I died. I either had a heart attack, fell down the stairs and broke my neck or I deliberately unalived me by jumping out of the window. With each day I changed drastically and with each day I mourned my old self. 

Finally, the 24th repetition of October 15th arrived. I slithered out of bed and staggered into the kitchen. My parents commented on my odd behavior and I waved it off as usual and let the day come. 

“Are you excited about seeing your brother?” Mom asked me.

“Sure, I can’t wait for him to walk in the door”, I replied sarcastically, shoveling omelette into my mouth.

“What? You don’t want to come with us? It’s your brother.” 

“I’m going to see him for a few more days anyway, so who cares?”

“Don’t be so disrespectful. Don’t take everything for granted. What if your brother can’t make it today? Wouldn’t you be sad about that?”

I stopped eating. I became alert to what my mom had just said.

I toyed with the idea that maybe the way out of the time loop depended on my choices. Maybe I just needed to see my brother again to continue the events.

Since I had nothing to lose anyway, I changed my original plan to do a Harry Potter marathon and agreed to come and pick up Hutch.

We left the house around noon and drove to the airport where we were waiting for Hutch. He appeared in his combat uniform and seemed relieved to see us. But he also seemed tired, which I could understand given the fact that he had spent months in the Middle East witnessing the horrors of humanity first hand and had to sit and wait for hours for the enemies to come. 

I hugged Hutch and welcomed him. For the first time since the time loop began, I was ...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1grxzo1/i_relived_the_same_october_15th_day_by_day_and_it/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/PeaceSim on 2024-11-15 12:24:36+00:00.

---

I spend all week in eager anticipation of Saturday. When it arrives, I head to the pool, where I swim and laugh with my friends and my twin sister Anju. Afterwards, we go to the club, where the fun continues as we jump and dance while the room gets hotter and hotter.

But this Saturday, everything is different. To start, I don’t recognize anyone at the pool. Even Anju isn’t here. She and I are normally inseparable. Her absence worries me. Where is she? Is she okay?

But, even more strikingly, nobody here looks like me. Frankly, I’m used to a more diverse crowd than this. That wouldn’t bother me, except that they’re all treating me strangely.

My attempts to make new friends are met with silence and hostile glances. When I wade through the bubbles towards a small group, they demand that I stay away from them.

I back up, only to brush against a tall figure a tad less pale than the rest. He snarls in a raspy voice that my “kind” doesn’t belong here. The words sting, as does the pain I feel when he kicks me with one of his long legs.

When I regain my composure, I see a faint, rosy red mist form in the water around me. I hear screams, along with words like “she’s bleeding” and “stay away from her!”

The others congregate away from me, at the far end of the pool. Before long, I’m alone – a pariah.

I look down at my reflection. To my shock, I see that I’m changing into one of them. My once-vibrant skin turns cloudy as it fades into a bland, murky gray.

This can’t be happening to me. I yearn for someone to help. I think about Anju. She always looks out for me. I miss her.

Suddenly, everything grows quiet, and the water level lowers. The ceiling opens. A hand reaches in, grabs me, and pulls me up. Normally, it would take me to the club. But not today.

A familiar, deep voice booms from above. It asks how I got here, and it says that it’s “lucky” that I didn’t stain anything else.

I continue to lie limp in his hand as he shouts upstairs to someone named Mary. He tells her that one of her socks got mixed in with the whites. That the bleach stained it pretty badly.

In response, a lighter, higher-pitched voice calls, “Just toss it, and please be more careful next time.”

I fly through the air and land with a soft thud amidst wrappers and crumbled paper.

I cry. I haven’t done anything wrong. Yet, I feel that I am being punished just for being different – for not looking like the others. It’s unfair. It’s wrong. And I’m all alone now.

My heart lights up as a shape crawls and tumbles. I realize, to my delight, that it’s Anju. Her pink form slides down until she’s next to me.

I whisper through tears of joy. “You came for me, even though I look wrong now.”

Anju smiles as she holds me. “I’ll always be here for you, sis, no matter what you look like. A pair like us belongs together.”

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/HughEhhoule on 2024-11-15 18:19:35+00:00.

---

No idea how to break this gently so I guess I'll just lay it all out there and let you make your own judgements.

