nosleep

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Dopabeane on 2024-11-20 01:41:03+00:00. *** In 1909, an antiquities excavation crew in Caerleon, Newport, South Wales vanished in a tunnel below the ruins of the Isca Augusta. The details surrounding their fates remain unknown.

All that is known is that their bodies were mutilated, fully disarticulated, and then rearranged in a spectacularly disturbing tableau inside the mouth of the tunnel.

This was not the first such tableau, nor has it been the last. In fact, the other reason this incident is in any way significant relative to the scope of the perpetrator’s actions is that it finally led to the eventual capture of the most dangerous entity known to the Agency of Helping Hands:

The Harlequin.

If our work demonstrates any truth with utter certainty, it is that the nature of reality is inconstant.

Our senses lie to us. They muffle, omit, and deceive to prop up the absurd house of cards that comprises the foundation of our limited perception. Reality is porous. Worse, it is malleable. Worst of all, it is a trap. Like unwitting ants stumbling into a glue trap, so does our reality trap us. This is simply the way of things. This trap was made for us, and we are made for our trap. It is a troublesome and ugly yet foundational balance.

Problems arise when things that are not like us – things that do not belong here with us – slide into our trap alongside us.

No entity demonstrates the nature of this particular complication so thoroughly or so dramatically as the Harlequin. 

The existence of the Harlequin has been known to the Agency of Helping Hands since its inception, but due to a preponderance of fables, legends, and false information abounding, the Harlequin evaded detection for nearly one hundred years.

The Harlequin is an utter enigma. To date, the Agency does not know where it comes from, what its motives or goals are, or even what it is. 

The only information the Agency has on the Harlequin is the information it volunteers.

By his own admission, the Harlequin’s favorite activity is upsetting children. He taunts them by taking on various forms including a monster, a spider, a werewolf, a clown, a mime, a king, and a dog with the face of an old man.

His favorite place is California, because – in his words – “California is the capitol of the show.”

He has murdered entire families for no apparent reason, returned to mutilate victims he has already terrorized, and – most problematically—been observed attempting to lure minors and developmentally disabled adults to a place he calls “The City Bright.” The Harlequin has never divulged the meaning or location of “the city bright.” Of the numerous victims he successfully lured and abducted before the Agency could intervene, only one has been located. Due to the sheer scope of damage inflicted by the Harlequin’s interference, this victim is currently incarcerated in AHH-NASCU.

When asked about the purpose of these abductions, the Harlequin’s only answer is, “To prepare.”

The only silver lining to the Harlequin’s appalling actions is that he usually “disappears” his victims from the memory of those who knew them, resulting in startlingly few complications for the Agency.

The major issue with his talent for “unexisting” is, of course, the question of the people, places, things, and history he has potentially “unexisted” outside the scope of the Agency’s ability to retrieve such information. For this reason among others, the Harlequin is considered the Agency’s most dangerous inmate. 

As previously stated, the Harlequin was accidentally discovered in 1909 in Caerleon, Newport, South Wales. He was living in a tunnel below the ruins of the Isca Augusta. Although the entity was not discovered on U.S. soil, the United States did not want a foreign government to capture it due to concerns over the potential power such a being might bestow upon its captors. For this reason, the Agency made capture and containment of this being its primary goal. Due to the Agency’s complete lack of experience with entities like the Harlequin, capture was not achieved until 1926.

The entity was captured while wearing a very dirty and immense leather cloak with a patched motley pattern. Testing determined that the leather was human skin, and that each patch of “motley” was made of flesh from a distinct human individual.

Testing was halted during the Harlequin’s first containment breach. Although the cloak remained in Agency custody for the duration of the entity’s escape, new motley patches appeared along the edges of the cloak at a rate of approximately four per week until the Harlequin was re-apprehended. Upon its recapture, personnel asked the Harlequin how it had obtained the new patches of skin and integrated them into the cloak. Its answer was nonsensical, and to this day not understood:

“By filling the holes.”

When first captured by Agency personnel, the Harlequin introduced himself as “Your servant, Arlecchino.” Over the course of the preposterously unproductive conversation that followed, it gave three other names for itself: Hellequin, Zanni, and Herla Cyning. When called upon to explain these discrepancies, the entity stated that it in fact had no name and was nothing but a faithful servant.

When asked who it served, the Harlequin answered, “That which must be served.”

When asked what must be served, its nonsensical answer was, “Four in seven, just as you worms. Four in seven.”

Agency personnel immediately proceeded to research the names provided by the Harlequin. It quickly became clear that the entity was playing a joke of some kind. Arlecchino, Hellequin, Zanni, and Herla Cyning are all terms related to the figure of “Harlequin,” a stock character that frequently appears in Italian Commedia Dell’Arte plays.

Agency administration believe that the entity’s use of these names is significant and holds clues as to the Harlequin’s purpose and motives, a view bolstered by the fact that the Harlequin was located in the ruins of an ancient theater. Nevertheless, no substantial ties have been discovered at this time.

Due to the Commedia Dell’Arte references and the motley cloak in which it was discovered, the Agency named the entity Harlequin.   

The Harlequin’s extracurricular activities do not stop at the terrorizing and abduction of children. During its frequent containment breaches, the Harlequin creates holes and ports in what can only be termed “the fabric of existence,” and changes reality in ways almost no one can detect. In one instance, he once “unexisted” an entire town. In another, he vanished a popular film franchise from existence simply because – in his own words – it was so objectively terrible that simply knowing it existed was intolerable. During yet another escape, he “unzipped” reality, allowing an as-yet unidentified entity to slip through. The whereabouts of this entity are currently unknown.

Although its cloak hides most of its body from view, Agency personnel have determined that the Harlequin is unusually large – roughly the height of a polar bear, with bodily proportions that seem at least somewhat human.

The only part of the Harlequin’s body not concealed by its cloak are its jaws, which protrude in a manner best described as “lupine.” They are approximately eleven inches in and covered in puffy, suppurating flesh that appears blistered and scarred. The cause of these injuries is unknown.

The Harlequin possesses three rows of teeth. The largest and most prominent somewhat resembles crocodile teeth. The inner rows of teeth are much smaller and sharper, and bear a strong resemblance to oversized coyote teeth. 

As previously mentioned, the Harlequin breaches containment on a regular basis. During these escapes, it leaves behind its cloak, which continues to expand in its absence.

The Harlequin is capable of assuming various appearances. Whenever Agency personnel locate the Harlequin after a containment breach, it takes the appearance of a human male with auburn hair and blue eyes. Although superficially normal, this body induces a severe and clinically significant form of what is popularly referred to as “the uncanny valley effect.” The Harlequin is aware of this, and appears to take great pleasure in subtly changing the proportions of its face and body until it inflicts maximum psychological distress on its captors. 

The Harlequin maintains this body until it reenters its cell, at which point it crawls under its cloak to assume what personnel believe to be its true form.

To date, no Agency personnel have seen the Harlequin in its true form without its cloak.

The above statements comprise the sum total of the information the Agency has gathered in the century since the entity’s capture.

The Harlequin is uncontrollable, indestructible, and effectively uncontainable. While the Agency maintains a cell for him, he routinely escapes. When it comes to neutralizing him, we are lost. As of this writing, he is at large and we have no idea what to do.

As of this writing, the only planned course of action is to arrange for T-Class Agent Bowman to interview the Harlequin immediately upon his recapture.

The Harlequin

Classification String: Uncooperative / Indestructible / Olympic / Protean/ Critical / Egregore

Interviewer: Rachele B.

Interview Date: Pending

\\\*

I know.

There's no interview.

Here's why:

As penance for accidentally facilitating the release of a clinically insane inmate with a penchant for child-massacre, my boss gave me homework.

... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gve4dc/fuck_hipaa_this_inmate_is_the_most_dangerous/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/masterslosey on 2024-11-19 21:43:43+00:00. *** I think I was about 7 or 8 at the time when this occurred. My parents had been divorced since I was 5 and so they had shared custody of me. My dad had me for the weekend and every other week, typically on a Friday, we would go out to my uncle Rob's, who lived in the sticks. My dad and him and a few other guys would meet and go to his garage in the back to shoot the bull, smoke, and play either poker, ping pong, darts, or whatever. I always liked this because I got to stay up a little later and got to visit my cousin Cassie. Plus we went to Blockbuster and he let me rent a couple of movies, get a couple of Reese's Peanut Butter cups, and we had Mickey D's for dinner on the way up.

We made the 45 minute drive out into the boonies and I got excited when dad drove up the long driveway and I could see the dim amber glow of uncle Rob's porch light. We parked next to two other pickup trucks and I immediately got out with my Blockbuster sack of Reeses and two movies, rushed to the door, and rang the doorbell. My dad was just coming up the steps of the porch when my cousin Cassie greeted us and let us in. I hugged her and went to bear-hug uncle Rob as he kneeled down to greet me.

"Ah, you're getting big, Mikey! Your daddy feeding you Miracle-Gro?" Uncle Rob said jokingly as I hugged him as tight as I could.

"We had McDonald's!" I blurted out.

Afterwards, my dad and uncle Rob greeted each other and made their way to the kitchen where all the other guys were.

Before he did, my dad kneeled down to me and said "Alright, kid. You know the rules. You behave yourself, ok?"

"I will." I replied assuredly.

"Alright, we're going out back now. Remember, the two-way by the backdoor."

"I will." I repeated. My dad and the guys made their way out the backdoor and towards the garage.

Cassie and I made our way into the living room and I gave her one of the Reese's and the movies.

"What do you wanna watch first? Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles or Aladdin?" I asked, presenting the VHS covers to her.

"I wanna watch Turtles!" She replied. I then handed her the movie and she went to go turn the TV on and put the movie in the VCR.

"I'm gonna make some popcorn." She said as she ran into the kitchen. I just sat on the couch and watched the previews.

A few minutes later, the movie had just started and she brought out the popcorn in a plastic green bowl and we shared it along with the Reese's while we watched Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

I think it was more than an hour later and Cassie said that she had to go to the bathroom. She left the room and I stayed watching the movie. I was resting my head on the arm of the sofa and I suppose I nodded off while the movie was playing.

I then slowly started to wake up and stretched my arms and legs. I then noticed that the TV displayed static and the soft white noise emanating from it. I looked around the room and noticed that the living room lights were off but the kitchen light was illuminating from the next room. I then realized that Cassie was nowhere to be found.

"Cassie?" I called out to her but there was no response. I call out to her again and there was still no response.

I began to yell out to her but there was still no response. I didn't know what to make of this so I got up from the couch and called out to her while walking into the kitchen. It was all too quiet except for the ceiling fan still spinning and wobbling. I looked up at the clock hanging on the wall above the fridge and saw that it was past 9:30.

I couldn't tell if I was reading the time right or if the clock was broken but I could see the second hand ticking. I went back into the darkened living room and looked on the digital display of the VCR and it read 9:34PM. Usually, my dad and I would've been on the road by now around that time and he would have me in bed by 10.

"CASSIE!" I shouted almost at the top of my lungs. I then felt this dread creeping onto me, as if I was all alone in this house. Where did she go? I've had no responses to my continuous yelling for her.

I went to the bathroom door and saw in the space below that the light was still on.

"Cassie?" I knocked on the door. "Are you in here?" But there was no answer back.

I opened the door to the bathroom and saw that the light was still on. She wasn't in here either.

I then went to the two-way radio near the backdoor and pressed the button to speak.

"Dad? Uncle Rob? Are you there?" I released the button but there was only the white noise of static. After waiting for a response, I tried again.

"Dad! Uncle Rob! Are you there!?" I asked, edging on desperation and fear.

I looked out the window of the back door and saw the outside and inside lights of the garage were still on. I tried the radio again but there was still no answer from anyone. Just static.

The thought of going out to the garage at night was already creepy enough. Did I really have to make my way to the garage by myself in the dark? I tried the radio a few more times before giving up on it and concluded that I would have to go to the garage... In the dark... By myself. I wanted Cassie to be here with me. I wanted my dad and uncle Rob. I didn't want to be here anymore.

