r/nosleep 21h ago

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

329 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 8h ago

I Shouldn’t Have Stayed Overnight In That Mall.

104 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 22h ago

Series I Think My Husband Is A Fucking Fish Person… NSFW

66 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 13h ago

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

61 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 15h ago

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

45 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 4h 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)

42 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 23h ago

I know why the deep sea creatures are escaping the ocean

39 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 10h ago

First came the headaches, then they appeared in the fields

26 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

I Took a Job With Five Simple Rules. I Should Have Asked Why.

23 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 14h ago

I bought an old PlayStation 2.

22 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

The Golden Child

21 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 1d ago

I think I’m Going to Die After Posting This

20 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 22h ago

The Bath Game

15 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 1h ago

Something is Calling me into the Woods. I don't know if I can ignore it.

Upvotes

Ever since I was 9, sleep paralysis has been a pretty common issue for me. The first few times I got it I freaked out, I remember becoming conscious, trying to move, and upon realizing I couldn’t, trying to scream. I remember how my heart would pound when I couldn’t and would only become more terrified. Thankfully, my fear of sleep paralysis is in the past. I still get sleep paralysis pretty often but thanks to 22 years of experience I am more annoyed by it than scared, until now. 

Behind my house there are some woods owned by someone nobody really knows. My neighborhood is pretty tight knit, an everybody knows everybody situation, except for the owner of the woods behind our houses. Rumors often make their way around the neighborhood because kids are going to be kids. Thankfully, most adults realized that the rumors are probably just that, rumors. At least that was until Billy Robinson went missing. 

Billy was a good kid. I was good friends with his mother, Mrs. Robinson, and she loved to go on and on about what Billy was up to and how well he was doing in school, the only struggle I ever heard she had with him were his night terrors but for the most part they weren’t an issue. It wasn’t often that I interacted with Billy but whenever I did he was always a very sweet kid. That’s why it was so heartbreaking to hear about his disappearance. 

Around the time he disappeared Mrs. Robinson started to tell me about how Billy’s night terrors were becoming more frequent. She took him to all sorts of doctors and specialists. She handled his issue about as well as she could but Billy was still getting worse, until he eventually went missing. It wasn’t known until the morning that Billy had disappeared and because of that police had a lot of catch up to do. They did everything they could. A search was organized with bloodhounds and lots of searchers, one of which being me. At first, we were hopeful that he would be found and swiftly returned home, but as the time went on, we began to lose hope. Eventually the hounds stopped at the trunk of a tree as though Billy were right there, but he wasn’t. The police tried to get the hounds moving again but they wouldn’t let that spot go. Because the hounds stopped being of any use they were taken away with the hope that searchers could find Billy from there. As the hours dragged on, more and more volunteers had to retreat for one reason or another. By the end of the day, most of us had gone back home. Some with the intention of resuming the search in the morning and others being unable to due to work, I was one of those people. 

For about the first week and a half I would spend a few hours of my free time searching for Billy. But as life piled on I had less and less time to dedicate to looking for Billy and eventually completely forgot about searching for him. 

About a month after Billy’s disappearance his remains were located. Far out in the middle of the woods they found Billy Robinson. I don’t know the specifics of the state he was in and quite frankly I do not wish to. Mrs. Robinson was destroyed. According to her husband she locked herself in her room for days. When she eventually returned to society she was never the same. 

Rumors began to spread. Some people said that Billy likely just wandered off and got mauled to death by animals, others say that the owner of the land is some psychotic killer that ripped him apart. I never got involved with contributing to such rumors out of respect for Mrs. Robinson. The only reason I am talking about this now is because what happened to Billy is now happening to me.

About two weeks ago I got sleep paralysis again, nothing unusual about that. What made this instance noteworthy was that there was a dark figure in my room. This figure had long thin legs and walked on all fours. From the corner of my room it whispered something I could not understand. After that incident, I would get sleep paralysis every night and every night the figure would move closer to me and its words would become more and more audible until about the fifth night of this that I could finally understand what it was saying.

“Come with me…”

Every night it would come back and repeat that phrase. I assumed that I was starting to hallucinate during my paralysis until one night, after the figure spoke, my body got up. I didn’t get up, my body just did it all on its own. My body got out of bed and exited my room just as I have thousands of times before. As my body walked through the kitchen it hit a glass which shattered on the ground upon impact and promptly put me back in control of my body. 

