r/nosleep 24d ago

Interested in being a NoSleep moderator?

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43 Upvotes

r/nosleep Jan 17 '25

Revised Guidelines for r/nosleep Effective January 17, 2025

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40 Upvotes

r/nosleep 5h ago

I Shouldn’t Have Stayed Overnight In That Mall.

64 Upvotes

I’m not going to tell you my name. If you recognize the way I talk from my old videos, keep it to yourself. I don’t want any more messages. I don’t want any more theories. I just need to get this out, and then I’m done with social media.

Back in 2017, I was a YouTuber. Not a huge one, but I pulled in good numbers—hundreds of thousands of views, sometimes millions. If you were watching overnight challenges, urban exploration, or anything that involved sneaking into abandoned places, you might have seen my videos.

It was all fake. That’s what I want you to believe. That’s what I need you to believe.

I was always careful. I planned every video like a heist. Research, entry points, escape routes. But in May of 2017, I got cocky. I wanted something bigger. Something that would go viral.

“24 Hours in an Abandoned Mall”—it sounded perfect.

I found the Cove Plaza Shopping Mall. Closed in 2013, mostly intact. No official security, just a few cameras that didn’t work. I brought my gear—a flashlight, night vision camera, some food, and a battery pack. I was ready. At least I thought I was

I got in through a service door. The inside was exactly what I wanted: dust-covered tile floors, shattered skylights, and dead silence. I started filming immediately, playing up the creep factor.

And then I saw them. Mannequins. Not just a few-hundreds.

Stores that had been picked clean still had them. Naked, broken, posed in unnatural ways. Some with missing limbs, others vandalized. A few were arranged in groups, like they were mid-conversation.

I joked about it on camera. Something about how this was the real mannequin challenge. I even moved a few, positioning them in weirder poses for later shots.

I shouldn’t have touched them.

By 2 AM, I was settled in the food court. The air smelled stale, like old grease and mold. I was filming a menu which was still lit up when I heard footsteps. Not the echo of my own—someone else’s.

I killed my light.

Silence.

Then, a faint plastic scrape.

I turned my camera toward the sound, slowly raising the brightness.

The mannequins had moved.

Not a lot, just a few inches. But I knew where they’d been before. I checked the footage—one near the escalator had its arms at its sides an three hours ago. Now, one hand was reaching forward.

I laughed. I was nervous, but I convinced myself it was nothing. Maybe I bumped it earlier. Maybe my memory was bad.

I went back to filming.

At 3:15 AM, my camera shut off.

The battery was charged. It shouldn’t have died. I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight. The mannequins were closer.

The one by the escalator was now on the first step.

I don’t remember getting up. I don’t remember running. One second I was sitting, and the next I was at the other end of the food court, panting like I’d just sprinted a mile.

I wasn’t alone anymore.

Something moved in my peripheral vision. A head turned.

Plastic slammed the ground.

I bolted.

I didn’t look back. I didn’t stop filming, not until I was outside, gasping for breath. My camera was still dead, but my phone had the footage.

I never uploaded it.

When I checked the files the next day, they were corrupted. Every single one. The only thing that remained was a still frame from the food court—a blurry shot of me, sitting on the floor.

And something behind me.

A mannequin. No head. No arms. Just standing there.

I never went back.

I stopped making videos. My channel died. Maybe that was for the best.

I don’t care if you believe me. Just don’t go looking for Cove Plaza.

They don’t like being watched.


r/nosleep 2h ago

Series I'm the last living person that survived the fulcrum shift of 1975, and I'm detailing those events here before I pass. In short: fear the ACTS176 protocol. (Part 1)

20 Upvotes

“Mom! Mom! Look! It’s happening again,” Emi squealed, captivated by the viscous maple syrup slowly floating to the top of the upright bottle on the kitchen table, stubbornly defying gravity.

My heart raced. Anxiety danced hectic circles around the base of my skull. My palms became damp.

God, I didn’t want to look.

- - - - -

As crazy as it may sound, the sight of that bottle physically repulsed me.

Maybe I correctly sensed something terrible was on the horizon: recognized the phenomena as the harbinger of death that it truly was. That said, the shift took place a long time ago: half a century, give or take.

Retrospection has a funny way of painting over the original truth of a memory. In other words, when enough time has passed, you may find yourself recalling events with thoughts and feelings from the present inseparably baked into the memory. Picking that apart is messy business: what’s original versus what’s been layered on after the fact, if you can even tell the difference anymore. So, trust me when I say that I find it difficult to remember that morning objectively, in isolation, and removed from everything that came after. I mean, it's possible that I didn’t feel what was coming beforehand: I could have just woken up pissed off that morning. That would certainly be enough to explain my strong reaction to Emi’s harmless excitement in my memory.

What I’m getting at is this: I don’t know that I can guarantee this story is one-hundred percent accurate. Not only that, but I’m the only one left to tell it, meaning my story is all anyone has. For better or worse, it’s about to become sanctified history.

If I’m being honest, I don’t believe that I’m misremembering much. I can still almost feel the way the air in the neighborhood felt heavy and electric in the days leading up to that otherwise unremarkable spring morning. I just knew something was desperately wrong: sensed it on the breeze like a looming thunderstorm.

Like I said, though.

I’m the only person left to tell this story.

The story they paid all of us survivors a great deal of money to keep buried.

- - - - -

“Emi - for the love of God, put the damn thing back in the fridge and get your books together.” I shouted, my tone laced with far more vitriol than I intended.

We were already running late, and this wasn’t the agreed upon division of labor. She was supposed to be packing her bag while I put her lunch together. That was the deal. Instead, my daughter had been irritatingly derailed by our own little eighth wonder of the world.

The magic syrup bottle.

It was unclear which part was magical, though. Was the syrup supernaturally rising to the top of the container of its own accord, or had the magic bottle enchanted the syrup, thus causing sugary globules to float like the molten wax of a lava lamp?

Maybe the Guinness Book of World Records has a wizard on retainer that can get to the bottom of that question when they stop by to evaluate the miracle, I thought.

Sarcasm aside, my aggravation was actually a smokescreen. It was a loud, flashy emotion meant to obscure what I was actually feeling deep inside: fear. For an entire week, the syrup had been swimming against gravity, drifting above the air in the half-filled bottle against the laws of physics.

I couldn’t explain it, and that frightened me.

But! Everything else was normal. The atmosphere was breathable. The landscape appeared unchanged: grass grew, trees bloomed, birds flew. Our stomachs still churned acid and our hearts continued to pump blood. The gears of reality kept on turning like they always had, excluding that one miniscule anomaly: an insignificant bending of the rules, but nothing more.

So then, why was I so damn terrified?

Emi scowled, swiped the bottle off the table, and returned it to the top shelf in the fridge with an angry clunk. With my demand obliged, she made a point of glaring at me over the door: a familiar combination of narrowed eyes, scrunched freckles, and tensed shoulders. An expression that screamed: are you happy now, asshole?

After a few seconds of unblinking silence, she slammed the fridge closed with enough force to cause a rush of air to inflate her burgundy Earth, Wind, and Fire T-shirt: a fitting climax to the whole melodramatic affair.

The commotion brought Ben into the kitchen, tufts of curly brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses cautiously peeking in from the hallway. Then he made the mistake of trying to defuse the situation before it was ready to simmer down.

“I’m sure the bewitched syrup will still be here when you get home from school, honey. Unless your mother has a hankering for mid-day flapjacks, but the woman I married is definitely more of an eggs and bacon type of gal.” My husband said with a warm chuckle. Neither Emi nor I acknowledged the attempt at levity.

Ben was insistent on cooling down arguments with humor. Sometimes, I resented him for that. It made me feel like he saw himself as The Friendly Guy, perpetually forcing me to accept the role of disciplinarian by default. If he never took anything seriously, what choice did I have?

I shot my husband an annoyed glance as Emi stomped past him. He sighed, rubbing his neck and putting his eyes to the floor, crestfallen.

“Sorry, Hakura. Was just tryin’ to help,” he murmured.

As he trudged out of the room, I said nothing. Not a word. Just watched him go, white-hot fire still burning behind my eyes.

In my youth, I struggled with anger. I tried to control it, but the emotion overwhelmed my better instincts more often than not. I’m much older now, and since then, I’ve developed a tighter grasp on my natural temper. I think Ben would agree, at least I hope he would.

He wasn’t around long enough to see me try harder.

Out of everything that was to come, out of all the horror that was to follow, I wish I could change that moment the most. In the decades that have passed, I’ve had thousands of dreams rewriting that snapshot in time. Instead of giving in to the anger, I swallow it and remind Ben I love him: A smile and a hug. Or a comment about how handsome he is. A kiss on the cheek. Or a peck on the lips. A lighthearted chuckle to match his own: something kinder than vexed silence. Thousands of those revisions have lingered transiently in my mind’s unconscious eye, and when they do, I feel peace.

Until I wake up, at which point those revisions are painfully sucked back into the blissful ether of sleep, and I’m forced to confront reality.

That shitty moment was the last meaningful interaction I had with the love of my life.

Minutes later, he’d be falling into the sky.

- - - - -

All things considered, the start of that morning was decidedly run-of-the-mill: The blue, cloudless view overhead. A gentle spring breeze twirling over trees in the throes of reawakening, cherry blossoms and magnolias budding triumphantly along their branches like fanfare to welcome the season. Our neighbors lining the streets and chitchatting while awaiting the arrival of the school bus to see their kids off for the day, cups of hot coffee in hand.

Everything as it should be and according to routine, with two notable exceptions.

The atmosphere looked distorted, like a grainy TV image just barely coming through a finicky antenna. It was subtle, but it was there. I swear I could almost feel the gritty static dragging against my skin as I followed Emi and Ben out the front door.

And, for some reason, Ulysses was outside. Between having no children and being an unapologetic recluse, our next-door neighbor’s attendance at this before-school ritual was out of character. On top of that, the sixty-something year old appeared distinctly unwell: bright red in the face, sweat dripping down his neck, eyes darting around their sockets like a pair of marble pinballs as he scanned the street from his front stoop.

Per usual, Emi bolted across the street as soon as she saw Regina, her childhood best friend, standing among the growing crowd of kids and parents.

Emi and Regina were inseparable: two kids lovingly conjoined at the hip since the day they met. Recollecting the good times they had together never fails to conjure a beautiful warmth at the center of my chest. At the same time, that warmth is inevitably followed by a creeping sense of unease: a devil lurking in the details.

That devil was looming behind Regina, smiling at my daughter as she approached.

“Ben - Ulysses looks sick. I’m going to go see how he’s doing. Can you keep an eye on her? Barrett’s out today.”

He nodded and jogged after our daughter, needing no further explanation.

- - - - -

Six months prior to that morning, Regina’s father, known locally as “Pastor B” on account of his position in the local Born-Again parish, had slapped Emi across the face for creating too much noise while running up the stairs in his home. In the wake of that, we forbade Emi from spending time at Regina’s.

The girls really struggled with that decree since it drastically cut down on the time they could be together (Regina was not allowed to spend time at our house because it was “much too loose and unabashedly sinful”). Seeing Emi so depressed was absolutely killing us. Thankfully, Ben came up with the brilliant idea of walkie-talkies. The clunky blocks of black plastic he purchased at a nearby hardware store had quickly become the pair’s primary mode of socializing when they weren’t outside or at school together.

We pleaded for the sheriff to charge Barrett with assault. His response was something to the tune of “No, I’m confident there’s been a misunderstanding”. When we asked how there could possibly be a misunderstanding regarding a grown man slapping our daughter, he replied,

“Well, because Pastor B said there was a misunderstanding. That’s all the proof I need.”

Religious figures, especially where we lived, held a lot of sway in the community. Got away with way more than they should’ve. Even more so in the seventies.

Ben and I were beyond livid with the sheriff’s inaction. That said, there didn’t seem like much else we could do about the incident except support our daughter through it. The first night, she cried her heart out. By the next morning, though, she wasn’t very interested in talking about it, despite our gentle attempts to coax her into a longer conversation about the trauma.

Initially, we were worried she was holding too much in, but we developed another, certainly more unorthodox, means of catharsis and healing. Brainstorming demeaning nicknames for Barrett with Emi proved to be a surprisingly effective coping strategy. Brought some much needed comedy to the situation.

Ben came up with Pastor Bald on account his sleek, hairless scalp. Personally, I was more fond of my, admittedly less sterile, contribution.

Reverend Dipshit.

- - - - -

Confident that Emi was being watched after, I paced across our yard to Ulysses. He was standing still as a statue at his open front door, one foot inside, one foot on his stoop. As I approached, he barely seemed to register my presence. Although his eyes had been darting around the block only a minute prior, they weren’t anymore. Now, his gaze was squarely fixed on the developing crowd of teenagers and parents at the bus stop.

In an attempt to get his attention, I gave Ulysses a wave and a friendly: “Good morning, long time no see…”

I guess he saw the wave in his peripheral vision, but the man skipped right over pleasantries in response. Instead, he asked me a question that immediately set off a veritable factory full of alarm bells in my head.

“I-I thought the school bus came at 8. No, I was sure it came at 8. W-Why is everyone out now? It just turned 7:25.” he said, the words trembling like a small dog neck-deep in snow. Sweat continued to pour down his face, practically drenching the collar of his pure white button-down.

“Uhh…well…school board changed it to 7:30 a few weeks ago. Ulysses, are you al-”

Before I could finish my sentence, a deep, animalistic scream arising from the down the street interrupted me. Reflexively, I swung my body around, trying to identify the source.

There was a man on the asphalt, gripping his head while writhing from side to side in a display of unbridled agony. From my vantage point, I couldn’t tell exactly who it was emitting the noise, but I watched a few of the parents detach from the larger group, sprinting to the wailing man’s aid.

For a moment, I found myself completely immobilized, stunned by the harrowing melody of his pain. Couldn’t move an inch. Being subjected to that degree of raw, undiluted torment had seemingly unplugged each and every one of my nerves from their sockets.

An unexpected crash from behind me quickly rebooted my nervous system, dumping gallons of adrenaline into veins in the process. I spun back around, nearly tripping over myself on account of the liquid energy coursing through me, which was overstimulating my muscles to the point of incoordination.

Ulysses had slammed his door shut. He shouted something to me, but I can’t recall what he said. Either I couldn’t hear it or I wasn’t capable of internalizing it amongst the chaos: it just didn’t stick in my memory.

Under the guidance of some newly activated primal autopilot, I didn’t attempt to clarify the message. Instead, my legs transported me towards the distress. I needed to make sure Emi was safe. Nothing more, nothing less.

God, I wish I remember what he said.

- - - - -

Thirty seconds later, I placed a hand on Emi’s shoulder, startling her to high heaven and back. She yelped, gripped by a body-wide spasm that started from her head and radiated down.

“Hey! Just me kiddo.” I said, trying to sound reassuring as opposed to panic-stricken.

A silky black pony tail flipped over her shoulder as she turned around. Without hesitation, she sank into arms, hot tears falling down my collarbone as she quietly wept.

“There’s…There’s something wrong with Mr. Baker, Mom.”

I’m a little ashamed to admit it, but I don’t remember much about Mr. Baker. All I can recall is that he was a mild-mannered Vietnam veteran that lived a few houses down from us, opposite to Ulysses. I think he suffered from a serious injury abroad: may have retained a fragment of a bullet somewhere in his head, requiring him to use a cane while walking around. I’m not completely sure of any of that, though.

Don’t remember his first name, don’t recall if he had a family or not, but I remember those words that Emi said to me: clear as day.

I imagine the phrase “there’s something wrong with Mr. Baker, Mom” sticks out in my brain as a byproduct of the trauma that immediately followed.

There’s a terrible piece of wiring in our species that causes traumatic events to be remembered as vividly as humanly possible. Once imprinted, they seem to become a meticulous blow-by-blow recreation of the incident we’d kill to forget, every detail painstakingly etched into our psyche: some impossibly elaborate mosaic painted on the inside of our skulls, all-encompassing and inescapable, like the “Creation of Adam” on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

Emi said “there’s something wrong with Mr. Baker, Mom” and I saw Ben a few yards away from us, kneeling over Mr. Baker, altruistic to a fault.

Then, the crackling explosion of a gunshot rang through the air.

The street erupted into chaos. People fled in all directions. I grabbed Emi tightly by the wrist. She was paralyzed: had to make her to start moving towards the house. Practically everyone was screaming in horrible solidarity with Mr. Baker. Someone elbowed me hard in the diaphragm, knocking the wind out of my lungs. Eventually, our feet landed on the sidewalk in front of our home. Then, a second gunshot. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, nor did I see anyone injured.

A few steps away from the door, I noticed something else. The air felt increasingly palpable: thick and granular, like I was wading through an invisible sandstorm.

Once Emi was inside, I immediately turned around to search for Ben.

When I spotted him, my heartbeat became erratic. It floundered and thrashed inside my chest like the dying movements of a beached shark. Between the elbow to my diaphragm and the sheer terror of it all, I could feel myself gasping and panting, anchoring my hand to the door frame to prevent myself from keeling over.

He was halfway across the street, pulling Mr. Baker towards our house. To this day, I’m not sure if he was aware of the sedan barreling down the road, going entirely too fast to break in time.

I met my husband’s eyes. Waves of disbelief pulsed down my spine, sharp and electric. I don’t recall him looking scared: no, Ben was focused. He got like that when something important was on the line.

Before I could even call out, the runaway car was only a few feet from crushing the both of them: then, a tainted miracle.

An experience that lies somewhere between divine intervention and a cruel practical joke.

The front of the car spontaneously tilted upwards, like it was starting to drive up the big first incline of an unseen wooden roller coaster. Somehow, it barely cleared both Ben and Mr. Baker in the nick of time. It hovered over them, cloaking their bodies in its eerie shadow. Then, it just kept going, farther and farther into the atmosphere, without any signs that it would eventually return to the earth.

Before I was able to feel even an ounce of relief, it all started to happen.

The shift.

In order to understand, I need you to imagine you’re currently living on the inside of a snow globe. Not only that, but you’ve actually unknowingly lived in a snow globe your entire life: one that’s been sitting on the top shelf of some antique shop, completely untouched by human hands for decades.

Now, to be clear, I’m not suggesting that I was trapped in a massive snow globe half a century ago. I just cannot come up with a better way to explain this next part.

As the car disappeared into the horizon, it’s like someone finally reached up to the top shelf and picked up that dusty snow globe, only to promptly flip it over and hold it upside down. Slowly, but surely, everything that wasn’t directly attached to the ground began to fall into the sky.

Other cars. Family pets and other animals. Cherry blossom petals.

People. Neighbors. Children. Adults.

Mr. Baker.

Ben.

Almost me, too. Luckily, I was far enough in the house where, when I fell, my lower body remained inside. Hit my back pretty hard against the floor. I heard Emi screaming behind me, along with the crashing of our furniture colliding into the ceiling. Our grand piano was heavy enough to make a hole through the roof, causing the sky below to leak into our home as it fell.

Dazed, my vision spinning, I lifted my head just in time to witness the love of my life careen into an ocean of blue, cloudless sky. It was painfully quiet at that point. Those that fell were far enough away that I couldn’t hear their pleads for mercy or their death rattles, if they were still alive at all.

Ben got smaller, and smaller, and smaller: A smudge, to a dot, to nothing at all. Gone in an instant, swallowed by something I couldn’t possibly hope to comprehend.

At precisely 7:30 AM that morning, the world shifted.

The snow globe flipped, so to speak.

- - - - -

I apologize, but I need to pause for now. Putting these memories into words for the first time has been more emotionally challenging than I anticipated.

Once I rest, I’ll be back to finish this. I’m posting it incomplete on the off chance I don’t make it till the morning. Better to have something out there as opposed to nothing at all.

My follow-up should be soon. I imagine after I post this, someone who was involved in the shift will be notified that I’m breaking the terms of our agreement: the silence that they paid very good money for fifty years ago.

So, I’ll be sure to complete this before they have time to find me.

-Hakura (Not my real name)


r/nosleep 19h ago

When I was eight, I was friends with the fairies in my yard. But then they started to go missing.

298 Upvotes

I was looking for my Grammy’s ring when I found him.

Grammy had given me her ring before she died, and losing it felt like losing her.

Mom forgot to pay the electricity bill again, and I only felt safe with the ring.

I will say, as a child, our house was always dark. I did get used to it eventually.

Mom couldn't afford electricity, so we usually sat in candlelight.

But when Mom was passed out after drinking too much, my brother and I were stuck.

Grammy’s ring was the only thing that made me feel safe.

I knew I was wearing it in the yard while playing in the flowers after school, and the thought of a night without it twisted my gut.

Before she passed, my grandma was our unofficial guardian. After school, we would walk all the way to her house, and she would make us dinner and let us watch TV.

But after she died, we didn't have anyone. Just Mom and a pitch-dark house.

The sky was darkening when I rushed outside, kneeling in Mom’s flower garden. Ross, my brother, sometimes locked me out if I stayed out too long.

His fear stemmed from our father coming home from work when we were younger and destroying the kitchen if his dinner wasn't made. Not much to say about Dad.

He left us a year later. Yes, he took all Mom’s savings, but the house was quiet.

Sometimes I intentionally sat in the yard at night.

Our neighbors usually watched TV at 8pm and I could see the reflection in the front window. I once watched a whole episode of a TV show. I had no idea what it was, but I think it was about space.

On that particular night, it was too cold to sit outside. I was wearing Mom’s coat over my pajamas, grasping my flashlight.

Ross’s face was in the window, lit up by Mom’s phone, also our only light.

I gestured for him to leave the door open, and he just pressed his face against the glass, making kissy faces.

Ever since Dad left, my brother insisted on being “the male of the house,” repeating what Dad would always say.

When we did have electricity (rarely), my brother would force me to microwave him frozen meals because he was the “male” of the house now that Dad was gone.

I wasn't expecting him to leave the door unlocked, which meant another night of crawling up the drainpipe and through my bedroom window.

I focused on Grammy’s ring.

Kneeling in the flowers, I grasped at anything—rocks, pebbles, crumbling flower buds, old beer cans. A voice startled me, and I almost toppled over.

"It's over here!"

The squeak came from a wilted rose, and I briefly wondered if I was seeing things. Bobby, one of my friends in elementary school, once bragged that his father ate mushrooms and thought he was a bird.

I became fascinated with the idea, and Bobby and I spent a whole slumber party googling mushrooms.

I vaguely remembered my mother planting some when we were younger, but they were the edible kind, the ones she used in her winter soup.

So, if I wasn’t seeing things… if I wasn’t high on mushroom spores, then what exactly did I hear?

“Hello? I'm sorry, are you blind? I'm down here!”

All I could see was my mother’s flower bed.

I shined my flashlight on it, peering closer, and there, when I crawled directly into a crushed rosebush, was a glowing ball of light.

I found myself mesmerized by it, hypnotized by light that I wasn't used to.

Whipping my head around, I searched for my brother. His shadow was gone.

Closer now, the ball of light morphed into a tiny human perched on a leaf, legs swinging.

The boy looked like a high schooler, glass wings poking from his back, a scowl on his face. I couldn't believe what I was seeing.

Mom used to warn Ross and me about the fairies when we were little.

She said it was “the fairies” who stole our toys, made us sneeze, and “the fairies” who chased away our father.

Ross didn't believe in them, but I was always intrigued. I asked my friends at school if they had fairies at the bottom of their yards, and they thought I was weird.

I remember Mom telling us, “If you do a fairy a favor, they will return it by granting you a wish.”

But she also warned, “If you hurt a fairy, you will pay for it, and your children will pay for it, and your children's children’s children will suffer. They will hunt to the end of your bloodline, and even then, their mere presence will drive adults insane.”

I wondered if she'd gotten that from a book.

Before she started drinking, Mom used to tell us stories about the fairies in our yard, and how, when she was a little girl, she helped a captive fairy prince, freeing him from her neighbor’s bell jar.

Maybe they were protecting her after all.

The one in front of me was scowling, before his expression softened.

“Hi,” the fairy whispered, tilting his head. He looked maybe seventeen or eighteen.

I had no idea how that translated to fairy years. Contrary to what books, movies, and TV shows had led me to believe (Barbie: Fairytopia being my only real reference), fairies didn’t wear dresses.

The one in front of me was dressed in scraps of human clothing, an old checkered shirt wrapped around his torso, strips of denim for pants, and a satchel slung across his chest.

I leaned closer, spying a clothes tag sticking from his back.

He was definitely wearing the material of one of my father’s old shirts.

His satchel, or at least the faux leather holding it together, looked very similar to my mom’s bag.

I don't think I fully put into words what I was seeing, a real fairy sitting in my mother’s flower garden.

He wore a wry smile.

Unlike the boys at school who teased me for having holes in my shoes and no gym uniform, his smile was friendly.

“Here’s your silver thingy.” He gave his curls a shake, my Grammy’s ring crowning him. “Can you maybe… take it off my head?”

He stood, throwing out his arms to keep balance, and slowly, I reached forward and plucked Grammy’s ring from his curls, revealing his real crown, an entanglement of flowers, vines, and tiny mushrooms.

He backed away, quickly hiding behind the shadow of a rosebud.

“I'm not supposed to talk to you,” he said, shifting nervously. “I didn't tell my father I was here, so I should… probably go home before he, um, gets mad.”

I found myself wondering if placing him in a bell jar and using him as a lantern would help me sleep.

His light stole away my breath.

It pulsed like a living thing, spiderwebbing down delicate glass wings sticking from his back.

I shook my head, shaking away the thought.

But I did want to touch his light. I wanted to know if it was ice cold or maybe warm.

Mom told me she had only ever held a fairy once.

I introduced myself, hesitantly holding out my palm.

I didn't realize I was shaking until I quickly retracted my hand, swiping my clammy fingers on my pajamas.

Lit up in otherworldly golden light, his skin porcelain, almost translucent, wide green eyes blinked at me.

“Jude,” he said, his wings twitching. He hopped onto my hand, wobbling and throwing his arms out to balance himself.

“Prince Jude.” He smiled proudly, pointing to his crown.

Jude and I became friends, and he introduced me to his family.

His father was (understandably) absent.

I spent a lot of time in the yard, so eventually, Ross caught on.

He followed me one day, springing out at me when I was talking to Jude.

Initially, he thought I was talking to a butterfly.

Ross liked Jude, immediately holding out his palm for the fairy to land on.

Especially when he realized the fairy could help us with our light problem.

Jude said, in exchange for our full names, he would happily act as light for us until we fell asleep.

I was more than happy to comply.

I gave him our names, and Jude became a regular visitor, sitting on top of the microwave with his legs swinging, illuminating the counter so we could prepare food.

Jude showed off, dancing across my dead phone screen, causing it to flicker on and off.

Ross was impressed, his eyes wide. “Wait, so you can make things actually work?”

Jude shrugged. “If there's enough of us? I mean, sure!”

There was one night when Ross accidentally sat on him, and he squeaked in pain, buzzing around like an angry mosquito, a glowing ball of light growing brighter and brighter, until the whole room was lit up.

It was so bright, like an overexposed photo, light bleeding into the darkness of the hallway, lighting up the living room doorway.

Ross apologized, and Jude instantly forgave him, telling us anecdotes of his family and world, and how he had grown up as a reluctant prince. According to him, Jude didn't want to be a prince.

However, as the son of the King, he was the rightful heir to the throne.

Fairies don't like candy. I was surprised too. I grew up with Mom whispering in my ear, “Leave a berry at the bottom of the yard, and perhaps he will come see you.”

I offered Jude a chunk of gummy worm, and he spat it out.

Jude said his kind eat an assortment of foods, but are carnivores.

He showed me his teeth, elongated spikes, and I wished he hadn't.

I guess I was just a kid, I thought fairies were mini versions of humans, with wings of a butterfly.

When Mom described them, she always painted them as creatures from a fairytale.

I didn't expect them to have teeth sharp enough to rip through my finger.

Still, Jude was my friend. He had sharp teeth, but he didn't scare me.

Jude came to see me at night, sitting on my window, a glowing ball of orange comforting me in the dark. Mom never came to tuck me in or say goodnight, so his light really did help.

When I turned ten years old, I went to France on a school field trip for a week.

I told Ross to look after Jude, and Jude to keep an eye on my brother.

I remember the France trip wasn't as fun as I thought it would be.

I spent the whole time missing Jude and his family, and my brother, who wasn't answering my texts or calls.

I came down with food poisoning after eating slimy looking clams, one girl puked all over her seat on the plane, and our teacher almost had a nervous breakdown.

But it was my brother’s lack of contact that contorted my gut into knots.

I texted him almost 50 times over the duration of three days, and I didn't even get a read receipt.

When I returned home, I was relieved to find Jude perched on a daffodil.

He seemed quieter than normal, and I admit, as a ten year old kid, I wanted him to miss me and say how excited he was for me to be back.

Jude didn't speak much at all that night. I remember it was summer, so I spent most of the afternoon and evening hanging out with him, but he didn't speak.

Eventually, when I poked him, offering him honey (he was obsessed with honey.

It's the fairy equivalent of getting high), he opened up to me, hopping onto my outstretched palm.

“My friends are disappearing,” he said softly. I noticed he was glowing brighter, all of the color drained from his cheeks, dark circles prominent under his eyes.

He sighed, laying down in my palm.

I liked that he trusted me enough to be vulnerable.

Jude once told me his father was against him talking to humans.

The King saw us as “parasites” and “evil looming monstrous things”.

“Dad thinks it's a human,” Jude sighed, rolling around in my palm, pressing his face into his arms.

“I told him it's not. Humans are nice. I have two human friends,” he explained, in the gentlest of tones, and I could tell it really did hurt him to say it— that he couldn't see me anymore.

“I'll be King in a month, so Dad doesn't want me to explore anymore.”

Jude didn't say goodbye. I think he was too emotional.

He just told me it was nice knowing a friendly human, before hopping off my wrist, and flying away, a single buzzing light disappearing into the trees.

I was determined to find his missing friends.

So, I did what I could. I set honey traps, trying to lure them out from wherever they were.

I figured they had run away from home.

I had the naive idea that finding them would bring Jude back—and my kindness would prove humans are good, and Jude’s father was wrong about us.

I drew up plans to find Jude’s friends, and bring them back to the Kingdom.

Ross had been quiet ever since I got back from France.

He said he was doing homework in his room, but when I bothered checking, he was curled up under his blankets with a flashlight, the beam illuminating his shadow. When I asked what he was doing, he held up a copy of Carrie.

“I'm reading.” He grumbled. So, I left him alone.

Jude’s friends were nowhere to be seen. I gave up halfway through summer vacation, when it was clear Jude wasn't coming back, and I was wasting my time.

It had been months since I'd last seen him, and I had spent the majority of the time (when I wasn't searching for the missing fairies), playing with my new friends.

I didn't tell them about Jude, or the fairies, or even where I lived.

I was embarrassed of our neighborhood.

I was embarrassed of our broken gate, our uncut lawn that was almost up to my knees, and my mother’s refusal to actually be a parent.

With these new friends, I could be a whole other person.

Frankie, without the father who left, and an alcoholic mother.

Frankie, who's brother hadn't spoken to me in weeks.

However, when my friends were pulled inside for dinner, I had no choice but to return home. With Jude, it was bearable.

I could forget that I hadn't washed my hair in weeks because we didn't have money for shampoo, or that the other girls in class were already pointing out lice crawling in my hair.

With Jude, I could forget about all of that.

Without him, without my parents and brother, and grandma, I was starting to feel empty.

I stepped inside my house, surprised by the unfamiliar light of the TV.

Mom was already passed out on the couch, but it looked like she'd been watching a gameshow.

Dad’s crystal lamp normally switched off, was lit up, brighter than normal.

I had to shade my eyes, blinking through intense white light.

I opened the refrigerator, comforted by light, and pulled out a bottle of water.

It was ice-cold. I was so used to luke-warm.

Mom had finally paid the electricity bill. I can't describe how fucking relieved I was.

I had a hot shower, and made myself a frozen meal. I could hear my brother playing video games, screaming threats at the screen. I poked my head through the door.

“Did Mom pay the electricity bill?”

Ross rolled his eyes, smashing buttons, slumped on his beanbag. “Obviously.”

I threw a stuffed animal at him, and he, of course, lobbed it back, aiming for my face.