I forced myself to open the backdoor then the screen door. I stuck my head out, scanning my immediate surroundings. After seeing the coast was clear, I slowly stepped out onto the back porch and I started shivering, even though it was a warm September night. I cautiously made my way down the backdoor steps and my body tensed up. I crept towards the light of the garage trying not to make any crunching noises under my feet. I then realized, as I was trying to keep silent, that I normally heard crickets and all that but it was all eerily quiet. I felt like I was completely alone. It felt like the garage was a mile away and I was completely on edge with every step I took. I quickened my pace as soon as I was close to the light of the garage and burst through the door.

"DAD!" I yelled as soon as I entered the garage but there was no one here. The smell of cigarette smoke wafted in the air, the radio was playing the country music they usually listened to, there were playing cards left scattered on the table, but where did everyone go? Where's uncle Rob? Dad? Where is everyone!? The dread started to creep more into me and I swear I was just about to panic.

Suddenly, I heard the muffled, distant noise of a gunshot echoing outside that broke my train of thoughts. Then another one. Then several more to where I got so scared that I ran back into the house as fast as I could and slammed the door behind me. I then heard a couple more gunshots but then I heard a high-pitched shriek which made my blood run cold and I turned to look outside the window, keeping my head low.

I didn't see anything but I could hear another distant shriek. I've never heard anything like this before. I had a feeling that it wasn't an owl or a deer or anything that I've heard out here on uncle Rob's place. I then could hear some shouting echoing. Dad? Uncle Rob? I searched for anything to appear in the garage's outside light but several minutes passed and there was nothing. I then walked into the kitchen, lifted myself up on the sink, and looked out the window.

I continued to look out into the darkness until I heard my name.

"Mikey!" I heard a voice coming from outside.

"Mikey!" It sounded like Uncle Rob. I was looking out to see if I could see him but nothing came into view.

A few minutes passed and I heard uncle Rob calling my name again, "Mikey!"

I was about to run outside to call back out to him until I saw a shadowy figure from a distance. I couldn't make out exactly what it looked like but I could see it was a tall, lanky figure that lurched stiffly and... so inhuman. I froze staring at this thing moving across the yard, twitching disgustingly and I think I heard it hiss that I felt the hairs on the back of my neck sticking up.

"Mikey!" It was uncle Rob's voice but this wasn't uncle Rob that I was seeing out the window. It turned its head towards me and I saw the eyeless face of a monster! I panicked and I fell onto to the floor, struggling to get myself in a kitchen cabinet.

I was able to hide in a cabinet where I had an angeled but clear view of the kitchen window and I watched the window through the crack of the slightly open cabinet door. I don't know how much time had passed but nothing was happening and I began to calm down. I was about to come out when I suddenly saw the monster's head appear at the window and a cold shiver instantly went up my spine and the hairs stood back up again. It pressed its hideous pale, eyeless face against the glass and slid its face around as if trying to get a better view inside.

The face looked almost horse-like but the muzzle was shorter and gaunt. Its bared its teeth but I don't think it had any lips or anything that would hide them. Its nostrils flared and would leave fogged spots that quickly dissipated on the window.

"Mikey!" It barely moved its mouth to speak using uncle Rob's exact voice.

"Mikey!" The sound of uncle Rob's voice coupled with its grotesque face had me totally unsettled. Why did it sound like uncle Rob?

"Let me in, Mikey!"

Oh hell no! There was no way I was leaving this cabinet to let that creature in!

Suddenly, I heard a couple of gunshots ringing out along with some men yelling. The creature let out a shriek as it f... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gv8uun/the_monster_out_at_uncle_robs_place/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/askewten688 on 2024-11-19 18:12:19+00:00. *** I didn’t think much of it at first. Who notices their shadow, really? But now, I wish I’d paid more attention.

It started about a month ago. I was out on a walk, enjoying the rare sunny day, when I noticed something strange. My shadow wasn’t moving right. I lifted my arm to shield my eyes from the sun, and there it was—a delay. A fraction of a second where the shadow just… didn’t follow me.

I laughed it off. Maybe it was a weird angle or my imagination. But that wasn’t the last time it happened.

A week later, I was leaving a coffee shop when I saw it again—or thought I did. My shadow stretched out on the sidewalk like normal, except… I swear it turned. Like, it shifted on its own, as if it were looking at me. I actually stopped walking and stood there, staring down at the ground like an idiot. A few people gave me funny looks, but I shook it off. Shadows don’t just look at you.

Then things started getting worse.

I started seeing it in places I wasn’t. Once, I was driving home from work when I passed a street corner and froze. There it was, my shadow—or something just like it—on the pavement. The posture, the tilt of the head, even the way it slouched when I was tired. But I wasn’t walking. I was in my car.

I looked back, but it was gone.

After that, I started watching. Really watching. That’s when I realized it was changing. When I looked in mirrors, my reflection’s shadow didn’t always match what I was doing. I’d raise my arm, but my shadow’s hand would stay down—or worse, twitch, like it was trying to catch up but couldn’t.

Last week, my roommate asked me if I’d gone out at night. She said she saw me standing in the kitchen around 3 AM, just… standing there, staring at the fridge. But I hadn’t left my bed.

Then a friend called me in tears. “You were outside my house,” she said, her voice trembling. “You were just standing there, staring up at my bedroom window. Your eyes… God, your eyes weren’t right. What’s going on?”

I didn’t have an answer for her.

I’ve started to feel… off. Tired all the time, like something’s draining me. Sometimes, I catch it—my shadow—doing things I didn’t do. The other day, I reached for my coffee, but in the corner of my eye, I swear my shadow flinched.

The worst part? It’s started showing up in photos. At first, it was just in the background—barely noticeable. But now, it’s obvious. In one picture, I’m smiling at the camera, but my shadow is standing behind me, its head tilted at a sharp angle. Like it’s watching me.

I’ve tried to find answers. Folklore, paranormal blogs, forums—anything that might explain what’s happening. The closest thing I’ve found is an old myth about shadows gaining independence when a person’s soul is damaged. If they get strong enough, they can replace you entirely.

I don’t know if I believe it, but I can feel it growing stronger. Every day, I feel weaker—like I’m fading.

Tonight, I saw it standing across the room from me. Not attached to my feet, not part of the wall, just standing there in the corner, perfectly still. I don’t know how long it’s been watching me, but I’m scared to close my eyes.

I think it’s waiting for something. I don’t know how long I stayed frozen, staring at it. My shadow, standing there, detached, just… watching me. Its head tilted at an unnatural angle, almost curious.

I wanted to move—run, scream, do anything—but my body wouldn’t cooperate. The air felt thick, pressing against me, and I swear I could hear something. A low hum, like static, but deeper, vibrating in my chest.

And then it moved.

Not a shift or a twitch like before. It stepped forward.

I scrambled back, knocking over my chair, but it didn’t stop. It moved with an eerie fluidity, almost like it was gliding across the floor. As it got closer, the humming grew louder, and I realized it wasn’t just sound. It was a voice.

It was whispering.

I couldn’t make out the words at first, but then they became clearer. It was speaking in my voice. “Why are you so afraid?” it asked, tilting its head again.

“Stay back!” I shouted, my voice cracking.

It paused, as if considering my words, then crouched low, mimicking the exact way I had when I used to hide as a kid. “I’m not going anywhere,” it said, the corners of its shape shifting, almost as if it were smiling. “You brought me here.”

“I didn’t bring you!” I yelled, pressing myself against the wall.

It tilted its head the other way. “You did. Every doubt. Every fear. Every crack you let grow inside yourself. I’m just filling the space you left behind.”

My breathing was shallow, my heart hammering in my chest. It wasn’t just mimicking me anymore—it was claiming to be me.

“What do you want?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

It straightened up, towering over me now. “To finish what you started,” it said. “To make you whole.”

I didn’t understand at first, but then it stepped closer, and I realized something horrifying. As it moved, I felt weaker. My legs trembled, my vision blurred, and I felt like I was being pulled into a void.

I stumbled, clutching at my chest. “What are you doing to me?”

“I’m taking what’s mine,” it said. “You don’t need it anymore.”

And that’s when it lunged.

I don’t know how I’m still here. I remember darkness—cold and endless—and the feeling of something pressing down on me, suffocating me. I woke up hours later, sprawled on the floor, my body drenched in sweat.

But something’s wrong.

I don’t feel like myself anymore. My thoughts feel… distant, like I’m observing them instead of thinking them. When I look in the mirror, my reflection seems off. It stares just a little too long, its eyes darker, emptier.

And my shadow?

It’s back, attached to me like it should be. But sometimes, when I turn away, I feel it move on its own—stretching, curling, reaching.

I think it won.

It’s been a few days and things have only gotten worse.

I tried to pretend everything was normal. I went to work, hung out with friends, even forced myself to laugh at stupid jokes. But deep down, I know it’s still with me. I can feel it—this weight pressing down on me, like I’m not the only one in my own skin anymore.

The whispers haven’t stopped.

They’re louder now, more distinct, and they’re not just in my head. I’ll hear them at the edge of my hearing when I’m alone in my apartment, or even in the car when the radio’s off. It’s my voice, but it’s saying things I’d never say.

“You don’t belong here.” “This isn’t your life anymore.” “Let go.”

Last night, I woke up to find myself standing in the middle of my living room. I don’t remember getting out of bed. I don’t remember anything. I was just… there. The lights were off, the moonlight casting long shadows across the floor.

And mine was wrong.

It wasn’t connected to me. It was beside me, standing upright like a person. For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating, but then it moved. It stepped closer, and I swear I felt the coldness radiating from it.

It leaned in, its face—or whatever passed for a face—mere inches from mine. I wanted to run, to scream, but I couldn’t move. It whispered something I couldn’t quite understand, and then it melted back into the darkness.

When I finally regained control, I collapsed onto the floor, shaking. I don’t know how much longer I can take this.

I went back to the old forums I found, desperate for answers. Most of the posts were useless—people calling me crazy, telling me it was sleep paralysis or some psychological break. But one comment stood out.

It was from an anonymous user. They said they’d been through something similar. They called it a “shadow parasite,” a kind of entity that feeds on your energy, your identity. It doesn’t just want to replace you—it wants to erase you, to absorb everything that makes you you.

The only way to stop it, they said, is to confront it. To force it back into submission. But they didn’t explain how, and their account was deleted shortly after.

I’ve been thinking about that all day. What does “confronting it” even mean? How do you fight something that isn’t flesh and blood? Something that knows your every thought, every fear?

I’m running out of time.

Just an hour ago, I was staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, trying to convince myself that I’m still in control. But then my reflection blinked—and I didn’t.

It smiled.

Not a normal smile, either. It was wrong. Too wide, too sharp, stretching my face into something that didn’t look human.

And then it spoke.

“Soon,” it said, its voice echoing in my head. “You’ll see.”

I smashed the mirror.

I don’t know what’s going to happen tonight, but I’m done running. If confronting it is the only way to end this, then I’ll do it. I’ve left this post open on my laptop, just in case.

If I don’t update, you’ll know I didn’t make it.

And if you ever see your shadow move on its own, run. Don’t let it in. Don’t let it win.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/iifinch on 2024-11-19 17:01:38+00:00. *** I am a good man.

I know I'm a good man, but I've got a gun and I'm going to kill a man who meant a lot to me, who at one time was my pastor, my mentor, my uncle.

What's the saying about when a good man goes to war?

When I arrived at the church I work at after my two-day absence, it looked like the whole church was leaving. From some distance away, the perhaps one hundred other workers pouring out of the grand church looked antlike compared to the great mass of the place.

Their smiles leaving met my frown entering, and they made sure to avoid me. No one spoke to me, and I didn't plan on speaking to them.

I made my way to the sanctuary, hoping to find my uncle, the head pastor here. He would spend hours praying there in the morning. Today he was nowhere to be seen. No one was. I alone was tortured by the images of the stained glass windows bearing my Savior.

I'm not an idiot. I know what religion has done, but it has also done a lot of good. I've seen marriages get saved, people get healed, folks change for the better, and I've seen our church make a positive impact on the world.