I'm no monster slaying wunderkind, I'm not a security guard or a gas station clerk. I'm not the most relatable person on the planet I guess is what I'm saying. In fact, a lot of folks wouldn't really classify me as a person to begin with. I would, but I'm a little biased.

Guess I should just pull out the splinter shouldn't I?

I have black hair, light brown skin, hazel eyes, weigh about 80 to 90 pounds, stand about 3 foot 6, and while we are probably shaped the same, about half of me is cloth, plastic and ceramic.

I'm a golem, if you want to be nice, or an evil doll if you want to be an asshole about it. There, I said it.

Don't get the wrong impression , I'm totally made to kill. But the person who did it…they had a whole lot more rage than talent. They took a hell of a lot of shortcuts, and let's say that I'm less than the perfect killing machine.

Optimally I'd be a new entity, created from scratch, with a superhuman intellect , a body that is damn near impossible to destroy, and a faultless devotion to the person who created me.

As it stands my entire personality ( not memories) is from some poor asshole that got kidnapped and tortured by my psychotic creator. My body is one fifth a corpse from the same guy, with the durability to match, and honestly, while I have to follow the instructions given, it's to the letter not the spirit.

But while those instructions are beyond fucked up, my unlucky self is in the middle of something worse somehow…I think.

See my mission is to wait in the attic of this house, for the next ten years until a certain family moves in (the creator had a bit more talent with foresight than construction.) . At that point I'm to terrorize the child for a couple months then off him.

No occult reason, creator is just an asshole, 3 year old annoyed her, and that was that.

But that is small potatoes compared to what is going on in this place right now.

I'm one year in to my decade long stint, from what I was told the house should have stayed empty till then. But a few weeks ago while I was counting the new spiders in the attic I heard a lot of banging and scraping coming from downstairs.

I couldn't very well go down and see what was happening so I waited until the wee hours of the night.

The majority of the flesh in my body is held in my oversized head, being that top heavy, trying to navigate the drop stairs from the attic silently was no easy task. I hate to keep bitching here, but levitation is another thing my creator could have given me if she decided to put in more than the minimum of effort.

Sure enough the house is set up for habitation. Dated pastel furniture , an old tube television and all kinds of knick knacks instantly tell me I'm walking through the place of an older person. The pile of pornographic vhs tapes tells me it's likely an older man.

There are bookshelves, a lot of westerns, but an equal amount of books on the occult, ranging from Coles bought garbage to a couple I swear I can feel tugging at whatever eldritch shit holds me together.

Or maybe it's nerves. For some reason I get to feel nervous, if I was going to create a murder doll I'd like to think I'd make sure it couldn't get spooked out. Just my opinion though.

I stand perfectly still and listen to see if whoever has taken up residence here has waken. I hear nothing so I make my way to the kitchen.

Knives. …so many knives. Kitchen knives, hunting knives, combat knives, what look to be ritual knives, just about anything with an edge and a point is on magnetic strips, butchers blocks or just angrily jammed into a counter.

As someone who has detatchible hands I can replace with knives, when there are enough blades to make me worry, something drastic is going on.

I listen for another moment before making my way to the fridge, slowly I open the door, the harsh light from within lighting up the room.

Nothing.

Not an apple, a soda, or severed human head. Just a discolored , slightly damp smelling fridge. Not the strangest thing here, but odd.

Then I hear it, an extremely soft footstep, not at the bedroom door like I'd expect (Hearing and sight wise I'm pretty immaculate. Nessecary for my…line of work?) But about half way down the stairs.

I don't have a heart to skip a beat, but my eyes begin to dart around looking for a place to hide. I leave the fridge door open, and crab walk up the plaster wall silently, wedging myself in the corner of the ceiling, hoping this person doesn't just turn on the lights. I'm am ambush predator, not a brawler.

The guy walks into the room without a sound, I can hear snoring 4 houses away, and this guy is dead silent as he calmly scans the room.

He is tall, 6 foot 3 or so, and dressed completely in a Catholic bishops garb. His face is pale and weathered and his eyes show about as much emotion as mine do. He scans the room like a shark, coasting from corner to corner, abruptly turning , but thankfully , not looking up.