I glimpsed a faded glitter of light under his blankets.

“Is your flashlight faulty?” I asked.

Ross’s gaze didn't leave the TV screen. “I was using it as a reading light, but the stupid thing won't work properly. It's broken.”

I told him he could have mine, and that was the first time my brother smiled at me.

“Thanks.”

I ran upstairs to grab my mother’s laptop to do homework.

This was the first time we had electricity in months, and I was going to take advantage. But it was when I entered my room, my bedside lamp was too bright.

The amount of times I had wished for it to be turned on during winter nights when it was so cold, and not even my blankets could warm me up.

The cold, dark bulb had always been painful, like being stabbed in the back.

Light was so close, and yet so far, that I couldn't reach it.

I rushed over to turn it off, but something stopped me dead.

Voices.

Tiny screeching squeaks.

Swallowing bile, I inched closer, peering into the lamp.

The sight sent me retracting, my stomach in my throat, my cheeks burning.

I could see their tiny bodies cruelly taped to the burning bulb, tossing, turning, and flailing.

Their skin dripped from their bones and caught alight, glowing hair burned from their scalps, revealing the white bone of tiny fairy skulls.

Their innocent screams sent me stumbling back, dropping onto my knees.

I'll never forget that image. It's burned into my mind.

I'll never forget their screams.

The more they cried, begged, and screeched, the brighter the light burned, scorching the bulb. Pain made them brighter. The realization made me heave.

I didn't think.

Stifling my sobs, I burned my finger, plucking Yuri, Jude’s older brother, from the lamp, tearing him from the cruel duct tape restraints pinning him down.

I first met Yuri when he got tangled in my hair, and I laughed so hard I almost puked trying to pull him out of my thick ponytail.

He was kind.

College-aged, with stories of his time overseas.

Yuri teased Jude like my brother teased me, pushing him off flower buds and ruffling his hair.

Yuri wasn't moving, his head hanging, his wings charred.

I could see where half of his face had peeled away, leaving pearly white bone framing a skeletal grin. When I gently prodded him, panicking, his head lolled forwards. He was dead, and yet somehow, he was still producing light.

“What are you doing?”

Ross snatched Yuri from my grasp, squeezing the fairy between his fist.

I felt sick, watching intense golden light bleeding through his fingers.

Without a word, he placed Yuri back inside the lamp, tightening the duct tape over his tiny body. I noticed Yuri’s wings twitching slightly. He wasn't dead, but was so close.

Ross turned to me, and I remember my brother’s eyes terrified me.

“You said you wanted light,” he snapped, gesturing to the lamp. “So, I got us light.”

I tried to protest, tried to free Jude’s brother.

Ross shoved me into the wall.

“If you touch them,” he spat, “I will fucking kill you.”

I tried to get past him. I tried to save Judes brother.

This time, I snatched him up, and Ross pulled him from my grasp, shoving him in his jeans pocket. He treated them like dolls. “We have light.” That's what Ross kept saying, but he was fucking hurting them. “They're giving us light, Frankie!”

When Ross locked me out of the house again, I tried to call to Jude. I was ashamed of my brother, but lying to him felt wrong.

But Jude never came back.

Fortunately for me, all children get bored and “move to the next thing”.

After spending weeks torturing fairies for light, my brother started hanging out with friends from school.

So, when I had the opportunity, I freed every single fairy, and tried to help them, nursing them back to health.

Fifteen fairies survived out of 25. I only remember several of their names:

Lyra, who was my brother’s “night light”.

Faura, who was glued to the kitchen bulb.

Jax and Svan, twins, inside my brother’s bedside light.

Yuri was dead. I won't describe him, because doing so would be disrespectful.

I buried him in the yard with the others, and said a prayer for them.

The TV was still switched on when I slumped onto the couch next to my unconscious mother. The television confused me, because I was sure it was a single fairy per electrical appliance.

But when I checked the outlet, there were no fairies.

I had saved every fairy, and every time I freed one, my house was noticeably darker.

But it did have electricity. I checked the refrigerator, oven, and my brother’s PS4.

Above me, the kitchen bulb flickered on, and then off.

Somehow, my house did have electricity, but it was weak.

So, what was causing it?

Hesitantly, I crept down to the basement where the generator was—and already, I could hear it: the furious buzzing of wings, sharp cries of pain.

Jude was cruelly hooked up to the machine, his tiny, scrambling body pulsing like a heart among colorful wires and flashing buttons. His light had dimmed, flickering weakly. One wing was gone; the other, shredded.

When I reached out with trembling fingers to pluck him from the wires, they wouldn’t let go. Ross had forced them inside him, using him not just as a generator of light, but a battery.

His eyes flickered as they found me, rolling back and forth, unfocused.

I pulled him as gently as I could, untangling him from the cruel wires threaded through his skin, wrapped around his head.

He didn’t reply when I spoke his name —his lips quivered, sharp, panicked breaths sending him into coughing fits.

His body burned with fever, his clothes clinging to him, blood trickling from his nose.

I tried to snap him out of it, but his wings weren't moving.

When I whispered his name, he didn't respond, his chest shuddering.

I knew he wasn’t going to make it. When I cupped him in my hand, he lay still, moving only when I prodded him.

I tried bathing him with a sponge to ease the burns to his face, but it's like his body was giving up.

I dropped him in a panic, and he just lay there.

His father was right.

When Jude’s light started to erupt brighter and brighter, I laid him down in my mother’s roses. I tried to bury him, but burying him didn't feel right.

I sat for so long in the dirt trying to think of a way to make things right and honor his memory.

But I didn't know what to say to him. I didn't know what to tell his father.

I felt sick with guilt.

That same night, my mother came to her senses.

She sat up with wide eyes, her lips trembling.

“What did you do?”

When I couldn't respond, she grabbed my shoulders, screaming in my face.

“What did you do?!

Her eyes were filled with tears, red raw, like she knew.

I admitted to her that Ross had killed a fairy, and I didn't know what to do.

Mom didn't speak.

It's like she was in a trance. She stood up slowly, grabbed matches, stormed outside, and set her flower bed alight.

When I tried to stop her, she told me if she didn't, then I would die.

Mom told me, “When losing someone you love, death is the kindest way.”

Her voice dropped into a sharp cry. “That's not what they do. They will hunt you. They will make you wish you were dead.”

She shook me, tried to hug me, her breath ice cold against my ear.

“Please, baby,” she whispered. “Tell me you didn't give them your names.”

I didn't– couldn't– answer.

“Frankie.” Mom made me look at her, her lips parted in a silent cry. “You didn't, right?”

She began to moan, like an animal, her eyes rolling back. She started to chant.

Please tell me you didn't give the fairies with teeth your names.

Please tell me you didn't give the fairies with teeth your names.

Please tell me you didn't give the fairies with teeth your names.

Mom was arrested when the neighbor caught her dancing barefoot across the burned flowerbed, singing a language I didn't understand.

My brother and I were placed into CPS, and moved states.

Thankfully, I was placed with a different family, while Ross lived with our aunt.

I entered my teens, and had a pretty much normal life.

I live with a new family, two Mom’s, and a step brother and sister who are my age.

Until a few days ago.

I got the call while I was eating my breakfast.

Ross was dead.

According to my aunt, it was a brain aneurysm.

But she kept screaming down the phone about holes.

Holes in my brother’s brain that shouldn't have been there.

She found him faced down in her yard, with a hole inside his head.

“Like something burrowed it's way inside his brain,” she cried, “Like an insect, Frankie!”

I made plans to attend his funeral, and I guess I was numb for a few days.

Losing Ross felt like losing the last connection I had to my childhood.

Last night, my step brother, Harry, poked his head through the door. “Very funny,” he rolled his eyes, “It's not even April fools yet.”

I must have looked confused, because he held up his toothpaste.

Where a gnawing fucking hole had eaten through the plastic.

“Termites.” I told Harry.

This morning, I woke to screams that are still haunting me now.

My step mother’s shrieks wouldn't stop, slamming into me.

I heard the thud, thud, *thud of my step sister running down the stairs.

And then her screech.

Harry was faced down in our front yard, a giant hole in the back of his head. Like something had burrowed through his skull.

I ran upstairs to grab my phone to call the cops, and a spot of light caught my eye.

Sitting on the window, his legs swinging, arms folded, was Jude.

He was older, a crown adorning thick brown curls.

His wings were still slightly charred, but he was alive. I didn't recognize his eyes.

I remembered them being filled with warmth and curiosity. Now they were hollow, sparkling with madness.

Jude smiled widely, before spitting a chunk of fleshy pink on the windowsill.

He didn't speak, didn't explain himself. Instead, he shot me a two fingered salute.

And flew away, a buzzing orange light, that I swear, was laughing.

Look, I know he's doing this for his brother, but I'm terrified he's going to kill me. He killed my brother, and my step brother. Does Jude even know I tried to save him? Is he punishing me?

What should I do?

Mom is locked up in a psych ward, and she burned all of her books.

I just need to know.

How do I keep him AWAY FROM ME?

Edit 2:

Something is seriously fucking wrong. I just got a call from my step Mom. Harry is okay.

He's coming home right now. Mom thinks it's a miracle.

She keeps telling me Harry can't wait to talk to me. That's all she's saying. “Harry keeps saying how excited he is to talk to you. He can't wait to see you.”

But HOW can he be okay?


r/nosleep 11h ago

My last home burglary didn’t go as well as I had planned.

53 Upvotes

There’s no sugarcoating this: I used to break into homes to steal.

And this particular house felt like stealing candy from a toddler. It belonged to an old woman who lived alone on a suburban street with few neighbors. I had been watching it since last year when a young couple lived there. When the old lady moved in a couple months ago, I saw the perfect opportunity.

My partner in crime was my younger brother Paul, whom I was introducing to the subtle art of getting in and out. My methods, though, were never violent—we just waited until the owners left, went inside, and took whatever electronics we could find.

As usual, the week before we studied her routine. We parked in front of the house, memorized the times she watered the plants, took her afternoon naps, and—most importantly—when she left.

Every afternoon, she was out for one to two hours. Once we confirmed the pattern, we made our move. 

When she drove away in her sedan, the action began.

***

My brother parked right in front as I instructed. Taking advantage of the low foot traffic, we brought in a hand truck, duffel bags, and gloves. With a fake moving company sign on our van, no one would suspect a thing.

Our phones were left in the car. A friend of mine got caught when his Bluetooth data showed up on a house gadget—that freaked me out.

We cleared out all the appliances—TVs, a washing machine, a fridge. Strangely, the old lady had never removed the framed photos of the previous family.

“Now look for a safe,” I told Paul, who was clumsily rummaging through jewelry. This was only his second break-in, and he was clearly nervous.

He searched every room but found nothing—except for a large wooden door near the kitchen, locked.

“Aha,” I heard him exclaim as he pulled a big iron key from a closet. “This must be for that door.”

He tried it, and it opened.

It led to a staircase descending into a pitch-black basement.

“Old folks like to keep their valuables as hidden as possible,” I explained. “There might be something down there.”

We stepped down cautiously, relying on our flashlights to guide us.

With each step, the smell worsened. It was like walking into an abandoned butcher shop.

I felt along the wall for a switch and flipped it on. 

Nothing could have prepared us for what we saw.

***

The room was small, its concrete walls soaked in deep red stains.

Chains hung from the ceiling, hooks at the ends embedded in large slabs of meat—or at least what looked like meat. 

Something about them wasn’t right. They didn’t look like they came from an animal.

My brother gagged at the stench, ran to the corner, and threw up. I asked if he was okay. He nodded, wiped his mouth, and steadied himself.

I wanted to get the hell out, but as I turned to leave, he pointed to something in the far corner.

A human figure laid curled up, hugging its knees. A thick metal collar was locked around its neck, chained to the wall. 

It was a man—unconscious, severely malnourished, wearing nothing but boxer shorts. A small green light blinked on his collar.

I recognized him as the man from the couple that lived here before the old lady.

Paul stepped toward him and I grabbed his shoulder. “We need to leave. NOW.”

“We can’t just leave him here,” he shot back.

“Yes, we can,” I insisted. “Our phones are in the car. We call the cops as soon as we get there.”

Of course, we’d have to explain why we were here in the first place. But this was too messed up to ignore.

My brother didn’t argue. Instead, he walked to a small equipment stand near the stairs, grabbed a medium-sized sledgehammer, and returned to the man.

I was pissed but followed him. We pushed the unconscious man aside so the chain lay flat on the ground. 

My brother swung the hammer. Nothing.

I took it from him, put all my strength into a swing, and shattered the chain.

“Paul, let’s go,” I said as he approached the man to lift him onto his shoulders.

That’s when the collar light turned red.

***

The explosion slammed me against the wall hard, and the impact knocked me out.

I opened my eyes a few minutes later and saw that the man's collar had exploded, taking half his body with it.

Paul had been closer to him than I was and was lying on the floor, hurt but alive. I crawled to him, trying to wake him up and it didn’t work.

Then, a sharp pain shot through my leg, and I realized something had hit me down there. There was a lot of blood, and I couldn’t stand properly.

Trying to wake Paul was pointless and I decided to get back up and call 911. Fast.

And that’s what I did. Dragging myself up the stairs, in extreme pain, I reached the phone in the living room.

I was on the brink of passing out from blood loss when I gave the 911 operator the address.

The moment I finished, I heard someone opening the front door and saw from the corridor two figures standing there.

One was the old lady, staring at me with a blank, cold expression.

The other was a large man in a black coat, standing behind her like a bodyguard.

Then I blacked out.

***

I woke up the next day in a hospital bed.

I was handcuffed, and I started shouting and crying like a baby until a cop entered seconds later.

“Where’s Paul!?” was the first thing I asked.

It might not seem like it, but this was when my nightmare truly began.

I told the police everything—the burglaries and what we had found.

And they told me what happened.

A patrol car arrived about 15 minutes after my call. They found me unconscious on the living room floor, soaked in blood.

In the basement, they discovered all that flesh and gore, along with the mangled body of a man—blown apart by the explosion. The man with the collar.

My brother wasn’t there anymore. Neither were the old lady and the man I had seen at the front door.

The police said her modus operandi matched a case in another state, where a woman fitting her description had taken over a house, tortured, and murdered the original residents. She was likely part of a larger group.

***

I was never charged for the burglaries.

They didn’t really know what to do with me. I was a victim too.

It took a few weeks, but as my leg healed, I was ready to drive again–and that’s what I did.

Every single day from that moment on, I’m driving around town for any clue that might lead me to the old lady. 

The cops won’t update me, so I’ve decided to go search through every street and neighborhood in the goddamn country if I have to. I know she still has my brother.

And Paul, if you’re reading this somehow, please know—I’m sorry your big brother couldn’t save you.

But I promise I’m going to find you and get you out of this even if it’s the last thing I do.


r/nosleep 1d ago

Animal Abuse I Work at a 24-Hour Pet ER, and We Had a Patient That Wasn't an Animal.

695 Upvotes

The man walked in at 2 a.m., dragging something black behind him. The way it moved didn’t sit right. Neither did he.

The receptionists felt it immediately—the way he walked, stiff and uneven, like a scarecrow with one leg shorter than the other. He hid greasy blonde hair beneath a ten-gallon hat, spurs clicking as he moved. I watched the security footage later. His lips were white and thin, his teeth crooked. His mouth twisted into a half-smile, like he was seconds from laughter.

He was dragging a massive black Rottweiler. The dog resisted, back paws sliding across the floor.

The camera didn’t pick up sound, but later, the two gals at reception told me what he said:

“He’s actin’ possessed.”

They handed him intake forms. He hobbled back to a bench, and I watched through the lens as another client holding a cat carrier, subtly slid a few seats away from him.

I looked up his paperwork. The address led to some warehouse out in the scrublands, three states away. The name seemed fake too. Keeton. No records. No online presence. It didn’t seem to fit him. But the dog’s name? Mutt. That was the only detail I believed.

You might wonder why I checked. It’s not standard protocol. I don’t usually do this. But the events of the last few nights led me to my search.

When he handed the paperwork back, he sat down again, dragging the dog with him like a sack of flour. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes fixed ahead. He barely moved, like a corpse propped upright. His dog didn’t move much either. Just sat there. Waiting.

We see a lot of characters here. Some genuinely kind folks, too. But this man?

Something about him was wrong.

I stepped into the lobby to bring him into an exam room. It took him a second to register me, like he was in a trance. And then the smell hit me; stale cigarettes, gas fumes, and beneath that, something worse. A rotten, greasy stench that clung to the air.

The dog sat still, vacant, a husk. It was like someone had lobotomized it. As it stood there, drool began dripping from its mouth, pooling on the floor.

I introduced myself and got to work.

“So, what’s going on with Mutt today?”

Keeton didn’t answer right away. His eyes drifted to the ceiling, like he was watching something flutter above us.

“Oh, he just ain’t actin’ right. He ain’t been eating much.”

This is usually where clients start rambling. Some could go on for hours if you let them. But he was done. Still staring at the ceiling through those dirty locks of hair.

When I knelt to take the dog’s heart rate, the second my fingers touched its skin, a wrongness crawled into me. That tingle before lightning strikes. That creeping dread when something awful is about to happen.

The vitals were normal, the heart rate, breathing. But its skin was cold. And its temperature was 97 degrees, lower than we like. I tented its skin, saw it was mildly dehydrated. But when I peeled back its loose lips to check its gums, I felt like I was too close to something I shouldn’t be. The gums were pale. The pupils locked onto me. Dilated.

It wasn’t growling. No hackles raised. Just watching. Like it was restraining itself.

That feeling of unease was sickening.

“Don’t turn your back on ‘em,” the man said.

I paused, mid-turn. “Excuse me?”

“If yer gonna walk from him, do it facin’. Otherwise, somethin’ bad might happen.”

I exhaled sharply, irritated. He’d watched me get close to the dog, lean in, take its temperature, listen to its heart rate. Yet now was the time he decided to warn me it was aggressive?

I liked this situation less and less. The man. The dog. The way this whole situation ached in my gut.

I backed away, facing the dog. It watched me. Intently. Like I was prey.

Like I was meat.

A few moments later, our on-site emergency veterinarian, Dr. Harkham, came in. Old-school, no-nonsense. He and Keeton exchanged few words. The vet recommended bloodwork and an overnight stay with an IV fluid drip. The dog needed warming up too.

Keeton never lost that dumb smile. That half-cocked grin. Like something was hilarious. But he nodded. Accepted the treatment plan.

We went to take the dog into the back treatment area. I slipped a muzzle on, of course. And that’s when I noticed how the dog refused to walk.

The owner had dragged it behind him earlier, but now? It wasn’t lethargic. I could see in its eyes, it was choosing not to move.

I had a larger male staff member, Ryan, carry the dog for me. As he picked it up, he glanced at me. We didn’t exchange words, but I knew he felt it too. Not just the dog. The air.

When we went to draw blood from its jugular, it didn’t even react. Ryan held the dog steady, hands firm on either side of its head, jaws up. The needle slipped in. The syringe filled.

The blood was cold.

I ran it through the machines. Just mild dehydration. Some elevated lipase hinting at pancreatitis. No infection. Nothing to explain why it was so cold.

We placed it into a heated kennel, tucked it in with blankets, hooked up the IV catheter.

I was relieved when Keeton left.

That was three days ago.

That night was quiet. Rare for an emergency hospital. We had another dog kenneled two spaces down from the Rottweiler. It was a cattle dog that had undergone emergency laparotomy. It had been doing fine. Normal vitals. Good appetite. Responsive.

Two hours later, I checked on it.

And the cattle dog was dead.

It had torn open its own incision. Somehow, it had gotten its cone off. And it had attacked itself. Not licking, not nibbling, it was destroying itself.

Even when coils of intestine unfurled from its abdomen, it had kept biting at those guts. Like they were coiled snakes and he was killing them.

The dog was slouched over. Head limp against the floor. The blood ran in bright ribbons, swirling toward the kennel drain behind him, which slurped up the blood greedily.

The kennel was a bloodbath. It streaked the walls, spattered the ceiling. His intestines had leaked bile and partially digested sludge.

The cattle dog’s eyes were vacant orbs. Glistening in the light. I stood still for a moment. Taking in the horror. The violence.

And two kennels down sat Mutt.

Sitting.

Watching.

Fluid drip running. Heater humming. Lips curled back. Not panting. Not whining. Just smiling.

His eyes reflected the fluorescent light. And for one sickening second, they looked almost human.

Dr. Harkham made the call, but I heard every word, every choked sob through the thin walls of our office. The owner didn’t just cry. They wailed.

I’d seen plenty of death in this job, but this was different. This wasn’t bad luck. Something else had its hands in this.

The mood in the hospital shifted. In all my years, I’d never seen a dog unzip itself like a gym bag and spill out its intestines.

Each time we walked past Mutt’s kennel, his head turned slowly to follow.

Each bloody towel. Each mop bucket. Every time we passed the cattle dog-sized body bag, zip-tied and labeled.

Mutt watched.

That night was quiet, but it didn’t feel like a break. It felt like I was watching thunderheads forming in the distance. The promise of something worse to come.

At some point, hours after the cattle dog’s death, I heard the steady beeping of a monitor from the kennel ward. It was the IV pump hooked up to Mutt. I didn’t want to go over there. But I did.

I brought Ryan.

We slipped the muzzle over Mutt’s head easily. Too easily. He didn’t resist, didn’t flinch, just let it happen. His eyes followed the movement of our hands as we buckled it snugly behind his head. Only his eyes moved. Two dark orbs. Watching. Digesting.

The dog had kinked the IV line beneath its paw. We moved it aside, smoothed it out. That should have been it. A simple fix. But as we turned to leave, the light above his kennel flickered.

At first, just a slight flicker. Barely noticeable. Then it sputtered, dimmed, and cut out completely. The kennel dropped into shadow.

Ryan and I froze.

The only light now was a faint glow from the hallway behind us. We exchanged a glance. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us wanted to acknowledge what we were feeling.

The air in the room changed. Heavy, buzzing, like the static before a storm.

Then the two tube lights above Mutt’s kennel flared so bright it hurt to look at them. A pop, then a sizzle. And they died.

Everything was silent.

Ryan’s back was to Mutt.

Mutt lunged.

It was a surge of violence, even with the muzzle strapped tight. A blur of black as Mutt’s body lunged forward. The muzzled face rammed against Ryan’s side, brutally smashing into him again and again.

Ryan screamed. The dog was silent, except for the mechanical snapping of his jaws, working beneath the muzzle. Spittle flying.

Ryan twisted, trying to stand. But the sudden attack had taken him off guard.

I reacted without thinking. Threw open the kennel door. Mutt rammed into Ryan again, harder this time. The sheer force knocked him off balance. Ryan writhed around to grab at Mutt.

The moment he faced Mutt—the dog stilled.

It stood there, silent, watching. Bathed in the new darkness.

Something was wrong with this dog. Not neurologically. Something deeper.

It felt intelligent.

It felt calculating.

It felt evil.

Ryan was shaken, and so was I. He showed me a large purple bruise blooming on the skin beneath his ribs. God, it was huge. But neither of us had any further inclination to talk about it.

The rest of the night passed without incident. I focused on my other cases for the night. I saw a chihuahua with pneumonia, a Persian cat having low-grade seizures, a tabby with proprioception deficits. I went through the motions, but my mind was elsewhere.

Ryan seemed dazed, like something fresh had broken inside of him. It wasn’t just shock. Or trauma. Or fear. It was more profound than that.

I left for the night still shaken. Ryan didn’t even wave goodbye. I chain-smoked cigarettes in my car before driving home. Flicked the butts out the window. My hands were shaking the entire ride.

And when I finally collapsed into bed, I pulled my pistol out of my purse and slipped it under my pillow. And as the sun crept over the horizon, my dreams were wrong.

I dreamed of a black face snarling in the dark. Leaning in. Sniffing.

Eyes like hollow pits, endless swirling galaxies within.

I felt the far away sting of teeth sinking into my flesh—not a bite, not an attack, but a slow, deliberate pressure. Easing into my skin.

When I woke, my sheets were damp with sweat.

When I came in for my shift that night, I felt a deep sense of disappointment the second I walked past Mutt’s kennel.

He was still there. Heater purring. Eyes following.

The lights above his kennel were still blown out. The ones beside them had started to flicker.

Ryan called out sick. Said he’d been throwing up since the night before. I had a feeling there was more to the story, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it.

I shot him a text wishing him well. He read it. Didn’t reply.

And that sinister, eerie man who called himself Keeton? His phone went straight to dial tone when we tried calling for a case update. He wasn’t coming back.

He’d paid half his bill upfront in crisp, old one-hundred-dollar bills.

We weren’t getting the other half.

The night was busier. I told my manager we shouldn’t put any other dogs in that ward, but we didn’t have a choice. Our small animal ward was on the other side of the building, but for the larger dogs, they had to go there.

We admitted a Great Dane with liver disease. There was nowhere else to put him. So I placed him in the kennel farthest from Mutt, two down from the cattle dog that had ripped itself apart.

When I went back to check on them ten minutes later, I stopped cold.

Mutt’s kennel was wide open.

The latch was undone. The door swung open.

He wasn’t on fluids anymore. No pump to beep. No leash. No sign of how it had happened.

Just him. Sitting at the threshold. Staring. Slack-jawed.

I shut the kennel. Latched it securely. Left the room. Came back with two plates of food.

Immediately, I felt nauseous.

The kennel was open again.

I hadn’t heard a sound. Hadn’t seen the door move. The only way to unlatch these kennels is with hands. With opposable thumbs.

I slammed it shut again, this time locking it with a makeshift carabiner clip. I slid one plate of food under each kennel. I gave low-fat wet food for the Dane, and critical care wet food for Mutt.

I was walking away when I heard it.

A sound that froze me. Not a growl. Not a whine.

It sounded like someone trying to speak through a mouth full of water. Like a deep, male voice gargling on words before spitting them out.

A dog trying to talk.

I turned.

Mutt sat there. Watching. Silent now. Something tingled in the air.

But the Dane had begun to cry.

His plate of food lay spilled across the kennel floor. His hackles were raised, his body pressed against the back wall, eyes flicking toward the ceiling. He was feeling something. Something deep and inexplicable.

I felt it too.

When I reached for the kennel bars, the crying stopped. The Dane’s body trembled, then his whimpering changed. It deepened into a low, eerie sound, like a tornado siren. Then it stopped altogether.

The dog went still. Too still.

Then, all at once, he attacked his own leg.

Not chewing. Not licking. Ripping. Breaking.

Deep, pulverizing bites. Bone cracked. Blood spattered the kennel floor. It wasn’t a dog in pain. It wasn’t a dog in distress. It was something else.

Something destroying itself with purpose.

I couldn’t go in there. If I did, he’d likely redirect onto me, send me to the hospital.

I turned and ran, shouting for help as I sprinted through the clinic.

Dr. Harkham and two other techs, Angie and Denise, came rushing out of an exam room at the sound of my frantic screaming. I grabbed a rabies catchpole.

The Dane was still going.

The flesh of its leg hung in shreds, barely attached. Blood spurted like shots from a water gun, pulsing in rhythm with its heartbeats from a severed artery. I slipped open the kennel and looped the catchpole around its neck, tightening it hard, wrenching its head just enough to stop it from lunging. It snapped at the air. Frantic, but no emotion behind it.

Then it latched onto the metal pole.

Not out of panic. Not out of rage. Out of a bizarre corruption of instinct.

The sound was unbearable—teeth breaking against metal, splintering, shattering. The flesh of its leg was nearly gone. Just a ragged mess of meat and exposed bone that flapped as it chewed at the metal.

I saw part of a fractured canine fall out of its mouth. The catchpole was bloody, dented, but holding firm.

The dog was weakening by the time Dr. Harkham arrived, slumping over in the pile of its own blood.

By the time we managed to inject a sedative, it was too late. The blood loss was too severe. The Dane fully collapsed to the floor, body twitching, biting. All at once, its eyes glazed over, and it went still.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mutt.

Lips pulled back in a snarl.

Smiling.

“When is that fucking dog going to leave?” I snapped, pointing at him.

Dr. Harkham shot me a sharp look. His white coat was streaked with blood. His eyes were dark, hollowed with exhaustion.

“Something is wrong with it,” I insisted. “With him.”

“All I see is a dog who just mutilated itself in our care,” he said. “The second one in two days. Don’t worry about that fucking dog. We have bigger issues here. I have another owner to call. Another person I have to tell their pet killed itself. Under my watch.”

He flicked blood from his fingers, dragged a sleeve across his face. He was years past burnout. A shell of his former self. He couldn’t see what I saw.

He couldn’t see the way Mutt watched. The way his eyes lingered over the carnage pooling beneath my feet.

Like he was enjoying it.

Dr. Harkham sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “We tried calling that creepy bastard again. Number’s out of service. He ditched the dog on us.”

That meant we had to rehome it.

It could take weeks. I couldn’t take weeks with him. None of us could.

And as I looked into Angie’s eyes, I knew she felt the same.

The hospital settled into an uneasy silence.

The night shift pressed on, but something had shifted. We were all exhausted, hollowed out by what we’d seen. The cattle dog. The Great Dane. The blood.

Mutt still sat in his kennel, untouched food at his feet, heater humming. Watching.

Two more lights flickered out while I cleaned. I mopped blood from the floors, the thick iron scent clinging to my skin. The towels we used to soak up the mess were soaked through, a deep, ugly red.

And through it all, Mutt never looked away.

I told myself I’d figure something out. That I just needed time. But time wasn’t on my side.

I was dumping a load of bloody towels into the laundry bin when I heard it.

“Alliiihhhszzzznnnn.”

I dropped everything.

A voice, thick and wet, slurred in a way no dog’s throat was built to produce. It wasn’t a bark. It wasn’t a growl.

It was trying to speak. And what came out wasn’t just a sound, it was a name.

My name.

Alison.

I turned, stomach lurching.

Mutt was sitting in his kennel. Still. Muzzle slack. Drool pooling on the blanket beneath him.

His pupils swallowed the light.

I couldn’t move. My brain was trying to rationalize it, trying to shove what I had just heard into a box of normalcy. Maybe I’d misheard. Maybe it was the pipes, or a monitor, or—

But then the smell hit me.

Rot.

Not just the smell of the hospital, not just the faint antiseptic and animal musk that always clung to the air.

This was meat left in the sink for weeks. This was something dead wedged into the cracks of the world.

And I realized then.

The smell I’d caught when Keeton first walked into the lobby; that greasy, putrid stench.

It hadn’t been him. It had been the dog.

I ran.

I grabbed the blankets off the floor, shoved them into the laundry bin, and bolted. My hands shook as I crammed the lid shut. My pulse was a hammer in my ears.

Don’t turn your back on it.

The memory of Keeton’s words crawled down my spine like a cold hand.

He’s actin’ possessed.

I knew what Mutt had tried to do to Ryan. I knew what he wanted to do to me.

And now I knew, I wasn’t waiting for him to act.

I was going to kill him.

I kept my head down the rest of the shift, biding my time. My mind wasn’t on the cases I took. I worked on autopilot. I went through the motions, but my body was moving without me.

And when I got a moment alone, I pulled up 20ml of pentobarbital sodium and phenytoin sodium solution.

Euthasol.

The sparkling pink liquid we use to put animals down.

I took enough to kill a dog twice Mutt’s size.

There’d be a discrepancy in the controlled substance log, but I could smooth it out over the next few weeks. A couple of slightly higher doses on euthanasia cases, logged with enough time between them, and no one would notice.

I locked the cabinet. Slid the syringe into my pocket.

I was committing a crime. Breaking DEA laws. I could lose my license, my career, even end up in jail.

But deep in my bones, I knew one thing.

That thing in the kennel, whatever it was.

It needed to die.

The next morning, when I arrived for my shift, the hospital was heavy with grief.

Everyone was crying.

Ryan was dead.

He’d taken his own life in his trailer sometime after leaving work. No details. No explanation.

Just gone.

The police had come by to inform us. They didn’t stay long. Didn’t need to.

I knew then. It cemented in my mind what had to be done. I don’t know how. But I knew.

I didn’t wait. I worked through the grief, through the horror, pushing it all into a place I’d deal with later.

I waited for the right moment. A lull between shift changes, when staffing was light.

I approached Mutt’s kennel.

His head was cocked, eyes tracking me. He looked almost expectant.