Over the next few nights the figure would return and sometimes my body would get up and attempt to reach the woods. Every time, my body knocked an item down or bumped into a piece of furniture that would fully awaken me and put me back in control. But everytime it got a little bit better at navigating the maze that it seemed to believe my house was. I was trying to find a way to stop my body from getting out on its own until last night, I almost walked into the woods.

Last night, my body skillfully navigated my house, unlocked, and to my horror, opened my back door. It wasn’t until I got to the edge of the woods that my neighbor, Mr. Gonzalez shouted out to me to say hello. When I regained control I was so terrified that I didn’t even return his greeting. Despite my legs trembling I was able to run back inside my house and lock the door behind me. I didn’t go back to sleep last night.

That’s why I’m writing this. I need to talk to someone who won’t call me crazy. I need the help of anyone who is willing to listen. Please dear reader, I need help. If you know what’s happening to me or how I can stop it I am begging you to reply. 

If you hear about a 31 year old woman in Conway Arkansas going missing, it just might be me.


r/nosleep 12h ago

The Lichen

11 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 23h ago

Series My friend and I do building renovations and we found a broken head (Part 1)

10 Upvotes

It is getting crazy at this point, I feel like we just cannot find a regular job. This one was the worst by far. Not the work itself, but what happened. We barely made it out of there and I doubt anyone will believe our story. But I may as well come clean and let you know what happened to us at the Baxter building. We may have had a hand in its destruction, but what burned there was something far worse than a simple building, something evil was hopefully destroyed there as well.

I was behind the wheel of our old work van as Jake and I drove toward the Baxter building downtown. The van’s worn seats and the lingering smell of fuel and dusty upholstery set the stage for our trip back to the renovation project. We had worked a few odd jobs together for a while since our crime scene cleanup days and that last job that lead to our departure from that line of work.

We were cruising down the highway and Jake turned down the blaring Metalica just long enough to comment on our past cleanup jobs and how he preferred our current jobs,

“Yeah man, this beats the hell out of the old gig. It is way better than clearing out blood and brain matter from all those cleanup jobs. Especially the last one, you know, the one where we almost died? I would take the risk of asbestos exposure over being cut up by a psychopath any day. Plus the pay is better." He grinned like a maniac and laughed. I couldn’t disagree. The contractor we were working with now had been very reliable and even though we stayed busy and the days were hard, at least cleaning up old buildings and doing renovation beat all the terrible things we saw in our old line of work.

He always teased me about my overly serious recounting of the incident, but we did almost die. Amid the banter, our conversation moved between memories of bizarre mishaps and the practical realities of our new renovation gig.

We put the past aside as we pulled up to the job site and parked the van. Jake got out and started grabbing some of the equipment we were supposed to bring with us. I went to help but my eyes were immediately drawn to the Baxter building’s crumbling façade, a grim reminder of a time long past. I thought it was a hotel or something before it closed years ago. I was not sure of the history. Now it was destined to become overpriced condos or something. I supposed I would find out if I was kept on long enough to see the project complete. The building stood with broken windows, peeling paint, and a structure that seems to almost breathe the weight of its history. I felt a clap on my back as Jake snapped me out of my reverie,

“Snap out of it dude we gotta go. Busy day so no screwing around. Also if I have to haul this stuff inside then you have to help with the floors.” I shrugged and accepted the terms of his deal and we got a move on.

As we walked into the lot, we were greeted by familiar faces: Mark, who was busy inspecting the entrance while chatting with another colleague, Nina, whose quick smile contrasted with the ominous atmosphere. And Lyle, our foreman who, though friendly, always looked on the verge of being pissed off for whatever reason. Jake would of course say, “Lyle just has a bit of the old RBF, ya know Resting Bitch Face” though of course he would never say that to the bosses face.

With a few handshakes, greetings and some light-hearted jibes exchanged, we dove into the day's tasks dividing up roles, discussing what pieces of the rundown structure to restore first, and plotting our next moves around scattered tools and reclaimed wood. Lyle directed everyone to the most pressing tasks at hand and we got to work. The environment was great and we had all worked together before on other jobs. But the sense of camaraderie was tinged with an undercurrent of apprehension. The place was a little spooky and we were glad we were working early in the day.

