This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Ok-Poetry6064 on 2024-11-13 00:11:03+00:00.
When I was younger, my parents always told me bedtime stories. They were twisted tales – terrifying, cautionary fables of monsters who lurked in closets or shadows waiting to snatch up “bad kids” like me. They’d whisper these warnings in darkened rooms, voices low and dripping with menace. Sometimes, they’d even turn the lights off, leaving me alone to cry in the pitch black, my imagination creating horrors beyond what they had even described.
By the time I was eight, I’d started sleeping with a flashlight under my pillow. My parents never knew, and the thought of it being my secret made me feel safe, like I had a small piece of defiance they couldn’t strip away.
Things got worse when I turned twelve. They’d take away my flashlight, and they locked the windows shut at night. I wasn’t allowed out after 8 PM, and they put bars on my door from the outside. They said it was “for my protection,” but I knew better. It felt like they were punishing me for something I didn’t understand. They’d say things like, “The monsters only come for those who deserve it” or “They’re not done with you yet.” I didn’t know what they meant, but the implication was terrifying.
One night, I woke up to scratching sounds just outside my window. I could barely breathe as I crept toward the glass, pressing my ear against it. The sound stopped immediately, but just as I was about to crawl back into bed, I heard it again, now coming from inside the walls. I stayed awake all night, curled in a ball under my blanket, my heart thudding against my chest. The next morning, I told my parents, hoping they’d check the walls or take me seriously. But my dad just smirked, his eyes gleaming. “Told you they weren’t done.”
As time passed, the scratches turned to whispers. Low voices murmuring my name from behind the walls, under the bed, or just outside my door. I’d lie awake, shaking, too afraid to move. My parents seemed almost pleased with my terror, often reminding me, “It’s what you deserve.”
One evening, I overheard them talking in hushed tones. They mentioned something about “the ceremony” and “keeping her quiet.” My blood ran cold. What did they mean, and what was this ceremony? I wanted to confront them, but I couldn’t bring myself to, not with those hollow gazes they wore whenever they looked at me.
A few days later, my mom handed me an old, dusty mirror. “Place this by your bed tonight,” she instructed, her tone icy. “You’ll see what’s been watching you all these years.”
The fear was paralyzing, but curiosity overpowered it. That night, I set up the mirror. I didn’t want to, but I had to know.
Around midnight, I heard it—the scratching, louder this time, relentless. Then the voices started. This time, they didn’t whisper; they hissed, louder and angrier. My name, over and over. Trembling, I opened my eyes, staring into the mirror.
In the reflection, I saw a shadow figure behind me. It was featureless, a dark shape hovering, but what made my blood turn to ice was its face. It had no eyes, just hollow sockets, staring right at me. And then it smiled. It whispered in a voice eerily similar to my mother’s, “You deserve this.”
I bolted from my room, pounding on my parents’ door, screaming for help. They opened it slowly, looking calm, almost…expectant. They didn’t seem surprised or even worried. “See anything interesting?” my dad asked with that twisted smirk.
I couldn’t understand. How could they let this happen to me? “What are you doing to me?!” I shouted.
My mom sighed, looking almost pitying. “Honey, it’s not us. We’re not the ones who hurt you.”
Before I could respond, she took my hand and led me back to my room. “Look in the mirror again, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice chilling.
Against every instinct, I glanced back at the mirror. This time, I noticed details I hadn’t before. The shadow wasn’t someone behind me – it was me. And as I stared into those hollow sockets, memories I had long buried began resurfacing.
I remembered nights as a child, hearing crying that I thought was my own. I remembered my mother waking up with bruises, which she blamed on me in my sleep, but I thought she was lying. And the reason they locked my windows, the reason they feared me.
In the reflection, my face split into a cruel grin. I whispered, “You deserve this.” It was my voice. The mirror cracked, and with it, I remembered every monstrous thing I had ever done.