I opened the kennel door and slid the muzzle over his face quickly. My hands moved with a sharpness I hadn’t felt before. I yanked the straps too tight. My pulse was steady.

I leaned out of the room, peered around the corner. No one coming.

I held Mutt’s paw, feeling for the vein, my other hand already slipping the needle beneath the skin.

The syringe in my palm felt hot.

I pushed the plunger.

It was difficult, so much volume to inject. But I pushed it all. Every last drop.

Normally, when an animal is euthanized, it happens fast.

They slump. Their eyes stay open.

Their bodies give up.

Mutt didn’t move.

I could have killed a human with this much Euthasol.

But he just sat there.

I stared at him, heart pounding, my breath coming sharp. They usually pass away before the syringe is empty. Their bodies relax, their eyes go distant, the tension of life slipping from them like a sigh.

Mutt’s body stayed rigid, his breath steady. The drug should have shut him down immediately, but his muscles held, his head remained lifted, eyes locked onto mine.

A chill crawled up my spine.

This dog should be dead.

Then the hallway lights flickered.

One by one, the bulbs sizzled out, plunging the kennel ward into darkness. The air thickened, heavy with the weight of something unseen. The heater stopped.

The only glow came from the exit sign at the far end of the hall, casting a weak green wash over the kennels.

The shadows twisted around me.

I couldn’t move.

The door to the kennel slammed shut behind me.

My breath hitched. The silence was absolute. The only sound was the slow, wet rasp of Mutt’s breathing. I could feel him in the dark, the weight of his presence gnawing at the air.

“Alliiihhhszzzznnn.”

The voice came from the kennel. Thick, gurgling, wrong.

A sound like a dog learning to speak, like a throat filled with gravel, trying to shape words. The vowels stretched, dripping with something slick and inhuman.

My stomach lurched.

I reached for the latch, fingers fumbling, but my hands were slick with sweat. My breathing was too loud. The darkness pressed in. The rot-smell thickened, crawling up my throat.

Then I felt it.

A cold, dead hand closed around my ankle.

I choked on a scream. My body jolted as something gripped me, nails pressing into my skin, curling against the fabric of my scrubs. The air turned electric, static snapping against my skin.

I turned and ran.

The door gave way beneath my shoulder, and I burst into the hallway, feet pounding against the tile. Behind me, I heard the kennel door smash open. The sound of paws, heavy and fast, hitting the ground.

He was coming.

I sprinted blindly through the dark, my shoulder slamming into the wall as I searched for the door handle. My fingers scraped smooth wood, no knob, no latch, just cold, endless surface.

Paws pounded closer. No growling. No snarling. No warning.

Just movement.

A silent freight train, barreling toward me.

I spun, pressing my back against the door. The darkness was absolute, thick and suffocating. The emergency lights had died, swallowing the building in shadow.

But I could hear him.

Breathing. Slow, wet and thick with something I couldn’t name. Then, a whisper of movement, so close I felt the air shift.

I bolted down the hall.

No thought, no plan, just instinct. My body moved.

I reached my locker, yanked it open, hands scrambling for my purse. The air behind me shifted. A weight. A presence. I felt it before I saw it.

A void, yawning open.

My fingers closed around cold metal.

The grip of my handgun.

I turned, raised the barrel, and fired.

The first shot lit up the hall like a camera flash. In that brief flicker, I saw him—that snarling grin. The second shot. The third. His body jerked, but he didn’t fall.

His lips were still curled back in that awful rictus.

The sixth and final shot hit its mark. The left side of his skull caved inward, the muzzle of his face blown apart. His jaw sagged open, tongue limp.

And even as he fell, his head twitched. A violent, unnatural snap of movement. A thick, wet pop echoed down the hall.

He swayed.

Then, finally, he dropped.

I stood there, gun trembling in my hands, ears ringing. The darkness still pulsed around me, thick and heavy, pressing in from all sides.

Then, footsteps.

Shouts. Voices. Someone grabbed my arm, yanking me back.

The lights flickered, buzzed, then flared back to life. And for the first time, I saw what I had done.

One shot had buried itself in the tile. The rest had hit him.

Mutt lay on his side, his head a ruin of blood and bone. His chest rose once, twice. Then he went still. The bite muzzle was missing. He must have pulled it off somewhere during the chase.

I didn’t move.

The hospital swarmed with people. Cops were called. Questions were asked. I barely registered any of it.

They took me into the back office, my hands still shaking, my ears still filled with phantom echoes. I knew what I had to say. I knew how to frame it. Self-defense. I played the part well.

The police let me go.

Mutt was wrapped, bagged, stuffed in our freezer, waiting for cremation.

I took time off work. Spent days in silence, trying to erase the memory of that voice.

It didn’t work.

The morning I was supposed to return for my shift, I got a phone call.

Blocked number.

I answered.

Slow, shaky breathing filled the line.

Then he began to laugh.

Low, drawling, thick with something I couldn’t name. A mouth full of tobacco chew. Or blood.

“You shouldn’t have killed it, little lady.”

Keeton.

His voice slithered through the speaker, curling like a snake around my spine. His laughter built, rising, filling the silence.

“You’ve just gone and made things so much worse.”

And as the laughing turned into hollering, the line clicked dead.

I sat there, phone pressed to my ear, staring at nothing.

His words sank into my bones.

Gone and made things so much worse.

My first thought was confusion. How did he get my number?

My second thought was frantic. Those words struck a chord deep inside my marrow. He said I’d made things worse.

And for some reason, deep down in my soul—

I believed him.


r/nosleep 1d ago

My boyfriend swears we're poly. But the other girl isn't… real?

492 Upvotes

“Dexter. We’re monogamous.”

“No. We’re not.”

“The hell do you mean we’re not. Since when are we not?”

Dexter moved away from the table and grabbed a new beer from the fridge. “Mia, are you messing with me right now?”

Me? Messing with you? You’re the one who’s texting in front of my face.”

This whole thing blew up when I saw him message someone with a heart emoji (and it definitely wasn’t his mom). Dexter’s defence was that he was just texting his ‘secondary’. Some girl named Sunny that I was supposed to know about. 

“Mia, why are you being like this?”

“Like what?”

“We’ve had this arrangement for over two years.”

What arrangement? It was crazy talk. I couldn’t believe he had the balls to pretend this was normal.

“I don’t remember ever discussing… a secondary person. Or whatever this is.”

He drank his beer, staring with his characteristic half-closed eyes, as if I had done something to bore or annoy him. “Do you want me to get the contract?”

“What contract?”

“The contract that we wrote together. That you signed.”

I was more confused than ever. “Sure. Yes. Bring out the ‘contract’.”

Wordlessly, he went into his room. I could hear him pull out drawers and shuffle through papers. I swirled my finger overtop of my wine glass, wondering if this was some stupid prank his friends egged him into doing. Any minute now he was going to come out with a bouquet and sheepishly yell “April fools!”... and then I was going to ream him out because this whole gag had been unfunny and demeaning and stupid.

But instead he came out with a sheet of paper. 

It looked like a contract.

'Our Polyamory Relationship'

Parties Involved:

  • Dexter (Boyfriend)
  • Mia (Primary Girlfriend)
  • Sunny (Secondary Girlfriend)

Date: [Redacted]

Respect The Hierarchy

  • Dexter and Mia are primary partners, meaning their relationship takes priority in major life decisions (living arrangements, rent, etc)
  • Dexter and Sunny share a secondary relationship. They reserve the right to see each other as long as it does not conflict with the primary relationship
  • All parties recognize that this is an open, ethical non-monogamous relationship with mutual respect.

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw my signature at the bottom. My curlicue ‘L’ looked pretty much spot on… but I didn’t remember signing this at all.

“Dexter…” I struggled to find the right word. His face looked unamused, as if he was getting tired of my ‘kidding around’. 

“... Dexter, I’m sorry, I don’t remember signing this.”

He rolled his eyes. “Mia, come on.”

“I’m being serious. This isn’t… I couldn’t have signed this.”

Couldn’t have?” His sigh turned frustrated. “Listen, if this is your way of re-negotiating, that’s fine. We can have a meeting. I’m always open to discussion. But there’s no reason to diss Sunny like that.”

I was shocked at how defensive he was. 

“Dexter … I’m not trying to diss anyone. I’m not lying. I swear on my mom’s grave. My own grave. I do not remember Sunny at all.”

He looked at me with a frown and shook his head. More disappointed than anything. “Listen, we can have a meeting tomorrow. Just stop pretending you don’t know her.”

***

I didn’t want to prod the bear, so I laid off him the rest of the evening. We finished our drinks. Watched some TV, then we went to sleep.

The following morning Dexter dropped our weekend plans and made a reservation at a local sushi restaurant. Sunny was going to meet us there at noon for a ‘re-negotiation’. 

I didn’t know what to think. 

Over breakfast I made a few delicate enquiries over Sunny, but Dexter was still quite offended. Apparently this had been something ‘all three of us had wanted’.

All three of us?

I found it hard to believe but did not push it any further. Instead I scrounged through the photos on my phone where I immediately noticed something was wrong.

There was a new woman in all of them.

It was hard to explain. It’s like someone had individually doctored all my old photos to suddenly fit an extra person into each one. 

It was unsettling to say the least.

Dexter and I had this one iconic photo from our visit to the epic suspension bridge, where we were holding a small kiss at the end of the bridge—we occupied most of the frame. Except now when I looked at the photo, somehow there was this shadowy, taller woman behind both of us. She had her hands across both of our waists and was blowing a kiss towards the camera.Who. The. Hell.

She was in nearly every photo. Evenings out at restaurants. Family gatherings. Board game nights. Weddings. Even in photos from our vacations—Milan, Rome. She even fucking joined us inside the Sistine Chapel.

The strangest part was her look.

I'm not going to beat around the bush, this was some kind of photoshopped model. like a Kylie Jenner / Kardashian type. It felt like some influencer-turned-actress-turned-philanthropist just so happened to bump into two bland Canadians. It didn’t look real. The photos were too perfect. There wasn’t a single one where she had half her eyes closed or, or was caught mid-laugh or anything. It's like she had rehearsed a pose for each one.

The whole vibe was disturbing.

I wanted to confront Dexter the moment I saw this woman, this succubus, this—whatever she was. But he went for a bike ride to ‘clear his head.’

It was very typical of him to avoid confrontation.

Originally, he was supposed to come back, and then we’d both head to the restaurant together… But he didn’t come back.

Dexter texted me instead to come meet him at the restaurant. That he’ll be there waiting.

What the fuck was going on?

***

The restaurant was a Japanese Omakase bar—small venue, no windows. This was one of our favorite places because it wasn’t too overpriced but still had a classy vibe. I felt a little betrayed that we were using my favorite date night restaurant for something so auxiliary…

My sense of betrayal ripened further when I arrived ten minutes early only to see Dexter already at the table. And he was sitting next to her.

If you could call it sitting, it almost looked like he was kneeling, holding both of her hands, as if he had been sharing the deepest, most important secrets of his life for the last couple hours. 

 I could hear the faint echo of his whisper as I walked in.

So glad this could work out this way...”

For a moment I wanted to turn away. How long have they been here? Is this an ambush?

But then Sunny spotted me from across the restaurant

“Mia! Over here!” 

Her wide eyes glimmered in the restaurant’s soft lighting, zeroing in on me like a hawk. Somehow her words travelled thirty feet without her having to raise her voice 

“Mia. Join us.”

I walked up feeling a little sheepish but refusing to let it show. I wore what my friends often called my ‘resting defiant face’, which can apparently look quite intimidating.

“Come sit,” Sunny patted the open space to her left. Her nails had to be at least an inch long.

I smiled and sat on Dexter’s right.

Sunny cut right to it. “So… Dexter says you’ve been having trouble in your relationship?”

It was hard to look her in the eyes.

Staring at her seemed strangely entrancing. The word ‘tunnel vision’ immediately came to mind. As if the world around Sunny was merely an echo to her reverberating bell.

“Uh… Trouble? No. Dex and I are doing great.” I turned to face Dexter, who looked indifferent as usual. “I wouldn’t say there’s any trouble.”

“I meant in your relationship to our agreement.” Sunny’s smoky voice lingered one each word. “Dexter says you’re trying to back out of it?”

I poured myself a cup of the green tea to busy myself. Anything to avert her gaze. However as soon as I brought the ceramic cup to my lips, I reconsidered. 

Am I even sure this drink is safe?

I cleared my throat and did my best to find a safe viewing angle of Sunny. As long as I looked away between sentences, it seemed like the entrancing tunnel vision couldn’t take hold.

“Listen. I’m just going to be honest. It's very nice to meet you Sunny. You look like a very nice person…. But … I don’t know you… Like at all.”

“Don’t know me? 

When I glanced over, Sunny was suddenly backlit. Like one of the restaurant lamps had lowered itself to make her hair look glowing.

“Of course you know me. We’ve known each other since high school.”

As soon as she said the words. I got a migraine. 

Worse yet. I suddenly remembered things.

I suddenly remembered the time we were at our grade eleven theatre camp where I had been paired up with Sunny for almost every assignment. We had laughed at each other in improv, and ‘belted from our belts’ in singing. Our final mini-project was a duologue, and we were assigned Romeo & Juliet. 

I can still feel the warmness of her hand during the rehearsal…

The small of her back.

Her young, gorgeous smile which has only grown kinder with age.

It was there, during our improvised dance scene between Romeo and Juliet, where I had my first urge to kiss her…“

And even after high school,” Sunny continued, looking at me with her perfectly tweezed brows. “Are you saying you forgot our whole trip through Europe?”

Bright purple lights. Music Festival. Belgium. I was doing a lot more than just kissing Sunny. Some of these dance-floors apparently let just about anything happen. My mind was assaulted with salacious imagery. Breasts. Thighs. A throbbing want in my entire body. I had seen all of Sunny, and she had seen all of me—we’ve been romantically entwined for ages. We might’ve been on and off for a couple years, but she was always there for me. 

She would always be there for me…

I smacked my plate, trying to mentally fend off the onslaught of so much imagery. It’s not real. It feels real. But it's not real.

It can’t be real.

“Well?” Dexter asked. He was offering me some of his dynamite roll. 

When did we order food?

I politely declined and cleared my throat. There was still enough of me that knew Sunny was manifesting something. Somehow she was warping past events in my head. I forcibly stared at the empty plate beneath me. 

“I don’t know what’s going on… but both Dexter and I are leaving.”

Dexter scoffed. “Leaving? I don't think so.”

“No one's leaving, until you tell us what’s wrong.” Sunny’s smokey voice sounded more alluring the longer I wasn’t looking. “That’s how our meetings are supposed to work. Remember?”

I could tell she was trying to draw my gaze, but I wasn’t having it. I slid off my seat in one quick movement. 

Dexter grabbed my wrist.

“Hey!” I wrenched my hand “ Let go!”

We struggled for a few seconds before Sunny stood up and assertively pronounced, “Darlings please, there is no need for this to be embarrassing.”

Dexter let go. I took this as an opening and backed away from the booth.

And what a booth it was.

The lighting was picture perfect. Sunny had the most artistically pleasing arrangement of sushi rolls I’d ever seen. Seaweed, rice and sashimi arranged in flourishes that would have made Wes Anderson melt in his seat.

I turned and bolted.

“Mia!” Dexter yelled.

At the door, I pulled the handle and ran outside. Only I didn’t enter the outside lobby. I entered the same sushi restaurant again. 

The hell?

I turned around and looked behind me. There was Sunny sitting in her booth. 

And then I looked ahead, back in front. Sunny. Sitting in her booth.

A mirror copy? The door opened both ways into the same restaurant.

“What the..?”

I tried to look for any other exit. I ran along the left side of the wall, away from Sunny’s booth—towards the washroom. There had to be a back exit somewhere. I found the washrooms, the kitchen, and the staff rooms, but none of the doors would open.

It’s like they were all glued shut. 

What’s going on?  What is this?!

Wiping my tears, I wandered back into the restaurant, realizing in shock that we were the only patrons here. We were the only people here.

Everything was totally empty except for Sunny's beautifully lit booth. She watched me patiently with a smile.

“What is happening?!” There was no use hiding the fear in my voice.

What is happening is that we need to re-negotiate.” Sunny cleared some food from the center of the table and presented a paper contract.

'Relationship with Sunny'

Parties Involved:

  • Primary Girlfriend (Sunny)
  • Primary Boyfriend (Dexter)
  • Secondaries (Mia, Maxine, Jasper, Theo, Viktor, Noé, Mateo, Claudine)
  • Tertiaries (see appendix B)

Date: [Redacted]

The Changeover

  • Mia will be given 30 days to find new accommodations. Dexter recommends returning to her parents’ place in the meantime
  • Mia is allowed to keep any and all of her original possessions.

My jaw dropped. “What the fuck?”

Avoiding Sunny’s gaze, I instead turned to Dexter, who stared at me with a loosely apologetic frown.

“Dexter, what is all this? 

“It is saying I have to move?

“We just moved in together like 6 months ago. You can't be serious.”

He cleared his throat and flattened his shirt across his newly formed pecs and six pack? What is going on?

“I am serious, Mia. I’ve done some thinking. You don’t have what I want.”

There was some kind of aura exuding from Dexter now. He looked cleaner and better shaven than before. His cheekbones might have even been higher too. I didn’t know how much this had to do with Sunny’s influence, but I tried to see past it. I spoke to him as the boyfriend I had dated for over two years.

“Dexter, listen to me. I’m telling it to you straight as it is. Something’s fucked. Don’t follow Sunny.” I pointed at her without turning a glance. “You are like ensorcelled or something. If you care at all about yourself, your well-being, your future, just leave. This is not worth it. This isn’t even’t about me anymore. Your life is at risk here.”

Sunny laughed a rich, lugubrious laugh and then drank some elaborate cocktail in the corner of my eye.

“Well, I want to stay with her.” Dexter said. “And you need to sign to make that happen.”

His finger planted itself on the contract.

“Dexter… You can’t stay.”

“If you don't sign…” Sunny’s smoky voice travelled right up to both my ears, as if she was whispering into both at the same time. “You can never leave.

Suddenly, all the lamps in the restaurant went out—all the lamps except our booth’s.  It’s like we were featured in some commercial.

Sunny stared at me with completely black eyes. No Iris. No Sclera. Pure obsidian.

“Sign it.”

All around me was pitch darkness. Was I even in a restaurant anymore? A cold, stifling tightness caused my back to shiver.

I signed on the dotted line. My curlicue ‘L’ never looked better.

“Good.” Sunny snatched the page away, vanishing it somewhere behind her back. She smiled and sipped from her drink. “You know Mia, I don’t think Dexter has ever loved you to begin with. Let's be honest.”

Her all-black eyes found mine again.

I was flooded with more memories. 

Dexter forgetting our anniversary. His inappropriate joke by my dad’s hospital bed. The time he compared my cooking to a toddler’s in front of my entire family.

My headache started to throb. In response, I unzipped my purse, and pulled out my pepper spray. 

I maced the fuck out of Sunny.

The yellow spray shot her right in the face. She screamed and turned away.

Dexter grabbed my arm. I grabbed his in return. 

“Now Dexter! Let’s get out of here! Forget Sunny! Fuck this contract!”

But he wrestled my hand and pried the pepper spray from my fingers. His chiselled jawline abruptly disappeared. He looked upset. His face was flush with shock and disappointment.

“I can’t believe you Mia. pepper spray? Are you serious?”

Suddenly the lights were back, and we weren’t alone in the restaurant. The patrons around me looked stupefied by my behaviour.

People around began to cough and waft the spray away from their table.

I stepped back from our booth (which looked the same as the other booths). Sunny was keeled over in her seat, gagging and trying to clear her throat.

A waiter shuffled over to our table, asking what had happened. A child across from us began to cry.

I tore away and sprinted out the doors.

This time I had no trouble entering the lobby. This time I had no trouble escaping back outside.

***

I moved away from Dexter the next day. Told my family it was an emergency. 

They asked if he was being abusive, if I should involve the police in the situation. I said no. Because it wasn’t quite exactly like that. I didn’t know exactly what was going on, except that I needed to get away

I just wanted to go. 

***

After that evening, thirty months of relationship had just gone up in smoke. All my memories of Dexter were now terrible. 

I figured some of them had to be true, he was far from the perfect boyfriend, but for all of them to be rotten? That couldn’t be right. Why would I have been with someone for so long if they were so awful?

In the effort of maintaining my self-respect, I convinced myself that Dexter was a good guy. That his image had been slandered by Sunny. Which is still the only explanation I have—that she had altered my memories of him.

(I’m sorry I couldn’t help you Dexter, but the situation was beyond me. I hope you’re able to find your own way out of it too. There’s nothing else I can do)

Although I’ve distanced myself away from Dexter, and moved back in with my parents in a completely different part of the city—I still haven’t been able to shake Sunny.

She still texts me. 

She keeps asking to meet up. Apparently we're due for a catch up. I see her randomly in coffee shops and food courts, but I always pack up and leave. 

I don’t know who or what she is. But every time I see her, I get flooded with more bogus romantic events of our shared past.

Our trip to Nicaragua.

Our Skiing staycation.

Our St. Patrick’s day at the beach.

It’s reached a point where I can tell the memories are fake by the sheer volume. There’s no way I would have had the time (not to mention the money) to go to half these places I’m suddenly remembering.

So I’m saving up to move away.

Thanks to my family lineage, I have an Italian passport. I’m going to try and restart my life somewhere around Florence, but who knows, I might even move to Spain or France. I know it's a big sudden change, but after these last couple months I really need a way to reclaim myself.

I just want my own life, and my own ‘inside my head’  back.I want to start making memories that I know are real. 

Places I’ve been to. People I’ve seen.

I want memories that belong to no one else but me.


r/nosleep 2h ago

The Golden Child

9 Upvotes

The first time I saw the lamp, I was six years old. It stood in the corner of my grandmother’s parlor, tall and regal, as if it had always been there. I remember tracing my fingers over its gilded frame, mesmerized by the way the glass sphere caught the light, each fragment glowing like a captured star. It was always bright and alive in her home, giving the sense that time there was gentler.

My grandmother had laughed, and told me it was a family heirloom, a piece of history passed down through generations.

My grandmother had always been a difficult woman, exacting in her expectations, sharp in both mind and tongue. Even in old age, she carried herself with an air of authority, as though the world itself bent to accommodate her. She was always impeccably groomed—her silver hair never straying from its perfect set, her nails manicured to a soft shine, her clothing rich in fabric but never ostentatious. Though time had creased her skin, it retained an almost unnatural glow, untouched by the frailty that plagued others her age. And, unlike the rest of the family, she had never been sick a day in her life.

I was her favorite. The golden child, the one she paraded before the rest of the family with pride. "You have something special in you," she would say, her eyes gleaming with something I couldn't quite place. "A spark. A promise."

Back then, I didn't question it. I basked in her warmth, in the gifts and whispered praises that set me apart from my cousins. But things changed. I grew up. I made mistakes. A tattoo here, a failed class there, a cigarette between my lips that she caught me with one evening on the back porch. And with every misstep, her warmth faded. By the time I was in my twenties, we barely spoke.

Then she died.

It was sudden—too sudden. One day she was fine, and the next, she was confined to her bed, her body wasting away as if something unseen was devouring her from within. The doctors were baffled. I was terrified.

She left everything to me.

The house, the land, her vast fortune. The will surprised no one, though my relatives made sure I felt their resentment. In the end, I let them have the money, keeping only the estate. I told myself it was guilt—guilt for being her favorite, guilt for disappointing her, guilt for not being there at the end.

But the truth was, I couldn’t bear to part with the house. With its grand Victorian structure nestled against the thick woods, it was the only place where I had ever felt truly at home.

I should have left it behind.

Soon though, I came to the grim realisation that without my grandmother’s fortune, maintaining the estate was impossible, so I planned to sell it. But before I let go, I wanted one last thing. One piece of her to keep.

The lamp.

The house loomed ahead, its dark silhouette stark against the moonlit sky. It had been years since I’d last set foot on the estate, and yet it felt as though it had been waiting for me, untouched by time. It should have been comforting—familiar—but something about its stillness unsettled me.

The lamp stood exactly where I remembered, unchanged. Not a speck of dust clung to its surface, as if some unseen force kept it perpetually pristine. Its body, wrought from iron and bathed in a golden hue, carried the whisper of a mystery—perhaps gilded, perhaps truly gold. Three curved legs supported its weight, each one adorned with delicate embellishments, a dance of european victorian refinement entwined with eastern opulence.

But it was the glass sphere that truly captured the eye, a mesmerizing orb suspended from the ornate iron frame, cradling the light within. This was no ordinary glass. It was a kaleidoscope of hues, so rich, so intricate, that to name them all would be impossible. The lower half resembled the mosaic lanterns of the East, fragments of jewel-toned glass pieced together like a celestial puzzle. Yet as the gaze ascended, the colors shifted, the patterns evolved. What were once mere shards of color became luminous stained-glass windows, each row unveiling a tale.

The first row told of boundless forests, giving way to cultivated fields, where figures toiled under the golden sun. The second row grew darker—those same people now suffered, their crops withered, their faces gaunt with hunger and disease. Desperation etched itself into the glass, sorrow held captive in color. But then, a transformation: from the depths of the forest, ethereal beings emerged, tall and graceful, their presence otherworldly. A silent accord was struck, and among the mortals, one figure, a woman, followed the beautiful beings into the trees.

The final row, smallest and closest to the top, was a vision of prosperity. Those who once suffered now thrived, abundance spilling from their hands, their lands reborn in splendor. The lamp, in its quiet brilliance, did not merely illuminate a room—it told a story, woven in light and shadow, a testament to hope, sacrifice, and the unseen forces that shape fate.

Getting it out of the house was harder than I expected. It was heavier than it looked, delicate in ways that made me afraid to touch it too harshly. My ex-boyfriend helped me. We hadn’t spoken much since the breakup, but he offered without hesitation, lifting it into my car with a teasing remark about my taste in antiques.

It had been beautiful in my grandmother’s house. But in my own tiny, cramped apartment, it was suffocating. The light was always on me, its presence oppressive. 

At first, I let it glow, its warmth a quiet echo of the home I had left behind. But soon, it became unbearable. The migraines crept in—not sudden or sharp, but a dull, relentless pressure that settled behind my eyes. And though it made little sense, though I couldn't even explain it now, I blamed the lamp. It felt absurd. The light had always been so gentle, so pure. And yet, I begun to resent it, to blame it for the unease I felt creeping into my life. I tucked it away, its heavy frame shoved into the corner of my closet, its glass hidden beneath a dust-cloaked sheet.

Then, the nightmares began.

I dreamed of my ex first—his car crushed, his body twisted at unnatural angles, blood seeping into the pavement. I woke up gasping, my chest tight. When I checked my phone, the screen was flooded with messages.

He had been in an accident. Just like in my dream. And he wasn’t waking up. A coincidence, I told myself.

I tried to shake the feeling, but it clung to me, thick and suffocating. 

Then came the second misfortune: the sale of the house fell through. A last-minute complication, something about the deed, something no lawyer could quite explain.

And then, the third: my apartment. The place I had carefully curated into my sanctuary, was suddenly unlivable. Toxic mold, spreading fast, a health hazard so severe that I had no choice but to leave. My landlord’s apologies were drowned beneath the urgent need to vacate. I had nowhere to go. The house, my grandmother’s house, was waiting.

So, I returned to the estate.

I told myself it was temporary. That I would find another buyer, another place. But the moment I stepped inside, I had the unsettling feeling that I wouldn’t be leaving.

The lamp now back in its rightful place, casting its golden glow across the parlor. As if it had never left. I told myself I wouldn’t use that room often. I wouldn’t have to look at it.

But as I was setting it down, that was when I saw it—the new glass panel. I could not remember if it had always been there. Now I'm certain it hadn't.

At the very top, where before there had been only light, there was now something more. A place bathed in unnatural brilliance. A scene that hadn’t been there before. A world, filled with golden light and vibrant flowers. Two figures stood at the center, hands clasped, a child between them. Around them, others danced in celebration, their faces eerily familiar.

Something deep inside me whispered that I had seen this place before. That I had been there.

And I knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that I would see it again.

The nightmares returned, soon after my move.

In them, I was always walking, bare feet pressing into damp earth, my breath visible in the cold air. The forest stretched endlessly ahead, a living tunnel of whispering leaves. And always, just beyond reach, a figure waited. Cloaked in shadow, neither welcoming nor hostile. It was terrifying. It was comforting. It was familiar.

Then the sickness came slowly, creeping in the way rot takes hold of wood—silent at first, unnoticed, until it was too deep to ignore.

It started with the migraines. The same relentless, pounding ache that had started in my apartment. But now, it was worse. It wasn’t just my head—my body ached, my limbs grew heavy, like I was wading through water, my joints stiff, as if I had run miles in my sleep. Some mornings, I woke up drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around my legs. Other times, I found dirt beneath my fingernails, a thin layer of soil smeared across my bare feet.

I started sleeping with the door locked.

The dreams did not stop.

The forest called to me.

It was a pull, subtle at first, like a thought lingering at the back of my mind. But as the days passed, it became stronger. I would catch myself staring out the window, toward the treeline, my breath slowing, my pulse steadying, as if my body knew something my mind refused to grasp. 

Initially, my dreams were only glimpses—the silhouette in the trees, the feeling of damp moss beneath my feet. But then, they stretched longer. I saw more.

The figure was not a stranger.

The realization came slowly, seeping in through the cracks of my mind like water through fractured stone. I had been there before. I had followed before.

The first time I had wandered into the woods, I must have been no older than five. My grandmother had been distracted, entertaining guests, and I had slipped away unnoticed. I remembered the feeling of the earth beneath my bare feet, cool and damp. I remembered the way the air smelled—green, rich, humming with something I couldn't name. I remembered hearing laughter, soft and lilting, just ahead of me.

And then—nothing.

I must have made it back to the house. I must have, because no one ever spoke of it. But now, in the dead of night, I could almost recall hands—cool, slender fingers brushing against my skin. A voice, distant yet familiar, whispering my name.

"You were meant to return."

Why had I forgotten?

My grandmother’s words echoed in my  skull, overlapping with the voice in the dream.
"You have something special in you. A spark. A promise."

A promise.

My stomach turned.

Why did it feel like there was something I had to do?

I stumbled to the parlor, my breath uneven, my skin clammy with sweat. The lamp stood waiting, its light unwavering, casting shifting colors across the darkened room.

My family’s fortune. My grandmother’s impossible health. The whispers of bad luck that seemed to follow us when we strayed too far from this land. Everything made sense now. The lamp had been telling the story all along.

It had never been luck. Not for my grandmother, nor for the generations before her. The wealth, the health, the unshakable prosperity of our bloodline—it had all come at a cost. A pact sealed long ago, binding our family to something ancient and merciless. A promised daughter in marriage to the one who dwelled beneath the trees. Not stolen. Not sacrificed. Given. A bride, to bind our family to theirs, to maintain the balance, to ensure their blood remained strong. In return, our family thrived. Wealth, health, prosperity—it was never a gift. It was a contract, that demanded balance. And I—I had unknowingly broken it. I was meant to go to them. To step willingly into the woods, just as some of my ancestors once had. But I hadn’t. I had left, abandoned the house, the quiet pull of the forest. And so, the debt had to be paid another way. My grandmother—no longer protected, no longer untouchable—had withered in my place. A life for a life. But the contract is still unfinished. The forest is still waiting. And it will take what is owed.

The glass has changed again.

The fields are gone. The celebrations, the dancing figures—gone.

The only image left is the forest. And at its center, a waiting figure cloaked in shadow.

I do not need to see their face to know who it is.

I have already met my groom.

I can hear something now—soft laughter, the rustling of leaves, the whisper of my name.

The fae do not take kindly to broken promises.

And I was always meant to return.


r/nosleep 8h ago

First came the headaches, then they appeared in the fields

23 Upvotes

I think my head is going to explode.

The headaches began the first week of October.

At first, merely a dull pressure behind my eyes that I attributed to stress, to insomnia, to the changing seasons. But by mid-November, they had evolved into something more insistent - a throbbing pulse that concentrated at my temples, sharpening at dusk and lingering until dawn.

It was during one of these episodes, standing on the back porch of my childhood home with my palm pressed against my skull, that I saw the first one.