My faith gave me purpose, my faith gave me friends, and my faith was the reason I didn't kill myself at thirteen.

Jesus means something to me, and the people here have bastardized his name! I slammed my fist on a pew, cracking it. It is my right to kill him. If Jesus raised a whip to strike the greedy in the temple, I can raise a Glock to the face of my uncle for what he did. I know there's a verse about punishing those who harm children.

"Solomon," I recognized the voice before I turned to see her. Ms. Anne, the head secretary, spoke behind me. Before this, she was something like a mother to me. A surrogate mother because I never knew mine. Her words unnerved me now. My hand shook, and the pain of slamming my hand into the pew finally hit me. Then it all came back to me, the pain of betrayal. I hardened my heart. I let the anger out. I heard my own breath pump out of me. My hand crept for my pistol in my waistband, and with my hand on my pistol, I faced her.

"What?" I asked.

She reeled in shock at how I spoke to her, taking two steps back. Her eyebrows narrowed and lips tightened in a disbelieving frown. She was an archetype of a cheerful, caring church mother. A little plump, sweet as candy, and with an air of positivity that said, "I believe in you," but also an air of authority that said, "I'm old, I've earned my respect."

We stared at one another. She waited for an apology. It did not come, and she relented. She shuffled under the pressure of my gaze. Did she know she was caught?

"I, um, your Uncle—uh, Pastor Saul wants to see you. He's upstairs. Sorry, your Uncle is giving everyone the whole day off except you," she said. With no reply from me, Ms. Anne kept talking. "I was with him, and as soon as you told him you were coming in today, he announced on the intercom everyone could have the day off today. Except you, I guess. Family, huh?"

I didn't speak to her. Merely glared at her, trying to determine who she really was. Did she know what was really going on?

"Why's your arm in a cast?" Her eyebrows raised in awe. "What happened to you?"

She stepped closer, no doubt to comfort me with a hug as she had since I was a child.

These people were not what I thought they were. They frightened me now. I toyed with the revolver on my hip as she got closer.

Her eyes went big. She stumbled backward, falling. Then got herself up and evacuated as everyone else did.

She wouldn't call the cops. The church mother knew better than to involve anyone outside the church in church matters. Ms. Anne might call my uncle though, which was fine. I ran upstairs to his office to confront him before he got the call.

Well, Reader, I suppose I should clue you in on what exactly made me so mad. I discovered something about my church.

It was two days ago at my friend Mary's apartment...

It was 2 AM in the morning, and I contemplated destroying my career as a pastor before it even got started because my chance at real love blossomed right beside me.

I stayed at a friend's house, exhausted but anxious to avoid sleep. I pushed off my blanket to only cover my legs and sat up on the couch. I blinked to fight against sleep and refocus on the movie on the TV. A slasher had just killed the overly horny guy.

Less than two feet apart from me—and only moving closer as the night wore on—was the owner of the apartment I was in, a girl I was starting to have feelings for that I would never be allowed to date, much less marry, if I wanted to inherit my uncle's church.

Something aphrodisiacal stirred in the air and now rested on the couch. I knew I was either getting love or sex tonight. Sex would be a natural consequence of lowered inhibitions, the chill of her apartment that these thin blankets couldn't dampen, and the fact we found ourselves closer and closer on her couch. The frills of our blankets touched like fingers.

Love would be a natural consequence of our common interests, our budding friendship—for the last three weeks, I had texted her nearly every hour of every day, smiling the whole time. I hoped it would be love. Like I said, I was a good man. A good Christian boy, which meant I was twenty-four and still a virgin. Up until that moment, up until I met Mary, being a virgin wasn't that hard. I had never wanted someone more, and the feeling seemed mutual.

The two of us played a game since I got here. Who's the bigger freak? Who can say the most crude and wild thing imaginable? Very unbecoming as a future pastor, but it was so freeing! I never got to be untamed, my wild self, with anyone connected to the church. And that was Mary, a free woman. Someone whom my uncle would never accept. My uncle was like a father to me; I never knew my mom or dad.

Our game started off as jokes. She told me A, I told her B. And we kept it going, seeing who could weird out the other.

Then we moved to truths and then to secrets, and is there really any greater love than that, to share secrets? To expose your greatest mistakes to someone else and ask for them to accept you anyway?

I didn't quite know how I felt about her yet in a romantic sense. She was a friend of a friend. I was told by my friend not to try to date her because she wasn't my type, and it would just end in heartbreak and might destroy the friend group. The funny thing is, I know she was told the same.

"That was probably my worst relationship," Mary said, revealing one more secret, pulling the covers close to her. "Honestly, I think he was a bit of a porn addict too." Her face glowed. "What's the nastiest thing you've watched?"

I bit my lip, gritted my teeth, and strained in the light of the TV. Our game was unspoken, but the rules were obvious—you can't just back down from a question like that.

I said my sin to her and then asked, "What's yours?"

She groaned at mine and then made two genuinely funny jokes at my expense.

"Nah, nah, nah," I said between laughs. "What's yours?"

"No judgments?" she asked.

"No judgments," I said.

"And you won't tell the others?"

"I promise."

"Pinky promise," she said and leaned in close. I liked her smile. It was a little big, a little malicious. I liked that. I leaned forward and our pinkies interlocked. My heart raced. Love or sex fast approaching.

She said what it was. Sorry to leave you in the dark, reader, but the story's best details are yet to come.

She was so amazed at her confession. She said, "Jesus Christ" after it.

"Yeah, you need him," I joked back. Her face went dark.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked.

"What? Just a joke."

"No, it's not. I can see it in your eyes you're judging me." She pulled away from me. The chill of her room felt stronger than before, and my chances at sex or love moved away with her.

"Dude, no," I said. "You made jokes about me and I made one about you."

She eyed me softer then, but her eyes still held a skeptical squint.

"Sorry," she said, "I just know you're religious so I thought you were going to try to get me to go to church or something."

"Uh, no, not really." Good ol' guilt settled in because her 'salvation' was not my priority.

"Oh," she slid beside me again. Face soft, her constant grin back on. "I just had some friends really try to force church on me and I didn't like that. I won't step foot in a church."

"Oh, sorry to hear that."

"There's one in particular I hate. Calgary."

"Oh, uh, why?" I froze. I hoped I didn't show it in my face, but I was scared as hell she knew my secret. Calgary was my uncle's church.

"They just suck," she said, noncommittal.

Did she know?

"What makes them suck?"

She took a deep breath and told me her story—

At ten years old, I wanted to kill myself. I had made a makeshift noose in my closet. I poured out my crate of DVDs on the floor and brought the crate into the closet so I could stand on it. I flipped the crate upside down so it rested just below the noose. I stepped up and grabbed the rope. I was numb until that moment. My mom left, my family hated me, and I feared my dad was lost in his own insane world. The holes in the wall, welts in his own skin, and a plethora of reptiles he let roam around our house were proof.

And it was so hot. He kept it as hot as hell in that house. My face was drenched as I stepped up the crate to hang myself. I hoped heaven would be cold.

Heaven. That's what made me stop. I would be in heaven and my dad would be here. I didn't ... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gv20jh/i_think_my_uncles_church_is_evil/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/NoMoreFetch on 2024-11-19 15:17:59+00:00. *** You won’t find much about the mysterious death of the Doe twins in the news. Twin brothers, both apparently dead of natural causes within days of each other, both bodies found hundreds of miles from home, mysterious disappearances preceding both deaths. None of this information was ever released to the public. The police reported it as a coincidence, treating the deaths as natural causes. As a close friend of the Doe twins, I’ve pieced together as much information as I can about their deaths from my own memories, reports from other friends and family, and the police investigation (in which I was a key witness). What I have uncovered terrifies me.

Everything you read here is 100% accurate, except the names which have been changed to protect privacy.

Early last year, the body of John Doe, a 32-year-old from a quiet coastal village in South Wales, was found by hikers. The body was found in a forest near the Suffolk coast, approximately 350 miles away from home - quite literally the opposite side of the country. There was no sign of any physical harm, and medical exmination determined the cause of death to be a heart attack.

The same day, John Doe's identical twin brother Richard, disappeared. His body was discovered eight days later, hundreds of miles away from both South Wales and Suffolk in a Yorkshire moorland. Like his twin, Richard was found by hikers. Same cause of death: heart attack. The police called it coincidence.

They’re wrong.

I knew the Doe twins since I was a child. I first met them at primary school (around 5 years old for those not familiar British schooling!) and we quickly became the closest of friends. For the sake of their privacy, I won't go into much detail about them or their private lives. This may seem uncaring, but the truth is that I gave eulogies and said goodbye at the time of their deaths; the purpose of this report isn't to remember their lives, but to try to help uncover the mystery surrounding their deaths.

In the months leading up to their deaths something started changing in John. He had always loved conspiracy theories - the paranormal, aliens, secret government projects; the wilder the better in John's mind. But he'd always viewed them as an entertaining work of fiction, never really believing. The changes were subtle at first, but suddenly he wasn't joking any more. It started small: hushed comments about "visitors," glances over his shoulder, cryptic warnings to "stay away from the school/hotel/mountains."

Then he vanished for three days. No phone, no keys, no wallet. No communication. When he returned, he was unhurt. Physically, at least. But he was different. He was obsessed with the "visitors", but wouldn't elaborate in case they were listening. He became paranoid, sure the visitors were trying to zap him with their "electric paddles". His door was always locked, and he inspected visitors - including close friends like me and even his own twin - through gaps in his window blinds before letting them in his house.

We spoke to the local GP - a family friend also from our small village - and they put it down to potentially psychosis or schizophrenia, or perhaps agoraphobia, or maybe anxiety disorder. John refused to see the GP himself though, so no formal diagnosis was ever made. The worst part was I was starting believe him. Not the specifics, maybe, but the fear in his voice was real.

John's family and close friends decided to take turns staying with him. The night he died, it was my turn. By then, his paranoia was suffocating. When I knocked on his door, he cracked it just enough to peek out, his eyes wide and bloodshot. Inside, he jumped at every noise—the creak of floorboards, the hum of the fridge—like he expected something to burst in at any moment.

“They’re coming tonight,” he said, gripping my arm hard enough to hurt. “They're going to hurt people. I have to stop them.”

I tried to calm him down, but he wouldn’t listen. I called Richard for backup, thinking his twin could talk him down. If anything this made John more agitated.

Richard arrived close to midnight, and the two of us tried to reason with John. He wouldn’t hear it. “If I don’t go, they’ll take people," he said, hands trembling. "They'll hurt them, they'll hurt them then fry them."

Fearing for what John might do if he got any more agitated, Richard changed tact and agreed to drive him wherever he needed to go. "I'll take him to the police station, it's only 15 minutes away, maybe they can help" he whispered to me.

That was the last time I saw either of them alive.

The next morning, hikers found John’s body in a forest on the other side of the country. There were no wounds, no signs of violence—just a man in the dirt, staring at the sky. The medical examiner said it was a heart attack some time during the night.

Richard's car was later found in North Wales, hours away in the wrong direction, parked at a trailhead in a popular mountain hiking path. There was no sign of Richard.

The only plausible timeline the police could put together was the following. Richard had driven John at high speed to the North Wales mountain car park, where he had a second car waiting. He swapped cars, immediately turned around and drove across the country toward the East England forest. A few hours into this drive John had his heart attack and died. Richard continued to the forest and dumped John's body, then went on the run in his second car. Even driving at high speed with no stops, travelling that route within that time frame is only just plausible. No motivation for Richard's behaviour in this theory was ever given, nor was any evidence of a second car ever existing. None of it made sense.

Richard wasn't seen or heard from for eight days. On the morning of the eight day after John’s body was found, hikers found Richard's body slumped against a stone outcrop just off a popular hiking route in a Yorkshire moor. Another heart attack, another empty wilderness. No one saw him during those eight days. He didn’t contact anyone. He didn't have his car, he didn't spend any money on his cards, he didn't go home. He just… disappeared. Nobody knows how he made it so far up north.