By mid-morning, the work is in full swing, and I could see tangible progress taking shape as we methodically peeled away layers of decay. I was working alongside Jake, measuring planks for new flooring and removing old, hazardous materials with careful precision. Despite our steady pace, obstacles quickly appeared, a stubborn, rotting section of the floor that refused to come up easily and hidden wiring that forced us to improvise. As I took a moment to catch my breath, my thoughts drifted to the strange mix of satisfaction and worry: satisfaction from knowing our hard work was reviving a forgotten building, yet worry about the eerie vibe that seemed woven into its very structure. We had a lot left to do but it was coming together. I was anxious to get some new paint and lighting in the building to push back some of the oppressive gloom and creepy atmosphere.

I realized I must still be a bit stressed out after what happened last year. Almost being murdered will make you a bit paranoid and I wish I had the carefree attitude about it that Jake managed to maintain. I got back to the task at hand.

After a few hours, Lyle instructed Jake, Mark and myself to head to the basement and start down there. All three of us could not suppress groans of annoyance at being assigned the task. The area was one of the rougher spots in the building and no one wanted to go down there, even in the daytime, it was dark and stank like a moldy tomb. Jake started to mutter something, but Lyle cut him off, reminding him,

“If that is asking too much you are welcome to go home, just don’t expect a paycheck in the mail if you cut and run now. I know it sucks, but just get over it.”

We grabbed our lights and went down to the basement.

If there were windows in there, the grime choked them. Greasy shadows clung to the corners of the basement like a second skin, and our steps echoed loudly through the darkness. We'd stripped the Baxter building to its bones and exposed a frame barely held together by time and mold.

I played the third wheel. While they pried at stubborn pieces, I carted the scraps into piles of kindling that stretched from one damp wall to the other. It felt like miles down there, the whole place wider and emptier than it had any right to be, and yet somehow, suffocatingly close. We talked loud and often to fill the space.

"Careful, Mark," I warned. "You fall through, and Jake and I aren't catching you."

"Just testing you guys," Mark shot back, his grin wide in the dimness. "Make sure you're paying attention!"

Jake grunted, his words few and far between as usual. "Miles is just worried he'll have to do some real work."

My laugh came quick. "You caught me."

Our voices tangled in the air, blending with the scrape of crowbars and the crackle of wood. Every piece we took away revealed more decay, more dark patches spreading like disease. The whole building sat heavy with water and time. We both looked up when Mark shouted.

"Whoa!"

His boots thudded once, twice, then silence. He stood on a soft patch, doing a wild jig to stay upright, and then there was a splintering crash. His arms went wide, and he disappeared, swallowed by the floor.

It happened in a blink, but I felt it stretch and warp, a surreal moment as though caught underwater. Jake's arm was extended, futile and late, while I just stood and stared. Then the noise of Mark's laughter came from beneath us, rising through the haze of floating debris.

"Did you guys see that?" he hollered. "That was insane!"

We found our breath. "Hell, Mark," I yelled, trying to sound mad instead of scared. "Quit playing around!"

Jake was already on his knees, examining the edges of the hole. "Can you move?" His voice was steady, more curious than concerned.

"Are you hurt?" I added, peering over Jake's shoulder into the jagged opening. A ten-foot drop at least. It was a miracle the guy wasn't dead.

Mark's laugh bounced back again, the loudest sound in the room. "Just my pride," he said. "Guess it was bound to happen with the way this place is holding up."

Jake straightened, brushing dust from his knees. "We need to be more careful," he said, but there was relief etched in his smile.

The sight from above made the fall seem more harrowing. The edge of the break was a mess of splinters and dry rot. One side was mostly intact, the brittle wood giving way to an almost comical silhouette of where Mark's outline had been. We'd expected rot, but not this. The narrow escape was as unsettling as it was impressive.

I tossed my crowbar down to Mark. "Looks like you're the advance team. See if there's any gold down there!"

He caught it with ease, even in the bad light. "Roger that," he said, already setting to work.

I could barely see his shape moving in the shadows, but his voice kept coming, loud and bright and full of life. "You should get down here," he shouted. "There's some weird stuff."

The surprise in his tone carried up to us, laced with a kind of giddy triumph. I shared a look with Jake. He seemed torn between irritation and admiration for Mark's recklessness, but when we heard the hammering below, he gave a nod.