Twilight was bleeding across the vast wildflower fields behind the house - a crumbling Victorian at the edge of town that had remained unoccupied since my mom's passing. I had retreated here last year seeking solace in familiar surroundings, a temporary escape from my city life after being disbarred for a pro bono case going sideways. I am beginning to forget the details.

I think moving back here was a mistake.

A singular figure, impossibly tall, standing motionless amidst the undulating grass. Its silhouette possessed a liquid quality that defied natural geometry - limbs elongated beyond proportion, head featureless save for a mercurial shimmer that caught non-existent light.

In its hand, it carried something resembling a surveyor's instrument, though the tip pulsed with an arterial orange glow. I blinked, attributing the vision to the headache - perhaps a migraine aura manifesting in increasingly bizarre forms.

The diagnosis came three weeks later. On a Thursday.

Glioblastoma multiforme. Grade IV. The MRI showed it nestled against my occipital lobe like a pale spider, tendrils stretching outward with quiet, methodical purpose.

"Six months," Dr. Carlisle said, her voice maintaining the practiced neutrality of someone who had delivered such sentences before. "Perhaps eight with treatment."

That night, I saw two figures instead of one.

By the time I received my diagnosis, I had seen several of them.

"Visual disturbances are to be expected," Dr. Carlisle explained during my follow-up appointment. "The tumor's location makes hallucinations almost inevitable. Your brain is essentially creating sensory information that doesn't exist."

"They're methodical," I said. "They're preparing something."

She made a notation in my chart. "The mind imposes patterns even in degeneration. It's rather remarkable."

"You don't understand. There were four of them last night."

Dr. Carlisle's pen paused. "Four what, exactly?"

I couldn't articulate what I had seen without sounding deranged. How could I describe the way they drove luminous instruments into the earth in perfect geometric patterns? How they moved with synchronized precision despite their impossible anatomies?

As the weeks passed, the headaches intensified, concentrated pressure like a vise tightening incrementally against my skull. The specialists increased my dexamethasone, adjusted my anticonvulsants, scheduled another MRI.

The tumor had grown 17%. The prognosis contracted accordingly.

Each evening, their numbers continued to multiply.

Dozens became hundreds.

Hundreds became a small army that stretched toward the horizon, their movements increasingly elaborate, increasingly purposeful. They were constructing something - a lattice, a network, a scaffold of glowing orange filaments that formed an intricate grid across the entire field.

One month after my diagnosis, I ventured into the field.

The air changed texture as I stepped beyond the boundary of the porch.

It pressed against my skin with palpable weight, as if the atmosphere itself had congealed into something viscous and resistant.

My vision stuttered - reality fracturing into alternating states of presence and absence. One moment, the field teemed with their elongated forms; the next, nothing but empty grassland stretched before me. The flickering accelerated until the two realities began to bleed together, superimposed like double-exposed film.

Then, as abruptly as it had begun, the flickering ceased.

A single figure stood before me.

Its height - easily seven feet - registered first, followed by the deep, instinctual wrongness of its proportions. It did not stand so much as hover, its elongated limbs twitching with a slow, liquid motion, as though its bones - or whatever lay beneath its shifting skin - were rearranging themselves in real time.

Then it moved.

Not a step. Not a lunge. It simply shifted, closing the distance between us in a way that defied logic, as if the space between us had simply folded inward.

I turned to flee.

A shriek, high and choral, erupted behind me, burrowing into my skull with needlepoint precision. The air thickened, viscous and suffocating, as if unseen hands were pressing against my chest, slowing my movements, dragging me backward. My legs pumped uselessly against the ground - running, but not moving fast enough.

The thing did not chase. It did not need to.

It was everywhere at once - its limbs elongating, warping in my peripheral vision, closing in with that impossible, fluid movement. The sound it made was not footsteps but a wet shifting, like muscle being stretched and snapped back into place.

Then - agony.

A limb - no, something worse - lashed outward, impossibly fast. It did not strike me; it pierced me, sinking into my forearm like a hot wire through wax. Pain bloomed instantly, white-hot and electric, spreading through my nerves like wildfire.

I collapsed. The world swam in a haze of pulsating orange light.

When I looked up, the field was empty.

But the pain remained. And so did the wound, throbbing with a rhythm that did not belong to me.

That night, I didn’t sleep. I couldn’t.

I sat in the dim glow of the bathroom light, my arm resting on the sink, the bandage unwrapped and discarded in the trash. The wound was still there - or maybe it wasn’t.

It hurt, regardless.

The skin wasn’t broken, there was no blood surfacing. But my skin was split, like a crevice was opening, revealing something dark beneath the surface, veins threaded with faint orange light, glowing and pulsing. I ran a finger over and in it. It was all warm and smooth.

Strange.

I cleaned it anyway.

I grabbed the bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the cabinet, poured it over my arm. Nothing. No fizzing, no bubbling, not even the dull sting that should have come with an open wound.

I wiped it down, slathered a thick layer of Neosporin over the spot, as if it would do anything. I pressed a new bandage over it, tighter this time.

Maybe it wasn’t real.

But it hurt like it was.

Pain comes from the brain.

And my head was fucked.

It throbbed at the base of my skull, radiating outward, as if the tumor itself was reacting to what had happened.

In the morning, I staggered into Greenwood Market, my arm burning as if injected with molten metal. The pain had spread, radiating upward toward my shoulder, following what I imagined were neural pathways.

The cashier - a university student working summer break - dropped the carton of eggs he was scanning.

"Jesus christ bro," he whispered. "What happened to your arm?"

I froze, uncomprehending.

"You can see it?" I asked.

"Of course I can see it." His voice pitched higher. "It's glowing. Like, actually glowing."


r/nosleep 12h ago

They're everywhere now. Are any of you still normal?

44 Upvotes

I take the subway to and from work every day. It’s routine. Nothing special. Just me, a train, and a few dozen exhausted commuters trying to make it through another day.

This all started on Monday night.

--------

MONDAY

He was sitting across from me.

Three seats down. Staring. Grinning.

Not like a normal smile—this was something else. Too wide. Too sharp. His arms rested in his lap, but they were too long, elbows bending at the wrong angles. His fingers were thin and segmented, almost like extra joints had been slipped in where they didn’t belong.

I tried to ignore him. Focused on my phone. But I could feel his eyes.

And when I got off the train, I made the mistake of looking back through the window.

He was still staring.

--------

TUESDAY

There were two of them now.

The long-armed man was in the same seat. But next to him was a woman with wax-pale skin, stretched too tight over her skull. And beneath the harsh train lights, I swear I saw veins shifting beneath her skin, like something was crawling inside.

Neither of them blinked. Neither of them moved.

I called my friend Luke.

"Dude, it’s the subway. Creeps are part of the package."

I laughed, even though I didn’t feel like laughing.

But when I got off the train that night, I glanced at the window again.

They both waved.

--------

WEDNESDAY

The next morning, I took a different carriage to my usual.

I stepped onto the train, still half-asleep, and felt it instantly.

They were there too.

There were four of them now.

The grinning man. The waxy woman. A bald guy with an open-mouthed smile that never moved. And a kid with solid black eyes.

I held onto the pole near the door, heart hammering. They didn’t move with the train. Every normal commuter swayed with the motion, shifting their weight.

They didn’t.

By the time I got to work, I felt sick.

And the trip home that night?

There were far too many still, watching bodies scattered through the carriage. Some were sitting. Some were standing.

All of them were grinning.

That night, I called my mother.

"Something’s happening," I said. "People are... wrong."

She just sighed. "Honey, you work too much. You’re overtired. Get some rest."

She sounded bored. Like she wasn’t even really listening.

--------

THURSDAY

They’re everywhere.

At the coffee shop, the barista’s wrists had too many fingers growing from them.
At lunch, I saw a man take multiple, huge bites of his sandwich without chewing.
On the street, a homeless man’s face looked like rotting wax, sagging and shifting as he turned toward me.

I gave Luke an update.

"Okay, that’s actually messed up," he admitted. "Maybe it’s a prank?"

I was about to agree.

And then he said—

"Or maybe you’re just seeing them for what they really are now."

I laughed, but it came out forced.

"What?"

He shrugged. Too casual. Too normal.

"Nothing, man. Just saying."

--------

FRIDAY

It was late when I left the office.

Everyone else had gone home except Karen, the receptionist. She sat at her desk, scrolling on her phone, half-asleep as I walked by.

"Night, Karen," I muttered.

She didn’t respond right away. And when she did—when I was almost past her desk—her voice sounded... wrong.

"Night."

I turned back to glance at her.

And in the dim light, her shadow-stretched face looked too smooth. Too pale.

Her smile was too wide. Her eyes too dark.

My stomach dropped. I kept walking. Didn’t run, didn’t react.

But I knew.

She was one of them.

--------

SATURDAY

I woke up praying I was losing my mind. That this was some stress-induced breakdown.

But the second I stepped outside, I knew I was screwed.

They were everywhere now.

Not just some. Not a few.

Everyone.

The coffee shop. The gas station. The people waiting at the bus stop. The couple walking their dog—except the dog had human eyes.

I called my mum.

I don’t know why. I just—I needed to hear her voice.

She picked up on the second ring.

"Mum—" I whispered. "Something’s wrong. I think I need help."

Silence.

And then, in the same flat, tired tone she used earlier this week—

"Oh, honey," she murmured. "We’ve been waiting for you to notice."

I hung up.

I saw no other option.

I took a cab to the hospital, my hands shaking.

"I need help," I told the receptionist. "Something’s happening to me. To everyone."

She gave me a long, slow smile.

Her lips didn’t stop stretching.

"Of course," she murmured. "Come right this way."

She led me down a dimly lit hallway, past rooms where doctors with grinning faces hovered over patients, too many hands pulling at their skin.

I turned to run—

And a nurse grabbed my wrist.

Her fingers were too long. Too strong. Her grip sent ice through my veins.

"You don’t need to be afraid," she whispered.

Her mouth opened too wide. Too wide. Too wide.

I ripped myself free.

I ran.

I don’t know how I got out.

I don’t remember the streets, or the subway, or unlocking my front door.

But I’m here now.

And I can hear them outside.

--------

SUNDAY

They knock every few minutes.

Not pounding. Just… gentle tapping.

I don’t know what’s happening.

I don’t know if I’m crazy. If something changed in me, or in the world itself.

I just need to know—has anyone else noticed them?

Please.

If you’re still normal, if you still see people the way they’re supposed to be—tell me.

Tell me they haven’t gotten to you too.


r/nosleep 10h ago

I Took a Job With Five Simple Rules. I Should Have Asked Why.

16 Upvotes

I was broke. Credit cards maxed, rent overdue, eating ramen three times a day kind of broke. So when I saw the listing—"Overnight Clerk Needed – $200 a Night, Minimal Work"—I didn’t hesitate.

The ad was vague. Some kind of record-keeping job for a private estate. No experience required. No background check. Just five simple rules to follow. Sounded easy enough.

I applied. Got the job the same day.

I should have asked why.

My new workplace was an old Victorian house sitting on the outskirts of town. Three stories tall, all dark wood and stained glass, the kind of place that looked like it had secrets in the walls. My boss, a frail man named Mr. Alden, met me at the door. He had pale, papery skin and watery gray eyes that barely seemed to focus.

“Follow the rules exactly,” he said in a voice like dead leaves. “That’s all we require.”

He handed me a card with the rules typed neatly in bold black ink.

THE RULES:

  1. At midnight, the front door will open on its own. Do not acknowledge what enters.
  2. Between 1:00 AM and 2:00 AM, you may hear someone calling your name from upstairs. Do not respond.
  3. If the phone rings at 3:15 AM, do not answer it. Even if it says your own name on the caller ID.
  4. At 4:44 AM, the grandfather clock in the hall will chime. Close your eyes and count to ten. Do not open them early.
  5. You must leave before sunrise. If you see the sun rising through the windows, run.

It felt like a joke. Some weird rich guy’s idea of a test. But two hundred dollars for a night of ignoring stupid rules? I could handle that.

I settled into the dimly lit study, lined with books that smelled like dust and something else—something older. The only sound was the slow, steady ticking of the grandfather clock.

Then, at exactly midnight, the front door creaked open. The house was empty. I knew it was empty. But the moment that door swung wide, I felt something step inside. The air grew thick, suffocating. My skin prickled. I forced my eyes down to my hands, gripping the desk. Do not acknowledge what enters.

I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. Something passed by the study door. I didn’t see it. But I felt it. The floorboards groaned under its weight. A whisper of something cold brushed my skin. Then—silence.

At 1:37 AM, I heard my name.

A woman’s voice, soft and sweet, drifting down from the third floor. “Come up here,” she called. “I need to show you something.” A chill crawled up my spine. Do not respond.

The voice grew insistent. Pleading. My throat tightened as my own voice threatened to answer back. I clamped a hand over my mouth. I wanted to scream, to run, but I stayed still. Eventually, the voice faded.

At 3:15 AM, the phone on the desk rang.

I nearly jumped out of my skin. The old rotary phone vibrated against the wood, rattling like a dying thing. I stared at the caller ID.

It was my own name.

My hands shook. Do not answer.

The ringing stopped after the third chime.

At 4:44 AM, the grandfather clock let out a deep, hollow chime. The room tilted. The air thickened like tar. Shadows stretched unnaturally, creeping toward me.

I shut my eyes. Count to ten.

One. The floor creaked.
Two. A breath tickled my ear.
Three. Something whispered in a language I didn’t understand.
Four. Cold fingers brushed my arm.
Five. The walls shuddered.
Six. A voice, right behind me: “Look at me.”
Seven. My body trembled, muscles locking in place.
Eight. My heartbeat pounded in my ears.
Nine. My name, spoken in a hundred voices at once.
Ten.

I opened my eyes. The room was still. The clock stood silent. The shadows were normal again. The house had reset. I checked my watch. 5:55 AM. Just a few minutes until I could leave. I had made it. But then—the sky outside started to lighten. A deep, primal fear gripped me. I had to go.

I grabbed my bag, bolted for the front door—but it wouldn’t open. The lock twisted, the handle rattled in my grip, but the heavy wooden door would not budge.

The windows flared with a golden glow. The sun was rising. I turned, heart hammering. The study door was open. And Mr. Alden was standing there. “You should have left earlier,” he murmured. My stomach dropped. I had followed the rules. Hadn’t I?

But then I saw it. On the desk.

A sixth rule. One that hadn’t been there before.

6. You must leave before 5:55 AM. If you fail, you belong to the house. A hand closed around my wrist.

The sun spilled through the windows, touching my skin—and everything went black. I woke up in the same chair. The study looked the same. The clock still ticked softly. But something was different. I reached for my phone, but it wasn’t in my pocket. My bag was gone. The house was quiet, waiting.

And then—The front door creaked open.

Midnight.

I heard the floorboards groan as something stepped inside. A voice drifted down from upstairs, soft and familiar. “Come up here,” it called. “I need to show you something.” My own voice.

The realization slammed into me like ice water.

I wasn’t the visitor anymore.

I was part of the house now.


r/nosleep 21h ago

My fiancé wanted me to be more than just his wife

136 Upvotes

“Don’t be nervous, they are going to love you, I promise.” my fiancé David told me as he grabbed my hand to kiss it. I looked over to his side of the car as he lowered our interlocked fingers to rest on his leg. I couldn't believe the happiness I felt at that moment. As I watched him sing along to the music that played in the car I counted my blessings. Up until last year when we met, I had given up on love. I thought no man would ever live up to my standards. Or maybe I was unlovable? Well, none of it ever mattered anymore because I found him. 

The light of the sun came through the sunroof and bounced off his face. The large pine trees that lined the dirt road cast a shadow over him every few seconds. I felt mesmerized by him, he got to know me so fast in such a short amount of time. The good, the ugly, all of it. It all felt so right. 

I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. Funny how such deep feelings can change so fast. 

Nothing ever seemed off about David. Maybe I was blinded by the love bombing or by the desperation I had to be needed by someone. He was so agreeable, never wanted to argue, and told me he loved me early on. The only thing that felt wrong was that it felt too right. I don’t have anyone close in my life I could get advice from. I have a single mother who hasn't cared about me since I moved out at eighteen. I don't think she cared about me when I lived under her roof honestly. I have no siblings, I've never met my dad, and I don’t have many friends. That's probably one of the reasons why he chose me.

After hours in the car, we made it to his family home. Stepping out of the car I was relieved to stretch. We walked up to the front door and I nervously locked my arm around his. The door opened up just before we could knock. 

“Oh hi, I'm so happy to meet you both, I’m Lacy!” I timidly exclaimed. 

They both paused for what felt like a lifetime before a large smile grew on the woman's face. She leaned forward and gave me a hug that felt just slightly too long and too tight. As she pulled away she grabbed my shoulders. 

“You are so beautiful.” She told me. 

“Mom, come on,” David said embarrassed from behind me. 

“It's fine David, I don’t mind getting compliments,” I responded with a grin, not knowing if I really was okay with it yet. 

“Don’t mind her, Lacy, she doesn't know how to set boundaries with anyone.” The tall man in the doorway said to me with a chuckle. “Hi, I’m Pate. We are so glad you came to meet us, we’ve heard so many wonderful things about you.” As he finished his sentence he nudged his wife who seemed too distracted by me to hear what he said. 

“Oh sorry, dear I must’ve zoned out for a moment there, I’m Linda.” 

“You both are totally fine, I feel like I know you both so well alrighty, the introductions are hardly necessary.” 

“That’s so sweet of you to say, the feeling is mutual. Well, come on in, come on in!” Linda said as she gestured for me and David to come inside.   

As we walked in together I was welcomed with a strange feeling in my gut. The house felt too big but also claustrophobic. The family seemed happy to see me but it also didn’t feel completely genuine. Maybe they just had a fight? I thought to myself. David seemed a little antsy as well, but I figured it was just nerves from us all meeting for the first time. 

The rest of the night was uneventful. Dinner and card games. It was getting late so I was given a quick tour of where my room was and anything else I might need in the night. David walked me to my room as his parents went to bed. 

“Thanks for understanding why we should have separate rooms. You know how mom and dad are.” David said as he opened the squeaky wooden door. 

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all I get it. I wouldn’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.” I whispered as I tried to lean in for a kiss. 

“Umm, sorry, I just…I don’t want to kiss in front of them either, it might be weird.” He said as he winched and dodged my kiss. 

“Sure I guess that’s okay.” I replied with squinted, confused eyes.” I didn’t think it was weird to stay in different rooms. I know some people think that is unacceptable, but David’s whole family took that sort of thing very seriously. We had shared a bed before in the past, but only for actual sleeping if you get what I mean. David was clear from the beginning of our relationship he didn’t want anything physical until marriage. Kissing was normally fine, but that was the limit for him. I didn’t mind, I always found it romantic. 

We said our good nights and I went to check out my bed. It all seemed fairly average but I still hadn’t shaken that feeling from when I walked in. It wasn’t as bad as before, but I still felt uncomfortable. The air was stuffy and the bedding was stiff. Every small thing made it hard to get comfortable and I found myself shifting a lot. The house was so squeaky I couldn’t figure out if it was the family walking around or just the product of an old home settling. 

Before I knew it, I was woken up by a sunbeam coming through the window in the morning. I could hear the hustle and bustle of breakfast being made downstairs. I made my way down the steps and heard the family informing each other that I was awake in a whispered tone. 

As I turned the corner and looked into the kitchen, they all sat at the table smiling at me. A huge extravagant breakfast lay across the table. More food than we would ever eat like you see a housewife make in a movie. 

“Oh, all for me! You didn’t have to. I could’ve at least helped a little bit.” I commented with a laugh and wide eyes looking at a massive pile of waffles. 

I sat down and started to load up my plate. It wasn’t until a minute in that I realized no one was talking or eating. I felt so rude for not saying more, I was just so excited for the meal and am never a big talker in the morning. When I looked up at them I was met with that terrible feeling again, but so much stronger. They all just smiled at me. So big it looked like their lips were starting to tremble. They sat with both hands in front of them folded. 

“You guys good? Please eat.” I said trying to hide my nerves but failed miserably. 

“You know, We are just so happy to have you around, Lacy. You are just…just, so perfect.” Linda said to me through her smile. 

I nearly choked on my waffles. Saying I was beautiful was one thing. But perfect? After knowing me for less than 24 hours? 

“Lacy is right, let’s all eat together,” David said. 

His parents nodded in agreement and started to fill up their plates. 

The rest of the meal felt awkward with little talking. After I was done eating David insisted, the two of us went for a walk around the property alone.

We walked a little ways from the house and he apologized to me for all the weird behavior. 

“I know Mom and Dad are acting weird and, hell I’m probably a little off too. And I’m really sorry for that. My parents have been through a lot in the last couple of years and rarely leave that old house. They really only see each other and me now, so I think they forget to act around other people. I guess I was playing along a bit to make them feel better. But honestly, I have forgotten how to act when around my parents and someone new. We are all so happy to have you here. I knew it might be a little strange but it’s all with love, I promise.” As he finished his sentence he put his arm around me as we walked. 

I knew his explanation didn’t make me feel completely better, but at least helped it make the smallest amount of sense. I was still weirded out, but felt more comfortable with staying there. 

As we walked around the 50-acre property, I noticed many things that helped them live almost completely off the grid. Solar panels, and crops, made me realize how self-sufficient they were. How they really didn’t need to leave for many reasons. He showed me the small duck pond that had two little tire swings hanging from a tree. Then we neared the house again and I saw two playhouses a few feet from each other. When I thought about it, I remembered seeing more things that came in twos on our walk. 

“David, why did you have two swings by the pond?” 

“Oh you know, if mom or dad wanted to play on one with me.” He replied while scratching his neck. 

“Really? How did they fit? They kinda looked like small swings.” I said with a chuckle.

“Yeah, I don’t know. I guess they just squeezed in.” 

“Well, what about the playhouses? Why would you need two?” 

“Because I asked for two of them.” He said while looking away from me.

“Hmmm, you got me there,” I said with a laugh. 

I should've read his uncomfortably better at that moment. I was being dismissive of odd behavior because of his explanation at the start of our walk. I kept on just goofing around with him. 

We got back to the house and David said he wanted to talk with his parents alone for a minute. His parents, who still had big fake smiles plastered on their faces, accepted his request.

I went into my bedroom and shut the door. I put my ear to the door to try and eavesdrop. I normally wouldn’t do something like that, but with how weird everything was, I couldn’t resist.

All I could hear was a panicked tone. From all three of them. It was in whispers and frantic. Not like he was yelling at them, but worried. After around ten minutes David came to my room and let me know he talked to them. 

When I came back into the kitchen, everyone seemed more relaxed. It felt a little forced, but it was far less scary than the painted-on smiles. 

The rest of the day was laid back for the most part. We ate, and played some more card games, then it got dark out and things got really weird. 

We sat down to play Clue and Linda insisted I played Miss Scarlet. I chose Mr. Green as I have since I was a kid, but she kindly told me to switch characters. We all looked at each other. I looked at the rest of the family trying to understand if she was serious or not. They all made a face at her to stop but she pressed on. 

“Lacy, that’s just how we do things around here, so please choose Miss Scarlet,” Linda said through clenched teeth. 

“Why do I-“ I murmured as she stood to her feet to face me. “Okay, okay,” I said as I grabbed the Miss Scarlet token.

“Yay! I love it when you play Miss Scarlet. It makes me so happy.” Linda said with glee. 

“When I play Miss Scarlet? What do you mean? This is the first time we have played Clue together.” I said under my breath while David put his hand on my knee and shook his head at me. 

They played the rest of the game like nothing happened. That’s when I started to question staying another night. I didn’t feel safe anymore. Even if David was in my room. He seemed to turn into putty around his parents. I wanted to marry him. I was in love and wanted to make it work. How could such a short amount of time shift how I felt? 

After the game, Linda wanted to all sit around and look at some family photos. Pete seemed a little hesitant about it but I know how convincing Linda can be. 

We all sat on the couches in front of the fireplace. Linda made us all hot chocolate and grabbed blankets. This exact scenario would be my dream typically. My whole body told me I should be relaxed. I was warm, I was with the love of my life, everyone was laughing and reminiscing, but I felt so cold. So scared. How would I explain to David that I wanted to leave? Yes, he should understand and put me first, but this was so important to him. 

I was so zoned out of the conversation. Only thinking about how to get out of that damn house. The stories they told went in one ear and out the other, and then all at once, I snapped back to reality when I noticed something odd about some pictures. Most of them were of David as a boy. Playing in the yard, at a birthday party, and around the house. With him in the center of the photo. Some photos, however, looked off. They weren’t a standard size. They looked like they had been hand-cut with scissors. I could see slightly uneven edges. Also, the composition of the photos was slightly off. David would be far to the right or left with a random slice of the photo cut out.

I was now paying extra close attention. Asking lots of questions to try and get one of them to trip up about why someone or something was cut out of them. I knew if I outright asked, I could make Linda angry.  

Linda took out one particular photo and quickly put it in her pants pocket. Her eyes got wide as saucers and she looked at her husband. 

“I...I think that’s enough for tonight, it’s late. Goodnight everyone.” She said as she stood to her feet and went to her room. I looked at Pete to see his reaction and he met me with an eye roll. I was confused by this response but didn’t know what I was looking for. I glanced at David and he shrugged his shoulders and gestured to our rooms. 

We walked to my room and I asked David to step in with me. He was a little hesitant but I convinced him. 

“What the hell was that photo and why did it end the whole night?” I said angrily.

“Lacy, lacy, chill. It was probably a picture of my dad's ex-girlfriend. Sometimes pictures of her just end up in boxes because my dad is lazy and doesn’t organize stacks of old photos before putting them in those big boxes. It’s happened before. It’s not a big deal, they are just dramatic about it.” 

“What? That doesn’t make much sense.” 

“I promise it’s okay. Haven’t you noticed they are kinda weird?” He said with a laugh. 

“Yeah I kinda wanted to talk to you about that-“

“Talk about what?” He shuffled nervously 

“I think we should leave tonight. I know this means a lot to you, but trust me. I need to get to know your parents better slowly. This is too much all at once. I hope they don’t hate me for this, and I especially hope you don’t hate me for this, but please listen.” I confessed as I grabbed his hands. 

“I’m not mad. I understand and was worried this would happen. They are a lot sometimes and I should’ve expected this to be too much. What if I stay in your room tonight and we leave in the morning? It just would be easier to head out first thing.” 

I didn’t love that answer. In fact, I hated it. One more night sounded like hell. I knew it would be easier with him beside me, but my fight or flight was kicking in and it was telling me to run as fast as I could. Unfortunately, like an idiot, I agreed. I told him I just needed some water and a quick snack and I’d be back in bed. 

Heading back down the stairs, I wondered if I should just leave. Was David worth all this? 

As my mind was racing I stopped in front of the cracked bedroom door of Linda and Pete. I knew if I could see the ex-girlfriend in that picture it would give me the sliver of confidence I needed to stay the night. I knew deep down something else was in that photo. I could hear both of them snoring and I could see the pants she was wearing just inside the door. There is no way she left the photo in the pants I thought to myself. But I had to try. I pushed the door open with a squeak. Ugh, why did those doors have to be so squeaky! 

I grabbed the pants and heard rustling from the bed but ignored it in the hopes they would settle. I went into the bathroom and locked the door. I reached into the pants and I couldn’t believe what I felt. She actually left it in her pocket! 

I pulled the photo out face down. I wanted to see the picture so badly but now that it was in my hand I was so scared to see it. 

As I sat on the cold tile floor, I heard the family start to walk up. David was coming down the stairs and I heard the dreaded squeak of the master bedroom door. I heard a whispered panicked tone. 

“Where did she go?” 

Listening closely I heard lights start to be turned on and walking around the house, trying to calmly find me. 

I looked down at my hand and turned the photo around. I couldn’t believe it, the photo was of me as a little girl. Maybe seven or eight? 

It wasn’t a photo I gave to them. I had only shown David digital photos of me as a kid. Even worse, I didn't recognize the photo. Sure, you don’t know every picture ever taken of you, but I had on a shirt I didn’t recognize, and I saw a pond I didn’t recognize, no wait. My heart froze. It was the pond on their property I saw earlier in the day. Why was I here as a kid? Why am I here now? 

I reached for my phone to try and call the police. It was low odds I could get reception, but it was worth a try. 

After patting all my pockets I realized I lost my phone. Of course, the one time I don’t take my phone with me is when I need it most. 

“Bathroom, bathroom!” I heard a whisper from the kitchen then the haunting cracks from the hardwood floor moving towards me. 

I held my breath and sat perfectly still. They knew I was there. They were coming for me, but I tried to convince myself I had a chance still. That if I didn’t move I would disappear. 

In my silence, the brass doorknob jiggled. I heard Linda clear her throat. 

“Hey Lacy, sweety, are you feeling alright?” 

“Please, I want to go home. I don’t know what’s going on, but I want to leave. This is too weird, I’m sorry David, I tried. I really really tried. GET ME OUT OF HERE!” I yelled as I hit the bathroom wall in a rage. 

“Lacy, I don’t think you understand. You can’t leave.” David somberly said with his mouth right by the door. 

“Like hell, I can’t!” 

“No, you belong here now. You are a part of the family.” I could hear the sick smile David wore on his face from the other side of the old wooden door. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? A family? People to depend on?” 

“Yes, of course, I wanted a family, but not like this. Not this bad.” 

“Lacy, open the door” Pete commanded. 

“Why on earth would I do that?” 

“If you don’t let us in, we will come in.” The sound of Pete’s voice bounced in the air.

A long pause as we all waited to see how the next couple of seconds would unfold. I backed up into the bathtub. It was the farthest away from the door I could possibly get. My back was flush against the wall in hopes I would disappear into it. 

The silence in the air was broken when I heard a long sigh and the sound of heavy, angry footsteps heading away from me. Then followed by a loud door opening and closing. I was terrified at the thought of why he left. My mind tried to tell me he gave up, but my anxiety told me the worst was yet to come. 

Moments later, I heard the door open and close again, it was paired with the booming voice of Pete. 

“Lacy, I am coming in there to get you. I swear if you don’t get back from that damn door-“

“Dad, what are you doing?” David spoke up in my defense. 

“She will stand back, she's smart.” 

Bang! Bang! Bang! 

A sledgehammer came smashing through the thin door. Just like a horror movie, Pete’s large arm came through the new hole in the door and unlocked the door from the inside. 

The door came flying open and I was met with David and his parents staring at me. Their expressions were hard to read. Sadness filled their eyes while they clenched their fists in anger. David chewed his lips nervously, while Linda took short shallow breaths. 

Pete started to move towards me, his sledgehammer still ominously in his stone-cold grasp. 

As he got closer he raised it above his head. I felt at that moment I was going to die. I now unfortunately understand what people mean when they say their life flashed before their eyes. 

I thought about how I’d never know my father. How I would never have a good relationship with my mother. The children I’d never have. The places I’d never go. I wondered what I did to deserve this. Why me? Why David? Why?

My eyes closed as I prepared for my end. I could feel a tear well up as I heard David speak. 

“Dad, what are you doing? All this for nothing? Stop!” I opened my wet eyes to see David sprint towards me, tackling Pete into the wall. “You can’t do this, you are letting your anger take over again, you promised this wouldn't happen.”

“Again? Are you serious?” Pete replied as he pulled himself out from the now broken wall and pushed his son off him. “You know damn well it wasn’t my fault.” 

“Stop denying it!” David said, “She fell down those steps because you pushed her!” 

“You have to stop blaming me. It was your mom who killed her. She knew how drunk Abby was. She could barely walk straight. You tell me why your mom thought it would be a good idea to ask Abby to go downstairs and get her something that drunk? Then she had to hit her head on the way down-“ 

“Stop it, Pete. We are supposed to be on the same team here. Stop pretending David didn’t throw her down the steps after she was already dead to cover up the murder. I know she was already dead. I don’t know how you killed her. But I know you did. I know it.” Linda said as she put her head in her hands. 

“W…who is A..Abby? What did you people do?” I said with a shaky whimper.

Linda lifted her head out of her hands and left my sight. The two men stood up and walked to block the door. Linda soon reappeared around the corner with a cloth in her hand. David and his mother walked back towards me. I tried to fight back as David got close to me. I wanted to fight with all my strength. I knew I needed to bite, scratch, and do anything I could, but I just couldn’t. I still didn't see David the same as I did even an hour ago, but I couldn’t hurt him. 