The police wrapped it up neatly. Two brothers, two heart attacks while hiking, a freak coincidence. Case closed. It barely made the local news. But I can’t accept that story. Not after everything I saw—and everything I’ve learned since.

I started digging into John’s old posts on conspiracy forums. He was tracking something—a pattern, he called it. His last posts were desperate, warning the visitors would come again. Maps detailing the visit sites. Berwyn mountain range in North Wales. Suffolk’s Rendlesham Forest. Yorkshire's Ilkley Moor. A handful of other places. Finally our home town of Broad Haven. All places he claims they've visited before. It sounds insane, I know, but the deeper I go, the less I can dismiss it.

I don’t know what really happened to John and Richard Doe that night. But I do know one thing: it wasn’t just a coincidence. And whatever they were, I don’t think they’re done yet.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Braven025 on 2024-11-19 16:28:35+00:00. *** Part 1

Day One Cont’d

(First of all, I want to apologize for having to split up Day One – I don’t have a lot of time to write things down, but there was a lot that happened that I need to explain. I have to constantly be looking over my shoulder. I will try to do better moving forward)

The media was waiting for us when we walked out of the police station. Crowds of people that hadn’t been there when we entered. I walked beside Dylan, my body in a vice grip of cold, hard fear. He grasped the boy’s hand in his, a grin plastered on his face, waving at the camera crews and journalists that had somehow been alerted to the boy’s “return.” I was struck dumb. What was wrong with me? This kid wasn’t ours, but somehow my husband of nine years, the police department, and the media seemed to think he was.

“Mr. Harding, Mrs. Harding, how does it feel to finally have your son back after he went missing three years ago?” a portly man with a bald patch asked. He leaned in, raising his eyebrows, waiting for an answer.

My stomach flip-flopped. I couldn’t answer him. What the fuck would I say, anyway? This isn’t our kid, but my husband thinks he is? The police are mistaken? I want a DNA test? Nothing would sound right coming out of my mouth. So I just clamped it shut and shouldered past all the nosy onlookers. Dylan, on the other hand, was happy to be the center of attention. He pushed the boy in front of him, that shit-eating grin on his face, and said proudly, “This is the happiest day of our lives.”

A young woman stepped forward then. “Do the police have any leads on where Logan has been all this time?”

Dylan shook his head. “Not yet, but we’re hopeful they’ll figure it out. Or that Logan will be able to tell us.”

The first man turned to me and I whipped toward him with a steely glare before he could get another question out of his mouth. “No comment.”

Was I losing my mind? Did I block out the boy’s existence to save some shred of sanity when he went missing? If that was true, why did I feel this inexplicable sense of dread and fear when I looked at him? Shouldn’t I be happy? But no, I was completely out of my mind with confusion and fear. Nothing about it felt right, even as Dylan ushered the boy into his car and turned to me.

“We’ll meet you at home,” he said, breathless. “I can’t believe it, Lyss!”

I made a grunting sound and climbed behind the wheel of my Prius. For the second time that day, I considered running. I wouldn’t have time to stop at home and pack a bag. Or say goodbye to Gus. How could I leave without Gus? Fuck. Whatever was going on, I needed to stay and figure it out.

At home, Dylan’s car was already in the driveway when I pulled in. He was standing on the front steps with the boy, talking in soothing tones to him.

“This is our house, Logan,” he said. “You probably don’t remember it, but not much has changed.”

The boy looked back at me as I approached. His dark fucking eyes pinned me to the sidewalk. They were dead inside. And they didn’t just stare through me. No. Maybe that would have been better. They stared INTO me. Like he could see all the way into my soul, prying open the folds of myself I didn’t even know were there, prodding, poking, digging around. Why didn’t Dylan see that? Instead, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. The boy hesitated.

“May I come in?” he asked, speaking for the first time. His voice was soft and one-toned, lacking any sort of emotion. It sent shivers ripping through me.

“Yes, of course,” Dylan said. “This is your home.”

The boy looked up at me again. “May I?”

I frowned. Dylan just told him he could. Why the fuck was he asking me?

“Lyss,” Dylan hissed. “Answer him.”

“Uh, y-yes. I guess.”

The boy nodded and followed Dylan into the house. Gus bounded down the hallway, his nails tip-tapping on the hardwood floors. He stopped short in the kitchen, the golden hairs on his back instantly standing on end. A low growl rumbled in his chest. I fucking knew something wasn’t right. Dogs always know.

“Hey now, Gus,” Dylan scolded. “It’s Logan. You remember him, don’t you?”

Gus started to back away, bumping into chairs and cabinets as he went, not taking his eyes off the boy. When he was about twenty feet away, he turned and ran, disappearing into the back of the house.

I raised my eyebrows. “Dylan, don’t you think—”

“He just needs to warm up to him again,” Dylan said crossly. “It’s been three years.”

“Sure,” I said, shrugging.

“Your room is down here at the end of the hall, buddy,” Dylan said. “We didn’t really touch it after you left so it might be a little…young for you now.”

The sound that came out of me then caused Dylan to shoot me the dirtiest look. What the hell was he talking about? The only thing at the end of the hall was a guest bedroom that had become a catch-all for boxes and junk we didn’t need in the main house. Certainly not a child’s bedroom.

But when Dylan swung open the door, the breath caught in my throat.

Soft beige carpeting, a sturdy wooden bed topped with a navy blue bedspread, sailboat posters on the wall, and a pile of stuffed animals in the corner stared back at me. I blinked my eyes in disbelief. A wet sound gurgled in my throat.

Dylan raised his eyebrows at me, then placed a hand on the boy’s back. “Go on, buddy, get comfortable. Mom and I are going to get started on dinner,” Dylan said.

The word “mom” uncoiled something inside of me, like a spool of thread coming undone, unraveling all over the floor in a messy, tangled heap. The boy spun around slowly, then perched timidly on the edge of the bed. As we walked out, and the door swung closed behind us, I turned just in time to see a smile spreading across the boy’s face. But it wasn’t a smile of happiness or humor. It was the most unsettling thing. His lips spread wide, wider than I would have thought possible, but his eyes remained dark and emotionless. I shuddered as Dylan moved down the hall toward the kitchen.

Out of ear shot, he spun on me. “Alyssa, what is going on with you? Are you in shock or something?”

I honestly didn’t know how to answer the question. It was obvious that one of us was cracking up and at the moment, I didn’t know which one of us it was. When we made the decision not to have kids, it wasn’t just my decision. Dylan was adamantly against them too. He didn’t even like spending too much time around his nieces and nephews. They freaked him out. Now, all of a sudden he’s Dad of the Year?

“I’m fine,” I said quietly.

I wasn’t ready to let on that something was terribly wrong, because it seemed like I was the problem. What happened if I didn’t keep up the charade? Would Dylan have me hospitalized? The very idea filled my mouth with a sour, metallic taste. Because how could I NOT be the problem? There was a bedroom in our house that I remembered being filled with boxes and random shit. Not a kid’s bedroom. Definitely not that. Why wouldn’t I remember something like that?

“Well you’re not acting fine,” Dylan snapped. “This is all we’ve wanted for the last three years.”

“Is it?”

“What are you talking about, Lyss? God, I can’t believe you!”

“Something is wrong with him.” I couldn’t help it. The words just popped out. I couldn’t hold them inside any longer.

Dylan’s mouth dropped open. “Un-fucking-believable! Of COURSE something is wrong with him! He’s been missing for three years and who knows what he went through during that time! How can you be so insensitive?”

His words stung, bringing heat to my cheeks. He was right, of course. He had to be right. Something was wrong with ME. But deep down in the pit of my stomach, denial clung tight. Insistence that it wasn’t me. It was him. It was them.

“Well?”

I looked up at my husband, the man I’d called my best friend, the man I barely ever fought with, and saw disgust in his eyes. When I didn’t answer, he threw his hands in the air and stormed into the kitchen, rummaging around for something to make. I doubted he was going to find much in the way of kid-friendly food. Unless the kid liked asparagus and grass-fed beef. Dylan settled on a box of pasta and put a pot of water on to boil.

I wandered into the living room and sank onto the couch, dropping my head in my hands. There was a stranger in our house. A dark-eyed stranger who my husband insisted was my son. What the hell was I going to do? A tear slipped from my eyes as I listened to the sounds of Dylan puttering around the kitchen. I glanced down the hallway at the closed guest bedroom door, remembering that wide smile and those big, soul-staringly dark eyes.

When Dylan had finally concocted something suitable for everyone, he brought the pot out to the table, along with a stack of dishes.

“Logan, dinner’s ready!” he called.

I watched with dread as the guest bedroom door swung open. The boy stood silhouetted in the doorway, still, silent, watching. I was frozen in place, waiting to see what he would do. Then, it was like he snapped out of a trance, and he came down the hallway into the dining room.

“There you are,” Dylan said happily. “Take a seat. I made pasta.”

“Okay,” the boy said. He climbed into a chair and sat with his hands folded in front of him.

Dylan turned to me. “Will you be joining us?”

I nodded and rose from the couch, passing a bookshelf as I went. My heart stuttered and skipped in my chest. On the middle shelf, among the photos of Dylan and I, there were some pictures I’... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gv17bx/four_days_ago_my_missing_son_returnedonly_i_dont/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Stxaar on 2024-11-19 16:24:23+00:00. *** For as long as I can remember, WLNK 97.3—The Link has been the local radio station in my town. It’s one of those stations that plays a little bit of everything: old rock, some pop hits, even a few talk shows when the ad money dries up. Everyone listens to it. You know, that kind of station that’s always on in the background at diners, garages, and grocery stores.

I’d been a casual listener my whole life. It was dependable. Familiar. Safe.

But all of that changed three months ago, the night I noticed something I can’t explain. Something no one else seems to believe, no matter how many times I try to tell them.

It started on a Monday night. I’d been driving home late from work, flipping between stations, when I landed on WLNK. I wasn’t paying much attention—just another evening commute. The DJ was wrapping up a song, probably something by Fleetwood Mac, when he cut to his usual banter.

“And now… the name of the night,” he said, his voice dropping into a strange, almost playful tone.

There was a pause, static buzzing faintly in the background. Then, with eerie clarity, the DJ said a single name:

“Jessica Browning.”

It felt odd. There was no context. No explanation. Just a name, dropped into the ether like a stone into still water.

I shrugged it off. Maybe it was part of a contest or some weird new segment. But I couldn’t shake the way it felt—the delivery was too strange, too deliberate.

I forgot about it until the following Monday. I was driving again, same time, same station, when the DJ did it again.

“And now… the name of the night.”

This time, the name was Robert Sanchez.

Another pause. Another song.

The pattern continued every Monday at exactly 11:05 PM. One name. No explanation. Just dropped into the void.

By the fifth week, curiosity had gotten the better of me. I started listening religiously, notebook in hand. Each Monday night, I’d jot down the name. And each week, I’d search social media, local news sites, anything that might explain what this segment was about.

At first, I found nothing. No contests. No winners. No mentions of the names anywhere.

But then something changed.

One week, the name was Caleb Howard. It stuck with me because Caleb worked at the gas station near my apartment. We weren’t friends or anything, but I’d chatted with him a few times while paying for coffee or snacks. He was a nice guy, always had a smile on his face.

I didn’t think much of it until a week later, when I stopped at the gas station and saw a “Help Find Caleb” poster taped to the door.

He’d gone missing.

The clerk behind the counter—a college kid with a nervous energy—told me Caleb had just disappeared after his shift. No one knew where he’d gone. His car was still in the parking lot.

I couldn’t believe it. Caleb’s name had been said on WLNK exactly a week before. I told myself it was a coincidence, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t.

I started digging.

I went through the names I’d written down in my notebook and searched for any trace of them. By now, I had six names, including Caleb’s. Three of them—Jessica Browning, Robert Sanchez, and Caleb Howard—were confirmed missing. Their faces stared back at me from articles and social media posts, plastered with desperate pleas from friends and family.

No one else seemed to see the pattern.

I tried asking people about the radio show, but everyone looked at me like I was crazy. A few people said they listened to WLNK, but none of them had noticed the “name of the night” segment. Some even insisted it didn’t exist.