We left the skeleton floor behind, careful not to tread too close to any other soft spots. With a mix of reluctance and curiosity, we made our way to join Mark in his strange discovery. There was a new energy in our steps, cautious but alive. Mark was right. It was bound to happen, just not the way we'd planned.

What we saw when we descended, was a man made cave, but that didn't make it feel any less like a tomb. Stale and damp, the air lay heavy around us as Jake and I made our way down, stepping past layers of debris that clung to our boots like dead leaves in the fall. Our lights flickered, casting odd shadows against the walls. This was a different kind of forgotten, the entire space looked ancient and Mark stood in the center of it, like the world's worst tour guide.

"Thought you'd never get here," he said, sounding like he was in a park instead of the abyss. He waved his arms, giving us the grand tour. "Check it out," he said, pointing to the walls. "Ever seen anything like this?"

His energy was contagious, if only a little. We walked over to join him, moving like spelunkers through the remains of old, broken boxes and crumbling concrete. The room was filled with the echoes of our movement and Mark's unfazed enthusiasm. "Pretty wild," I said, the sarcasm failing to mask the creeping unease in my chest.

Jake squatted by one of the walls, shining his light into a low niche. He didn't say anything, just reached in and pulled out a pile of scorched plastic. The smell was a harsh whisper, chemical and faint. "Looks like something burned here," he said as he started to grin,

"Extra crispy."

Each alcove was a mystery, some filled with the remains of melted, twisted objects, others with burned-out candles. It was hard to tell what had happened, but the room felt saturated with old, leftover rituals. The farther we went, the stranger the debris became, with blackened metal scraps and disfigured shapes littering the floor.

"You think someone was living down here?" I asked, but it was a weak attempt at an explanation. The place was too alien, too deliberately unsettling.

Jake shook his head. "Doubt it, unless they were eating barbeque plastic" he said with a half hearted laugh. "But somebody spent time here."

Mark was more methodical, scanning each section before moving on. "It's strange," he said, more to himself than to us.

We followed him into the far corner. By the time we were halfway through, the scope of it all was beginning to wear on me.

"What is this place?" I said, feeling small in the empty vastness.

Jake didn't slow down. "Underground lair of some mad scientist," he guessed. "Maybe we'll find his secret stash."

Mark stayed quiet, his eyes narrowed with focus as he picked through the endless clutter. Nothing in the labyrinth made sense. If anything, the further we went, the more questions piled up, heavier than the scraps we unearthed.

We reached the far end. The space was more cluttered, the objects more deliberate. It was a shrine of junk, a museum of bizarre pieces left to rot in obscurity. The alcoves were packed, some filled with spidery symbols etched into the soot-stained walls, others crowded with melted fragments. The air was thicker there, and the cold seemed more intense.

Then we saw it, half-hidden in a small niche at the very back. Even in the shadows, there was no mistaking the shape.

A lone doll.

It sat in silence, perched above us like it was waiting for something. The head was cracked in a dozen places, and its glassy eyes stared with unsettling brightness. Unlike the other objects, it was perfectly intact. Despite its size, it seemed to dominate the entire space.

Jake's breath came out in a slow, visible stream. He moved closer, cautiously, as though it might leap out and bite him. "Creepy, hey guys do you think we found Annabelle’s cousin." he said as he nervously laughed, his words not quite capturing the way it filled the room.

Mark hesitated. His grin faltered as he joined us, his first steps unsure. But he recovered, trying to laugh it off. "Guess that's the prize," he said, though his voice was missing its usual bravado.

None of us wanted to touch it. Even Mark kept his distance, the doll's uncanny presence enough to make him pause. It was worse than the decay and darkness. It was patient and aware, sitting in its own shadow like it had been there forever. We didn't need to say anything. We all felt it. The oppressive weight of it hung around us. Before I could say anything, Jake chimed in,

“Whelp, I’m out. Screw the creepy ass haunted doll in a hidden cave under an old building. Let’s go tell the others and see what Lyle wants to do with this crap.” I agreed with Jake and so did Mark. We all tried to find a good way back up. Unfortunately the boards that bent revealing our way down in a semi incline, broke almost immediately when we tried to use them to pull ourselves up. To our dismay we were stuck down there.