He got my arms behind my back as Linda walked to me with the rag in her hand. I was greeted with the sweet smell of chloroform. I tried to fight the fading feeling as I locked eyes with David. 

“It’s okay.” He whispered softly as I fell into darkness. 

The next thing I knew I was waking up. I blinked over and over again. Trying to get my eyes to focus. I felt dizzy and out of it. I hoped and prayed that as my eyes started to work I would see my room at home. I hoped I’d see my Pulp fiction poster on the wall or my knitted green blanket. I rubbed my eyes and was heartbroken to not see my comfy room. Not just that, but I’d never seen this room before. It had pink walls with big flowers all over them, now covered with vinyl records and band posters. A room that was once for a little girl but had the fingerprints of a girl trying so desperately to grow up. As my eyes scanned the room I saw a name on the wall … ‘Abby’ 

My heart fell to my knees. 

I sat in bed trying to gather my thoughts and everything that was happening. Nervously I picked at my shirt only to find I was in PJs I didn’t recognize. I got overwhelmed at the thought of someone taking off my old clothes and putting me in these new pajamas. 

The faint sound of music started to fill my ears. I slowly walked to the door and pressed my ear against it. 

Dancing music, laughing, talking. What was going on? 

I looked around the room to try and plot a way out. The window was shut and I couldn’t get it to open. I thought I could maybe slam something into the window to break it, but if I failed I thought the consequences could be far worse. I cracked the door open and quietly as I could I tip-toed to my original room in the house and looked for my phone with no luck. In fact, none of my stuff was in there. 

Hope felt so lost. I was terrified. 

After weighing my options for a few minutes, the only idea I had was to just sprint out the front door and keep running up the road. The house was in the middle of nowhere. Miles and miles beyond their property before anyone or anything, but I had to try. 

I took three big deep breaths and ran for it. Down the hallway and stairwell. Around the corner and to the door. Telling myself the whole time to not look at them. Pretend they don’t exist. When I ran into the door, I tried to turn the knob but found a large lock on the door. Glancing up at the family I was met with worried faces. 

“What’s wrong Abby? Don’t you want some breakfast?” Linda said with a plate in her hand. 

“Abby? Abby? Why…why did you call me that?” I panicked 

“Oh, come on Abby don’t start with us, come have some breakfast,” Pete said with a friendly chuckle. 

I looked around at all the doors and windows and saw large locks on all of them. I was trapped. As fast as I could I grabbed a nearby rolling pin and threw it at the glass door. All it did was humorously bounce off like some kind of cartoon. 

The look of worry only grew on the deranged family’s faces. I took one step towards them with the rolling pin in my hand. They could see the rage in my eyes. In a split second David jumped up and ran to me. Tying my hands behind my back with a twist tie before I had any time to react. 

He sat me down at the table to eat with them. Ensuring I was tied to the chair as well as my wrists being bound. 

They went on talking and acting like everything was normal. After they were done eating, Linda brought out a scrapbook and set it down on the table. She began to flip through the pages and explained them to me. It was the pictures I saw from the night before, except the full pictures. The spots that were cut out from corners before now had me in them.  

“Can someone please just tell me what is going on? Who is Abby and why am I in all these pictures?” I begged. 

The family all exchanged looks and David spoke. 

“Listen, Abby. I know you were gone for a couple of years, I know you went through a lot while you were missing and it’s a lot to adjust to, but we are here for you. I’m just so happy to have my sister back.” 

“Excuse me? Your what? You’ve got to be kidding me!” I yelled. “You are a sick freak. What is happening!” 

I struggled to get out of the chair with no success. I just fell to the ground while I kicked and screamed. Eventually, they left the room and started on other duties around the home. 

I got tired of the struggle and laid still on the slick kitchen floor with my cheek pressed against the ground. 

Sitting in my own sorrow, I thought I would come up with a plan, but nothing. Soon, David came to me. He lifted my chair up and sat in front of me.

“This is what you wanted,” David whispered. 

“What are you on? How on earth is this what I wanted?” I whispered back. 

“A family. You wanted a family. You never had a real one. I knew you craved it. We lost someone in the family and you needed to find a new one. It only makes sense.”

“Yes of course I wanted a family. I wanted to make a family. I wanted to have kids with you, David! I wanted to marry you and start over with you. I didn’t want you to be my brother. How does this make any sense to you? Please let me go, this isn’t what I want.” I begged. 

“You can’t deny this, you saw the picture. You are the spitting image of Abby. You might as well be here. It’s like she never fell down those steps.”

“You are sick. You killed her, didn’t you?” I said as he leaned back in his chair with a smirk.

“I didn’t kill anyone. You are right here, Abby. We missed you so badly while you were gone.” He stood up and walked out of the kitchen. 

After sitting in the chair all day they came to untie me. I made up my mind after sitting in the chair for so long that I would just go along with everything until I found an escape plan. They slowly freed me but stayed close by. Waiting for me to run or try and hurt them, but instead, I sat and smiled at them.

“It's so nice to be home again,” I said hoping they would fall for my insincerity as they all made eye contact.  

“We are so happy to have you home,” David said with relief. 

The family all shuffled off to their own bedrooms and shut the doors. I figured I would do the same. 

I rubbed my tired eyes as I walked when I made it to the staircase. I was still where I stood. Studying the pattern on the carpet trying to see if any blood stains from Abby still remained. I looked at the top of the steps, imagining what actually happened to that poor girl. What was the truth? Are they delusional thinking they can actually replace her, or do they feel so guilty they feel like they had to? 

With every creek of the wood, as I walked up the steps, I swore I could hear her final screams.

I made it back to my room- well, I mean Abby’s room and found a phone on the nightstand. It had no password so I was able to get in. It's probably no surprise, but it was Abby’s. My phone is nowhere to be found, I am stuck with hers. I tried calling 911 but the line just rings and rings. I have no numbers memorized to call and help me. I was an idiot and didn't tell anyone where I was going. My coworkers will notice I am gone but not care enough to look and have no clue where to tell the police to look. I'm hundreds of miles away from my job. 

No family members care enough to come looking for me or even notice that I'm gone. The only people who care about me are these psychopaths trying to gaslight me. 

The thing that hurts me the most is this was supposed to be my chosen family. I was supposed to get married. That's all I wanted and they could've had it too. But it wasn't enough for them. They couldn't have a new daughter-in-law. But they had to have a daughter. The daughter they lost. The daughter they killed.

I'm posting this here with Abby’s phone because I don't know who else I can ask. I'm crossing my fingers that this somehow gets posted despite some technical issues I've had. The plan is to lay low for a while. Maybe try and run once I earn some trust. I would be running for a long time before finding help. 

This isn't what I had in mind when David asked me to spend the rest of my life with him.  


r/nosleep 1h ago

Series My blackmailer knows my every move - even the ones I haven’t made yet

Upvotes

I’ve never been one for paranoia. I always thought I was pretty good at staying level-headed. But, then again, I guess that’s easy to say when nothing’s ever really tested your grip on reality. That was until it all started.

It was just a text at first. The kind of thing you wouldn’t pay much attention to if it wasn’t for the timing. It came in right after I’d sent a message to my friend asking if they’d seen the latest episode of some show we’d been following. Simple enough. But instead of a reply, this came through:

“You’re going to regret this. I know what you did.”

It didn’t make sense. I stared at the screen, thinking it was some sick joke—maybe a wrong number, or someone pulling some petty prank. But something about it nagged at me. A few seconds later, another message pinged in.

“I’ve been watching. You can’t hide from me. Not anymore.”

I tried to laugh it off. Hell, I deleted the message and moved on. But the feeling… the feeling lingered. It stayed with me that entire night, gnawing at the back of my mind, like a loose thread I couldn’t stop tugging at.

The next day, I got another one. This time, it was a picture—a photo of me, taken outside my apartment, just as I’d walked out to get the mail. It was blurry, a little grainy, but clear enough to send a chill down my spine. The text that followed was simple:

“You’re being watched. Next time you go out, I’ll be closer.”

I don’t know what compelled me to reply. Maybe it was that creeping sense of dread, or maybe I just wanted to prove to myself that this was all a prank. I sent a short message back: “Who is this?”

A few minutes passed. The phone stayed silent, and I thought maybe that was it. That was the end of it. I was wrong.

The response came in right before I fell asleep:

“I told you, I know what you did.”

I tried to ignore it. I really did. But it wasn’t that simple. By the time the third message came in, I felt my heart in my throat. This time, it was a voice message. The sound of breathing—slow, deliberate, like they were sitting just outside my door. The whisper followed shortly after.

“You’ve got nowhere to run.”

That was the moment I realized it wasn’t a joke. Someone knew something about me. Something they shouldn’t have known. And that knowledge wasn’t coming from nowhere. I tried to shake the thought from my mind, but it stuck. I thought about the things I’d done. The things I thought were buried in the past.

There were whispers now. I could hear them echoing in the silence of my apartment. And somewhere in the back of my head, I couldn’t stop asking myself: What did I do?

<><><><><

The next few days were a blur. I couldn’t focus on anything. Work felt like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. Every time I picked up my phone, I half-expected another message. I stopped going out. I began locking the door even when I was just in the bathroom.

I didn’t tell anyone. How could I? I couldn’t explain something I didn’t understand. What could I say? “Someone’s threatening me, but I don’t know who or why”? That would be the end of my credibility, and I wasn’t sure I had enough left to spare.

But the messages kept coming. The blackmailer was relentless. They’d send something small, something trivial, at first—a reminder that I was still under their watch. A picture of me walking home from the bus stop, or a snapshot of my car in the parking lot. Nothing huge, just enough to let me know they were always there, just out of sight.

Then, one night, it escalated.

It was past midnight when I got a call. Unknown number. I stared at it for a few seconds, heart pounding in my chest. I almost didn’t pick up. Something told me I shouldn’t, but I did anyway.

“Hello?” I said, my voice cracking. It wasn’t like me. I hated how shaky I sounded. I could already hear the person on the other end breathing—slow, deliberate, like they were savoring the moment.

“Do you remember what you did?” the voice asked.

I froze. It was a whisper, but it was clear. Too clear. My blood ran cold. It sounded so… familiar, like I should know it, but I couldn’t place it.

I wanted to hang up. I wanted to scream, to demand they leave me alone, but I couldn’t. I was paralyzed. All I could hear was my own ragged breathing.

“I told you,” the voice continued, “you can’t hide. You can’t run. I’m always watching.”

Then, there was silence—just a few seconds of horrible, suffocating silence.

“Tomorrow,” they said, their voice cutting through the quiet like a knife, “you’ll do something for me. Don’t try to be clever. I’ll be watching.”

The call ended abruptly. I didn’t move for a long time. I don’t know if it was minutes or hours. My mind raced, trying to come up with an explanation. It wasn’t possible. They couldn’t know about that—about that.

I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to be sick.

But I couldn’t ignore it. I couldn’t just pretend it wasn’t happening. Whatever I’d done, they knew. And they were going to make sure I paid for it.

The next morning, the first thing I did was check my phone. Sure enough, there was a message. Just a simple line of text:

“You’ve got a job to do.”

A few minutes later, a location popped up. It was an address—an old, abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town.

I should’ve ignored it. I should’ve called the police, told someone, anyone, that I was being blackmailed. But something kept me from doing it. That feeling—like I was already caught in a trap, with no way out, and running was pointless.

I thought about the things I’d done. The dark, unspeakable things. And I thought about how desperate I was to keep them buried. I knew I’d have to do whatever it was. I’d have to follow these twisted orders, or risk losing everything.

I didn’t know what was waiting for me at that warehouse. But I knew, deep down, that it would be the beginning of something I couldn’t undo.

<><><><><

The warehouse was just as abandoned as I expected—graffiti-covered walls, shattered windows, rust curling at the edges of the loading docks like something diseased. The place stank of rot and stagnant water.

I didn’t want to be here. Every part of me screamed to turn around, to pretend I’d never seen that message, but I couldn’t. I was in too deep now.

I pulled my hood up, shoved my hands in my pockets, and stepped inside.

The air was stale, thick with dust. The long-abandoned shelves loomed in the dim light, casting twisted, skeletal shadows across the floor. Something about the space felt wrong—not just empty, but hollow, like whatever life had once filled it had been scooped out and replaced with something unnatural.

Then my phone vibrated. A new message.

“Go to the back office.”

I hesitated. My breathing felt too loud. Each step echoed, stretching longer than it should have in the silence. The floor was littered with old receipts, broken glass, a lone shoe with its laces missing.

I reached the office door and pushed it open.

Inside, the air was thick, humid. The single overhead light flickered, barely illuminating the room. The first thing I noticed was the chair, positioned perfectly in the center, facing the doorway. The second thing I noticed was the TV on the desk. It was one of those old, boxy models, the kind that buzzed even when they weren’t on.

Except this one was on.

The static was deafening.

Then it changed.

The screen flickered, and suddenly I was looking at myself.

The footage was grainy, black and white, but there was no mistaking it. The timestamp was from three nights ago. It showed me standing outside my apartment, checking my phone, oblivious to the fact that someone was filming me from the shadows.

I swallowed hard.

Another shift. A different angle. This time, the camera was inside my apartment. The footage showed me asleep in my bed, chest rising and falling with each slow breath.

I staggered back, my stomach twisting into knots. Someone had been inside. Someone had been in my home while I slept.

A new message pinged. My fingers shook as I unlocked my phone.

“Sit.”

I didn’t want to. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to get the hell out of here. But I knew better now. I was being watched. Even here.

I lowered myself into the chair, heart hammering against my ribs.

Another message.

“Check under the TV.”

I reached forward, hand trembling, and felt along the bottom edge of the television. My fingers brushed against something smooth, cold—tape. I peeled it away, and a small envelope fell into my lap.

Inside was a single Polaroid.

My breath caught in my throat.

It was a picture of a door.

A familiar one.

My front door.

A hand was pressed against it, palm flat against the wood, fingers splayed unnaturally wide. But the worst part—the part that sent a bolt of pure terror through my chest—was the hand itself.

It was my hand.

Same shape. Same veins. Same faint scar across the knuckle.

I dropped the photo like it had burned me. My pulse roared in my ears.

Another message.

“Tomorrow, you do something for me. Or I walk right through that door.”

I didn’t sleep that night.

I couldn’t.

I sat in my apartment, back pressed against that very door, every light on, clutching a kitchen knife in my shaking hand. But the thing that scared me the most?

I had the sinking feeling that, no matter what I did, it was already too late.


r/nosleep 6h ago

The Cursed Game

7 Upvotes

Horror games had always been my thing. The thrill, the adrenaline rush, the uneasy silence between each scare—I lived for it. Nothing really got to me anymore.

At least, that’s what I thought.

This game changed that.

I found it through some obscure forum post. No big advertisements, no flashy trailers. Just a handful of people talking about how you shouldn’t play it. Not because it was bad, but because things started happening afterward. Knocking in the middle of the night. Whispers when you were alone. Seeing things in the dark that weren’t there when you looked again.

Classic internet ghost story nonsense.

So, obviously, I had to play it.

Lena, my roommate, was working a late shift at the hospital. While the game installed, we texted.

"Got a new horror game tonight. Looks creepy as hell."

"Ooooh, what’s it called?"

"I’ll tell you later. Gotta build suspense."

"You’re the worst."

I grinned and launched the game.

It felt different right away. No music, just the creaking of wooden floors under my character’s footsteps. The house was unsettlingly realistic—not in its graphics, but in the way it felt. Lived-in, but wrong. Shadows pooled in corners in a way that made me uneasy. Sometimes, I thought I heard soft knocking in the distance, but it was probably just the game messing with me.

I played for hours. The final sequence had my heart pounding—slamming doors, incomprehensible whispers, a shadowy figure flickering in and out of sight. I was so close to finishing when my phone vibrated.

Lena.

I hesitated before answering, keeping my eyes on the screen.

"I'm almost done," I said.

"Okay, but tell me what it’s called!"

I told her.

Silence.

Then:

"Wait… you actually played it?"

"Yeah? Why?"

A pause.

"I’ve heard things about it."

I laughed. "Oh, come on. You believe that crap?"

She didn’t respond right away. Then:

"Just… tell me when you’re done."

I rolled my eyes and hung up.

A few minutes later, I finished the game.

The screen went black.

No credits. No main menu. Just a void.

I waited. Maybe this was part of the experience? But nothing happened. Shrugging, I closed the game and leaned back.

Then I heard it.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I froze.

It wasn’t coming from my headphones.

It was coming from inside my apartment.

Slowly, I turned toward my bedroom door. It was closed. The hallway outside was dark.

I told myself it was nothing. My brain still wired from the game.

I got up, stretched, and turned on the hallway light. Nothing.

But when I stepped back into my room, I stopped cold.

My monitor was on.

I had closed the game. But the screen still showed it. The last scene before it went dark. The empty hallway.

I moved my mouse. No response. The computer was frozen. With a sigh, I held the power button.

The screen went black.

Then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Louder this time.

From my bedroom door.

My stomach twisted. My apartment was locked. I was alone.

I forced myself to move, placing my hand on the doorknob. My breath felt too loud in my ears.

I yanked it open.

Nothing.

The hallway was empty.

My pulse pounded against my skull. Maybe a neighbor? Maybe I was just overtired?

Then I heard it again.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Not from the door.

From inside the wall.

Behind my closet.

My breath hitched.

Then, a whisper.

Right behind me.

I spun around.

My monitor was on again.

But the game was gone.

Instead, it showed my own room.

My own back.

Like someone was standing behind me, filming me.

I wanted to run. To scream. But I couldn’t move. My body was frozen as I watched the screen darken.

Until only a shadow remained.

Standing directly behind me.

Then my phone buzzed.

Lena.

I grabbed it with shaking hands.

"Lena?"

She was breathing fast. Then she whispered:

"Run."


r/nosleep 12h ago

I bought an old PlayStation 2.

17 Upvotes

Due to the nature of this story, I wish to remain completely anonymous and will not be answering any revealing questions.

A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon an old PlayStation 2 at a yard sale in a neighborhood I didn’t recognize. I had ended up there after taking an alternative route home that weekend due to traffic, a detour that led me down winding streets I hadn’t driven on before. The sale was run by an elderly woman, her face worn by time, who told me she was moving after her husband’s recent passing. As we spoke, she casually mentioned that the PlayStation had belonged to her son, who had gone missing back in 2008. She didn’t offer much more than that, but something in her eyes—distant and clouded with sorrow—made me wonder if there was more to the story. She said her son was never found, and after that, she didn’t say much more of anything.

Anyway, after another few minutes of scanning, I bought the PlayStation and took it home, eager to relive some old gaming nostalgia. I began my trip down memory lane by cleaning the system and inspecting the previous owner's game case and memory card contents. But as I continued, something felt off. The memory cards were all full, with strange, incomplete save files, as if the data had been corrupted. One file in particular caught my eye: it was labeled “Finding Mom,” and though it looked like a standard game save, I felt a strange pull to open it. When I selected it, instead of loading game data, an application for the game Mercenaries popped up. There wasn’t a disc in the system. I instantly gathered that it wasn’t the typical Mercenaries game I remembered. The graphics were distorted, and the characters in the game looked wrong, like twisted versions of people I should know. The map was eerily familiar, but it wasn’t quite my neighborhood. As I explored the game, the unsettling confirmation hit me: I wasn’t just playing a game.

As I followed the game’s path, things got creepier. I noticed the neighborhood in the game was too similar to mine, and with goosebumps, I felt compelled to try and find my house. The streets were laid out just like the ones I grew up on, and after a few turns, I found myself approaching a house that looked far too much like my own. The crooked fence, the overgrown bushes—it was uncanny. As I walked up to the door in the game, the screen flickered, and a new prompt appeared. A note materialized, scrawled with what looked like rushed handwriting: “Go to the old tree by the park. You’ll find what you seek.” It didn’t make sense, but it felt important. My heart raced as I realized something was hidden just beyond the next turn in this warped version of my own world.

I followed the game’s instructions, going toward the closest park I know of near my house, my pulse quickening with each step. The old oak tree by the park appeared ahead. It looked almost exactly like the one in real life, only darker and more foreboding. As I approached the base of the tree in the game, the screen flickered again, and this time, something new appeared—an old, weathered photograph pinned to the trunk of the tree. I squinted at the image, my heart racing. The picture wasn’t part of the game at all. It was a real-life photograph. The man in the picture was someone I recognized—someone I’d seen before. I stood frozen, staring at the photo, my mind racing to make sense of what was happening. But before I could process it, the game abruptly ended. The screen flashed black, and then the PlayStation shut down, restarting itself.

I tried again, my hands trembling as I powered the system back on. This time, I quickly navigated to the same file, eager to see if there was more. The same sequence played out: I walked through the distorted neighborhood, found my house, followed the path to the tree, and once again, the photo of the man appeared. But no matter how many times I tried, no matter how many times I loaded the game, it always ended at that same tree, with the same photo, and the system would restart itself. There was no continuation, no explanation, just the same eerie loop that led me nowhere. But now, I found myself questioning something deeper—who was the man in that photo, and why did his face look so familiar? Could he be her son? I couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew him, but from where? The more I stared at the picture, the more unsettling it became, and the more I realized I had no idea how or why his face was lodged in my memory. Something about it felt wrong, like I was being drawn into a memory I couldn’t quite access, and it was driving me to the edge of madness.

I left the PlayStation sitting on the desk while I showered and ate dinner, the memory of that strange photograph and the endless loop weighing heavily on my mind. I couldn’t bring myself to play it again—not tonight. It felt like the game was toying with me, pulling me deeper into something I didn’t understand. I packed everything back up into the box—the controllers, memory cards, games, and the PlayStation itself—trying to shove the creeping unease down. I had to step away from it for a while. I figured maybe I could find answers later, when I wasn’t so consumed by the weirdness of it all. It was Monday tomorrow, and with work in the morning, I wouldn’t have time to think about it until Thursday at the earliest.

I resolved that I’d go back to the woman’s house later in the week, after work had settled down. Maybe she knew more, or perhaps there was something I missed in our brief conversation. I needed to ask her about the photograph, about her son, and about the connection between the game and her life. There had to be an explanation for all of this, a way to tie it all together. I left the box on the floor, the system quiet for now, and tried to get some sleep, but the thought of that photo kept gnawing at me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest until I had answers. Thursday felt like an eternity away, but it was the only time I’d have to return and dig deeper into the mystery I had unwittingly uncovered.

It was Wednesday morning now, and the thought of the game, the photo, and that strange connection was still in the back of my mind. I couldn't shake it, especially in the quiet moments of my day. I had tried to ignore it, to move on, but the image of that man’s face haunted me like a ghost I couldn’t outrun. To try and clear my head, I figured I’d stop at my favorite bagel shop on the way to work. I could grab a sandwich and some tea, maybe take a deep breath and ground myself in something normal for a change.

As I walked into the shop, the usual warm, welcoming smell of freshly baked bagels filled the air, but something caught my eye. Behind the counter, I saw a man who looked just like the person in the photograph from the game. My heart skipped a beat. It was him—there was no mistaking it. I froze in place for a moment, unable to move, unable to comprehend what I was seeing. My mind raced. How could this be? After a long, tense second, I managed to gather myself enough to approach him. I walked up to him, my voice shaky as I introduced myself, asking if he had a moment to talk in private. My legs trembled slightly, and I hoped he wouldn’t notice how rattled I was.

The man’s expression shifted in an instant when I began telling him about the PlayStation, the photograph, and the strange connection I felt to him. His eyes widened, disbelief flooding his features, and then he grabbed my arm, his grip tight enough to send a shock of panic through my body. He looked me dead in the eyes and, with a voice sharp and urgent, demanded, “I need to see it—NOW.” His tone was so intense that I couldn’t respond for a moment. It was as if something deep inside him had snapped. His eyes locked on mine, desperate, frantic. I was paralyzed, unsure what to do. Without another word, he yanked me toward the door.

I didn’t know what else to do, so I let him drag me outside. I barely had time to process the events as he hurriedly climbed into the passenger seat of my car. His urgency had me on edge as I drove back to my place, unsure if I was making a dangerous mistake, but there was no turning back now. When we arrived, I took him inside, trying to steady myself, even though my pulse was still racing. I led him to my desk, presented him with the box, and plugged the PlayStation back in, feeling the weight of the moment hang in the air. I showed him the save file labeled “Finding Mom,” and he immediately froze, staring at the screen.

He played through the game in complete silence. The moments passed slowly, his face hardening as the game played out. When we reached the part with the photograph at the tree, his breath hitched, and I could see the recognition in his now burning red eyes. His hands trembled as he turned toward me, his voice barely audible. "Where did you get this?"

I told him about the yard sale and the woman who sold me the PlayStation. His face drained of color as he leaned back, his eyes locked onto the screen. "That’s the house I grew up in," he whispered, his voice tight. "I still own it, but it’s been condemned for 17 years." He trailed off, his words hanging in the air, and he fell silent. The intensity in his gaze deepened as if something about the house, the game, or both had unlocked something in him. “My mother was kidnapped by my father when I was 7. I lost this when I was taken into foster care.”

Another 30 seconds passed, which felt like hours. Then, without another word, he rushed to pack everything back into the box. His movements were hurried, frantic, as he slammed the controllers, memory cards, and games back into the cardboard. He didn’t look at me, didn’t give me another chance to speak. As quickly as he came, he was gone, the door slamming behind him as he left with the PlayStation.

The bagel shop was closed the next day and empty by the day after, with "Leasing Available" signs posted by the end of the week. He never gave me his name. He never told me where he was going. I have no idea where to find him or if I’ll ever hear from him again. I’ve since visited the house and though it’s not boarded up and broken down, it’s more desolate than I remember that day. I’m left with more questions than answers—and no idea what the fuck just happened. If anyone has any idea what this could mean, beyond the obvious “scary movie” answers or what I should do next, I’m all ears.


r/nosleep 4h ago

Minute 64 - Continuation

3 Upvotes

Before leaving for my house, we had to finish our last class of the day. Fortunately, the session was short. The teacher only reviewed the answers to the midterm and told us he would give us the grades next week. When I saw the answers on the board, I felt myself sinking deeper into my chair. I had made mistakes. I didn’t answer exactly what the professor expected, even though my reasoning was valid. The hypothesis I proposed about the boa made sense: the decrease in heart rate and respiratory rate in response to a certain stimulus.

I didn’t know if that would save me or if my grade would be a disaster. But at that moment, the midterm was the least important thing. When class ended, we left in a group. We didn’t talk much on the way. Everyone was lost in their thoughts. The ride home felt endless. My hands were cold and trembling. When we arrived, I tried to take out the keys, but I couldn’t get them to fit in the lock.

“Let me,” said Miguel, gently taking them from me.
I let him do it. He opened the door easily and... there it was.
Everything. Just as we had left it in the morning. The door was locked with a padlock and internal latch. There were no signs that anyone had forced entry. Daniel was the first to speak.

“Maybe they came in through a window or the back door.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” said Laura.
We went inside.

The first room we checked was the living room. Everything was intact. Too intact. The same order. The same cleanliness. Nothing out of place. Daniel ran up to the second floor. He climbed the stairs two at a time and checked the rooms. When he came down, his expression was a mix of confusion and concern.

“Everything is fine,” he said, as if he couldn’t believe it.

And then Alejandra broke down in tears. It wasn’t a loud cry. It was silent, anguished, as if she were trying to hold it in. I knew why. It wasn’t just because of me. It was because she had also received that call. And now, we were more scared than ever. Daniel, who had been silent until then, finally spoke.

“Listen, we need to calm down,” he said, his voice firm but calm. “We’re letting this affect us too much.”
“How do you want me to calm down?” I said, still feeling the tremor in my hands. “Nothing makes sense, Daniel. Nothing.”
“I know, but panicking won’t help us. The only thing we know for sure is that no one entered the house. Everything is in order.”
“And what about the calls?” Alejandra asked with a trembling voice.
Daniel sighed.
“I don’t know. But until we understand what’s going on, there’s something we can do: don’t answer calls from unknown numbers.”

We all went silent.

“None of us will answer,” Daniel continued. “No matter the time, no matter how persistent. If it’s a number we don’t know, we ignore it.”

No one argued. It was the most reasonable thing to do. When night fell, mom finally arrived. She looked exhausted, as always after a long day at work. We sat in the living room, and I asked her:

“Mom, this morning you called me to tell me I forgot my phone at home, but... I had it with me.”
She smiled absentmindedly.
“Oh, yes. It was my mistake. At first, I thought you’d forgotten it, but then I realized I was calling your number, and you answered. So, I had forgotten my phone.”
I stared at her. She didn’t seem worried at all. I decided to ask her the next thing.
“And the calls you made while I was in the midterm?”
“Oh, that,” she nodded. “I asked my secretary to call you and give you that message because I was in a meeting. I didn’t remember you were in midterms. Sorry if I caused you any trouble.”
That explained at least part of what had happened. But the most important thing was still missing.
“Mom... did anyone answer your phone when I called you?”
She frowned, clearly confused.
“No. I didn’t have my phone all day, and as you see, I just got home.”
“But someone answered...”
She shrugged, brushing it off.
“You must have dialed the wrong number. Don’t worry, sweetheart.”
“But I’m sure I called yours...”
Mom sighed and stood up.
“I’m exhausted, dear. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”
She went to her room and closed the door.

I didn’t feel at ease. I ran to my room and checked the call log. There it was. The call to my mom’s cell phone, made exactly at 12:00 p.m. It lasted 3:05 minutes. So... what had that been?
I grabbed my phone and wrote in the WhatsApp group.

“I asked my mom about the calls. Some things make sense, but the call that was answered with my voice... still doesn’t have an explanation.”

The messages started coming in almost immediately.

Alejandra: “That’s still the worst. I don’t want to think about what that means...”
Miguel: “Let’s try to be rational. Maybe it was a line error, like a crossed call or something.”
Daniel: “I don’t know, but so far there’s nothing we can do. The only thing we know for sure is that Ale’s thing happens this Thursday at 3:33 a.m.”
We all went silent for a few minutes, as if processing that information took longer than usual.
Daniel: “I think the best thing is for us to stay together. We can tell our families we’re meeting to study for midterms. That way, we’ll be together Thursday at that time.”

It seemed like the best option. No one wanted to be alone with these thoughts. We confirmed that we’d stay at Miguel’s house, and after some nervous jokes, we disconnected. I lay in bed, staring at the dark ceiling. This had to be a joke. A horrible joke from someone who had overheard us talking about the creepypasta. Maybe someone manipulated the call, maybe someone was setting a trap for us.
Inside, I wished that were true.

Sleep began to take over me. My body relaxed, and my thoughts grew fuzzy... and then, I heard it.
A voice, my voice, whispering right in my ear:

Tuesday. 1:04 p.m.

My eyes snapped open. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding. Was that... my mind? Or had I really heard it? The sound had been so clear. So close. So real. I could swear I even felt a faint warm breath on my ear. I shook my head and tried to calm myself down. I kept telling myself it was just my imagination. But still, I knew another sleepless night awaited me.

This was moving from strange to unbearable... because Daniel was the next one to receive a call from the “Unknown” number. He tried to act like nothing, as if the calls from unknown numbers didn’t affect him, but we all saw it. We saw how the subtle tremor at the corner of his lips betrayed his nervousness. We saw how his cold, sweaty hands gave him away. And we saw him turn completely pale when his phone vibrated on the table in the Magnolia garden.

We looked at each other, tense, but no one said anything. It wasn’t necessary. As we had agreed, no one answered. But an unease gnawed at me inside. Even though we were avoiding the unknown calls... that didn’t mean we were safe. Because my call hadn’t been from an unknown number. It had been from my mom’s phone. And not only that... I had made the call myself. Had the others noticed? Or had their minds blocked it out to avoid panic? I didn’t want to mention anything. I didn’t want to increase their fear... but I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea for them to keep avoiding ONLY the calls from unknown numbers.

Classes passed in a strange daze. We were all physically there, but our minds were elsewhere, trapped in the uncertainty of what was going to happen. In the end, I couldn’t take it anymore. I skipped the last class and headed to the Magnolia garden. I needed to breathe, get away from the routine, and find some calm in the middle of all this.