I couldn’t explain it. How could a radio broadcast that I heard every week leave no trace?

By the time the eighth name was announced, I was obsessed. The name was Emily Carter.

I didn’t know her personally, but a quick search on social media turned up her profile. She was 28, lived on the other side of town, and worked as a veterinary assistant. Her posts were filled with photos of smiling dogs and cats, each caption brimming with positivity.

I couldn’t let her vanish like the others.

I sent her a message. It was awkward, clumsy:

“Hi, you don’t know me, but I heard your name mentioned on a radio station. It’s hard to explain, but I think something bad might happen to you soon. Please be careful.”

She didn’t reply.

Over the next week, I checked her profile obsessively. She posted like normal—pictures of her dog, updates from work, jokes about her favorite TV shows. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Then, exactly seven days later, her posts stopped.

I knew what that meant.

The next morning, I saw a news article: “Local Veterinary Assistant Reported Missing.”

She was gone.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed answers.

I started visiting WLNK’s building after hours, trying to figure out who was behind the segment. The station was housed in an old, nondescript building downtown. I watched it for hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of the DJ or anyone who might know about the names.

Nothing.

On a whim, I tried calling the station during the day. The receptionist who answered sounded confused when I asked about the 11:05 broadcast.

“We don’t have anything like that on our schedule,” she said. “Are you sure you’re listening to WLNK?”

“Yes,” I insisted. “It happens every Monday night.”

There was a long pause. Then, quietly, she said, “We don’t have live programming at that time.”

Last Monday, the name was Brandon Lewis.

I found him online—a local contractor with a wife and two kids. I didn’t bother messaging him this time. No one ever believed me.

Instead, I decided to confront the source.

At 10:30 PM, I parked outside WLNK. The building was dark except for a single light on the second floor. I waited, heart pounding, until 11:05.

When the time came, I heard it: the muffled sound of the broadcast through the building’s walls.

“And now… the name of the night.”

I burst through the door.

Inside, the station was eerily silent. The reception desk was empty, the hallways dark. I followed the faint sound of the DJ’s voice up a flight of creaky stairs to the second floor.

At the end of the hallway, a door was slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the corridor.

I pushed it open.

The room was empty—just an old desk, a microphone, and a tangle of outdated broadcasting equipment. The light on the “ON AIR” sign flickered weakly, and the static-filled voice of the DJ continued:

“Brandon Lewis.”

I stepped closer, and the equipment suddenly shut off. The room plunged into silence.

Then I saw it.

Taped to the wall behind the desk was a list of names, written in neat, looping handwriting. My heart stopped when I saw the last entry:

Ethan Grant.

That’s my name.

It’s been six days since that broadcast. I’ve locked myself in my apartment, every door and window sealed. The phone rings sometimes, but I don’t answer it.

Tomorrow is day seven.

If anyone hears this… if anyone knows what’s happening… please, don’t let them say another name.

Because no one ever comes back.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Ok-Counter-9441 on 2024-11-19 13:02:46+00:00. *** It had been one of those lazy nights—the kind where no one really had a plan but didn’t want to call it quits, either. The four of us were packed into Greg’s basement, sprawled across old beanbags and couch cushions that smelled faintly of dust and cheap cologne. Someone had dug out a pack of old marlboros, and Greg had tossed on some album that was mostly static and ghostly guitar riffs. Tommy was doing his best impression of our principal, using a deep, absurd voice, much to everyone’s amusement.

I leaned back against the wall, watching my friends goof around and trying to tune out a low-grade sense of restlessness. It was rare these days that we got to just hang out like this, With everyone busy—part-time jobs, classes, family stuff—we were lucky to get a few hours together, let alone a whole evening. I was grateful for it, even if it was just hanging out in a musty basement, swapping bad jokes.

We had spent the last hour eating stale chips and debating whether it was worth going out for food, but every time we got close to agreeing, someone would start up another conversation, and we would all settle back down. Kev was in the middle of a story about some disastrous date he’d had last week when my phone buzzed, the sound cutting through the quiet laughter and casual hum of the night.

I didn’t think much of it at first—probably my mom asking when I’d be home, or some random group text lighting up. But when i glanced at the screen, I saw my sister’s name, glowing urgently in the dim light. It was rare for her to call this late, even rarer for her to call me at all. We got along fine, but our lives don’t exactly overlap. She was younger, more into her own scene, and she usually kept me out of her business.

“Hang on a sec,” i mumbled, stepping away from the group to answer the call. I could tell right away something was off; I didn’t even have to say hello. Her voice was rushed, almost a whisper, and there was noise in the background—music, people arguing, someone yelling like they were way too drunk.

“Casey?” she said, her voice almost swallowed up by the noise. “Hey, can you…can you come pick me up?”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” i replied, thrown off by the tension in her voice. “You okay?”

There was a pause, the sound of her moving away from the crowd. “Not really,” she admitted, a strain in her voice. “The party’s getting weird. We have a…situation. I don’t know how to explain it, but can you just get here fast?”

That was all it took. I glanced back at the guys, all of whom had gone silent, listening in as I finished the call. “We gotta go,” I said, feeling a prickle of worry. I didn’t explain, but they didn’t ask. They all just stood, shaking off the comfort of the night and grabbing their jackets, feeling a shared sense of urgency settle over them.

“Guess we’re going for a drive,” Kev said, trying to keep it light as we all piled into Greg’s car. But even he was quieter than usual, and I could feel my own tension spreading to the others.

Greg’s car rattled as it picked up speed, the low hum of the engine filling the silence that had settled over us. I sat in the passenger seat, my fingers drumming nervously against my thigh as I tried to explain where we are headed. We all knew the city well, but even I wasn’t exactly sure where this party was, and every turn we took seemed to make the streets feel less familiar.

“So, she told me it was somewhere off East Monroe,” I said, staring out the windshield. “It’s this big old house at the end of the block. She said it’s the one with the porch lights that flicker.”

Greg nodded, his eyes fixed on the road, though his shoulders were tense, hands gripped a little too tightly around the wheel. “East Monroe? There’s nothing but old houses down there, right? People usually don’t throw parties there.”

“That’s what I thought,” I replied, glancing at Greg. “But I guess some college kid’s renting it now. Or maybe they just snuck in. Either way, she said it was packed.”

Tommy leaned forward from the backseat, his voice a low murmur. “Did she say why she wanted to leave so bad?”

I shook my head. “Not really. She just sounded…different. Said there was some situation.”

“Situation?” Kev asked, his voice filled with forced lightness, trying to break the tension. “You think there's something shady going on?”

I didn’t answer right away. I didn’t know how to put it into words, but her voice had sounded wrong. Like there was something she was afraid to say, something she didn’t even want to put into words over the phone.

“Nah, nothing like that,” I finally said, though I wasn’t sure I believed it myself. “Probably just some people got too drunk or whatever. But let’s just get there quick, alright?”

The streetlights threw long, uneven shadows as we drove, and I felt the weight of those shadows settling around us. The houses passed by, silent and dark, like they were holding secrets. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the city was different tonight—emptier, darker, like something was crouched just beyond the glow of the headlights, watching.

Tommy, sensing the mood, let out a shaky laugh. “Man, you guys are acting like we’re about to walk into some horror movie,” he said, though his voice was a little too loud, a little too forced. “It’s just a party. We pick her up, and we’re out of there in five minutes.”

“Right,” Greg muttered, glancing at me. “Five minutes. In and out.”

We pulled up a few houses down, parking under a half-dead tree that cast warped shadows across the hood of Greg’s car. The house we were looking at, the one my sister had described, was at the end of the block, its dim porch light flickering in a slow, irregular pattern. But everything else about it seemed…off.

Greg cut the engine, and the silence hit us like a weight. No bass thumping from inside the house, no laughter drifting out into the night, no sounds of people spilling onto the porch for a smoke or some air. The place looked abandoned, except for the dim yellow light over the door, swaying slightly in the breeze. It was a big house, three stories tall, the kind of place that felt like it had its own ghost stories. The windows were dark, and the yard was overgrown, as if no one had cared for it in years.

“You sure this is the right spot, man?” Kev asked from the back, leaning forward to get a better look. He squinted, peering through the darkness like he could will the place to look more lively.

“This should be it,” I said, pulling out my phone and trying to call my sister. I waited, listening to the ringing, but it went to voicemail.

“Maybe they all went somewhere else?” Tommy offered, though even he sounded unconvinced. “Or it ended early. I mean, it’s almost one in the morning.”

I shook my head, staring hard at the house. “She’d have texted me if she was leaving. Or if she needed a ride somewhere else.” But she hadn’t texted, hadn’t left me any clue except her tense, hurried call.

Greg took a deep breath, glancing nervously at all of us before nodding toward the house. “Maybe we should just…go up, check it out. If she’s not there, we’ll head out. But at least we’ll know.”

None of us moved at first, as if the idea of actually going up to the house had caught us all off-guard. But then I opened the door, breaking the spell, and one by one, the rest followed, stepping out onto the quiet, empty street.

We walked slowly, each step echoing a little too loudly in the silence, as if we were the only people left in the city. The street was lined with darkened houses, every window empty and watching, giving me the eerie sense that something was waiting. I led the way, my hands shoved deep in my pockets, with Greg right behind me, my gaze fixed on the house, as if I was hoping my sister would step onto the porch.

As we reached the sidewalk, Kev glanced at us and whispered, “This place looks like it hasn’t seen a party in decades. Are we sure this isn’t, like, someone’s grandma’s house?”

Tommy chuckled, a nervous sound that broke too soon. “If she’s waiting for us inside that place, I’m not going in without a weapon.”

“Relax,” I muttered. I wasn’t sure why the house felt so wrong, but it did, and I couldn’t shake it.

We climbed the creaky steps to the porch, and I tried to call my sister one more time, letting it ring as we started at the cracked, peeling front door. It felt like the night was holding its breath, waiting for us to make the next move.

When all of a sudden, the door started to creak

It swung open slowly, as if someone—or something—inside had been watching us the whole time, waiting for us to come close. The hinges moaned, loud in the night, and the door opened just enough to reveal pitch-black darkness inside. It was so dark it seemed to swallow the light from the street, an unnatural kind of dark, as if it didn’t want us to see what lays within.

Greg swallowed, his hand hovering just inches from the door, and my heart was racing, each beat louder than the last.

And then, finally, my sister picked up her phone.

“Casey?” Her voice was low, urgent, barely more than a whisper. “Casey, listen to me. I’m…I’m not in the house anymore. I don’t know how to explain it, but you need to leave. Now. Don’t ask questions. Just get out of there. Please.”

Her words hit me like ice water, sending a shiver down my spine. I looked around at my friends, who were watching me with tense, anxious expressions.

“But—” i started to say, but she cut me off.

“Casey, pleas... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1guwlrv/my_sister_called_me_to_pick_her_up_from_a_party/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/MasterofFate25 on 2024-11-19 04:25:51+00:00. *** For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been waking up in the middle of my sleep to my neighbor’s dog barking. I’ve tried approaching my neighbors about it, but they just look exhausted and tell me they’re also annoyed by the dog. They say they’ve tried everything to calm it down—training, different collars, even consulting a vet. But nothing seems to work. It sounds ridiculous, but I guess it’s something we all have to deal with, and at least I’m not the only one being tortured by the constant noise.

At first, I just thought it was the usual—cats, raccoons, maybe the occasional stray fox. But lately, the barking has been different. The dog’s growls and barks are harsher, more frantic, like it’s barking at something that’s more than just another animal. Something larger.

I’ve been losing sleep over this. The exhaustion is starting to affect my work. It’s hard to focus during the day when you’ve barely gotten any rest. So, after a few more nights of the same chaos, I decided I’d had enough. I couldn’t take it anymore. I needed to know what was causing the disturbance, once and for all.

So, last night, I went outside. The air was thick and humid, typical for South Florida, and the moon was barely visible behind a blanket of clouds. I stood still for a while, listening. The dog’s barking had been relentless for what felt like hours, but now, there was an eerie silence. Just when I thought the noise had stopped, the barking exploded again—only this time, it was coming from the side of my yard, where the bushes and trees grew thick.