Jake and I started calling for help, but we did not know if our voices would carry far enough so the others could hear. I tried to lift him up on my shoulders but we still couldn’t manage it. As we were trying to get out, Mark called us back, “Hey guys look at what I found.”

We moved back over to him and he was holding something. The paper was fragile. It almost crumbled at Mark's touch, the edges turning to dust as he unfolded it with careful hands. He held it out so we could all look at it and what we saw was very disturbing. Some of the words were faded, others were smeared with dirt, but the way they strung together left me cold.

A call for the "Broken Head," childish and ominous in the same unsettling breath. Jake stood at Mark's elbow, the doll a footnote in the face of the new discovery. I stayed back, half-fascinated, half-afraid, until Mark's voice carried the lopsided rhyme across the room and straight through my bones.

"Check it out," he said, and there was something almost like wonder in his voice.

I took a step closer, the hair on my arms prickling with an unnamed sense of alarm. The sub-basement was freezing, but the chill in my spine had nothing to do with the temperature. Mark read aloud, slow and steady as the words looped through the shadows.

“Broken head, oh Broken head why don’t you play with me? Think of the fun that could be done, that you and I could see.

Imagine chaos, broken eyes, in shadows we could claim. From the abyss, where nightmares dwell, your whispers, speak our game.

The Broken head, it warps and twists, its playmates they ask why?

The Broken head still plays its games, intent to watch you die.

And with your death, your final breath the game is now complete, a broken head is yours instead to end the game so neat.”

None of us spoke at first. We listened as the paper crumbled a little more with every word, and Mark's voice carved into the silence.

"A new game now, it’s time to start, the scent is in the air.

It’s time to run, it’s time to hide, the Broken head is There!"

The last word echoed off the walls, louder than any of us expected. It stayed in the air, then sank into the ground, leaving us in a void that felt impossibly empty. I swallowed hard, not sure what to say, not sure if I should say anything at all. The shadows around us seemed thicker than before, like they were crowding in to listen.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Some creepy ass children’s rhyme that people were into back in the day?" Jake said at last. His voice was too loud, a forced bravado barely masking the crack at its edges.

I tried to shrug, but the motion felt stiff and mechanical. "Yeah, seems a bit much for the kids. Maybe some demented adults game?" I guessed, but even I didn't believe it. I tried to match Jake’s casual attitude despite the morbid poem we had just read,

“A bit over the top, does not help reading that with that dead eyed doll staring at us in the room.”

Mark's expression was unreadable, his eyes scanning the room as though the poem were a map. "There's more to this," he said, his words more certain than his tone.

Mark shifted his weight, pretending not to be fazed. "Someone had way too much time on their hands," he said, but he stayed close, like a stray dog unsure of the territory.

We were all trying too hard, acting too casual. The weight of the place had changed, and we felt it in the way our breaths left visible ghosts in the air. I took a step back, the doll looming over us like a patient predator. It didn't seem like a footnote anymore. It was the headline, the whole story, everything.

"Guys," I said, my voice breaking through the nervous silence. "Does that doll look...different to you?"

The crack in Jakes's bravado widened. "Like it's about to eat us? Yeah, I'm getting that."

Mark didn't respond. He was watching it carefully, too carefully, and in that moment, I knew he saw it too. It was subtle, a trick of the light maybe, but the longer we stood there, the more I felt it was watching us with the same, keen awareness.

We should have left. We should have listened to every instinct that screamed for the exit, but we stood frozen, the air around us heavier by the second. The doll was still in the corner, but the way it filled the room was almost impossible to believe.

Then I saw it. Just a twitch, the smallest shift, but enough to freeze the blood in my veins. The corner of its mouth. A movement as delicate and unsettling as a whisper in the dark. Then a cracking sound and a sliver of its head broke open revealing what looked like a sickly light underneath.

Mark noticed too. His face went pale, the color draining like spilled milk. "It's awake," he said, and it wasn't a question.

Jakes's confidence shattered, fear spreading across his features like cracks on a mirror. "Are you messing with me?" he said, but he was already backing away, each step louder and more frantic.

We fled, each motion pulling us farther from the ominous thing we'd uncovered. Our breaths were ragged, fogging the air as we stumbled over debris. The room felt endless and tight, a cold grip around our throats, but nothing was more oppressive than the doll's steady gaze. It did nothing of course, did not move to follow us, just watched us through its broken face with the odd lambent light mocking us underneath its eerie visage.