I can't see his arms, but there is some strange peristaltic motion under his robes. And the longer I am around him the more I feel…dirty, not that I understand how that is possible without skin mind you.

Eventually he seems satisfied at the lack of intruders and makes his silent way back to his bedroom. When I'm certain this isn't just a ruse, I scuttle down the wall, and back to the attic , I climb to the ceiling and lower the door just enough to squeeze through.

I don't sleep, so I spend the next dozen hours running that situation through my head.

See, I don't know much about the paranormal beyond my own creation, hell, I don't know much about many things I don't need to. But I know that something isn't right here, and in a huge way.

When I hear the front door shut and a car pulling out of the driveway , I sneak back out of the attic. The place is much the same during the day, creepy, not so subtly violent, and generally having a ghost hunters meets horders vibe ( Don't know about the paranormal but I know shitty cable shows, way to prioritize , creator.) .

But what I didn't notice last night was the door to the basement.

Newly painted a deep scummy looking black, and having a myriad of locks studding one side, I walk up to it, I can barely hear something on the other side.

I don't know what kind of soundproofing this guy has going on , but it must have cost him an arm and a leg. I place my head against the door with a small clink of porcelain.

I can barely hear the sound of a person, obviously in distress, I listen as the scream, trying to make out exactly what they are being harmed by. I can't do it, but I have one trick I can play.

My head unfolds like a rose, exposing the withered remains of the man's face, skull and sensory organs that compose me. I'm hit with a stinging rush of input that stuns me for a moment. The head is protective, but also let's me tone down the sensory overload that comes from the overclocking of the eyes and ears.

Suddenly the voice is crisp and clear.

"I've told you everything I know. Just end it, for God's sake just end it." A male voice says , sobbing.

There is a wet slithering noise and a violent ripping, the man must still be alive though judging by his screams.

"Just stop talking…please, just do that at least…" the man continues as a sudden high pitched shriek makes me stumble backward exclaiming "Shit" or rather that's what I wanted to say, my mouth is full of steel capped Pointed fangs, made for combat, not eloquence. The noise I make sounds more like an agressive far than English.

Before I have the time to get fully back to my feet something throws itself against the door the locks straining, barely able to hold whatever it is back.

I scramble back to the attic , hoping that whatever that was isn't smart enough to pass on any information.

I spend the rest of that day deciding my course of action. And eventually I come to a conclusion.

Likely, I'm going to have to do some screwed up stuff. I don't know if I have a soul, but if I do my mission in life is going to guarantee it to a pretty shitty eternity regardless of who's right religion wise. But maybe I can…I don't know, build up some good karma? Something? I know I'm what goes bump in the night, but this guy… I'm starting to think he is the fucking boogeyman.

So I decide, in a very vague way to try and do something about this.

I've had a full year to get to know every nook and cranny of this house. Every angle of attack, every hiding spot, vent and hollow wall. I might not be able to tear this guy and his…partner?Pet? Apart, but I can do what I was made to do. Watch, learn, wait, and when the time is right make these bastards leak.

The thought of direct violence sends a surge of excitement and pleasure through me. Reminding me I'm not the good thing, just a force of nature pointed in a good direction.

My shoulders and hips dislocate as I slide into the vent , hands and feet rotating to let my spider like fingers and toes propell me through the air vents.

I'm silent, and I'm quick, I feel more at home in the confines of the vent, more in control, I find myself hoping the bishop hears me, mayve sticks his head up to investigate, the thought of his face shredding under my teeth , my hands plunging into his neck pushes me forward even quicker.

I slow as I get to the basement v...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ferrisaspheck on 2024-11-15 16:44:09+00:00.

---

It started with a simple question. “Mommy, can imaginary friends be real?”

I glanced up from my laptop. My seven-year-old daughter, Lily, stood in the doorway of my home office, clutching her stuffed bunny. I smiled. “Of course not, sweetheart. That’s why they’re called imaginary.”

Her lips pursed. “But what if they know things?”

I frowned. “What kind of things?”

Lily shrugged, her gaze darting away. “Just stuff. Never mind.” She shuffled out before I could press further.