I crept toward the back door, pushing it open slowly, trying not to make a sound. My heart raced, my palms began to sweat. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but something told me it wasn’t going to be just a raccoon.

I peered out from the doorway, squinting through the darkness. My eyes adjusted, and that’s when I saw it.

The dog was in the corner of the yard, barking furiously at something standing just beyond the edge of the fence. It wasn’t an animal. No, it was something… human, but it wasn’t. I can’t explain it. It didn’t move like a person, but instead it jerked and twitched in ways that were almost too fast for my eyes to follow. I can’t even put into words what it was I was too busy trying to comprehend what the hell was going on and what it was.

The dog kept barking—furious, desperate. I could feel my own body stiffen, my stomach twisting into knots. I felt like I was trapped inside my own skin. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move. I didn’t even know if it saw me. I just stood there, frozen, as it stared off into the distance, its unnatural posture making my blood run cold.

The silence that followed felt even more suffocating than the barking. And just as suddenly as it had appeared, the figure darted into the trees, its long limbs snapping with unnatural speed. The dog, now quiet, stood still, watching.

I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to scream, to run, but my feet felt glued to the floor. It was like the air itself was heavy with the weight of the thing I had just seen. I don’t even know how long I stood there—minutes? Hours? I only snapped out of it when I heard a familiar voice in the distance—my neighbor, yelling at their dog to come back inside.

I don’t know what I saw, but I can’t shake the feeling that whatever it was, it’s been there all along, hiding just beyond the edge of my sight. I’ve been trying to convince myself it was just some weird shadow or a trick of the mind, but deep down, I know that’s not true.

I’m not sure if I’m ready to go outside again. But if I hear that barking one more time, I’ll be prepared. I’ll snap a picture. I’ll get proof. Because I can’t be the only one who’s seen it. Can I?

I’m reaching out to anyone in the area—anyone who’s had a strange experience, or maybe noticed something similar. I need to know if this is happening to anyone else. I’m not crazy. I can’t be.

Please, if you’ve seen anything like this, or know what it might be, let me know. This has gone too far, and I don’t think I can just ignore it anymore. It’s not just a barking dog. There’s something out there.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Nobleblade2019 on 2024-11-19 01:09:59+00:00. *** It started out like a scene from some dreamy romantic movie. I was in the cereal aisle, reaching for the last box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and her hand brushed mine as she reached for it too. I looked up to find myself staring into the warmest brown eyes I’d ever seen. She laughed, the sound soft and musical, and said, “Guess we’ve got the same taste.” She had this easygoing confidence, like she wasn’t a stranger but someone I’d known forever.

Her name was Kate. She was beautiful in that effortless way, with a quick smile and this energy that seemed to light up the air around her. Over coffee, I learned she was smart, funny, with a way of looking right at you like you were the only person in the room. That day led to a second date, and a third, until days turned into weeks, and I was hooked.

She had a mysterious edge, though, something she didn’t fully reveal. It was in the way she talked about her family, this tight-knit group of women who lived on a “homestead” tucked deep in the woods. “It’s like a haven,” she said. “No noise, no distractions. Just peace.” She smiled, but her eyes had this far-off look, like she was seeing something I couldn’t. Then, one night, she asked me to visit the homestead with her. She wanted me to “see her world,” as she put it. I didn’t hesitate—I would’ve followed her anywhere.

The drive was longer than I expected, and the forest seemed to close in tighter around us the further we went. We finally turned down a dirt road that snaked through dense trees, branches scraping against the car windows. It was almost dark when we reached the homestead, a cluster of cabins that seemed to appear out of nowhere, nestled deep in the shadows of the trees.

I’d expected some idyllic little village, but this place felt wrong, oppressive, like the air was thick with something unseen. Women stood in front of their cabins, watching as we pulled in, their expressions unreadable. Kate led me inside one of the larger cabins, handed me a cup of tea. I took a sip, but it tasted strange, metallic and bitter. The room spun, my vision blurred, and the last thing I saw was Kate’s face, her smile melting into a cold, unfeeling stare.

When I woke, I was lying on a cold, damp stone floor. My wrists were bound behind my back, my head pounding as I tried to focus. The room was dark, the air thick with the smell of mold and something metallic… something like blood. I struggled, called out, but my voice echoed back, hollow and empty. Then I heard a low, rattling breath from somewhere nearby.

“Quiet. Don’t draw attention to yourself,” came a voice, barely more than a whisper.

I twisted, straining to see, and finally spotted him—a man slumped in the corner, his face battered and bruised, his eyes hollow with terror. He looked at me, his gaze a mixture of despair and something else… recognition.

“They got you too,” he rasped, his eyes locking onto mine, then shifting, almost fearfully, toward the door.

“What… what is this place?” I managed, panic clawing up my throat.

He shook his head, voice trembling. “She told you her name was Kate, didn’t she?” He laughed bitterly, his voice like sandpaper. “Yeah, that’s what she told me too. Kate, Ashley, Mary… she’s used them all. It’s not her real name. None of them are real.”

A chill crept up my spine. I tried to argue, to defend her, but his eyes held a look that crushed every word before it formed.

“She and the others bring men here,” he continued, his voice hollow. “They lure us, charm us, bring us here like lambs to the slaughter. I’ve been here for days, maybe weeks… watching them kill.”

I barely had time to process his words before the door creaked open. Kate walked in, but she wasn’t the woman I’d fallen for. She was cold, her eyes as dark as the shadows pressing in around us. Two other women followed her, their faces as blank and hollow as hers. They grabbed the man, dragging him out of the room. His screams started almost immediately, desperate and raw, growing fainter until there was only silence.

When they brought him back, he was nothing more than a lifeless shell, his face twisted in horror. I felt bile rise in my throat as I looked away, fighting down the panic, trying to keep control.

Hours passed, maybe days. I barely ate, barely slept, every sound from above making me flinch, my mind unraveling as I waited for them to come back for me. I thought about my family, my friends, anyone who might notice I was gone. But the days kept dragging on, and my hope was slipping away.

Then, one night, a new prisoner arrived, a man no older than me, his eyes darting around like a trapped animal. I watched him, hoping he had a plan, but he was as lost as I was. And then, one night, he snapped. I watched as he managed to loosen his bindings and dashed for the door, his footsteps frantic as he bolted down the hall. I heard him shout as he made it to the clearing outside… followed by a single, echoing gunshot. His body hit the ground with a dull, final thud.

And then there was silence.

I’d given up. There was no hope, no escape. I was weak, broken, waiting for the inevitable. But then, in a desperate flash, I remembered my smartwatch. I must have triggered the emergency alert when I’d thrashed against my restraints. It was a long shot, but it was all I had.

I drifted in and out of consciousness, time slipping through my fingers. And then, faintly, I heard the sound of sirens in the distance. My heart hammered as red and blue lights flashed through the cabin windows, the harsh beams cutting through the darkness. Shouts erupted outside, doors splintered open, footsteps thundered above me. And then, hands were on me, lifting me, carrying me out.

As I stumbled out of the cabin, I looked back, and there she was—Kate, or whatever her name was. She stood in the shadows just beyond the reach of the lights, her expression as empty as the forest around her, her eyes meeting mine with a look that chilled me to the bone. She watched me as they led me away, and then she vanished into the trees.

The police found nothing but the empty cabins when they returned; Kate and the others had vanished without a trace.

I’m back in the city now, safe, but I still can’t shake the feeling that it’s not over. Late at night, I catch glimpses of her in crowds, feel her eyes on me from across a crowded street, see her smile in strangers’ faces. And I know, one day, I’ll turn around, and she’ll be there—waiting, ready to lure her next victim into the darkness.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Sonofposiden18 on 2024-11-18 20:50:09+00:00. *** First off, my name is Oliver Wyatt, and ever since I was a little kid, I always wanted to be a police officer. I got an intense amount of pride out of the idea of upholding the law and being someone of authority. As a kid, I would run around my front yard, waving a toy revolver at imaginary bad guys like I was dirty Harry. That might sound like a tremendous cliché, and it probably is, but it’s my life. So, after high school, I picked up a minimum wage job until I was old enough to sign up for the police academy. Looking back, I wish I had stayed at that greasy burger place 15 minutes from my house. 

After 22 weeks of (not exactly intensive) training, I graduated and finally achieved my dream. Dad couldn't have been more proud, and mom couldn’t have been more terrified. I tried to console her, but even I was sweating a little. I will admit that years of anticipation began to climax in fear. Fear that all my ambition would get me is bullets flying in my direction. Only to see myself on the evening news, all of my dreams blowing up in my face. I have to say though that the first few weeks were more boring than I expected, even disappointing to some degree. Driving around dealing with car accidents, domestic abuse calls, and busy bodies welding cell phones like weapons. None of it scratched the itch for justice that I was looking for. I wanted some action! Some shit that you might see on numerous daytime TV cop shows. I was so naive.  If I had any sense, I would have listened to Carter. 

Carter Halpert was my old partner. He was an older man with a massive white mustache that would have put Nietzsche to shame. He had straight gray hair that was cut just above his shoulder and piercing green eyes that seemed to suck the truth out of any situation. All that and his thick Georgia accent that made him feel like the grandfather everyone wanted in their youth. The man genuinely carried himself like an old west sheriff, something that became quite clear whenever he scolded me for my action-hungry attitude. Or, whenever he scolded anyone for that matter. He always told me that I should consider myself lucky that I hadn’t seen something truly messed up, and maybe never would if I played my cards right. I knew he was right, even back then I knew that he was right. But I always wanted more action. I wanted to feel like I was doing a service.   

At first, this seemed like it was finally going to be one of those calls. Someone apparently heard gunshots at an apartment complex out in the middle of nowhere. It was called Paramount Apartments. I knew the address was odd. It was way out of town, seemingly right next to the highway —a more fitting place for a chain hotel, not an apartment complex. 

“Who the fuck is living next to the highway in the middle of nowhere?” I asked Carter, perhaps a bit more vulgar than I should have been. I remember that Carter made a face, a piercing scowl that I hadn't seen on him before, as he stared off into the distance. I wanted to ask him what he was thinking, but before I could say anything, he grabbed his radio.

“10-4, squad car on route.” Just like that, Carter made a few quick adjustments, and we were off with our lights and sirens blaring. I was almost positive it was some old woman calling about a kid’s video game being too loud or something like that. But I had hoped it would be something interesting. We drove for about 12 minutes before we came to the next exit. I can’t remember any exit signs, but then GPS just made us peel off at an exit that seemed to come out of nowhere. The road turned off seemingly into the forest. It was a more drastic turn than I had expected. I braced myself like a child expecting a crash, but Carter took the turn like a seasoned stunt driver. He seemed to chuckle at my sudden panic, only to focus back on the road as we disappeared into the forest. The road came to a sudden fork in the road at a flashing red light. A stop light that illuminated two roads going in opposite directions.

“Recalculating.” The GPS sounded. I turned to look at the GPS, and I wanted to say something. I knew the GPS shouldn’t have needed to reboot. Did we make a wrong turn somewhere?  I really wanted to say something. But I knew Carter was determined at this point, so I shut myself up. He made the right, and I found myself holding my breath as the red light drifted off into the distance. Carter made a right and continued down the dark road, with the red light blinking behind us. 

I looked out my window to try and catch my bearings as we drove. I thought we were in some kind of forest. The intense black surrounding us could only be explained by a dense forest in the dark of midnight. But as I looked around, I realized we were driving through a town. I thought I could see buildings of some kind, but with no streetlights and no lights on, I couldn't be sure. I tried to focus on the shapes moving past my window. They didn't look like they had any depth to them, like the silhouettes of buildings where they should have been. My eyes were quickly drawn to a bright light that seemed to appear right in front of me. The road suddenly opened up into a well-lit parking lot— a medium size parking lot with way too many lights for the space. I felt like I was under fluorescent office lights when I was outdoors. It also didn't take me long to notice that the parking lot was completely surrounded by trees. I could have sworn that the parking lot was surrounded by other buildings, but they seemed to lose their shape when we got out of the car. A well-lit apartment building with at least 15 floors sat at one end of the parking lot. I was confused as to how the two of us hadn't seen the building sooner. Sitting behind the tacky water feature was a sign that read, “Paramount Apartments.”