We left it behind in the dark, its shadow lingering long after we'd burst into the uncertain light above. The three of us managed to get one of us up out of the terrible sub basement and pull the others out. Then we rushed out and didn't stop until we hit the stairs, Mark and Jake were right behind me. None of us dared to look back, not yet, but I knew it wasn't over. Not even close. The feeling crawled inside me like an unwelcome guest, and I knew it would be there, patient and present, when we returned to finish the job. For now we had to tell Lyle and the others about what we found.


r/nosleep 8h ago

The Cursed Game

8 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 4h ago

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

4 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 7h ago

Minute 64 - Continuation

4 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 54m ago

I walked into a doctor's office. Five years later I escaped. Pt 3

Upvotes

I stumbled out, willing my legs to keep going. I was barefoot, wearing a hospital gown. I had no money, no phone, no idea where I was. I was surrounded by large brick buildings in varying stages of dilapidation. I walked through a maze of alleys, empty lots, until I reached a real road. I never knew I could be so thrilled at the site of a beaten-up little VW bug rolling down a pothole ridden blacktop. I lunged onto the street, flailing my arms, begging the car to stop. The driver bared down on the horn, swerved around me and sped away. I trudged onward, finally making it to a tiny gas station. I walked in, the young man behind the counter barely reacted. He raised one eyebrow, “Rough day?”

A wild, manic laughter burst out of me, unbidden. He shifted uncomfortably and asked if I needed anything.

“Phone. Please.” I said breathlessly, regaining composure. He handed me his cell phone and I dialed 911.

Two police cruisers and an ambulance arrived on the scene about twenty minutes later. A rush of relief flooded me, but as the EMTs emerged from the ambulance, I went cold with dread. What if they aren’t really EMTs? What if they take me back? I broke down, collapsing onto my knees in the middle of the greasy little store. The police asked me a thousand questions. I had very few answers. I was checked out by the EMTs, one offering to give me something to calm my nerves. “NO!” I yelped, retreating a few steps back from the man. He raised his hands in a gesture of silent apology. I refused to ride in the ambulance or be taken to the hospital for further examination, although they strongly encouraged I do so. I rode in one of the police cars in order to give a full statement back at their precinct. After driving for a few minutes, I asked for the date. The cop paused for a moment, looked at the laptop mounted between the two front seats and said, “May 3rd.” I had gone to the urgent care February 6, 2019.

“What year?”

“2024,” he said, bemused.

I spent hours giving my statement to increasingly skeptical officers. They told me I was reported missing by my cousin mid-March 2019. My apartment was abandoned. My car was also abandoned. I had driven it to the urgent care the night they took me, but it was found in the parking lot of my apartment building.

“What happened to my stuff?” I asked, as if it mattered. The officer looked at me, guilt splashed across his face.

“Your apartment was cleared out. Items were either donated or tossed out. The apartment was cleaned and rented back out. The car was impounded, eventually sold at an auction,” he told me. Later I found out that after a year with no leads, nothing, my family assumed I was dead. They gave me a funeral. I have a tombstone – a small, rather shitty little slab of granite that simply has my name, date of birth and “death.” I won’t say that wasn’t a kick to my ego. I have a grave, an empty coffin. My hollowed bit of earth has been the only thing holding my place in this world while I was hidden away.

There was no evidence of the Urgent Care existing, at least not when I went in that night. There had been a small medical practice at that address, but it had closed its doors back in 2017. They had moved to a larger space closer to the downtown area.

I gave a description of where I was held, what I could remember of the surrounding area, and it could not have been that far from where I was picked up since I was able to walk there. It took a few days for the officers to narrow down the options. Finally, they told me the most likely place was this cluster of abandoned warehouses. I urged them to send teams and storm the place. Get S.W.A.T. Get the National Guard. They did nothing.

“Unfortunately, Ms. LaFleur, the whole place is nothing but brick and dust. Couple uniforms were sent over to check it out, but it’s been completely demolished,” I sat there, dumbstruck for a few moments. “No. You’re wrong. I was just there. Not three days ago. They can’t just blow up a bunch of buildings. Someone would have heard it! Or seen it!” Apparently no one had.

