This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/philosophysubboy on 2024-10-14 23:42:52+00:00.
I don’t mean they’d leave for a party or a night out. No, they’d vanish—gone without a trace by sunset, leaving me alone in the house. I’d search for them, call their names, but they were always gone, like they’d never existed. It wasn’t something we ever talked about. The next morning, they’d be back, acting as if nothing had happened, like it was just another night. But it wasn’t. I knew that. I learned that the hard way.
It all started when I was six years old. I remember that first Halloween like it was yesterday. I was dressed as a witch, excited to go trick-or-treating. But just as the sun dipped below the horizon, I noticed the house felt different—cold, quiet, too quiet. I ran through the halls, calling for my mom and dad, but no one answered. Panic set in. I thought maybe they were hiding, playing a prank, but after what felt like hours of searching, I realized they were gone. The front door was locked, the windows were shut, and I was completely alone.
That’s when I found the first note.
It was on the kitchen table, written in my mom’s familiar handwriting. It simply said:
Rule 1: “Stay in your room. Do not come out until sunrise. Whatever you hear, ignore it.”
I didn’t understand then. I was scared, confused, and alone. I didn’t want to stay in my room; I wanted to find my parents. But something about the note made me follow the instructions. I took a flashlight and a pillow, locked myself in my room, and crawled under the covers. I thought maybe it was some kind of weird game. I wasn’t sure.
That night, I didn’t sleep much. The house creaked and groaned, more than usual. I heard strange noises—soft scratching at my door, footsteps in the hallway, whispers that I couldn’t quite make out. I told myself it was the wind or my imagination, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t. Something was in the house with me.
The next morning, when I opened my door, my parents were back. They were sitting at the kitchen table, sipping coffee like nothing had happened. I asked them where they’d gone, what had happened, but they just smiled and said I must have had a bad dream.
That was the beginning.
Every Halloween after that was the same. My parents would disappear just before nightfall, leaving me alone with a note. Each year, the instructions got a little more specific, a little more ominous. By the time I was eight, the notes included things like:
Rule 2: “Don’t look out the windows.” and Rule 3: “Don’t respond if someone calls your name.”
And the noises—they got worse.
One year, when I was nine, the sounds outside my room became unbearable. There were knocks on the door, not gentle, but loud, insistent pounding. I pressed my hands over my ears, squeezing my eyes shut, but I couldn’t block it out. The voice on the other side was familiar—my mother’s voice, calling my name.
“Ellie, it’s okay. You can come out now.” She sounded so calm, so normal. For a second, I almost believed it was really her. But the rule had been clear: “Do not open the door, no matter what you hear.”
So I didn’t. I stayed under the covers, trembling, until the knocking stopped. I never told my parents about the voice, and they never asked.
The years passed, and the game continued. It became a twisted Halloween tradition. While other kids dressed up and collected candy, I stayed locked in my room, listening to the house come alive with things I couldn’t see. I became used to the notes, the strange noises, and the feeling of being watched. It was all part of the game, my own haunted ritual.
But when I turned thirteen, everything changed.
That year, the note was different. I found it on my bed just as the sun was setting, but instead of the usual instructions, it said:
Rule 4: “There’s something new in the house tonight. Be careful.”
I didn’t know what that meant, but the moment I read it, I felt a chill run down my spine. Something new? What did that mean? I locked my door, as usual, and tried to settle in for the night, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.
The noises started earlier than usual. At first, it was the familiar creaks and footsteps. I’d gotten used to those. But then, there was something else—breathing. I could hear it, low and heavy, just outside my door. It wasn’t human. It was too slow, too deep. I pressed myself against the headboard, clutching my flashlight like a weapon, even though I knew it wouldn’t help.
The breathing moved away after a while, but then came the scratching. It wasn’t at my door this time—it was coming from inside my room. I whipped the flashlight around, scanning the walls, the ceiling, but there was nothing. The scratching grew louder, closer, until it felt like it was coming from beneath my bed. My heart pounded in my chest, my throat dry with fear. I didn’t dare look under the bed. I was too scared of what I might find.
The scratching stopped abruptly, replaced by a soft, childlike giggle. The sound of it froze the blood in my veins. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t my parents. Something was in the room with me.
I backed up against the wall, holding the flashlight out in front of me like it could protect me from whatever was there. The giggling continued, soft and mocking. I whispered to myself, “It’s not real. It’s just a game.” But I didn’t believe it anymore.
Suddenly, there was a loud bang on the door. The whole room seemed to shake with the force of it. I dropped the flashlight, plunging myself into darkness. The breathing was back, but this time, it was right outside my door.
Bang!
Another hit. The door shuddered.
Bang!
The lock rattled. Whatever was out there was trying to get in.
I scrambled to pick up the flashlight, but my hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold it. The banging grew more violent, each hit sounding like the door was about to give in. And then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped.
Silence. Pure, deafening silence.
I held my breath, waiting, listening for any sign of movement. Then, the voice returned, soft and sweet, like honey.
“Ellie, it’s okay. You can come out now.”
It was my mother’s voice again, but this time, I knew it wasn’t her. I didn’t answer. I didn’t move. I just sat there, frozen in fear, praying for the night to end.
The voice called out again, more insistent this time. “Ellie, don’t be scared. It’s just a game.”
My hands were trembling, and I could barely hold onto the flashlight. The voice kept calling, but I stayed silent. I knew the rules. I knew I couldn’t open the door. But then, something strange happened. The door... it began to unlock. I heard the soft click of the lock turning, and the handle slowly twisted.
“No,” I whispered, pressing myself further against the wall, willing the door to stay shut. But it was too late. The door creaked open, just a crack, but enough for me to see a shadow in the hallway, something tall and thin, its limbs too long, its fingers clawed.
It wasn’t my mother.
The creature stood in the doorway, unmoving, watching me. I could feel its eyes on me, even though I couldn’t see its face. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I felt like I might pass out.
And then, just as it stepped forward, the first rays of sunlight crept through the window. The creature recoiled, hissing like an animal, and within seconds, it was gone. The door slammed shut, and the house was quiet again.
I didn’t leave my room until the sun was fully up. When I finally opened the door, the house was just as it had been the night before—silent, empty, as if nothing had happened.
My parents were back, sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee like they always did. I stumbled in, shaken and pale, and told them everything—the creature, the scratching, the voice that wasn’t my mother’s. They just looked at me, exchanged glances, and then my dad laughed softly.
“You must have had a bad dream,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing like that happened, Ellie. It was just your imagination.”
My mom smiled that same strange smile and added, “You’re safe now. It’s over.”
But I knew better. I knew it wasn’t just a dream. The fear, the things I’d heard and seen—they were real. They had to be. My parents didn’t believe me, they never did, and that was the most terrifying part.
Now, as an adult with children of my own, I know the truth. Whatever haunted me in that house, whatever played that sick game, it’s still out there, waiting. And it’s hungry. I fear for the lives of my children. I’ll never let them go through what I went through. I’ll protect them at all costs, even if it means never celebrating Halloween, never letting the night touch them the way it touched me.
Because I know, deep down, that it’s only a matter of time before the game starts again. Halloween is coming