“Be alert. Something is wrong.” I nodded as Carter parked the squad car. I was at least happy he was just as weirded out as me.  

 When Carter and I pulled up to the building, there was a man in his mid-40s standing out front. He was dressed in a pair of cargo shorts, a pink polo, white sneakers, and Oakley sunglasses worn backwards. The man looked like some HOA asshole going through a midlife crisis. It was like all my worst fears were confirmed at once. This was some middle-aged entitled prick complaining about children. Or something else he happened to mistake for gunshots. In any other situation, the man wouldn't have raised any suspicion – and he certainly didn't beyond my first thought. But now I find myself looking for anything, any clue that could have let me know what was going to happen next. 

“Oh, thank God,” he said with seemingly genuine concern on his face, “I heard gunshots in apartment 307. I think someone might be hurt!” Carter and I glanced at each other before looking at the man skeptically.

“Do you live here, sir?” Carter asked, realizing we still had no idea who this guy was or what his business was here.

“My name is Matt Miller, and I am the building manager. I have been getting complaints about this room for a few months now. They seem like good folks–a nice family. They pay the rent on time, but a couple times a week, I get a complaint about fighting and screaming coming from that room. Then when I go to check on them, it always seems to be over and everyone is all smiles. I've never actually heard the fighting for myself and no one ever seemed to be hurt. ” He explained as Carter raised his eyebrow. 

“Please take us to the apartment, sir,” Carter said calmly. The man nodded and led us inside. He pushed a few buttons on a keypad; the door system let out a loud screech, and he let us inside through a dirty and somewhat bare lobby. I couldn't help but think the room was  absurdly small, with no chairs for anyone to sit in. One side of the room had an elevator, the other had an open door leading to a flight of stairs. The man calling himself Matt then ushered us into the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. I then turned to him.

“But why have you never called the authorities to deal with it before?” I asked, wondering why I had never heard of this building before or even heard the address on a debriefing.

“Like I said, I have never actually heard the fighting myself or seen anyone hurt. I don’t go into people's private lives.” The incompetence of this manager started to get on my nerves. The elevator opened, revealing a long, cramped hallway with sickly green carpeting and dozens of doors on both sides. The green of the carpet struck me: it was the same green as dirty pond water and the smell wasn't too far off. I had to stop myself from gagging and Carter was right behind me in that regard. Many of the lights were flickering or were out altogether. The lights bathed the whole hallway in a piercing light, the color of movie theater popcorn butter. I couldn't help but notice dead insects inside the bulbs, but then I noticed some were alive. There were so many. The live ones seemed to be crawling over each other–and the dead ones–in a desperate attempt to get out. It was then that I noticed the bugs crawling on the wall. Every dark point on the wall seemed to move the more I looked at them. From that point on, I did my best to stay in the middle of the cramped hallway. The whole place seemed like it was falling apart, and I wanted nothing more than to get out of there. As the man calling himself Matt led the two of us down the hallway, a question popped into my head.  

“Do... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1guf5wv/paramount_apartments/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/HughEhhoule on 2024-11-18 18:49:20+00:00. *** For anyone that was busy yesterday

In case anyone is wondering I'm typing this from the security of the attic with my very first smartphone. Well, it's not mine per sae but it's mine now is what's important.

Maybe being a bit more relaxed will let me relate myself better. I'd be a fan of that. The past few days, even by my standards have just been odd and violent, but that part goes without saying.

Looks like more and more people are trying to help me out, much appreciated, as always. Here is a little feedback for you. And a couple questions.

First off, why does everyone seem to know more about this flea market than I do? I'd have thought getting things first hand from something that looked like Pumpkinhead's church going cousin would have put me at an advantage but you guys seem to know what's up better than I do.

I'm going to hazard a guess it has something to do with the fact that there’s certain information I just can't see. That same vantablack that blocks my travels censors out all kinds of things, I'd tell you what, but you know the worst part of censorship is…

Doesn't seem to work with second hand info though (not yet anyway ) I'm chalking that up to my creator’s community college level sorcery skills. So please, if you know something I don't, pass it on.

Second, you guys seem to have some pretty high hopes for my morals. I expected a group of random folks to be telling me to slaughter the neighbourhood with the hero's skull for shits and giggles, but it seems things have gotten a little less edgy since the 90s. Probably not a bad thing.

Lastly, you guys seem to think Kaz can help me out quite a bit, got to say, he did seem like fear incarnate. I'll keep that in mind.

If I missed you, it's probably because i took your advice and I'll be getting to it in a minute.

The headline of the past couple weeks is the entire goon squad piling into their literal hearse and taking off. The bishop seemed to have packed a couple suitcases so I assumed I was going to have a few days at least.

But to play it safe I spent the first day in the attic. I'm still nervous about the glance the twin and I exchanged and not about to get caught in a trap invented by paranoid parents .

A little after one on the second night I hear what I initially think is the bishop and the 3 pawns ( better name? Worse?) . But as I focus , I hear 5 voices whispering, and most certainly sounding like nothing that stalks the night with any degree of real skill.

A window breaks, and I smell it.

I know most of you guys think of me as a good guy, I mean, I'm pretty sure someone is working on making a plush or a body pillow of me as we speak (I have so many questions about fads in 2024) . But there are going to be times you get a deep , uncomfortable look into the vile crap hastily sewn together that is me.

This is one of those times.

What I smelled was innocence. And with it, I gained an understanding. A look into what my base drive is, I'd love to say I didn't like it, to say I felt it was a vile compulsion, but the truth is, that's not how it feels. It's exciting, it's primal, and on a very real level it feeds me.

With that first whiff , I understood innocence. It's not being perfect, or young, chaste or naive. It's complicated of course, but at its core it's doing things for the right reasons . Having that spark of human kindness, loyalty and selflessness even among flaws that may appear irredeemable to some.

2 of those men had it. 3 of those men were acceptable collateral damage. Nothing in me, meat, cloth, or magic feels any differently. I respect you all too much to lie.

I start to salivate, the fluid pooling and dripping out of the bottom of my ceramic head. I feel power, I feel confidence. It's dark, it's my house, they’re not demons or heroes, just meat. I can feel my body twitch and thrum like a guitar string as they come into the house one by one. They split up, trying to ransack the place as quickly as they can.

I laugh. A clicking phlegmatic sound I find myself hoping they can hear as I run toward a vent, jumping down into it with no regard for the minor noise I make. In fact , I extend one blade and drag it along the duct. As they hear the sound I can feel their fear , I can feel where they are like a hellish radar.

The closest to me has no innocence to him. I smell crimes committed for pure greed and rage, that doesn't matter though, I need to warm up. I've spent so much time sneaking and cowering, I need to see what I can do.

I settle myself enough to open the vent without attracting attention. The large, mask wearing man rifles through drawers, looking frustrated as he finds nothing better than 25 year old computer errata.

My limbs move almost of their own accord , I climb with a spider’s grace directly above the man. There would have been a million ways to drop on him and kill him in an instant. But my mind went to none of those.

Instead, I let the ceramic headpiece unfold, thick red-grey saliva hits his the top of his mask. He jumps and turns toward the ceiling shining a high powered flashlight in my face. It doesn't matter, I know exactly where he is, and I get a giddy charge from the burst of fear that runs through his body as he sees my face.

I let go and extend both of my blades. Nothing to hack down a demon, but stout and sharp enough to slide easily through the man's eyes, the sockets behind them, and, propelled by my momentum, the brain behind that.

He makes no noise, but both of our bodies hitting the floor most certainly does. I rip my arms, shoulder deep in gore, out of his head and take a moment to admire the spewing cavern of his face.

I hear another man come running, another empty snack but I'm more than eager to whet my appetite.

I run to the door and place my back to the wall beside it. The second man, a wiry guy in his 40s, wearing no mask but a moustache that would have been at home back in 93 walks by me and screams as he sees his compatriot.

I walk behind him and drive both blades tip down into his Achilles tendons. Putting all my weight and strength into it, I tear upward, the blades catching flesh , tendon and fat and tearing them out as a formless lump. He hits the ground, wailing in terror and pain.

I can hear one of the group immediately leave his compatriots. I'm angered as I feel it was one of the innocent. I take this out on the thief screaming on the ground.

I climb his body facing the door , I'm stunned at how easy these instincts come to me, and at how much I'm loving this.

It’s like a hard drug, it scares the hell out of me, but I need it.

He tries to see what’s on his back, but he has no leverage to throw me off. I vent my rage by stabbing, randomly, almost playfully up and down his torso.

By the time the last two enter, he isn't dead but he isn't coming back. I stare at the two men as I petulantly stab a last 3 times, shut the headpiece with a snap and leap with greased eel speed into a floor vent.

They scream, at the situation, at each other, at their dying friend. And I hear the telltale noise of a gun cocking. I'm not scared, it makes me laugh, I let the sound echo through the vents as I move randomly, stoking their fear, their paranoia.

I stop and watch them back down the hallway from a ceiling vent. I pant with anticipation, as I confirm the innocent has the gun. I scrape the knife , herding them to the top of the stairs. The gun toting buffet fires randomly, coming no where close to hitting me.

I move to a vent between the two, letting silence ring. Letting them ramble possible plans and explanations to each other.

I drop ,putting them between myself and the stairs. With no room to aim, and nerves frayed thin, the innocent man, a 23 year old single father, working 2 jobs and doing this under duress, fires rapidly and poorly.

Soup can sized chunks blow out of his friends back as the bullets exit. I do nothing to speed the man's fate, I stand in the hallway letting the young man's shock and fear marinate his coming pain.

He sees me and fires his 2 remaining shots ,doing nothing more than sending harmless sprays of hardwood into my mask.

He’s stunned, but not enough to avoid making a break for it when I start a slow walk toward him, scraping one blade along my ceramic head, making a hellish screech.

He stumbles down the stairs and I leap. I overestimate my ability and land grabbing his waist from behind as opposed to his head.

I jam a blade into the side of his leg with the rapidity of a sowing machine, and as that steel buries itself into his flesh, I feel it, the pain of the innocent.

I don't know if I'll be able to explain this in any way that makes sense, but I'll try.

You know that false rush of strength and bravado you hear cocaine users rant about? That high that makes you feel you could fight and fuck all night , likely both at the same time?

Think of that, but instead of false promises you are actually stronger, faster and smarter, not just a twitchy loser who isn't making sense and can't get it up.

I roar , a sound like a rock tumbler with strep throat. He tries to grab me and throw me off, but I retract a blade and grab his hand, easily twisting the wrist to such a degree the man falls to the floor. Nothing I could do before the kickstart.

He tries to slam me into the ground, but I drive my legs into his back, briefly lifting him... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1guc7v6/im_an_evil_doll_but_im_not_the_problem_part_4/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Dopabeane on 2024-11-19 00:14:36+00:00. *** Between 1971 and 1978, a series of child kidnappings plagued Pierce County, Washington.

The victims were abducted from locations typically associated with “family fun,” such as movie theaters, bowling alleys, playgrounds, and in one case Point Defiance State Park.

According to witnesses, each child vanished after being yelled at, grabbed, or otherwise publicly disciplined by a parent, after which the children went away to pout or cry and simply never returned.

Twelve children eventually vanished in this manner. 

In November 1978, a bizarre mass grave was discovered in rural Eatonville, Washington. Within the grave were the remains of twenty-three children in various stages of decay. The oldest remains were skeletal, while the freshest still had somewhat recognizable facial features.

Each child was laid out under a blanket with evidence of having been “tucked in,” and had a makeshift pillow under their heads and a toy of some kind pressed into their arms. 

At autopsy, all of the children were found to have moss, leaves, twigs, and tree bark in their stomachs. Seven appeared to have died of intestinal blockage related to this peculiar diet. The others died of starvation. 