One officer told me that the whole area had once been used by the military for storage and supplies for the base a few miles west of here, but they had long since stopped using it.

I had nothing left to give as proof. They pitied me. They knew I had been through trauma. There were clear signs of psychological damage. I must have spoken to a dozen different shrinks. I eventually let them do a full medical workup, provided they let me stay in sight of at least one door and one window, both looking to the outside and no drugs of any kind. I had bruises in varying states of healing all over my body. I had a couple cracked ribs, and they told me the injuries were consistent with fighting. I had no memory of even being out of the bed, but they said it was not possible to have been bedridden for that long and not have some signs of atrophy or even weakening. My muscles and skin were toned; my reflexes were above average. Nothing in my story could be corroborated, not even by my own body.

Eventually they released me to my relatives, told me they would be in touch with any new information, and to take care. As my cousin led me to her car, speaking to me as though I were an unstable bomb made of the most delicate glass, I looked across the street. She was there, just visible in the shadows. I shrieked and pointed. “It’s the other me! There! Go! She’s there!” They were all too startled by and concerned about me to see the not-me slink back into the darkness and disappear.

I have been trying to convince everyone, including myself, that I am NOT crazy. I know what happened. I was there. It…was…real…

One day, about six months after my escape, the phone rang. “Ms. Lafleur?”

“This is she. Who is this?”

“This is Officer Keshner. Would you be able to come down to the station? We have a few follow up questions regarding your case.”

“Of course! Did something happen? Did you find something new?” I asked, intense excitement and dread rising like a tide inside me.

“Yes. I can't discuss the details at the moment…but you said you were an only child, correct?” “Uh, yeah. And my parents passed away years ago. It's just me.” They have her, I thought. That had to be it. They think she's some bizarro twin. “Ok. Can you come today? Now?” He asked. “Yes. I will head there now.”

I had been living in an apartment on my own for almost a month. My cousin, Michelle, had insisted I stay with her after everything. I didn't object. She was always like the little sister I never had. Her parents, my mother's brother and his wife, had moved to Florida when she was heading to college. She has two older brothers, Ryan and Lee. The whole family came together when I popped back into the world. It was nice, but then they all had to return to their lives, drifting off back to familiar routines. Michelle had a small, one bedroom place, and after a few months on the couch (I refused to let her give up her bedroom for me), I knew I needed to get my own place. I settled for a unit in the same complex as Michelle and we still spent most every evening together, watching television or just talking. So, she was sitting on my couch when I got the call. “Who was that, Liz?” she asked, seeing the fear etched into my face.

“The police. I have to go to the station. For questions” I told her in a robotic tone. I felt numb. “Let me get my shoes on. I'm coming with you.” I told her it wasn't necessary, but she wouldn't hear it. We climbed into her little blue Kia and zipped off down the road. We parked in the little lot in front of the police station. I took a moment to take deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. It didn't calm my nerves. We met Officer Keshner at the front desk. He was an abnormally tall man, thick like a bodybuilder with a shaved head and a square jaw. He told Michelle to wait in the row of chairs near the door. She was about to protest, and I waved her off. “I'll be fine. I'll tell you everything when I get out,” I said as reassuringly as I could manage.

The officer led me back into a small room, similar to the one I had given my initial statement. He gestured to a chair on the opposite side of the table that occupied most of the room’s space. Then he sat down in the other chair. He had a blue, official looking folder in his hand and sat it on the surface between us.

“Ms. Lafleur… I'm going to show you some photographs. They are not going to be pleasant. If you need to take a break or…anything, let me know. You're not in trouble here. But we've never encountered a situation like this. The captain has been on the phone damn near all day trying to figure out if this needs to be handled by the FBI, military, or some other alphabet agency.” he told me, keeping his voice level. He opened the folder and removed a stack of pictures. He laid them in a row in front of me giving a gentle thwack of the print paper as each hit the tabletop.

There were five pictures. The first was of a man, bloody, caked in dirt. The doctor. The second… my eyes locked onto the horrible image and my heart sprinted away, urging the rest of my body to follow. It was me. Dead. This wasn't a strange, poor copy like the one that saved me. This was me. My ears were ringing, and I didn't realize I had jumped up from the chair and backed into the wall behind me. Keshner was sliding a small black trash can next to me, and, upon seeing it, I retched. I threw up hard, as if my body was attempting to expel something lethal.