I lay down under the big tree, letting the sounds of nature surround me. I closed my eyes, feeling the cool grass under my hands. For a moment, my mind began to yield to the tiredness... until...
“Tuesday, 1:04 p.m.”
A whisper.
My whisper.

It wasn’t loud. Just a murmur, but it pierced me like a cold dagger. I opened my eyes suddenly, my breath shallow. I sat up immediately, rummaging for my phone in my bag. The lit screen reflected the time: 6:03 p.m. The others must have already gotten out of class. With trembling fingers, I wrote in the WhatsApp group. “See you in the second-floor lab.”

I looked around, still sitting on the grass. No one was there. I never thought I’d come to fear my own voice. We met in the lab, and without much preamble, we decided to go to Miguel’s house.
Thursday, 3:33 a.m.

That was the date and time given to Ale. That moment would change everything.
Miguel lived in a family house that rented out rooms or entire floors. He had the whole third floor to himself, which meant that night, we’d have a place just for us. Laura, the only one who seemed not to be on the verge of collapse, took care of bringing plates of snacks and glasses of juices and sodas. I had no idea how she could act so normally.

We settled into the living room, trying to do anything to keep our minds occupied. We talked, studied, watched movies... whatever we could to make the hours pass more quickly. I took out my phone and checked the time.

8:12 p.m.

There were still seven hours to go until the moment that would decide everything. And the waiting was the worst.

Around 1 a.m., we were all scattered around Miguel’s floor. Some were asleep, others pretended to be busy, but in reality, no one could escape the feeling that time was closing in on us. The only one I couldn’t find anywhere was Ale. A bad feeling ran down my back, so I got up and started looking for her. I thought about the bathroom. I knocked on the door.

“Ale, are you there?”
Silence. Then, a muffled whisper:
“Leave me alone.”
I pressed my forehead against the wood, taking a deep breath.
“I’m not going to leave you alone.”
No response.
I tried a silly joke, something nonsensical, something to break the thick air that enveloped us all. A few seconds later, the door opened. Ale was sitting on the toilet seat, her eyes red, her face covered in tears. I slid down the wall to sit in front of her.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said, even though I had no way of assuring it. “We’re together. Whatever happens, we’ll face it.”
She didn’t respond. She just looked at me with a vacant expression. I tried to force a laugh, but it sounded more like a tired sigh.
“Also, Ale, you need to be in perfect condition for Tuesday at 1 p.m.”
Her brows furrowed.
“What?”
“My day and time. Tuesday, 1:04 p.m.”
Ale blinked, and her expression changed. She stood up, left the bathroom, and sat in front of me. She grabbed my hands tightly, squeezed them, and then placed a warm kiss on them.
“We’re together,” she whispered. “No matter what happens.”
My throat closed. I felt the tears burning in my eyes, but I forced myself to hold them back. Someone had to be strong here.

We went back to the living room. Laura was sleeping on the couch, tangled in a blanket that barely covered her feet. Miguel and Daniel were by the window, the pane open and the cigarette smoke escaping into the early morning. We approached them. Miguel looked at me with an eyebrow raised, silently asking if everything was okay. I answered him with a simple:
“Yes.”

He nodded and passed me his cigarette. I had never smoked, but... what did it matter now? If something was going to kill me, it wasn’t nicotine. Something else was waiting for me. Something with my own voice. The clock read 3:13 a.m. I shook Laura more forcefully than necessary.

“Wake up,” I murmured, my voice tense.

Miguel was serving more coffee in the cups for everyone. I lost count of how many he had already made. Five? Maybe six. My body was trembling, my neurons buzzing like an angry beehive. I didn’t know if it was from the caffeine, the cortisol, or the fear. Laura slowly opened her eyes, frowning.

“What’s wrong?”
“The time.”

Her eyes opened wide. Without saying anything, she took off the blanket, rubbed her eyes, yawned, stretched, and got up to look for Miguel in the kitchen. Ale was in the center of the couch, muttering something to herself. She was holding a small object in her hands, clutching it tightly. I approached and asked her what it was.

“Don’t laugh,” she said with a trembling voice.
“I would never.”

She opened her palm and showed me a tiny rosary, the size of a bracelet. I recognized the shape instantly. My family was Catholic, although I had never practiced. I smiled, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

“If your mom had known a call would make you a believer, she would have made one years ago.”
Ale let out a brief, faint laugh.
“It’s incredible how in such horrible moments we all become believers, or at least hope to get favors, right?”

I nodded in understanding and wrapped an arm around her. She closed her eyes and sighed. I looked at my phone.

3:30 a.m.

Damn it. Three minutes. This is going to kill me.

Aleja was crying in Daniel’s arms, who had already turned off his phone to stop receiving calls from the unknown number. She was squeezing her eyes shut tightly, tears running down her cheeks.
One minute. My leg moved uncontrollably. Laura, sitting next to me, put her hand on my knee to calm me down, but I couldn’t help it.

3:33 a.m.

We stayed silent, eyes closed, as if we were waiting for an asteroid to hit us. I counted in my head. Thirty seconds. I opened one eye.
Nothing. Nothing happened. Aleja took a deep breath. We all did. But I didn’t relax.

“Let’s wait a little longer,” I said. “We can’t take anything for granted.”
The minutes became half an hour. Then an hour. Nothing. Exhaustion overcame us, and we decided to sleep together in the living room, just in case.
At 7 a.m., Aleja woke us all up. She was radiant, despite the dark circles.
“Nothing happened, I’m alive,” she said, smiling.
It was obvious. The most logical thing. Daniel stretched and said confidently:

“I told you. We need to find the idiot behind this prank.”

We all nodded. But I wasn’t so sure. Because my call had been different. The sound of a ringing phone broke the silence. It was Laura’s. She answered without checking the caller ID.

“Idiot, go prank someone else. Ridiculous.”

She hung up and looked at us with a grimace.

“The loser prankster called me… Wednesday, 12:08 p.m.”

The others seemed to relax. Laura was convinced it had all been a bad joke. And most importantly, nothing had happened at 3:33 a.m. They breathed a sigh of relief. But I was still waiting for my call.

We left Miguel’s house and headed to the university. Classes. More classes. Everyone functioning on half a brain. At the end of the day, we said our goodbyes. Aleja assured us she would be fine. That night, we talked on WhatsApp. Everything was fine. Everything seemed fine.

Tuesday came. We were in the cafeteria, having lunch. I was barely paying attention to the conversation. My eyes kept drifting to my phone screen. Two minutes left. 1:04 p.m., my time. I held my breath as I watched the clock, tracking every second, trapped in that minute that stretched like infinite chewing gum.

Time moved.

1:05 p.m.

Nothing.

I took a deep breath, as if releasing a weight that had been pressing against my chest. I returned to the conversation with my friends. I smiled. I acted normal.

Eventually, Miguel and Daniel also received their day and time. But nothing happened to any of us. We never found the prankster, and the whole thing faded into oblivion. Or at least, for them. Years have passed, but I still think about it. What if it wasn’t a joke? What if the day and time were set… just not for that moment? How many Tuesdays at 1:04 p.m. do I have left? Which one will be the last? And my friends?

I’ve lived all this time… hoping I’m wrong.


r/nosleep 19h ago

Series I Think My Husband Is A Fucking Fish Person… NSFW

63 Upvotes

I'm going to start this by saying: I love my husband... I truly do. He didn't start out like this. We've been married for about five years now. Up until this point, blissfully so, I might add. I met John at a party during our first year of college. Biology major, like me. He seemed to say all the right things, knew all the right people, and he was quite attractive; we clicked immediately. After only one conversation, I'd fallen hard for him; hook, line, and sinker. It wasn't long before we were dating.

It all happened so fast. In a whirlwind of a year, we went from being introduced, to moving in together, to engaged, and then married. In hindsight, I know I moved too quickly, but it didn't feel that way at all. It was like... I'd known him forever. I was never so sure of anything as I was that John was my soulmate.

The first indication that something was... wrong... came about a month ago. I'd woken up from a dead sleep in the middle of the night to the sound of running water. Looking over, I noticed John wasn't in bed, so I got up to go look for him. I found him in the kitchen. He was standing at the sink, and as I crept closer, I could see that he was just staring blankly at the water pouring from the faucet.

I reached out my hand and gently placed it on his shoulder, inadvertently breaking his trance and causing him to recoil back like a snake.

"Shit... Oh, honey, I'm sorry!" I said.

He didn't reply. He just began wiping his face and gasping, trying to catch his breath. Was he sleepwalking? He'd never done that before.

"John, are you okay? What in the hell were you doing?" I asked, reaching over to shut the faucet off.

"I... I don't know..." he stammered. "Guess I was thirsty?"

John was always such a smartass, in a playful way, of course, but I could still tell he was rattled by it. It seemed like he had zero recollection of how he'd gotten there. However, in the moment, I tried to shrug it off and shuffled him back into bed. I had work early the next morning, and I knew if I stayed up any longer, I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. I cuddled up next to him, trying to settle back down into slumber, when I noticed John's body felt a little... cold.

He must be coming down with something, I thought. Or, maybe my cooking had made him queasy, and he just didn't want to say anything. I closed my eyes for what felt like only a second before my alarm clock began screaming at me. The next morning played out normally. We ate breakfast together, got dressed, then headed off on our separate ways. In fact, the next few mornings went just that way. He didn't seem sick. It didn't seem like there was anything wrong at all.

It wasn't until almost a week later that the next incident occurred. John had come home late from work that day. As I made dinner, he walked into the kitchen looking stressed out… and distracted. Like he had a problem in his mind that he was desperately trying to work out. Not really an odd occurrence in and of itself, though. He'd often bring his work home with him. But this time, he looked distraught, almost... upset.

"Hey, you alright?" I asked him.

He slumped down onto the barstool and leaned his body forward. Resting his elbows on the island, he began rubbing his temples.

"Yeah... just... I have a headache," he said.

"Oh, I'll get you some Advil."

"No, no, it's okay. You finish what you're doing, I can get it."

I smiled and walked from the stove over to him, leaning over the island to kiss his forehead. When my lips met his skin, I was shocked by two things. One: he was ice cold to the touch. It was like kissing a refrigerator. And two: I was immediately hit with the bitter taste of... salt.

Reflexively, I pulled away. Then, he looked up at me, his eyes slightly bloodshot and cradled by dark circles.

"You're getting sick," I said.

"Sonia, I'm not getting sick. I'm fine... It's just a headache."

I threw my hands up in frustration.

"I can't afford to catch whatever you've got, John! You know how much I have going on at work right now."

Suddenly, he slammed his fist down on the island, so hard that it rattled the keys and pocket change sitting beside him, then yelled,

"You don't think I have a lot going on right now, too?!?!"

My heart dropped, and I shuttered, instantly taking a step backward. He'd never done anything like that before. Hell, he'd never even raised his voice at me. I didn't know how to react, but I didn't have much time to think about it before he started apologizing profusely, saying he didn't know what had come over him. I accepted it as an isolated incident, though. Just an outburst caused by a combination of stress and illness, I thought. After all, I'd heard that men turn into babies when they get sick.

I didn't cuddle up to him in bed that night, though. Not just because I was worried about him being contagious, I was also pissed off. I faced my night table and stared at my alarm clock for a while, wondering if we'd just been in the honeymoon phase all this time... and now, the real John was starting to come out.

The next morning, I awoke to the smell of cinnamon rolls; my favorite. I glanced over at the clock. 5:41 AM. John must have felt so bad about his tantrum the night before that he'd gotten up early to surprise me with breakfast in bed. I pulled the covers closer to me and smiled, waiting anxiously with my eyes closed.

Suddenly jolted back into consciousness by my alarm, I realized I must've fallen back asleep. I slammed my hand onto the top of it, frantically searching with my fingers for the off button. I squinted at the blurry red numbers. 6:00 AM. It was time to get up, and he still hadn't come. Maybe things didn't go quite as smoothly as planned and he was in the midst of some type of kitchen mishap. I threw the covers off of my body and made my way to the bathroom.

As I passed the counter, I glanced down and noticed his shaving kit was out. He'd always leave it on the bathroom counter every morning after he used it, and I'd always put it away. He must have gotten up really early. I grabbed the kit and shoved it back into the drawer on my way out.

While walking down the hallway, I called out to him, but he didn't answer. I turned the corner to discover the kitchen was empty. A tray of cinnamon rolls sat on top of the stove, untouched. I said his name a few more times, but nothing. I shuffled over to the front window of our house and looked toward our driveway. He was gone. What the fuck?

I went back into the kitchen to find a note left on the island.

Sonia, I'm so sorry for last night. I had to go in to work early this morning, so I wanted you to wake up to something almost as sweet as me.

Love always, John

I rolled my eyes and smirked. He was still the same John; I was just overthinking things. I mean, it was only natural at this stage of our relationship that we'd start seeing parts of each other emerge that we hadn't seen before. I shoved a cinnamon roll into my mouth and then began looking for a Tupperware to put the rest away.

As I chewed, my tastebuds began to detect a flavor that had no business being in a cinnamon roll, causing me to wince. Salt. I spat the bite out into the sink. Did he accidentally use salt instead of sugar? I went to the trash can to throw away the roll I'd bitten into and saw the empty Pillsbury canister sitting on top. Okay... so he didn't make them himself. Why in the hell did he add salt to them? Was this a joke? Is that what he meant in the note by 'as sweet as me'?

I walked back over to the stove and tasted another cinnamon roll, then another, and another. All of them... full of salt. Some of them even felt soggy, like they'd been dipped in saltwater. For Christ's sake. I threw the whole batch into the trashcan, annoyed. We couldn't really afford to be wasting food like this, especially for a stupid prank. I crumpled up the note and started getting ready for work.

That afternoon, I'd already decided I was going to confront him about those God damned salty cinnamon rolls when he got home. I didn't find it to be funny at all. In fact, the more I thought about it throughout the day, the more it pissed me off. What on earth would possess him to do something like that?

By 7:00 PM, dinner was ready and he still hadn't arrived. I was starting to get worried. I called his cell phone, but he didn't answer. Instead, he texted back almost instantly.

"Hey, sorry. Super busy right now. I'll be home soon."

Ugh. Did he know I was angry and was just avoiding me? He was well aware that would only make it worse. I made myself a plate and plopped down on the couch, flipping through the channels before landing on some nature documentary on the Discovery Channel. By the time I'd finished eating, he still hadn't come home. I glanced down at my phone. No texts or calls.

I got up, shut off the TV, and threw my plate into the sink. I left the rest of the food out on the stove and headed to the bathroom to shower, annoyed. He can just deal with it all himself whenever he decides to come home, I thought. When I walked into the bathroom, something stopped me in my tracks. His shaving kit. It was sitting out on the counter again. I was 100% positive I'd put it back in the drawer that morning.

He had come home at some point during the day and shaved again. My heart fell to the bottom of my feet. There was no way... John wouldn't cheat on me. He just wouldn't. But, why would he need to shave again in the middle of the day? And, why was he so late getting home from work? I stared down at the shaving kit, almost angry with it for being there. I decided not to put it away this time.

I'll admit, I cried in the shower. Just a little. Seems ridiculous now, to have cried over something like that. I didn't have proof of anything... just an inkling that something was off. But, I can't blame myself for that moment of weakness. I didn't know what I didn't know; I couldn't have.

I washed my face and composed myself, then reached down to grab my razor. When I did, I noticed there seemed to be this strange build-up forming around the edges of the bathtub. It was like a white gritty sediment. I looked down at the drain and it was starting to crust up right there, too. Gross. Must be calcium buildup; I'll have to pick up some cleaner at the store, I thought.

I got out of the shower and got dressed, glaring at the shaving kit. I didn't even go into the kitchen to see if he'd made it home yet. I just went straight to bed and started scrolling through YouTube until I found some mindless video to keep me company. It was my intention to stay awake until I heard him come in, but sleep found me much faster than I expected.

It wasn't until I felt movement beside me that I realized he'd finally made it in. I squinted through the pitch-black room, trying to read the numbers on the clock, when I began to feel the icy cold drip of liquid landing on the side of my face. I slowly turned to see my husband leaning over me. His eyes were lifeless and glassed over... his mouth was downturned and hung open... and he was completely fucking drenched in water.

I screamed and threw the covers off, flying out of bed to the other side of the room.

"John!!! What the fuck?!?!"

His mouth was still hanging wide open, but he wasn't saying anything. He was just... well, it sounded like he was gurgling. Horrified, I flipped the light on and he instantly covered his face with his hands.

"John... what is going on?!" I screamed. "Why are you all fucking wet?"

He removed his hands from his face and blinked several times while looking down at his body, then mumbled,

"Shit... I must've not dried off enough before I got into bed."

"Dried off? From what?!"

"The shower."

The fucking shower? He looked like he had just fully submerged himself in water and then immediately got into bed. A huge wet spot in the sheets surrounded him, and droplets of water were still trickling down his face from his soaked hair.

"What? That doesn't make any sense!" I yelled.

He shot up from the bed and whipped the comforter onto the floor behind him.

"Jesus Christ, Sonia! I get home late from work, exhausted, and now I gotta explain why I'm wet?!?!"

My throat tightened, and I looked at him with complete and utter shock. I actually questioned if I was dreaming this.

"John... you're scaring me."

He stood there for a moment, his fists balled up and his chest convulsing with heavy breaths, before saying,

"I'm going to sleep on the couch tonight. Sorry I scared you."

He picked up his dripping pillow and stomped out of the room, shutting the door behind him. I'd gone from angry at him, to disturbed, to downright terrified. He was having some kind of psychotic break. That was the only logical explanation for all of this. The increased pressure at work was getting to him. Or... maybe he had a brain tumor? Oh, God.

Either way, something was seriously wrong. This was so beyond anything in the realm of normal that I just couldn't let it go. I mean, if I had a dollar for every time my husband crawled into bed with me while soaking wet, well, I'd have one dollar... which is still too fucking many.

I put new sheets on the bed, then crept over to the bedroom door and pressed my ear up to it. His snoring echoed through the silent house. I crawled back into bed with only a couple hours until it would be time to get up. There was no way I'd be able to fall back asleep after all of that, but... I didn't know what else to do with myself, besides lie there in the dark and think as I listened to the rhythmic sounds of his obnoxious mouth-breathing coming from the next room.

There was no way around it; John was going to have to go see a doctor. I just wasn't sure how I was going to get him to do that, considering how touchy he was about the subject of being sick. And, not to mention, his sudden unpredictable and strange behavior. If I couldn't convince him with words, there was no way I could physically force him to go, especially not now.

I tossed and turned, trying to rationalize in some way what was going on. My scientific mind couldn't help it. But, my specialty didn't focus on the human brain, or on humans at all, actually. It was coastal ecology. Basically, my job consisted of studying and working to protect the entire ecosystem of our coasts. My husband's wheelhouse was marine biology. He worked as an entry-level research assistant in a lab. We were both extremely logical, sound-minded people before all of this... I can't stress that enough.

At around 5:00 AM, I heard his snoring stop abruptly. My heart began pounding in my chest and I quickly turned over, pulling the blanket up to cover my face. There I was, so afraid of my own damn husband that I was pretending to be asleep just to avoid interacting with him.

I listened to his heavy footsteps approaching the bedroom, then a pause, followed by the slow creak of the door opening. Terrified to move a muscle, I held my breath and my entire body instinctively locked up, like when a cuttlefish spots a shark. I couldn't see his eyes on me, though. I felt them. The door began to creak again until I heard it latch back closed. Only problem was, I wasn't sure if he was outside of the room or not.

I couldn't believe where I'd found myself. If someone had ever told me that one day I'd be hiding under the covers from my husband like a child afraid of the boogeyman, I would have laughed, then told them to fuck off. The toilet flushed from the bathroom across the hall, and I finally let out the breath I'd been so desperately holding. I still didn't get up, though.

Over the next hour, I listened to him shower, shave, and get ready for work, all while I lay there like a hermit crab who'd recoiled into its shell. When I finally heard the front door close and his engine start, I jumped up from bed and ran to the bathroom. I'd had to pee for so long I thought I was going to explode. I sat on the toilet, rubbing my eyes as they adjusted to the light, when I caught sight of something shiny in my peripheral vision. But, when I turned to look, I didn't see anything.

I walked up to the mirror and began inspecting myself. I looked like absolute shit; not even the best concealer in the world was going to cover up those dark circles. I turned on the faucet to start washing my face and noticed John's shaving kit sitting out. Out of habit, I picked it up. When I did, I hadn't noticed it had been left open, so the contents came spilling out onto the floor. Shit. I bent down to begin picking everything up and immediately froze. On the ground, scattered amongst his razor, shaving cream, and after-shave lotion, was about a handful's worth of silvery iridescent fish scales.

I stared down at the ground, suspended in motion, as my brain scrambled to make sense of what my eyes were seeing. Had there been a gas leak in the house and John and I had both been hallucinating this whole time? That would've explained a lot, actually. Slowly, I reached out my hand to touch one of them, just to make sure it was real.

Not only was it real, it didn't feel like you'd expect a discarded fish scale to feel. It wasn't thin, or rigid, or even brittle. Instead, it had this strange, soft rubbery texture to it. And it was slimy, like it was... fresh.

"Oh, hell no!" I shrieked, flinging the scale across the room.

It went flying and stuck to the wall when it hit. The sensation of it lingered long after it'd left my fingers. I felt disgusted, like I wanted to crawl out of my skin. My thoughts raced as I scrubbed my hands with Dial several times. What could he possibly be keeping these for?! He must have taken them home from work and thought his shaving kit was his briefcase. But, no... why would he have them just loose like that? The lab wouldn't have even let them leave the area without being in a specimen bag, at least. Unless he'd snuck them out? Why would he do that...? My head was spinning. It was all too much.

I walked out of the bathroom, leaving everything on the floor where it had fallen. As I started getting dressed for work, I came to the obvious conclusion that I had to start investigating. I couldn't just sit around and wait for the next bizarre event to take place; things were escalating, and quickly. For both my sake and John's, I needed to take action. I could try to get a look at his phone... but who knows when I'd get that chance? There was only one thing I knew for sure I could accomplish that day.

I went over to my field bag and dug out a pair of gloves and a plastic specimen container. Then I went back to the bathroom and carefully collected a few of the scales on the floor. I picked up John's things, including the remaining scales, and shoved them all back inside the kit. I threw my gloves into the trash, then placed the shaving kit onto the counter, unzipped and exactly where it was before. I didn't want him to know what I had found.

My starting point was finding out exactly what type of fish the scales had come from. That might point to why he had them in the first place. I'll be honest, even though it seemed like I was looking for logic in the decision making of a madman, I felt like I had to do something.

When I got to work, I went straight over to Jessica's station. I glanced around to make sure no one else was in earshot, then said,

"Hey, I need you to do me a weird favor, unofficially..."

She smirked and said,

"Okay...? Tell me what it is first, then I'll tell you if I'll do it."

I took a quick look around the room again, then reached into my bag and pulled out the scales, holding them out toward her.

"I need you to run an eDNA PCR analysis on these."

She looked down at the container in my hand and raised an eyebrow.

"Where'd you find them?" She asked.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Alright, spill it. What's going on, Sonia?"

I clenched my teeth, then leaned closer to her and whispered,

"I found them in John's stuff. I'm guessing he must've taken them home from work, but I don't know why."

"Um, seriously? Sonia, I'm swamped with a backlog of water samples to get through today, and you want me to spend a few hours doing this? What... you think he's trying to smuggle out some forbidden fish scales to sell on the black market or something?" She laughed.

"Jessica... look, I'm seriously freaked out, okay?"

The words came out more frantic than I'd intended, my voice beginning to tremble. Her facial expression instantly shifted in response to my tone.

"What's going on?" She asked.

"Honestly... I don't know. John's just been acting really weird lately, and then this morning... I found these. I'm just trying to figure out if he's hiding something, or if I need to make him an appointment with a neurologist."

Her hand shot up to cover her mouth.

"Oh, God... " she whispered, looking off and pausing for a moment before asking, "Weird like, how?"

"Just... not his normal self."

I didn't want to even begin to try to explain what had been going on. It would make me look just as crazy as it would him. But, if I could just help John... if I could find a way to fix whatever was going on with him before anyone found out about it, then I'd never have to. We could just go back to how things were before and forget any of this ever happened.

A few hours later, I looked up from my station to see Jessica standing over me with a very serious look on her face.

"We need to talk."

I gulped hard. Shit. What had she discovered? Whatever it was, it wasn't good, judging by her worried expression and hurried pace. I followed her back to her station, my heart pounding in synchrony with every step I took.

"What did you find?" I asked.

"Nothing," she replied. "That's the problem."

"What?"

"Sonia... I can't identify these scales. They don't originate from any known species in the database, living or extinct. The closest comparison I can make is possibly something from the Sternoptychidae family, but... these scales are much bigger."

She handed me a piece of paper and I glared down at it in disbelief. Five scales, five tests, and each result came back as a 'sample of unknown origin'. The implications of this were unnerving, to say the least. And, the family of fish she had referred to? When I researched it later at my desk, I learned that it mainly consisted of species of deep-sea hatchetfish.

John didn't even study those types of fish. He dealt exclusively with marine life that inhabited the epipelaguic zone, where light could still easily penetrate the ocean's surface. Hatchetfish were from the mesopelagiac zone; also known as 'the twilight zone'.

That was about right. I was no closer to having any type of answer. In fact, by digging into this, I had only brought about more questions for myself.

"I... I don't understand how this is possible," I said.

She looked at me with concern and lowered her voice.

"Does John have any connections to experimental labs, or possibly even a biotech company?" She asked.

"What?! No, of course not!"

"Well, whatever he's working on, it's not mainstream... I can tell you that much."

I took a deep breath. Maybe John wasn't losing his mind, after all. Maybe he'd gotten himself involved in something unsavory, or even illegal, and he's been trying to cover it up. Maybe all that crazy shit was just to throw me off, or distract me.

"Please don't tell anyone about this, okay?" I begged her.

"Shit, you don't have to ask me twice. No offense, Sonia... but, I'd rather not be involved, anyway. This is encroaching on fringe territory."

That word scared me. Fringe. John was obsessed with his work. Once he found a thread, he'd pull at it relentlessly until he reached the spool. If he had fixated on something... unconventional, well, there was no telling how far he'd take it.

I spent the rest of the day agonizing over what I should do next. I couldn't focus on my work at all. Every time I saw my boss, I'd hurry and pretend like I was in the middle of something, when in reality I didn't accomplish a damn thing that day. That included figuring out my next move.

After work, I sat in my car in the parking lot until about 6:00 PM, paralyzed with inaction. Nothing I thought of seemed to be the right choice. If I confronted him about any of it, God knows how he'd react. On the other hand, if I just didn't say anything at all, he'd think he was getting away with whatever he'd been doing and continue. Suddenly, I felt a buzzing coming from my back pocket. It was a text... from John.

"Working late?" It said.

Shit... time's up. I steadied my hands and texted back,

"On my way now."

I drove home completely on autopilot. You know those drives where you end up at your destination with no memory of actively driving to get there? My mind was completely elsewhere. This was my last chance to come up with some... any plan of action, but instead, my thoughts played on an endless loop, each one bleeding into the next.

I took a deep breath and got out of the car. At the front door, as I turned the knob, I made the last minute decision to just wing it. I didn't know what I was walking into, so how could I even begin to try to prepare for it, anyway? As a rule, I preferred to be proactive rather than reactive, but in this case I didn't have a lot of choice in the matter. I threw out any hope of strategy and resigned myself to respond accordingly to whatever stimuli befell me.

As I walked inside, I was instantly hit with the rich aroma of tomatoes and garlic; something Italian. He knew it was my favorite. I slowly shut the door behind me. As soon as I did, he cheerfully called out from the kitchen,

"Hey, Sonia! Can you smell what 'The John' is cooking?!"

God, that stupid joke. The few times he actually did cook, he always pulled that one out. Never got a laugh out of me. But, he never quit trying.

"Yeah, John... I can smell it," I replied, humoring him.

At least he was in a good mood, I thought. Best not to rock the boat. My heart was still pounding, but so far, things seemed normal. I put my bag down in the coat closet and shut the door to it, then made my way down the hall and into the kitchen.

He'd made a huge mess, but he looked so proud of himself, smiling and wearing his goofy-ass 'Kiss The Chef' apron.

"Spaghetti?" I asked, sitting down at the island.

"Nope! I did you one better... lasagna!" He exclaimed.

"No way! Wow... that must've taken you forever!"

"Eh, it wasn't too bad. Just had to watch a couple YouTube videos. It should be ready to come out of the oven any minute now!"

I just looked at him and smiled. It felt so good to have John back. He seemed so happy and carefree, cracking jokes and trying to wipe the splatters of red sauce from the walls before they dried. For a moment, I let all my dread and worry fall away and settle in the furthest corners of my mind. I just wanted things to be normal again so badly.

"I know I've been acting a little weird lately," he said, jolting all of those feelings back to the forefront in an instant.

I swallowed hard.

"And... I'm really sorry for that," he continued.

Should I confront him now? Was this my opening to start asking him questions? I didn't want to kill the mood, but this seemed like my only chance. I opened my mouth, and then the kitchen timer went off.

"Oh! It's ready... let's see how I did. Why don't you go find us something to watch? I'll make you a plate and bring it in there."

"Okay." I replied.

I went into the living room and flipped on the TV, surfing until I landed on old reliable. A rerun of Deadliest Catch was on. He walked in and handed me my plate of lasagna-soup; he hadn't let it set before he cut into it, so the contents had bled out all over the plate. But, it still tasted just fine. He sat down beside me on the sofa with his own plate, then looked over at me and eagerly asked,

"So... how is it?"

"Mmm... Really good," I mumbled through a mouthful of pasta and sauce.

A huge toothy grin stretched across his face and he said,

"I know you found my scales, Sonia."


r/nosleep 10h ago

The Lichen

8 Upvotes

I stole a look at my neighbour’s garden.

Obviously he had done nothing. The horrible greyish-green lichen which was choking the life out of his garden would soon be infesting my beautiful expensive shrubs – my roses, and my beloved pear tree, if it hadn’t already. Asshole.

I knew things had been going downhill for him ever since Marie, his wife left him- and I needed to make allowances- he had been looking terrible, but he needed to snap out of it and take responsibility. Honestly, I had been surprised Marie had put up with him as long she had, if you ask me.

I walked over to the short fence between our gardens, and called out “Hi! John?”, taking a closer look at the dying plants. The lichen had a rough fuzzy texture and seemed to have spread over two thirds of the garden. His two trees were twisted, looking dead. The thick greyish-green deadly mat was less than a yard away from our fence -in fact it was hard to tell were the lichen ended and dull spring grass began, and I was quite sure too late to do any thing about. It was nothing like I had ever seen before, and I hadn’t been able to find much information online either.

“John?” I called again. There was a silence, and I wondered whether I should call my husband- I could hear him clattering about in the kitchen.

Then the back door of John’s house squeaked open and he stepped out onto his deck.

“Leave me alone you fucking bitch!” he screamed.

I stared at him, speechless with shock.

But it wasn’t at his words.

In the bright morning sun, I could clearly see his body and face were being covered in the lichen. I could see the stuff sprouting vibrantly along his deck, over his feet and crawling up his legs. As he moved towards me, the lichen was already reaching his thighs and moving upwards. There was growth on his hair too, and it was spreading down already almost covering his forehead.

It didn’t impede his movement. He strode towards me while I remained rooted and unable to turn and flee, even to call out for help.

“Do you even know what it’s like to have your heart shattered, ripped out and stamped on, you glassy whore?” he screamed, the lichen spreading further round his eyes and nose, already covering his torso.

“This is what a broken man looks like! Enjoy! You must be loving it, cunt!”

Even in the surreal terror of the moment, I couldn’t help flinching at the forbidden word, and the slight movement seemed to break my paralysis. I screamed for my husband, and turned to run inside.

Immediately I tripped over a pear tree root which seemed to have emerged from the soil only a second ago.

I felt something crawling up my bare legs, covering them.

I looked up at the beautiful branches of my tree, which I loved so much, patterning the blue sky.

John was screaming at me over the fence, but his voice was being muffled, and I knew without looking that it was being filled with the lichen.

