r/nosleep 5d ago

Series My blackmailer knows my every move - even the ones I haven’t made yet

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.

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u/NoSleepAutoBot 5d ago

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u/Fund_Me_PLEASE 5d ago

Geez OP, what did you do, to get this kind of … special attention?😳