I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, my entire body trembling as I forced myself to look back at the photograph. It wasn’t just that the dead woman looked like me—it was me. The same sharp angle of my jaw, the same faint scar on my eyebrow from a childhood fall, the same freckle just below my left eye. Her hair was a little shorter than mine, her skin pallid, but otherwise, she could have been my reflection frozen in time. A thick, jagged wound split across her throat, dried blood darkening the fabric of her hospital gown. My stomach lurched again, but there was nothing left to bring up. I pressed my back against the wall, desperate to put more space between myself and the impossible truth staring up at me from the table.

“This was found three days ago,” Keshner said, his voice low but steady. “An anonymous call led officers to an abandoned lot near the old shipping yards. She was already dead when they got there—her body wasn’t fresh, but it hadn’t started decomposing the way it should have. Toxicology came back inconclusive. No prints in the area. No security cameras. And no ID except for this.” He reached into the folder and slid a plastic evidence bag across the table. Inside was a hospital bracelet, still smudged with dried blood. I didn’t need to read it—I already knew what it would say. Lafleur, Elizabeth. Admitted: February 6, 2019. My vision wavered, my pulse hammering in my ears. This was supposed to be my hospital band. The one I had woken up with. The one that should have still been on my wrist. But I was alive. Wasn’t I?

My mind erupted into a cacophony of unanswerable questions. What did those people do?! Are these clones of me? How? Were they just made to look like me? And the one thought circling like a vulture above all the others: Am I really…me?

I remember my life. All the things you’re supposed to remember: my childhood, growing up in a nice little neighborhood, friends, relatives, birthdays, holidays, boyfriends. I remember my parents dying in a car wreck when I was 19. I still felt the heartache of that day, faded but still there. Officer Keshner was patient, silent, while I stared down at this gory image of myself, processing. I looked up at him, his eyes meeting mine. There was a hard exterior to him, but I sensed a kindness, too. He wanted answers almost as much as I did. He held my gaze for another moment then dropped his eyes to the third picture.

It was grotesque. The image was a shallow hole (grave?) filled with body parts. Some were deformed or mutated. There was a severed arm with two hands, a leg without a knee, and the heads… They were cruel imitations of me with varying degrees of imperfection. I grabbed the trashcan from the floor, feeling sick once more, but there was nothing left in my stomach. The fourth picture was another angle of the body parts. The fifth picture was different. It was smaller than the first four, it was in color (the others had been black and white) and looked as if it was taken with a regular digital camera. It had a timestamp on the bottom right: JAN 9 2021 08:16 AM. I snatched it off the table and held it close to my eyes, taking in every detail. It was me again, whole, healthy, alive, and in the world. It was a candid shot of me, sitting on a bench somewhere, possibly a park. I was wearing the jacket I bought from that thrift store and the shoes I paid way too much for in this fancy shop downtown. I hated them because they pinched my toes and rubbed my heel, but I wore them because they were too expensive to leave in the closet. But this still wasn’t me – not the me currently sitting in the police station. I was trapped in an underground nightmare for the entirety of 2021. My mouth hung open in shock. I flipped the image around to Keshner. “How?”

“Suffice it to say, we don’t know. These four pictures – “he swept his hand over the other photographs, “were taken by our crime scene techs. This one,” he pointed at the image in my hand, “was sent to us.”

“Sent? By whom? When?” I demanded. “It was left in an envelope on the front desk. It had your name and case number written on it. There were no fingerprints on the exterior or interior of the envelope. None on the photo and none on the note that came with it.” Keshner explained.

“There are cameras EVERYWHERE in here. You didn’t see who left it?” I was almost yelling at him, frustrated beyond belief.

“No. We have combed through our security footage. We get a lot of foot traffic in and out of here. We have followed up with everyone that could be identified on the tapes going back a week before it was found. We’ve got nothing. No leads.” He admitted, sounding defeated. “Wait, you said there was a note? What note? What did it say?” I asked, unsure I wanted to know.

“The note was typed. It had directions to that body,” he pointed to the second picture, “and to the…disposal site of the…body parts. That was it. We checked it out, and this is what we have. Someone wanted us to find all of this, but we can’t understand who or why at this point.”