At the time, I didn’t think much of it. Kids have wild imaginations, right? But then… the accidents started happening.

---

The first time, it was a fire at our neighbor’s house.

The night before, Lily came to me looking pale. “Mommy, Olivia says Mrs. Carter’s house is going to burn down.”

I paused mid-sip of my coffee. “Who’s Olivia?”

“My friend,” Lily said simply, as if that explained everything.

“She’s your imaginary friend?” I asked, smiling.

Lily hesitated, then nodded. “She doesn’t like being called imaginary.”

“Right,” I said, humoring her. “Why does Olivia think Mrs. Carter’s house will burn down?”

“She just knows,” Lily said. “She knows lots of stuff.”

I reassured Lily it was just her imagination, but the next morning, sirens blared down our street. Flames consumed the Carter house, black smoke billowing into the sky. Luckily, Mrs. Carter was unharmed—she’d gone out for groceries minutes before the fire started.

When Lily heard, she didn’t seem surprised. “I told you,” she whispered.

Two weeks later, Lily mentioned Olivia again.

“Mommy, Olivia says to stay away from the bridge tomorrow.”

I froze. “Why?”

“She says it’s going to fall.”

My stomach knotted. The bridge was part of my daily commute. “Lily, that’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking,” she said earnestly. “Please don’t go.”

Against my better judgment, I worked from home the next day. Around noon, I got a news alert: Massive Bridge Collapse Leaves Five Dead, Dozens Injured.

I stared at my phone, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin. The bridge Lily warned me about had collapsed during the morning rush hour. If I’d ignored her, I might’ve been on it.

When I confronted her, she just shrugged. “Olivia told me.”

“Who is Olivia?” I demanded.

“She’s… my friend,” Lily said, her voice trembling. “She says bad things are going to keep happening.”

---

From then on, Olivia’s predictions became a regular occurrence. A car crash at an intersection. A storm that uprooted trees. A freak accident at the grocery store. Every time, Lily would relay Olivia’s warnings, and every time, I brushed them off—until they came true.

I tried everything to understand. Was Lily hearing things? Seeing something I couldn’t? I even took her to a therapist, who chalked it up to coincidence and a vivid imagination. But it didn’t feel like coincidence.

One night, I decided to push. “Lily, what does Olivia look like?”

“She’s pretty,” Lily said softly. “But her eyes are black, like the night.”

The hair on my arms stood up.

“Where does Olivia live?” I asked.

Lily pointed to her closet.

I laughed nervously. “In your closet?”

“She doesn’t live there,” Lily clarified. “But that’s where she comes from.”

That night, I locked Lily’s closet door.

---

A few days ago, Lily came to me crying. “Olivia says you’re in danger.”

I felt a chill. “From what?”

“She won’t say,” Lily sobbed. “But she’s scared.”

The last time Olivia predicted danger, it saved my life. So, I started taking precautions. I stayed home, avoided sharp objects, and double-checked every lock. Nothing happened.

Then, yesterday, Lily’s room went cold.

I was tucking her in when she whispered, “She’s here.”

“Who’s here?”

“Olivia,” Lily said, her voice shaking. “She says… it’s too late.”

The lights flickered. I spun toward the closet. The locked door creaked open, though I hadn’t touched it.

“Mommy…” Lily’s voice was barely audible.

Something stepped out of the shadows.

I don’t know how to describe it—long limbs, skin stretched too tight, and eyes like endless voids. It wasn’t human. It wasn’t anything I could explain.

“Leave her alone!” I screamed, throwing myself in front of Lily.

The thing tilted its head, as if studying me. Then, it smiled—an impossibly wide, jagged grin.

“You can’t stop what’s coming,” it whispered, its voice a rasp that chilled me to the bone.

And then, it was gone.

---

Now, Lily won’t speak. She just sits in her room, staring at the closet door. She won’t eat, won’t sleep, and flinches whenever I get too close.

The worst part? I’ve started hearing things—soft whispers at night, scratching from inside the walls.

Last night, I woke up to find Lily standing over me, her eyes unfocused.

“Olivia says it’s your turn,” she whispered.

I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m scared. Whatever Olivia is, she’s not imaginary. She’s real—and she’s not done with us.