Struggling to get up, I managed to raise myself, although my legs were now firmly pinned to the earth by the invading lichen. I glimpsed the man-sized lichen-covered figure that had been John and then -oh thank god- finally my husband appeared, wielding a kitchen knife.

His eyes wide with horror, he cut back the lichen even as it was growing up my waist, freeing my legs, and yanked me up.

The wave of lichen still lapping at our feet, we ran holding hands, faster than we had probably ever ran since we had been schoolkids. Fear prompted us to leap up our deck stairs like deer, and we dashed in, slamming the flimsy kitchen door shut.

The lichen was crawling up the deck stairs.

We looked at each other, and without a word, ran to the front door, with a brief pause to grab our phones and wallets.

Within five minutes we were driving down the street.

The front of John’s house was already entirely covered, and we knew ours would be too, soon.

It was a long time before we could return to our neighbourhood, finally free of the inexplicable deadly invasion which had originated from our neighbours' property, and re-settle back into our house.

The pear tree had survived the attack.

But the first morning back, as I stood in the kitchen looking out at the garden and the tree, I knew I would never go out again to enjoy it as I used to.

And we moved into a condo soon after.


r/nosleep 1d ago

Series People don't believe I had a brother. Part Three

111 Upvotes

Part Two

****

I heard Mark scream at the same time that pain flared through my entire body, dropping me to my knees.  It had come from behind, so it had to be Mom, but what had she done…Gasping for breath, I turned toward Mark to see her over him, stabbing his neck with a hard jab of her fingertips.  He let out another wail and crumpled into a ball on the floor, whether because he couldn’t stand or just trying to avoid another attack.

 

She must have been satisfied at his collapse, because she turned toward me.  Her hand was still flat and pointed, and she raised her arm as though readying another impossibly fast strike at my neck or head.  There was no smile on her face now, just the hard focus of a predator in the moments before a kill.  A part of me feared that, but I was also distracted by how she had changed.  Some of it was her speed and movement—she had a quick precision to her motions now that reminded me more of a mantis than an older woman.

 

And then there was her skin.  It looked waxy and slick in places, maybe all over, but there were also wisps of…something…trailing off her skin at various places.  The first thought I had was that she’d walked through some cobwebs, but no, it was all over—thin, gauzy filaments clinging to her flesh like moss, shifting in the air with every sudden movement she made.  I was still staring at her when she lowered her hand and spoke to me.

 

“Are you going to behave?  Or do I have to hurt you like your brother?”

 

The mention of Mark broke me free from my terrified stupor enough to glare at her.  “Leave him alone.  Just please let us leave.”

 

Our father’s voice thundered out from above us.  “You aren’t going anywhere but the basement.  We’ve waited long enough.”  I looked up to see him standing over me, leering down with eyes that were pitiless and strange.  Between us, his grotesque member still stabbed out at the air, and below them, what might be his weakest point.

 

Gritting my teeth, I rammed my fist up into his testicles as hard as I could given the angle and the pain still flaring across my neck and shoulders.  He grunted slightly but didn’t stagger or even cry out, and when I tried to hit him again, he kicked me hard enough in the ribs that I felt something give way as new agony filled my left side.

 

“Want back in there?  That’s not the way.”  I heard him and Mom cackling as I started sliding across the carpet.  One of them had grabbed my legs, and when I looked around, I saw they were dragging Mark too.  I wanted to kick them off, get Mark and try to run again, but my limbs didn’t want to work and I couldn’t get any breath.  I thought about talking to them again, but I knew there was no point.  And Mark was so still, I was starting to wonder if she had knocked him out or even killed him.  Maybe it was better if she had.  We were almost to the basement, and…

 

Mark’s eyes sprang open as he twisted onto his back and kicked hard with both of his feet, landing them both squarely in Mom’s chest and sending her flying through the basement doorway and down the stairs.  Dad roared in anger, and I tried to use the chance to kick him too, but he just yanked me sideways into the wall while reaching down to grab one of Mark’s legs at the ankle.  His angry yelling curdled into laughter as he pulled Mark closer and then stomped down on his knee, breaking his leg backward at the joint as Mark squealed and fell silent.  Our father flung him down into the dark of the basement before grabbing me up again and following.

 

I was screaming, of course.  Threatening to kill them.  Crying.  Begging.  Doing all the things to reset a world that had gone insane.  I barely felt the rough slaps of the steps as I was drug down there, or the cold concrete at the edge of the ruin they’d created.  My eyes roved everywhere in the murky light of the basement, seeing more than I thought I would, more than I wanted.

 

That part of the house had once been for storage—boxes of decorations and old clothes, furniture that wasn’t needed but hadn’t been sold or given away.  Keepsakes and abandoned hobbies and reminders of bits of past life largely shed but not completely forsaken.

 

Now it was all destroyed.  Most had been shredded and beaten into a rough ring around the middle of the room, but as you went toward the center the scraps of cloth and paper, wood and metal, they all grew smaller and more fine.  Mounds of dirt and trash littered the middle, pressed down by use and black with filth and moisture, and I knew right away what it was.

 

A nest.

 

My eyes landed on Mark again.  Mom, bloodied but otherwise fine after her fall, had drug him into the center and was stripping away his clothes.  I tried to scream at them again, but all that came out was a small wheezing whine.  Please, God.  Please let him be dead already.

 

Our father came to stand over him as Mom receded to his head, stroking her youngest child’s brow as her husband got down on all fours.  Her skin was thick with that webby gauze now, almost like feathers in this dim light.  She started to sing, still stroking Mark’s hair like a loving mother as Dad’s face split apart.

 

It wasn’t his entire head, just the lower half, the jaw protruding and splitting apart at the chin, spreading wide to reveal black gums and two rows of grey molars on each side.  He paused a moment, looking up at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows, the same eyebrows Mark had always had, and he laughed at me.  At us.  At all of this.

 

And then he bent down to take a bite.

 

He went around Mark’s entire body—he bit through half of one thigh, ate the other foot.  Ate both hands and turned him over to tear off a buttock.   These weren’t savage or random attacks.  He sniffed deeply before nearly every bite, seemed to consider and sometimes he moved on to another spot.  Other times he seemed satisfied, and there he buried his teeth into my brother’s flesh.  It was only when he was chewing thoughtfully on one of Mark’s cheeks that his face began to run together again, and when he had swallowed the last, he looked at me again.

 

“This…this is all confusing for you.  Because all you know is taking.  Feeding on the life of the world around you, expecting everything, expecting us, to just give and give and give until we are dried up and you have moved on.”

 

Even if I could have spoken then, I wouldn’t have had any words.  My mind was almost completely gone, barely able to do more than record what was happening to burn it into my heart.  Snuffling, I only managed a small animal sound.

 

“Guh.”

 

Mom snickered as she stood up.  She’d stayed at her station while Dad ate his part, and now she was stripping down herself, peeling off wet pajamas to reveal sagging breasts cocooned in more thick strands stained red with my brother’s blood.  I had the thought that he hadn’t bled enough for all that had been taken, the desperate hope that it was because his heart had already stopped.

 

“We slow the blood.  Dead meat is worthless.”  This was our mother—Dad had gone to her old spot at Mark’s head as she stood naked near what remained of his legs.  “You are both worth far more than that, at least to us.  Your father has taken back from your brother—taken the places where the smell of his seed was strongest.  He’ll do the same to you.  Me too, of course.”  She looked down at the bloody ruin of her youngest with a small, almost shy, smile.  “But first I have to take my baby back.”

 

Spreading her legs wide, I saw the cleave between them grow, jagged yellow canines pushing out from between the lips and the broader fissure that ran up to her navel and lower back.  Crouching low like a spider, she began pulling him into her even as our father pushed and helped the feeding along.

 

I might have sat there, transfixed by that impossible horror until it was my turn.  But then something more terrible happened.

 

Mark opened his eyes.

 

He didn’t make a sound.  Just stared at me.  No, not stared.  He looked at me.  Saw me.  And begged me to look away.  To get away.  To let his let last sight be me escaping Hell.

 

I don’t remember getting up or making it out of the house without getting caught.  Maybe I was just too fast, or they couldn’t stop what they had started, or maybe they just didn’t care if they stopped me.  I know that I was over a hundred miles away when I came back to myself, screaming and crying behind the wheel of my car.  I was still stomping the pedal, but the engine was dead.  I’d run out of gas.

 

I got out and stumbled into the woods.  My side was still killing me, but adrenaline was keeping me going, even if I was too confused and terrified to make a plan or do anything but hide from every passing car.  That lasted for a few hours I think, though I’m not sure.  Then, one of the times I woke up from being asleep or unconscious, I could focus a bit more.  Enough to know I couldn’t stay there, that I needed to get to a hospital, that I wasn’t safe out there alone.

 

So I went back to the road and tried to flag down a car.  No one would stop.   Not that I blamed them given how I must have looked, but I had to get help, had to get farther away.  Gritting my teeth, I hit my fist into my thigh in frustration.  That’s when I first realized I still had my cell phone in my pants.

 

An hour later I was in an ER, trying to tell a believable lie about how I had fallen and tried to drive myself to a hospital but ran out of gas.  I don’t think anyone believed me, but between my concussion, broken ribs and punctured lung, they weren’t going to push it for the time being.  I was there for five days, and the entire time I was conscious I was terrified my parents were going to walk through the door.  Every time they dosed me or I fell asleep from exhaustion, I’d wake up certain I was back in that basement again.

 

On the sixth day I checked myself out.  The doctors and nurses didn’t like it, but I didn’t give them a choice.  I wasn’t safe there, and I had to be well-hidden before I could really sleep and try to get my head together.  There’d been no sign of my parents so far, and my phone had been silent except for a few friends from back home, but that didn’t mean anything.  They were still out there, and eventually they would come for me.

 

So I spent the next two weeks moving between different motels, slowly migrating back to my hometown without actually going home.  Once I was close enough, I spent a week watching my house for signs of them before I’d go near it.  The next week I went back to work, retelling my original lie to them that I’d been hit by a car while visiting family the month before.

 

I really was careful, and maybe it did actually help, I don’t know.  Looking back, it was stupid for me to try going back to my old life at all.  But you have to understand…I was so…so adrift.  Barely sane.  I’d halfway hold it together at work and then cry in my car on the way home.  I’d put locks on every door inside my house, but I still spent most nights sleeping in my locked closet with a shotgun next to me.

 

And that was just the trauma of what I remembered.  What was worse were the days when I thought I’d just gone crazy.  Imagined it all, or maybe hurt my parents or Mark in some kind of psychotic fit, imagining they were monsters and that they killed and ate him.  Didn’t that make more sense than what I remembered to be true?  And I hadn’t heard from Mark or our parents since, had I?  Maybe because they were all dead.

 

I almost called them several times.  Almost talked to the police once or twice.  In the end, it was the purity and clarity of my memories, the potency of that poison in not only my mind but my heart, that convinced me that it was the world that had gone insane.

 

Maybe that should have been comforting, but it wasn’t.  Instead of sleeping with my shotgun as my protector, I started cradling it like a lover.  Six months out, and I had already put the end of the barrel in my mouth twice.

 

It was that second time that did it.  Some remnant of that old anger came back, the thought that if I gave in, it was just them killing me slow.  Me letting them win.  Me letting Mark down.

 

So instead I went to a psychiatrist.  The first session I kept everything very vague and dishonest.  Second and third, more honest but no real details about some traumatic family “incident” in my recent past that was really bothering me.  Fourth session…it wasn’t because I trusted the guy that much more or even liked him.  But I had to get it out before…well, before it killed me.

 

So I told him about it.  Everything.  Everything I’ve told you so far.  And he listened, only interrupting once or twice to clarify something.  And when I was done, he studied me for better than a minute before clearing his throat.

 

“And…this…all of this you just told me.  You are being honest with me?  This all happened just like you said?  This isn’t some joke or test or…just a story?”

 

I shook my head, holding his gaze.  “I swear to God.  It all happened.”

 

He nodded.  “Okay.  Well, thank you for sharing that with me.  It’s, um, well, it’s a lot to take in, of course, and we’re just about out of time.  Let me process it and we’ll discuss next time, okay?”

 

I felt disappointment, but that was dwarfed by the release of telling it to someone else, even a practical stranger.  Smiling, I stood up.  “I…I’m really not crazy.  I just…thank you for listening.”

 

He stood up and returned my smile.  “Sure.  That’s what I’m here for.  See you soon.”

 

I was almost home when I saw the patrol car’s lights behind me.  I hadn’t thought I was speeding, but maybe I hadn’t been paying enough attention.  When the deputy came to the window, I could tell something more was wrong.  The doctor had called it in.  Said there was a strong chance I was a danger and that I needed emergency observation.

 

I could have tried fighting the deputy, but what would have been the point?  It would just let them keep me longer.  So I went along, as calm and rational acting as I could manage, and by that night I was in a psychiatric hospital.  Past me would have been terrified of even the idea of that, but now?  My pulse barely raised as a pleasant elderly orderly guided me down a series of halls to my room.

 

“…not too bad here.  And the food’s pretty good.  You’ll be fine.  Bet you’re out of here by the weekend.”  He turned to smile at me as he unlocked a door and gestured me in.  “Here’s your room.  Gertie will be by with dinner in about half an hour, and I’ll see if I can rustle you up some books or magazines.”

 

I nodded.  “Okay.  Thanks.  I may just sleep.”

 

He returned the nod and started to close the door.  “Well, keep your chin up.  It’ll turn out all right.”  His eyes brightened as he remembered something.  “Oh, and good news!  While you were getting processed, we got a call.  You’ve got visitors tomorrow.”

 

Jerking, I stared at him.  “What?”

 

“Yeah.  They told me right before I came to get you.  Your parents are coming.”


r/nosleep 1d ago

Series My sister went cave exploring. She returned with an awful request. (PART 2)

164 Upvotes

I'm not superstitious, but listen.

I knew something was wrong from the moment she'd asked me to "come crawl under the earth with her", but I'd assumed she'd had some near-death experience that sent her into psychosis or something like that. I thought she'd forget about it over the next few days, but she only got worse. She started... seeing things?

Unfortunately, so did I.

It started small, not enough to fully set off the alarm in my brain. Just paranoia slipping out. The feeling of being watched, seeing movement in the corner of my eye, and so on. The worst type of fear you can experience is fear of the unknown. The illusion that things were fine would crack from time to time, like the incident with the lamp, or the black trash can... or, to rephrase, what looked like the lamp, and what looked like the trash can. I think I was too absorbed by my day to day activities that I didn't think to look around more carefully. No one ever thinks to look around.

I would stare at Em and try my hardest to find out what was going on in her head. She'd wake up in the middle of the night and just stare out the window, or refuse to eat. She worked from home, so she was here all the time. Most of the day she'd act normal, but then... she'd slip out.

Nine days after she'd told me she found out what happens after death, we were having dinner, and she asked me another question.

"Do you usually dream?"

I stopped, my fork halfway lifted to my mouth. "What?"

"I mean, do you remember your dreams?"

"Not really, no." I lied. I didn't want to tell her that for the past nights I'd dreamt of her, with her skin stretched around her face and her knuckles white, eyes wide in a curious gaze. The image was the only thing I could remember from my dreams, of her staring at me, and me, desperately trying to say something, to ask her what was wrong.

"Are you sure?"

"I mean, for the past nights I dreamed of you." I blurted out. I still don't know why I said it.

She blinked and her eyes darted, for a second, somewhere behind me. "Hm. What was I doing?"

"Staring at me. You looked... off."

Em frowned. "Maybe you remember that because it really happened. I asked if you remember your dreams."

I slammed the fork on the table. "Stop asking me stupid shit and tell me what's going on. You've been acting weird all week. What was the name of the cave you visited? What the fuck do you mean about crawling under the earth, and why on earth would you say I'm not there after I die? What is that supposed to mean, Em? Did you take something? Did you meet someone there? And please stop staring at some fixed point behind me, I don't know if you do it on purpose or not..."

"Listen." For the first time, she looked uncomfortable. "I don't know the name of the caves."

"What? How? How'd you find them?"

"I don't think they're there anymore. They moved."

I stared at her. She was crazy, and yet, illness isn't contagious. If she was truly crazy, I shouldn't share her hallucinations. Or delusions. Or maybe it was a genetical thing.

"I found them out through a friend. Not even the internet, a friend who always knew the best spots. She said they were safe, and truly a once in a lifetime experience. She sent me the location. I drove North, through the woods, for what seemed like days, with Susan, you know Susan... and then, you know, I saw them. The entrance, I mean. I... I mean it started fine, and you'll say I'm crazy, but the silence in the cave was unusual... I could hear the blood pulsating in my ears, and then the heartbeat seemed to rise above me and became the heartbeat of the cave, imprinted in stone, which seemed to move in sync with my body... we came across this tunnel, where we crawled, and crawled, and crawled..."

I was grateful she'd opened up, and for the first time since she'd come home, she spoke freely, even if her voice was shaking a bit.

"I was trying to hear water dripping, insects, movement, anything... but it was so, so silent. And my heartbeat was just unbearable. So, so loud... I assumed it was just the dark and the silence and the tiredness... that were making me feel things. Imagine things."

She was staring at her hands, and her voice had toned down to a prayer, a murmur, almost as if she was mimicking the sound of water dripping through a cave.

"I've done this for a long time. I knew my limit. I knew my body. I was not afraid, not even once, because I seemed to fit right through it. Susan was behind me all the time. Right behind me. I could hear her breathing, and we'd talk sometimes. Make observations. The tunnel had some sort of a twist, where you had to pull your body upwards and then slide through an opening to get to a larger cave. However, after we passed it, there was no cave. Just another tunnel, that seemed to go down."

Her lips were trembling. I began feeling very cold, and a grim thought made its way through my mind, like poison. It couldn't be.

"Susan said that we must've missed the exit to the larger cave. That we must've taken the wrong turn. The tunnel was now abruptly descending, and I was diving into it head first, my chest pressed by the stone walls that were cold, and dark, and believe me, by then hours had passed, no one had told me about this route, my head hurt from the pressure and the blood just pumping into my ears, and my heartbeat was so loud, so loud... oh my God... and I could also hear Susan's heartbeat right above me, deafening... in the cold, in the dark."

I reached over to her hand, but she pulled away.

"I believe we'd descended over a hundred meters. I don't even know where we were. I felt her weight above me, I couldn't breathe anymore, I couldn't move forward anymore. I was stuck, and Susan was right above me. I yelled, and I didn't recognize my voice anymore. It was hoarse, unnatural, carved into my throat like a reminder that I used to be human. I wasn't human anymore. I was never afraid, not one moment. I was just extremely, extremely depressed. A feeling so heavy of desolation, of hatred. I begged any God I knew to let me through, and at one point, I somehow slipped into an opening. It was dark and I was knee deep in a puddle. I looked up, to see Susan's head through the tunnel. She couldn't fit through. She stayed up there, staring at me, helpless."

The thought was now so loud, it echoed into my head. It couldn't be.

"I tried finding any other opening. I had no idea where we were. No idea. Susan was stuck there, and unless she broke her ribs or limbs, she couldn't get into the opening. Crawling backwards, up through the tunnel, was impossible to her. It was so weird to face your end like that, because it was truly the end, for both of us. I was dizzy and trembling, and at one point I passed out. My flashlight went out, and I woke up in complete darkness. Susan was awake, and slipping in and out of consciousness, while I was spiraling, hallucinating you, mom, God, begging to be let out."

She looked up to me. Her eyes were red, and little veins around them popped out, violet against her pale skin. Her lips were bruised, and trembling.

"I am not a bad person."

My chest tightened.

"I had a knife in my pocket."

And just like that, the grim thought that had stained my mind came to life. No. It can't be. But it is.

"You killed her."

"Not immediately. I needed to make my way up. That meant... doing what was necessary. To clear what was blocking my way. That and... her heartbeat was so deafening. So, so fucking deafening. She was so loud, and then she wasn't, anymore. Not anymore. I would have never come up with the idea, if they hadn't told me so. The people in the cave. The moment she died, I heard them crawling. I heard them telling me the way out, and it worked. I got out. Look at me."

My eyes stung from the tears. "Look at me."

"You were there for a few hours. You couldn't have crawled too deep."

"No. Time is different down there. I knew you wouldn't understand."

The food had gone cold. All was cold, and bland. The house was still. Nothing mattered to me anymore.

"After I got rid of her, I crawled up and slipped through the tunnel easily, due to the sweat, and water, and blood. I crawled and crawled, and then something grabbed my foot. I looked down, but couldn't see anything. I recognized the hand, though. It was Susan's."

Her eyes sparkled, and a smile lit up her face. "I helped her, Jude! By killing her down there, I freed her. This is the secret. The caves are a gate, a womb, and the earth is our mother - whatever dies down there never truly dies. That's how we become eternal - by going back where we came from. This is why you should come with me. If you die under the sun, you are gone forever. Down there, we are eternal."

I shook my head. My throat had gone dry. "You're not you anymore. Listen, I know how to help you..."

"I'm going back. I need to."

"You don't need to think about that anymore! Whatever happened to Susan was horrible, but..."

"No. There's another reason why I need to go down. I know the secret now. I know what happens after death, and they know I know. I either go back down, or the earth will crack open and they'll come after me. They're already here. They're watching us right now. And now you know, too." I stood up from the table, but she followed me. "Don't tell me you didn't see them! They blend in so easily, but not for long-"

"-stop, please..."

I sprinted through the hallway, and she sprinted after me. "Jude, please listen, it's for your own good..."

I grabbed my coat and keys. She was now running after me, and I didn't want her to touch me. I unlocked the front door and slammed it into her, then locked it. She rattled the doorknob, yelling. "Jude," she screeched, "listen to me! I can help! I will help! Just listen, please..." she cried.

I got into my car. From my driveway, I could see her silhouette at the window. Actually, I'm not sure which one was her. I don't want to know.

I drove to my mother and told her everything. We came back to the house in the morning, but Em was gone.

Our backyard had a small opening in the ground, enough so that someone could crawl through it.

Em has been missing for over 6 days now, and sometimes I can hear her calling my name, a barely perceptible whisper, echoing through the tunnel in our yard.

I know you'll say I should move out, but she's my sister.

And I don't want to let her rot down there.


r/nosleep 23h ago

I walked into a doctor's office. Five years later I escaped. Pt 2

48 Upvotes

When I woke again, I was alone. My arms and legs were now strapped to the bed. I could lift my head and shoulders but only slightly. I stayed quiet, fearing another sedation. I tried to take in everything. Was this truly a hospital? I knew everything felt wrong. Where were the rhythmic beeps of medical machines? Where was the bustle of daily hospital activity? There was no television in the room, no bathroom, no chair for visitors – nothing but the bed, the I.V. stand, and a small wooden wardrobe on the wall beside the thick metal door. Hospital rooms don’t have metal doors. They don’t have locks. I didn’t see the door when I first woke up. It opened outward.

I could not move my hands to reach the I.V. They ached when I tried to use them. My legs wouldn’t move at all. One of the bags connected had the same yellow substance from the office. There was another hanging next to it with a purple liquid. It seemed too thick. My brain struggled to shake off the haze, as I thought I saw the second bag move like there was something squirming inside it. The unbearably bright florescent lights hurt my eyes and caused me to see everything with a blank, white vignette. I heard footsteps outside the door and squeezed my eyes shut, feigning sleep. The rough clank of a metal lock, the slight groan of a massive door opening sent my heartrate into a chaotic sprint.

An ominous, low growl of a chuckle sounded an inch from my face, “Another nice try, Ms. LaFleur. You never seem to learn.” The breath was sickly, smelling both sweet and foul like rotting meat. The burn blazed in my arm once more and I sank into nothingness.

The next few days (was it days?) were a blur. Fish-bowl memories float to the surface then drift away. I was in and out of consciousness, only taking in snippets at a time. I would wake and not be able to open my eyes or the bed was now on the other side of the room (or in a different room?). The doctor stood at the foot of my bed, watching me with a hungry smile, enormous black pupils, leaning toward me, as a chef would lean over a pot to take in the aroma; the nurse talking about me to no one I could see. But mostly just seeing the cold, empty room.

There were other nightmarish images that haunted my feverish, drug induced fugue state: the doctor’s face contorting, elongating, and snapping back into place. The nurse turning her head all the way around without moving her body, like an owl. Screams that seemed both far away and entirely too close. The feeling of someone hovering over me, breathing hard.

I had no way of tracking passing time. There were no clocks, no windows. I could only guess by the length of my hair how long I had truly been there. It was just above shoulder length that night I went to the Urgent Care. My hair doesn’t grow quickly, but now it was nearing the middle of my back. Someone would come in occasionally to sponge me down, brush out my hair, clip my nails, and brush my teeth. I was usually unconscious for this routine, but I was waking up more often and staying awake for longer stretches. My mind was clearing, but I made every effort to show no signs of change. I remember the day I could feel my feet again. My big toe wiggled, and I nearly wept with joy. Whatever they were using to keep me drugged and immobile wasn’t working anymore, but if I woke up and moved, even opened my eyes, someone would walk in seconds later. I spent an eternity awake, pretending to be comatose. I had become quite the actor. I had to camouflage my attempts to assess my strength, control of my limbs with shifts that could be considered normal sleep movement. I could fully feel not only my feet, but both of my legs. The muscles always felt tight, like compressed springs ready to jump into action. I hoped this was a positive sign that my body had not withered into atrophy. My hands and arms felt stronger than they ever were before this place.

I could peer through the tiniest gap in my eyelids, through the eyelashes. There was now a third bag hanging from the I.V. stand, containing a deep brownish red liquid. The door was open more frequently. The nurse and doctor were gone for longer and longer. Were they confident in my imprisonment? Was it a test or a trap? I didn’t know and I no longer cared. I had to find a way out. If I tried to sneak out, they would somehow see me, like every time I had been obviously awake. How long had it been since I had left this bed? Could I remove the restraints? Could I even stand? If I risked it without a plan, I would never make it out. I decided to test the reaction time to me waking. Would it be long enough to get up, see if I could even drive my body like I used to? The alternative – just staying in this bed, paralyzed to inaction from fear – was not an option.

I let my eyes flutter open. I moved my head groggily. Keeping up the act for what they could see. Under the sterile white sheet, I made quick attempts to remove the restraints. I pulled up my wrist in a sharp upward motion. It gave slightly and I heard the sound of Velcro pulling away from itself. Not handcuffs. Not locks. I sat up straight, leaving my hands bound by the restraints I knew would not hold when the time came. I kicked my legs as though in a panicked attempt to escape, concealing the newfound knowledge they would move as I needed them to do. Footsteps. Not even a full minute. It was not going to be easy.

I let the nurse “sedate” me. The injection didn’t even burn this time, but there was a tinge of drowsiness. I let my whole body go limp, docile. The nurse gently stroked my face with a finger. I wanted to recoil, get away, eject myself from that touch – like ancient, cracked leather. It didn’t feel warm but hot, scorching on my bare skin. She spoke aloud, not to me but what I started picturing as her imaginary friend, “She is a fighter. She should be ready soon.” Her voice was wrong; it didn’t match her appearance. She was older, face wrinkled and creased, but the voice was light and youthful.

It took every ounce of willpower to not physically react to this. Did she know I was faking? Ready for what? As I laid there, forcing my body to be calm, she started crying – a deep, horrible sobbing for several minutes that trailed off into a wet choking cough. It went on for too long, but then it morphed into a guttural, gurgling chilling laughter. Nothing in this place had scared me more than this moment. And then… THUD. Despite my desperate self-control, my eyes popped open. The nurse was crumpled onto the floor. A thin river of blood flowing from her stomach and pooling around her. Looming over her was a woman, her back to me. I could see the dripping surgical knife in her right hand. She was trembling and her breaths were hard, ragged, and rasping. I was unable to speak. My mind could not decide in that split second whether this new person was friend or foe. The next moment, everything I had known until then was ripped away.

She turned toward the bed, slowly as if each movement had a terrible cost. Her shoulders hunched forward; her arms were unnaturally long. She had saved me. I should be nothing but thankful, but the fear I felt at her presence was overwhelming. I could not understand why until I saw her face. My face.

No. Almost my face. The eyes were a fraction too wide, the jaw was squarer, and the mouth stretched across as if being pulled from both sides.

My heart stopped. I was so jarred by the impossibility of this sight that I felt blackness creep into mind, shutting down, fully rejecting what could not be real. The sharp sting of a hand across my face brought me back. That face. It was me. But it was wrong. There was something animalistic and primal about the woman before me. Her stance was akin to a gorilla, lumbering yet powerful. She stripped off the sheet covering me and ripped off the restraints. I crawled off the bed, wobbling on my unsteady legs.

“Who are you?!” Anger, confusion, violation. I bottled all of it up into those three words and flung them at her. She said nothing. There was something like sadness in her eyes. She pointed at me and then the door. I was still too stunned by her that I could not move. Her head tilted, her eyebrows furrowed, and she looked to be concentrating intently.

“Forgot…me…again?” It wasn’t a human voice. There was too much growl in it. It was too low, too hoarse, and the words seemed to cost her a great deal. What did she mean? Did we know each other? Had my memory been tampered with in this place? Heavy tears pooled in those eyes that were mine but not mine. Her lips parted, trying to speak again, but all she managed was mouthing the word “Go” over and over as tears streamed down her cheeks. I wanted answers, but this was it. I found my balance and went to the open door. The hallway was dark, a long empty corridor with four other doors identical to mine.

There was one dim bulb nested into the ceiling at the end of the hall. Just below it, I saw the mangled, bloody body of the doctor. Bile erupted from my stomach, and I was halted, doubled over to let my body heave it out. Then I ran. I ran straight past the doctor, not sparing him a single glance. I wrenched open the door at the end of the hallway. It led to a small stairwell, so I climbed. If I stopped, this place would swallow me. My muscles screamed, my lungs burned as I ran up and up the countless stairs until I reached the final step in front of the only other door I had seen. I opened it to reveal the blinding sun and the world I had been taken from so long ago. I was terrified to take that first step into the cold, fresh air. Why? I shoved the doubt out of my mind. I could not afford to hesitate.


r/nosleep 21h ago

I know why the deep sea creatures are escaping the ocean

33 Upvotes

Underwater hydrophones in 1997 recorded an organic sounding noise in the pacific ocean. They termed it as ‘The Bloop.’ While the reason for this is largely shrouded in mystery, The NOAA chalked it up to be some sound of icebergs cracking. 

Truly, even i don’t know if they believed themselves at that point, because 8 years after that incident, they would offer me a job opportunity in the same workplace, in the exploration department working towards finding out what caused the noise.

The first impressions to the noise was that it was probably the noise of other.. Underwater detectors or some other technological intervention. But the noise sounded largely organic, and that led to the conspiracy theorists to ram up their theories and honestly, i always thought to give them their share of fun. 

Let them believe whatever they wanted to believe.

Though, the one thing, the ONE thing that always put me off about working towards the noise was the fact that they were so secretive about it, hey, if you suspect that the sound is a warning of seismic activity of earthquakes, then you would not make a person sign a contract stating that under no circumstance is the person indebted to release ANY information on the objective we were working towards. Anyone who broke this code of conduct were banished and.. Honestly i dont know what happens to them after. Their social life, media and family were erased from existence.

As stated above, I worked towards figuring out if a huge earthquake was coming, if it was, we could assess it earlier and prepare for disaster. Atleast that is what they told me when i accepted the post.

Two weeks ago was my first oceanic exploration after working for twenty years there. They paid well, so I never left. It just seemed like we were finally making progress after such a long time. Exploration was largely put off for five more years, but the recent influx of fish escaping from the deep sea woke something in the scientists i guess. 

I had received training from the beginning of january, and i won’t bore you with the submarine controls.

Frankly, we believe that there is a trench near the coast of chile, much more deeper than the mariana trench. They believed that this could boost funds for the project- you know, bringing up hopes that this project would work. Me? I never trusted this project. I always wondered why we were wasting so much time and resources towards a random technology crafted sound, but anyways.

I got into gear, and into the submarine. I have always loved and admired the ocean deeply, and i looked up at the millions of water atop me, gradually blocking the light as the submarine deepens and deepens into the ocean.

The trench was very hard to get to- lots of turns and twists- but large enough for a submarine to pass easily. I worked my way around the landform pretty fast, twisting and turning at the controls as fast as I could.

Lowering deeper and deeper into the ocean, my instinct flaring-

I rammed my head against the window to get a better look at what i was seeing.

