This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/NoPurpose_Story on 2024-09-16 02:03:49+00:00.
Working at a retirement home was never my dream job, but it paid the bills and gave me something to do while I figured out my next move in life. The job was straightforward: help the residents with their daily routines, keep them company, and make sure they were comfortable. It wasn’t the most thrilling job, but it paid the bills. The residents were mostly quiet, reserved people who had lived long lives and were just passing their time peacefully.
But last week, I quit my job at the retirement home. You’re probably wondering why anyone would walk away from such a stable gig. It’s simple: I wanted to stay alive. But even now, I’m not sure if I made it out in time. Let me start.
I worked the night shift. It was usually quiet; the residents were asleep by 8pm, and the rest of the night was a breeze. Most nights, I’d sit in the monitoring room, watching the security feeds, reading, or scrolling through my phone. That was until the weird stuff started happening.
The first incident was subtle. I noticed it about a month into the job. It was around 3 a.m., and I was half-asleep in front of the monitors. The cameras were showing their usual views—hallways, common areas, and the residents’ rooms. Then, I noticed Mrs. Carlson.
Mrs. Carlson was 86, frail, with a mind slowly slipping into the fog of dementia. But that night, she wasn’t in her bed. She was standing in the corner of her room, facing the wall. Just standing there, completely still.
I watched her for a while, expecting her to move, shift, or do anything. But she just stood there, like a statue. Uneasy, I decided to check on her. When I got to her room, the door was slightly open. I pushed it wider, and my heart skipped a beat. Mrs. Carlson wasn’t in the corner. She was lying in bed, asleep, just as always. I told myself I must have been tired, maybe imagining things, or that the camera had glitched.
But the next night, it happened again. As I sat in the monitoring room, exhausted and barely paying attention to the screens, I saw Mr. Hopkins—a former war veteran long incapacitated—standing in the middle of his room. At first, he was just standing there, facing the camera with the same empty eyes as before. But then, he started to lean backward, slowly and steadily, until his head was nearly touching his back.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. No one his age should be able to bend their body in such an unnatural way. Suddenly, Mr. Hopkins began to move—not with the heavy, labored steps of an elderly man, but with jerky, unnatural movements. He crawled on all fours, like a spider, slowly climbing up the wall with precise movements, almost without a sound.
I jumped up, my heart pounding in my chest, unable to tear my eyes away from the screen. I knew this frail old man shouldn’t be able to perform these kinds of contortions, but there he was, twisting his body in impossible ways, clinging to the walls and ceiling with his hands and feet, moving in a frantic, unnatural manner.
Then, he stopped. Everything went still, as if time itself had frozen. His distorted body remained motionless, his eyes still locked onto the camera.
My instincts kicked in, I knew I had to check on him. I bolted from the monitoring room, racing down the hallways to Mr. Hopkins' room, my mind reeling with what I had just witnessed. But when I burst into his room, ready to face whatever horror awaited me, I found him lying peacefully in bed, asleep, as if nothing had happened. The room was quiet, undisturbed, with no sign that anything out of the ordinary had taken place. It was as if the terrifying scene I had witnessed on the monitor had never occurred.
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was horribly wrong, but every time I brought it up with the day staff, they dismissed it. “Old people do strange things,” they’d say. “Don’t worry about it.” But I couldn’t help worrying.
The incidents became more frequent. More residents would stand motionless in their rooms at night, staring into the cameras. A cold dread washed over me when I realized they weren’t just looking at the lens—they were looking straight at me, through the screen, through everything that separated us. It wasn’t just standing, either. Some nights, they’d be in positions that were impossible for people their age—standing on one leg, arms outstretched, heads tilted at unnatural angles. They’d stay like that for hours, only to vanish from the screen the moment I decided to check on them. And every time I’d find them peacefully asleep.
I started losing sleep myself. I dreaded going to work, but I couldn’t quit. I needed the money. So I kept showing up, every night, hoping it was all just a weird coincidence, that maybe I was losing my mind.
Then, one night, things escalated.
It was a quiet night, almost too quiet—the kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl. Around 2:30 a.m., the televisions in the common area started flickering. The static buzzed, filling the halls with a low hum. I stared at the monitor, watching the static swirl on the screens, feeling dread settle in my stomach.
The static lasted for about a minute before the televisions went black. And that’s when I saw them—on the monitors, in every single room. The residents were all standing by their beds, staring directly into the cameras. Not just a few of them. All of them.
I froze. This wasn’t dementia or sleepwalking. Something was terribly wrong.
Then, the cameras started flickering, the images distorted by static, and when the feed cleared, the residents were gone. Every single one of them had vanished.
I jumped out of my chair and bolted down the hallways, my footsteps echoing off the walls. I checked room after room, but they were empty. Beds unmade, personal belongings untouched, but no sign of the residents.
My mind was racing. I couldn’t understand what was happening. Had they all left? Were they playing some kind of twisted joke? But how could they? Some of them couldn’t even walk without assistance.
I was about to call the police when I heard it—the faint sound of shuffling, followed by a soft, wet noise, like something being dragged across the floor. It was coming from the common area.
I hesitated, fear gripping my heart, but I had to know. I walked toward the noise, every step heavier than the last. When I rounded the corner into the common area, I saw them.
The residents were all there, standing in a circle, facing away from me. In the center of the circle was Mrs. Carlson, lying on the floor, her eyes wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling. Her mouth was open too, but not in a scream. It was as if something had been pulled from her, leaving her hollow, empty.
Before I could react, the residents turned to face me, all at once, their movements synchronized like they were a single entity. Their eyes were black, empty voids, and their faces expressionless.
I stumbled back, my heart racing, as they started to move toward me, slow and deliberate. I didn’t wait to see what would happen. I turned and ran, my legs barely carrying me fast enough as I made my way to the exit. I didn’t stop until I was outside, gasping for breath, the cold night air burning my lungs.
I didn’t go back inside. I left my keys on the doorstep and drove home, my hands shaking on the wheel. I called the police from my apartment, told them there was a situation at the retirement home. They didn’t find anything when they got there. No bodies, no sign of struggle. Just an empty building.
The next day, the retirement home closed down, and the residents relocated to other facilities. I didn’t bother finding out where. I quit, and I’ve been trying to forget about it ever since. But I can’t.
I wish I could tell you that it was all just a story, a product of my imagination. But it’s the truth. Even after I quit, the memories still haunt me. I’ve tried to forget about that night, but sometimes, in the quiet moments, I see them—those empty, black eyes staring back at me. I don’t know where the residents went or what really happened in that building, but I’m certain of one thing: whatever it was, it wasn’t human.