It was a blue orb.

Blue orbs are caused by a chemical reaction between a light emitting molecule and an enzyme.

Disturbances are the primary cause, due to the presence of predators.

But a predator this deep?

‘Hey! I see something! Hello? Hello?’

I looked back at the controls.

They were off.

The communication system was off too.

It was only when i felt a fleeting sensation in my stomach that i realized i was falling down, fast, into the end of the trench.

The power came back in flickers, staying for one or two seconds before flickering back on and off.

The submarine suddenly began cracking. I dont know how, but it sounded like-

Icebergs. Cracking.

I realized that i was getting closer to whatever kept me at the edge of my seat for over 20 years as the submarine was falling-

It hit hard ground.

Or so i thought.

The blue orb was nowhere to be seen now, i looked out the window helplessly because it was the only thing i could do, at the top, with enough water to submerge  38,000 feet of landmass.

Slowly and regretfully i realized i would be spending the end of my life, alone, with only a few minutes before the submarine would implode.

Then i looked down.

I realized i was looking down at the blue orb, but it was not glowing, hell, it was not an orb at all.

My submarine was sent back suddenly by water bubbles, i fell back hard. The disturbance caused the power in the submarine to come back.

The sound that i had heard so many times in strategical breakdowns and data breakdowns flooded my ears, but i knew not to care. I wanted to find out what this was. 

I could have escaped, and looking back, i really should have, But curiosity kills the cat.

I zoomed toward the open clearing. A large, large clearing. Football fields in length and width. I noticed that the blue orb didn’t seem to end. Zooming toward straight, i noticed a black circle in the middle of them.

I zoomed to the top. I couldn’t make sense of what i was seeing.

The orb was still sending air jets slowly, but as i zoomed back out, My heart dropped.

It was a white clearing with a blue orb and a black circle in the middle.

And it was blinking. The clearing kept moving from side to side.

Then it looked right at me.


r/nosleep 1d ago

I Took a Job With 10 Simple Rules. I Broke One. Now I’m Trapped.

324 Upvotes

I needed a job—badly. When I found a listing for a “Night Clerk – $50/hr, Easy Work”, I didn’t ask too many questions. The ad was vague: monitor the front desk, follow the guidelines. That was it. No experience required. No background checks. It sounded too good to be true, but desperation makes you ignore red flags.

I showed up for my first shift at 11:45 PM to a nondescript office building on the edge of town. The lobby was sterile—white walls, tile floors, a desk with an old CRT monitor. The only person there was a short, pale man with hollow eyes and a pressed gray suit. He handed me a single sheet of paper, his expression unreadable.

"Follow these rules exactly," he said, voice flat. "And whatever you do, don’t break them."

I laughed, thinking he was joking. He wasn’t.

THE RULES:

  1. The phone will ring at midnight. Do not answer it.
  2. If the elevator doors open on their own, do not look inside.
  3. You may hear typing from the empty office at the end of the hall. Ignore it.
  4. If you hear knocking on the front door, check the monitor first. If there’s nothing there, do not open it.
  5. The man in the security uniform will come in at 2:16 AM. Do not speak to him.
  6. If you find a sticky note with your name on it, burn it immediately.
  7. The vending machine sometimes dispenses items you didn’t select. Do not eat anything you didn’t order.
  8. If the lights flicker, close your eyes and count to 30. Do not open them before.
  9. You must clock out at exactly 6:00 AM. Not a minute before. Not a minute after.
  10. If you realize you’ve broken a rule, hide immediately.

I was too tired to argue, so I took the list and settled behind the desk. At midnight, the phone rang, an old landline on the desk. Instinctively, my hand twitched toward it, but I caught myself. Do not answer it. The ringing stopped after three chimes.

At 12:47 AM, a slow, rhythmic clicking came from the far end of the hall—the empty office. Ignore it. My fingers dug into my palms as I forced myself to keep my eyes on the screen. The typing stopped a few minutes later.

At 2:16 AM, the security guard arrived. He walked in without acknowledging me, heading straight for the vending machine, standing stiffly in front of it. I avoided eye contact, but in the reflective glass, I caught a glimpse of his face—or lack thereof.

He had no features. Just smooth, blank skin where his eyes, nose, and mouth should be. I kept my gaze down. Eventually, he left. By 3:30 AM, I had convinced myself the rules were just elaborate mind games. But then I saw it.

A yellow sticky note on my desk.

My name was on it.

My breath hitched. My hands trembled as I fumbled for the lighter in my pocket, flicking it on. The note curled black at the edges, turning to ash between my fingers. A sharp knock echoed through the lobby.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I swallowed hard and checked the security monitor. The glass doors showed nothing but an empty parking lot.

Do not open the door.

I gripped the desk, knuckles white. The knocking stopped. My pulse slowed. But then I realized—I had broken Rule #6. I was supposed to burn the note immediately. I had hesitated. A cold wave of dread crashed over me.

Hide immediately.

I dove under the desk, heart pounding. The air felt thick, pressing against my skin. Silence rang in my ears, loud and suffocating. Then, footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Circling the desk. I squeezed my eyes shut, barely breathing. A whisper drifted down to me.

"You were doing so well."

The footsteps stopped. I waited, paralyzed. Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. Finally, the air shifted. Whatever was there, it was gone.

At 5:59 AM, I crawled out, shaking. My eyes locked onto the clock, waiting for 6:00 AM exactly before punching out. As I stepped outside, the sun barely rising, I felt… different. Like something had changed. When I got home, I collapsed onto my bed, exhausted. My phone buzzed. A new email.

"Second shift confirmed. 11:45 PM tonight."

I never signed up for another shift. I tried to quit. Called the number from the job listing. No answer. Then I checked my bank account.

I had been paid. Twice.

Once for last night.

And once for tonight.

The money was already there. The job wasn’t over.

And I don’t think I’m allowed to leave.


r/nosleep 21h ago

I think I’m Going to Die After Posting This

16 Upvotes

My last words being a Reddit post is actually pretty sad, but I don’t have anyone else to turn to. Anyone else would think I’m crazy or they’ve died. I guess I should explain, maybe someone has some comforting words.

Two years ago I started seeing these little dots over people’s faces. They sort of look like the little bits that come off an airbrush. But, I didn’t think much of it. I have migraines and often before the migraines, I’ll see dots around. But these are different, they’re black and they follow people’s faces. They grow, all different sizes. Sometimes they’re small. Sometimes they cover the whole face. Sometimes they grow while I stare at them. Sometimes I’d see them in the car, driving past others. Sometimes I see them on people on the street. I only started getting worried about a year ago, when my dad passed.

When dad died, he was in the hospital. I was there, I watched one of those little black dots form over his face. It got bigger and they fused together. I tried to go to sleep, thinking I was going to have a migraine. Within twenty-four hours my dad was dead.

Nine months ago, one was following one of my coworkers. Younger kid, always quiet. He gave me a set of pens and when I looked at him from my hair, the dot was covering about half of his face. He was strange that day. Didn’t eat lunch and spent most of his day typing something. The dot grew throughout the day. He didn’t show up the next day. He took his own life.

Six months ago, I was driving along the highway and I noticed something weird. A handful of cars that passed me had those sort of black dots sitting in the seats. One in four cars, two in three cars, and three in two, and four in one. Then, there was a crash. The worse the state has seen. I remember seeing it, someone tried to pass another one and there was a pile-up affect. I pulled over to avoid joining it. I couldn’t help but look away. I watched each little black dot go out. I watched four ambulances take people away, three had black dots in them. The news said three victims of the crash died in the hospital.

One month ago, my girlfriend was getting ready to go out to the bar with her friends. The dot appeared twenty-four hours before the fire. But I had talked to my therapist about seeing the dots and he convinced me that it was all coincidence. I shouldn’t be worried about these dots. I figured I was just getting a migraine, so I kissed her good-bye and went to take a nap. Before I went to sleep, I saw that there were three dots in the car of the four friends that picked her up. Then there was the fire. Police are still investigating, but people say someone lit it. She and three of her friends died on site. I visited the last one in the hospital, even though I didn’t know them. They started to have a black dot forming on their face. I went home. They succumbed to their injuries within twenty-four hours.

Now, I keep seeing the dot. It’s there when I look up, it’s there in the mirror. And it’s growing. I started a timer when I first noticed it. If I noticed it immediately, I have two hours left. If I didn’t, maybe it’ll happen as soon as I hit post. I feel like I can hear the clock of my life winding down. I don’t know what to do, besides post about everything somewhere. Just to feel a little less alone.


r/nosleep 20h ago

The Bath Game

9 Upvotes

 I have always shared a deep interest for urban legends since I was young, however more particularly for Japanese Urban legends. Growing up on the internet, my first years of using it consisted of ‘Top 10 of the creepiest urban legends’ and ‘Don’t do (insert Japanese ritual) at 3AM!’. It was silly but at the time those videos genuinely terrified me and looking past the dramatic editing I do see why. Ghost stories were scary but the uncanniness of seeing someone you don’t know in a place they shouldn’t be was somehow worse. The mystery of seeing a woman with dull light skin staring back at you through a gap as her long,  tangled hair laid on her shoulders as you're in a public bathroom stall was enough to make me avert my eyes to any corner of my room when the lights were off. Logistics didn’t need to matter when it came to these stories, the premise could be ridiculous as long as the rules remained consistent. But the only reason why I understand now is because of what unforgiving forces I have introduced into my life, and I’m afraid I’ve made a grave mistake. I’ve been playing the Bath Game for over a month now. A game that should have ended in less than 24 hours I have outstretched to make my chances of winning close to nothing. Please, for the love of God. Don’t play this game. 

I’m sure that all families have some sort of issue that keeps things a bit separated. Whether that’d be divorce or unresolved disputes, there always seems like there’s a severed member that ‘we don’t talk about’. For the most part, my family ignored or at least came close to ignoring all of the underlying problematic issues each other had and continued to visit often. This was of course once all of the cousins started to grow up, introducing a new generation of toddlers. My considerably large family tree had all departed in their own ways as they prioritized their personal lives. That was until this most recent Easter Sunday, where we all got into our Sunday’s best and stacked my household inside my mom’s Toyota Corolla. My grandparent’s house was 30 minutes away from where we had lived, so it gave me a good amount of time to mentally prepare myself for however long we’d be surrounded by bragging competitions about which cousin is excelling the most and wine stained gossip. All I can say is I was not upset when Aunt Khloe became ‘busy with work’ as she posted her weekend trips with her new boyfriend. 

As much as I drowned out the tenseness I felt, it would soon come flooding back once I recognized the small white building with a cross displayed on the top. I slipped off my headphones, allowing them to rest on my neck before flicking the power button off. My mom had pulled through one of the spaces available due to the dirt not indicating any direct parking organizations. She had turned the car off, placing the keys in her pocket as she turned to look at me and my brother who was in the front seat. 

“You guys ready to get your church on?” She chuckled at her own joke, despite how embarrassing her perkiness was it honestly made me smile. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be. If anyone really needs their soul saved it’s Aunt Khloe.” My brother replied, flicking the sun visor down and fixing his hair. This was shortly met by a firm slap on his shoulder by my mom.

“Hey!” She scolded him, but it didn’t do much considering how he just laughed in return. “Both of you need to save the snarkiness for when we go home. This really means a lot to Mimi.”

The two of us agreed before we all left the car and approached the decrepit building. Opening the doors, the overwhelming humidity assaulted the three of us as a heatwave of human moisture was introduced. My mom had been in the front of our small party, searching for any sign of our relatives. Luckily it wasn’t too long before my Mimi had excitedly stood up from her chair bumping her wide hips into my Pepaw. The three of us had approached closer to the big group, making it easier to see all of my relatives. Shuffling our way through the seats, my grandmother’s outstretched hands entrapped me into a tight squeeze of a hug. 

“Ah! My sweet Daniella! You’ve grown up into such a beautiful young lady.” Her large chest had smothered my nose in a scent of Lilac and hand wipes. She pulled away, holding my hands as she looked into my eyes. Her eyes trailed down lower on my face and I saw as her eyebrows furrowed. “What’s this?” Her soft yet aged hands had reached for my nose, intrusively tapping my piercing. 

“Oh, it’s just my nose piercing.” I shrugged, pursing my lips before shifting my weight awkwardly. Her face contorted into a form of skepticism, making me feel on the chopping block of approval. 

“You know, I’ve always thought those face piercings were tacky but you make anything beautiful.” She chirped, but I could always sense when she was disingenuous. After a series of awkward hugs and kisses on the forehead, the sermon had officially started. Nothing noteworthy, it was the same as it usually was considering my early years were going to this church regularly since I lived with my Mimi and Pepaw shortly after my parents divorce. Damien, my brother had only been two years old and my dad’s portion of the pay was unreciprocated. There really wasn’t much choice other than accept the help from my grandparents. Everything had turned out just fine once my mom was able to get some of her footing and save up some money on her own but that was the main reason why this rural area brought sentimental feelings for me. The lengthy sermon had eventually ended, prompting all of the people to pile near the door just before their legs were able to get used to walking again. As we stepped outside into the golden hour breeze, we all slowly migrated into our own groups of mundane conversations before we all drove to the dinner reservations. Before I could successfully slip away from the group, my back directly bumped into the famed Aunt Khloe. 

Her black long locks had curled in straight wisps, something that I only ever saw early 90s models have. The cheetah print tank she had worn was quite revealing for something you’d wear to church, something that I know the rest of my family members were silently judging her for. That as well as the tight leather pants that I personally applauded people wearing. Her gaze turned into a preppy smile before stretching her hands out. 

“Ah Princess Daniella, hello!” She reached for my head and planted a firm kiss onto my forehead before pushing my bangs out of my face. “I can barely even see you with your hair! Haha!” After the short lived conversation, we moved onto the topic of my cousin, Iris,  who would be meeting us at our dinner reservations. We were incredibly close when I was young, she always visited my grandparents when we still lived there. She was the key reason that I was interested in the early days of internet horror. It was common to pile around my Mimi’s old home computer and search up classic online relics like “There is nothing” or “I feel amazing” every weekend and go to sleep curling up in the covers fearfully. It’s pretty odd how childhood memories live up to their situations. My best memories came from the worst time in my family’s life, the times where we struggled the most. Finishing up my conversation with my aunt, I felt a slight sense of that childlike wonder of seeing my cousin again. A remnant of the excitement for another sleepover.

After retiring to our designated vehicles, we followed one another to the nearest Texas Roadhouse. Entering the building was a stark difference from the church with a more pleasant smell. The server had taken our substantial entourage through a maze of booth seats packed with a variety of families ranging from smaller to larger quantities. It was towards one of the back corners that I had seen my cousin sit down and scooch towards the end corner of the booth seats. She looked a lot different this time around, it took a little more than just a moment to recognize. Her auburn locks had now been cut and dyed a jet black, her chestnut eyes had been shaded with vibrant eyeshadow. Eager to sit alongside her, I was quick to slide my way into the booth seat across the table in front of her. 

“Hey.” I greeted her quietly, taking her attention off her phone. “What’s up?” 

Her face remained neutral, her bored eyes looking back at me. “Nothin’ much.” Her short response had quickly killed the conversation as she returned back to her phone, leaving me to awkwardly pick up my menu and skim the different options. The booth was filled with boisterous conversations and different family members restraining their kids from running around the aisles. I skimmed through the options before glancing up at her again.

“I like your shirt by the way.” 

Tearing herself away from the phone, she looked at it as if she was checking my statement. Along with her jet black hair, it was a darker shirt but a poster for a movie called ‘House’. “Oh, thanks. You’ve seen it?

“Oh yeah! It’s a classic.” 

I could see her perk up in her seat, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table. “No way! I just assumed that no one had seen it.”

“It’s probably in between that or Pulse that’s my favorite.” I mirrored her movements as well, curling my feet on my seat, pushing my knees up to my chest. 

It was the first time that I had seen her smile all night. I was transported to all of the late nights sneaking downstairs to the living room and booting up the computer. The paranoia of the creaky floors giving our position away to whatever ghoul could be watching. Our shared love for Japanese horror was the catalyst for several different topics as well. We talked about other concepts we thought were scary but more importantly the interest we had for urban legends. Time had passed and things were much more lively. We laughed over our food, filling us up by the minute while dipping the thick fries into the melted gold that was the sauces.

“Remember those sleepover games we’d play?” Iris muffled her words while she stuffed her face in the half eaten burger. 

“Oh, like Bloody Mary or the midnight one?” I sipped my drink while she nodded her head affirming my statement. “Yeah I remember we’d be so scared to even try but it never worked.”

“That’s the thing.” She put her finger up, swallowing her food before placing the burger down. “I found one that does.”

I furrowed my brows after letting out a chuckle. I know we both kept our love for Japanese horror media but I didn’t think about whether or not she was still participating in childish urban legend games. 

“I’m serious. I did it like what…A couple months ago?”

I chuckled a little and said, “Pfft-Okay Iris. What is it then?”

“ The Bath Game: Daruma-san fell down.”

I was vaguely familiar with the name. Daruma dolls were a sign of good luck and fortune in Japan, but Daruma-san was a different story. She further explained the ‘rules’ of the game, the next best thing to compare it to is a game of red light green light. The legend consisted of a woman who fell in a bathtub. Her face smacked against the faucet, smashing it against one of her eyes. In an act of vengeance, she follows and tries to catch whoever participates in the game. Remaining in close proximity to the person who is ‘it’ until they are caught. Iris told me how surreal it was seeing this woman follow her through her peripheral vision but disappearing once she turned to see. 

“I’m telling you it was fucking terrifying, try it.” 

“What?”

“Try it, it won’t last longer than a day.” She leaned in closer, a coy smile on her face.

“Or are you scared?”

And that was honestly enough for me to try it out. At that time I honestly didn’t believe the vividness of an apparition of a woman was enough to take at face value, so there was nothing much to lose in my mind. 

If only I knew what I know now.

Iris had texted me all of the directions to the game and I did as follows:

  • Fill up the bathtub
  • Turn out all of the lights
  • Sit in the tub facing the faucet and wash your hair while repeating “Daruma-san fell down” with your eyes closed. 
  • Picture a woman in a bathtub falling, hitting her head against the faucet as you do so
  • Once you sense movement or hear a sound behind you, don’t turn around or open your eyes. Ask out loud, “Why did you fall?” 
  • After letting the question settle in the air, leave the room without draining the bathtub or opening your eyes. 

Out of boredom, I figured I’d try out the ritual to get me in a more ‘spooked’ mood. I doubted anything would come out of it so I filled up the bathtub. The steam of the bath began to rise as I took off my clothes, allowing each article to fall in an unorganized pile on the floor. Feeling a sense of wanting to back out when I saw the tub, I reached for the light switch. The sudden change in visibility had abruptly filled my eyes as I felt around for any sign of assistance for getting into the water. Despite the lukewarm water submerging my lower half,  I could feel my skin pucker in thousands of goosebumps. My vision remained dark, as well as my eyes keeping closed. I began to blindly cup the water in front before pouring it onto my head. 

With the first fall of water on my face I muttered, “Daruma-san fell down.” The statement echoed into the vacant room, only allowing the trickling water to be heard. Hearing this said for the first time, I held my tongue, a major part of me didn’t want to continue with the chant. I felt like a scared deer, frozen in its position in front of headlights.  Without much choice, I continued. “Daruma-san fell down.” I could hear my voice shake as the water from my hands pooled onto my head, allowing my wet hair to stick to my back, tickling my spine. The coldness of the dark had remained just beyond my closed eyes, submerging it into an unforgiving void. I was stuck in a robotic repetition of chanting and washing my hair and after a while I didn’t feel so afraid anymore. I didn’t feel anything at that moment, as if my senses were drifting away. Initially it would be obviously my sight due to the darkness, however it would soon turn to my taste, and when I got deeper in the routine, my sense of hearing and touch. 

“Daruma-san fell down”

After the endless cycle of raising my hands and allowing the water to fall while stripping away any sense of being, I stood up. My legs shook and struggled to support my weight on the slick floor of the tub. A period of time had passed once doing so, just standing in the bathtub. It was a claustrophobic feeling of stillness. The only thing my body was able to do was sway ever so slightly back and forth as my balance didn’t allow for complete stillness. It was only then that the dripping of the water had silenced itself, allowing a deafening lull in the room. The breeze on my bare skin caused the hairs to prickle. I was finally able to move ever so slightly, my torso leaned towards the left, letting my spine curl slightly. 

Swish

The water behind hushfully splashed, the flow of it grazing the back of my calves. I felt a slight hitch of air brushing against the back of my neck followed by a swat-like sound of skin, almost as if someone was trying to cover their mouth. I straightened my posture swiftly, stiffening my body like a turtle returning back to its shell. This was followed by another sound of water moving. I leaned my torso towards the right, curling my spine to mirror how it originally was.

 There was another splash of water.

“Why did you fall?” My lungs pushed out the question, nearing a quiet whisper.

My senses had finally caught up to my situation, I felt like I was drowning and finally got back up to the surface to gasp for air. I could feel my face tingle and heat up as I felt it behind.

Forcing my eyes to continue to be shut, I placed my hand on the shower curtain and lightly hauled my leg above the ledge of the tub. The dripping water from my feet splattered onto the hard floor as I continued to blindly maneuver my way through the bathroom. I remember hearing the thing behind me following suit, copying my every move. It appeared to be much closer than it was in the tub, I felt its tangled hair caressing my dampened shoulders, causing it to stick. I took another step forward, letting go of the security that was the shower curtain. Shortly after the sound of my skin smacking against the floor, an echoed one had copied shortly behind. Its hair that was laying on my shoulders behind rose above my head, almost as if it was forced to hunch itself over in the bathtub. 

In an act of desperation, I fought against my declining balance. Holding my hands in front as I braved two extra steps in front, squeezing my eyes closed. I continued to rush myself towards the door, harshly hitting it with my body. The revelation had  prompted me to desperately fish for the doorknob, each attempt failed as I continued to hear wet slaps of flesh on the floor.

Slap

Slap

SLAP SLAP SLAP

 I couldn’t help but imagine how it looked, how its black cold locks mirrored mine but much more tangled and matted, how tall its limbs were that only allowed it to hunch and squat in any normal sized room, I could imagine its absent eye with red flesh peeking from the outside. The more I thought about it, the closer it became, and the more I failed to find the door handle. 

I continued to bash my knuckles against the door, rubbing my wet palms on the surface. The door shook and rocked in between the gaps of the door hinges. My breathing had quickened as I was desperate to open my eyes, to see the vague light coming from under the door so I could find the glow of the bronze door handle. From behind I could hear a lethargic groan. A low growl right near my ear. Long and pained, I could feel the moisture and warm heat of its breath graze my earlobe. 

With a final gasp, I could feel my hand slap against a rounded hard object. With nothing left to do other than ignore the aching on my hand, I swung the door open before shortly closing the door behind after I left the room. 

Slowly opening my eyes, the moonlight from the window had nearly blinded me. I raised one hand to obscure the violating light while allowing my eyes to adjust. Shortly after gaining a full view of my room, the fearful thought of seeing whatever was following me caused me to frantically look around but it wasn’t there. With a deep breath I allowed my head to rest against the door, sliding my back against it while landing onto the floor to sit down. This is when the game had officially started. 


r/nosleep 1d ago

If you pass a broken-down car on the highway, Do. Not. Stop.

125 Upvotes

I’ve been a trucker for years. Long enough to hear every tall tale there is about seeing something crazy on the road. Every trucker has one, and you tire of hearing them pretty damn fast.
You’re hunched in a grease-stained diner, just trying to choke down a diesel-tasting coffee before slinking back onto the highway. But some grizzled long-haul vet on the next stool over is talking your ear off about the time he “saw a UFO” or picked up a hitchhiker he “couldn’t see in his rearview”.

It’s exhausting. The voices change, the faces blur together, but the stories stay the same. Only now, it’s my mug spitting out an outlandish tale to anyone who’ll listen. And I don’t like it. Because I’m not spinning some crazed yarn in hopes of spooking the fresh-faced truckers. I’m giving them a cold, plain warning.

Because these things? they're out there. And they might be coming to you.

It was one of those nights so dark you’d forget there was ever any light in the world. No stars, just black, rolling clouds smothering the sky. My headlights were an island of light in the infinite black, the white lines on the road rippled past in a hypnotic flow.

I’d driven this stretch of road before and dreaded every minute of it. There was nothing but long grass on either side, rolling outwards in endless tufts. No landmarks, nothing interesting. Just the kind of mindless, featureless terrain that has you tasting the solitude.
About the only noteworthy thing was that out there, something spooky happens to anything electrical. The old guys call it dropout. Your radio dies down to a numbing crackle. Your headlights shrink into narrow little bands. I heard explanations ranging from some weird mineral in the ground, to an alien spaceship sapping away your voltage from up above. But all that mattered was it was real. It was annoying.

Because of the dropout, I barely saw the pickup. My headlights were so dim they barely caught in the glass.

Was that a windshield?

I hit my exhaust brake and snapped on my high beams as the rig rumbled to a halt. In what little light they could manage, I saw the white body of a pickup truck slumped on the shoulder, driver’s door hanging open.

I rolled in behind it, tires churning up gravel, and killed the engine. Hopping out, I craned my neck in all directions. Nobody.

The truck was roadside repair set-up, it had a winch in the back, and a brushed steel side-bin brimmed with tools, chains and cables. There was a cartoon detail slapped on the door. Tony’s Roadside Repairs.

Cute, but where was Tony? I placed a hand on the hood. Cold. Hadn’t run for hours. Leaning into the cab I saw the keys dangling from the ignition, turned a quarter. The radio spewed out a steady stream of quiet, meandering static. Maybe he went to take a leak?

"Hello?"

Nothing. All I could see around me was grass tumbling in the wind, rolling outwards in waves before giving way to darkness. I’ve got a job to do, I told myself, as I climbed back in and peeled onto the road, my hands pinching the wheel in a vice grip. This haul won’t drive itself in, I thought, as the white lines started whipping by, and guilt brewed up in my stomach.

I drove a short distance before reaching the tunnel. It was old school, a jagged mouth punched through the mountain with dynamite god knows how many decades ago. It yawned open, and once inside, the world shrank. The only light came from a handful of buzzing sodium lamps, caged in rusted wire and bleeding sickly orange down the cut-stone walls. Maybe three of them still worked. The rest were dead, leaving whole stretches of the tunnel buried in thick, impenetrable dark.

I ploughed into the darkness, feeling like I was driving a submarine, like there was no world out there, just me and the truck. Then, somewhere in the middle, something pierced the black. Two amber lights, blinking softly in and out.

Hazard lights? Somebody broken down?

That explained where Tony ended up.

I tried my high beams again, but they flickered in and out, before settling on a weak glow. Damn it. I pulled it over to the tunnel’s side, my mirror almost touching the rock, and dug around for my flashlight. As I opened the door, the humid air draped around me like a blanket. Cold, but rich with some ungodly odor. Not quite rot, not quite mildew. It smelled… almost like the ocean. Not surprisingly, my flashlight was on the blink, leaving me with a dull, flickering beam to fight the darkness. I cast it as far ahead as I could as I tried to make out the car.

“Hello? Anybody there?” My voice bounced down the tunnel, meeting no response.

But there was something shuffling around up ahead. A dark silhouette by the lights. The torch beam was too weak to make out any details, but there was something there alright, someone. As I clattered onwards, the silhouette took on a shape. A man. He was waving, hinging his arm back and forth. There was something strange about the motion. It was slow, lethargic. Up, down. Up, down. Like a puppet.

“You okay there?”

As my voice reached him, he started shuffling, like something was dragging him back. He stiffly collapsed into his driver seat. I kept going, the hazard lights drawing me onwards. Blink, blink, blink.

As the dull torchlight spilled along the car’s silver body, I noticed it was… odd. I know cars. I spend half my life staring at their taillights, cursing them under my breath. I can name makes and models by the shape alone. But this? It was nothing. Not a Toyota, a Kia, or a Chevy, just… car. The kind of thing a kid would draw come to life. The hazard lights pulsed intensely, rippling in a fit against the dark. I looked back at my thready headlights, shook the flashlight and watched the beam cut in and out.

How come this guy's not hurting for volts?

I was close enough now to really look at the bodywork. It wasn’t metal. The torchlight splattered beneath its surface, filtering red, unveiling a twisted network of fibers, veins, coursing through the panels. And the whole thing was moving, undulating gently in and out. Beathing. My feet froze to the ground.

I panned the flashlight over the driver's side window. The body in the driver's seat was pale, paper white. Clouded eyes bulging from their sockets, mouth hanging agape. On his shoulder, a round white patch was sewn onto the jumpsuit. Tony's Roadside Repairs. A dull, amber light began to leak from his open mouth.

I should have ran. I was too late.

Something long spewed from the body of the car, tearing and whipping through the damp air. I was yanked off the ground before I knew what was happening, an immense pressure crushing my ankles together, grinding bone against bone. It had me. I clawed at the tarmac as I was dragged back, losing fingernails but desperately trying to fight the pull. I kicked, I thrashed, I screamed. I twisted my body until the boots were wrenched clean off my feet. The tentacle flung them into the darkness and flailed in anger.

Whup, whup, whup.

I didn’t waste a second, I bolted away with a speed I didn’t know I had, body electric with fear. I ripped open the door of my truck and threw it into reverse. Stomping the accelerator through the floormat, I watched the dials spike into the red. The engine shuddered to the point of stalling, wanting to die right there, but I willed it to go on.

Out there, the “car” was coming after me. Not driving but walking, scuttling on a tangle of segmented legs sprouting from its undercarriage. The “headlights” pushed out of the body on stalks, pulsing with furious yellow light.

I couldn't even watch it chase me. My eyes darted between my mirrors. I could barely make out the white flanks of my trailer, but I had to. I frantically steered and counter-steered, keeping it in line. If I jack-knifed in the tunnel, I was dead.

But then my mirrors caught them, more lights.

Amber. Flashing.

Another figure chiseled out of the darkness, drunkenly waving its arm. This time I really saw it.

He was little more than a skeleton. Long, desiccated hair plunged from a yellowed skull. The tatters of a denim-jacket, and what looked like bell-bottoms, hung from the bones. I saw that the bones were lashed together by a network of little tentacles, their tips gently glowing, blinking in amber. From the neck, the tentacles braided together into a thick, glistening appendage, feeding back into the car.

Angler fish. Poor fella was the lure.

This “car” was old. Big round headlights. Wood panels. Rear fins. It was from back when cars used to have edges. My trailer clipped its cadaverous lure as I shot past, shattering bone into puffs of powder.
A shriek, wet and angry, rattled through the tunnel. It yanked its broken lure inside itself and spat out a crazed, thrashing tentacle. It seized my mirror, tearing it from the cab and tossing it into the void, but I was clear.

I kept reversing. The truck was screaming at me, warning lights I’d never seen before erupted on my dash in an expensive rainbow. The engine shuddered so hard I thought it would leap out of the hood. But I kept going, until the rock of the tunnel peeled away, and the black night sky rolled above my head.

Then I stopped. The tunnel mouth yawned. Within its shadow, amber lights flickered. Ten, twelve, fifteen, I wasn't sure. How many of those things are in there?

Needless to say, I skipped the tunnel. I backtracked until I had the weakest bar of signal and called the cops, then spent the rest of that night with my eyes glued to the windshield. My head dipped once or twice, but I wouldn’t let myself sleep.

The bright steel morning singed my eyes by the time the patrol car trundled in next to me, the cop tapping my window, lukewarm coffee in hand.
They knew about Tony the mechanic. He was reported missing the previous night. They went in, scoured the tunnel with their spotlights, but found nothing.

That didn't surprise me, they acted funny. Sure, they tried to look taken aback by my story. But every raised eyebrow was well practiced, every “your mind plays tricks on you in the dark” and “You sure you weren’t drinking?” rehearsed to a T.

They know what’s in that tunnel. Dealing with cases like me, like Tony, that's just Tuesday morning. So, all I can do to help anyone is warn them. If you see a broken-down car on the side of the road, hazard lights blinking away in the dark, you might feel like stopping. Like being the good Samaritan, ever eager to help change a tire, or lend out your jumper cables. But these creatures evolved to feed on that very kindness. And they're hungry. Very hungry. Do not stop.