Most disturbingly, six of the children bore injuries consistent with long-term physical abuse. Eight bore no such injuries. Nine were too decomposed to definitively assess the presence of injuries.

The discovery of the corpses was handled with supreme delicacy by the Pierce County Sheriff, who had prior experiences with the Agency of Helping Hands and recognized that this discovery was in line with AHH’s scope of responsibilities.

The agency promptly launched an investigation. Twelve of the corpses were linked to the abduction victims. An additional eight children were identified during the course of the investigation. Three of the victims remain unidentified to this day.

After interviewing witnesses to the known abductions, the agency determined that a woman with distinctive red hair and a mildly deformed face had been present immediately prior to each disappearance. 

Adult witnesses were uniformly unhelpful. However, witnesses who were minors or had been minors at the time of sighting provided valuable information. The most detailed eyewitness report is consistent with other known reports. It has been summarized below:

Five-year-old Breanna S. was at a pizza restaurant with an attached arcade with her parents and brother. 

Approximately an hour after arrival, Breanna asked her mother for additional game tokens. Her mother refused loudly, asking if Breanna thought they were “made of money.” Breanna argued, at which point her father began to yell at her, too. The witness described the father’s tirade as an expletive-laden temper tantrum that shocked witnesses.

Breanna began to cry, at which point her father spanked her for “being a selfish crybaby.”

Breanna broke away and ran off, weeping. When her father attempted to follow, a staff member intervened, resulting in an altercation.

Breanna fled to a corner to cry in private.

A few minutes later, a woman with red hair and an “unusual face” approached Breanna. Breanna initially pulled away, perhaps put off by the woman’s peculiar appearance, but the woman appeared to quickly win her over by asking Breanna her favorite food.

Breanna responded that her favorite food was ice cream. The woman asked Breanna if she wanted to go get an ice cream. Breanna agreed.

Other children in the vicinity, including the primary witness, clamored to tag along, but the woman gently refused, saying that Breanna deserved a treat because she had “bad parents.”

The woman took Breanna by the hand and instructed her to look over at her parents, who were still engaged in conflict with arcade staff. She gave a little wave in their direction. “Before we go, say ‘Bye-bye, Mommy!’”

Breanna obediently repeated, “Bye-bye, Mommy.” 

The moment the phrase was uttered, the juvenile witnesses begin to panic. According to the primary witness, this is because the phrase was consistent with retellings of a local urban legend known, naturally, as the “Bye-Bye Mommy.”

The juveniles tried to raise the alarm, but the ongoing altercation between staff and Breanna’s parents rendered them unheard as the red-haired woman melted into the crowd with Breanna by her side.

Breanna was never seen again.

After exhumation from the mass grave in Eatonville, Breanna’s body was among those that showed signs of long-term physical mistreatment. 

The agency investigated the the so-called “Bye-Bye Mommy” for weeks. According to urban folklore, she was a vengeful boogeyman who spirited away disobedient children — particularly children who defied their parents in public. Information was scant for such a widespread tale, primarily consisting of three rumors:

A. The entity looked deformed—or so the rumor went—because her mean husband punched her so hard that he broke her face

B. After selecting a victim, the entity insisted he or she say, “Bye-bye, Mommy” before kidnapping them

C. Children taken by the Bye-Bye Mommy were never seen again, resulting in considerable fear among local children at the time

Disturbingly, nearly half of the victims exhumed from the mass grave were never reported missing.

As previously stated, some were never identified. However, of the unreported victims that were identified, one was undocumented, four were homeless runaways, and three had been in foster care at the time of

disappearance. The parents of the runaways and the guardians of the foster children either already had, or were later discovered to have, histories of mistreating minors in their care.

This information contradicts the prevailing rumor that the entity punished disobedient children by way of kidnapping, and lends credence to her claims that she only took – or in her words, rescued – children living with subpar guardians. 

The agency experienced great difficulty in tracking this entity. As it was impossible to identify and set watch over every victim of child neglect or abuse in Pierce County, personnel decided to stake out the mass gravesite. 

After eight weeks, the entity finally returned to the gravesite. When she saw that the remains of the children were no longer present, she flew into a rage. As is common with such entities, the high emotion disrupted her physical state and she began to “morph,” assuming a disturbing appearance that presented signs of decay, bodily trauma, and nonhuman proportions. 

Agency personnel failed to apprehend her using standard methods, in the process placing themselves in mortal danger. One agent, thinking quickly, screamed that she needed the entity’s help to rescue her baby brother, who was being abused by her stepfather. (Please note that this agent had neither a baby brother nor a stepfather.) She stated that her brother had prayed to Jesus for the Bye-Bye Mommy to help him, and was waiting for her to rescue him.

Due to the her distress over the missing bodies, the entity did not—or perhaps could not—resume normal proportions, but she followed the agent in order to help this nonexistent baby brother. The agent directed the entity to the Agency’s nearest field location, whose personnel were equipped to capture and transport the entity. 

Once in custody, the Agency was able to trace the entity’s origins quite easily.

Before her death, the Bye-Bye Mommy was a woman with multiple complaints of child abuse and one charge of neglect. Shortly before her death, she sent her young daughter to live with the child’s equally-unfit father after the child upset her.

This was the last time she ever saw her daughter.

Remorse quickly set in. She attempted to retrieve her daughter for the next three months, but was unsuccessful. One night, she had a nightmare in which her daughter was emaciated and panicking as a “pack of monsters” smothered her.

The nightmare was so powerful that upon waking, she immediately called emergency services before driving to her ex’s house, a trip of approximately thirty-five minutes.

By the time she arrived, EMS was onsite and had confirmed the child’s death.

In a fit of rage, the mother attacked her ex as the police escorted him out of the house. The ex hit her back with enough force to break her jaw and cheekbone. She then threw herself in front of an oncoming EMS vehicle, killing herself. 

Suffice to say she did not stay dead.

While issues arise in assigning human standards of sanity, insanity, and culpability to our extraordinary inmates, it is my opinion that the Bye-Bye Mommy is not sane.

Contrary to the belief that she abducted children to punish them, she believes she was saving them. Had she been a more competent and substantially less narcissistic protector, perhaps she could have. 

Instead, she held her victims captive at an undisclosed location rural Pierce County until they died. The entity insists she took her victims to a beautiful home she built after her death, and fed them the most delicious food in the world.

Initially, this claim was completely dismissed by Agency personnel. Later assessment of the entity’s abilities, however, showed that she is capable of throwing an immersive glamour, something akin to a full-body virtual reality experience. In her own words: “I took these babies away from hell to a heaven with a beautiful house, friendly pets, and delicious food – a place where treats grow on trees and nothing is ever dirty, where a mother l... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gujy5s/fuck_hipaa_i_messed_up_hardcore_and_if_we_dont/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Cute-Tackle2310 on 2024-11-18 21:17:22+00:00. *** I work as a digital archivist for the state historical society, mostly handling old recordings, photographs, and documents. Last month, we received a donation of deteriorating Super 8 films and audio reels from a property sale in rural Wisconsin. The materials dated back to 1978-1979 and belonged to the Morrison family, who had vanished without a trace that winter.

The first few reels were mundane - birthday parties, Christmas morning, kids playing in the yard. But as I worked through chronologically cataloging them, I began noticing subtle irregularities. In the background of a summer barbecue footage, a tall figure stood motionless at the tree line, too distant to make out clearly. The children occasionally glanced toward it but the adults seemed oblivious.

The audio reels were mostly silent except for static, until I reached one labeled "Emily's Piano Recital - Sept 13." Instead of music, it contained what sounded like someone breathing heavily, occasionally interrupted by a dry clicking sound. The breathing continued for 47 minutes.

By October, the camera movements in the videos became erratic, often lingering too long on empty doorways or corners of rooms. The family members looked increasingly haggard, with dark circles under their eyes. Seven-year-old Emily was recorded sitting alone at the kitchen table at 3 AM, carrying on a cheerful conversation with someone off-camera, though motion tracking software confirmed no one else was present in the room.

The final tape was labeled "Thanksgiving." It opened on an empty dining room, table set for dinner but covered in dust. The camera slowly panned across family photos on the wall - recent ones showed the Morrisons' smiles growing forced, strained. In the last photo, their eyes were completely black.

The footage continued through the house, everything untouched as if the family had simply vanished mid-routine. Emily's bed was still made, her stuffed animals arranged neatly. The camera moved to her closet, where childish crayon drawings covered the back wall. They showed five stick figures holding hands with a much taller, spindly black figure. The same scene, drawn over and over, dozens of times.

The video ended in the basement. A child's voice, likely Emily's, whispered "It's time to go now. They're waiting for us." The camera tilted up toward the ceiling, revealing hundreds of scratch marks in the wooden beams. The frame distorted, flickered, and went black.

Police reports indicate the Morrison family - parents and three children - disappeared over Thanksgiving weekend 1979. Their car was in the garage. No bodies were ever found. The house remained untouched for decades until the recent sale.

While digitizing the final reel, I noticed something in the metadata. The timestamp showed the recording was made three weeks after the family's disappearance.

I submitted my findings to the cold case department. Yesterday, they informed me they're reopening the investigation. They're particularly interested in one detail - in the background of every single tape, if you enhance the audio enough, you can faintly hear children singing "Ring Around the Rosie." The same children, for over 40 years.

The historical society asked me to continue processing similar donations from that era and region. I've received three more collections this week. All show the same tall figure in the tree line. All contain footage dated after the families vanished.

I've started seeing it too, standing at the edge of the parking lot when I leave work late. I try to convince myself it's just a trick of the light. But last night, I heard children singing outside my window.

I'm recording this now as evidence. If something happens to me, you'll know wh-

[End of transcript]

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/35_47 on 2024-11-18 20:07:26+00:00. *** The following emails were recovered from the University of Cardiff's Biochemistry laboratory following the incidents of 19/09/XX. They are not to be released to the public in any form.

Unauthorised access to said emails will result in termination.

Dr Henrik Lars - 17/03/XX

Dear Professor Goldman,

Experiment #7 has been a resounding success.

I have learned from the failures of #6 and transported the stem cells to the dish using a sterile scalpel, so there was no chance of cross-contamination. Thank you again for the increased supply of 09-476, it has been vital to test larger doses if we wish to fully grasp its potential.

Report is as follows:

• Stem cells implanted in a 0.4 mol/dm3 solution of 09-476

• Cells enlarged in mass by a factor of 2 after exactly 15.3 hours

• Muscle tissue detected after 32 hours

I really feel confident about this one.

Dr Henrik Lars, PhD

Professor Brynn Goldman - 18/03/XX

Dr Henrik,

That's a pleasure to hear! I'm glad we managed to convince the panel to bring in that new shipment. Number seven already feels like a prime candidate for further experimentation.

Did you notice any corrosion with an increased concentration of 09-476? I'm concerned that it will negatively affect the growth of the cells.

I've allowed for more funding to be directed towards this project. Use it wisely. This could be our golden goose.

Best of luck,

Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 30/03/XX

Dear Professor,

Experiment #7 has grown to almost 4 grams. It is entirely comprised of muscle fiber and stem cells, the latter already multiplying as I type. It has absorbed almost an entire syringe of 09-476. I am putting in a request for more, as well as a second batch of cells to replicate #7. In a few days, it will be ready for preliminary testing.

It has shown to be mildly resistant to high temperatures - I accidentally increased the heat of the lab whilst I was on lunch by 2 degrees Kelvin and it showed no signs of degradation.

This is more than a revolutionary new drug, Professor. I feel like I am on the brink of a scientific breakthrough.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 08/04/XX

Dr Henrik,

I'm delighted to hear that experiment number seven has been so informative. I agree with you, this has the potential to be a very interesting research task. Unfortunately, I have to disagree with the idea of your "scientific breakthrough". What you have cultivated is nothing more than a set of cells, it is not sentient or conscious. Please try to stick to the original project. It's what we're getting paid for after all.

Also - I've had a complaint from Floor Two that one of their barrels of synthetic amniotic fluid has gone missing. It's quite important to them. Now I'm not saying you did it, per se, but the security cameras did pick up somebody matching your physique rolling a barrel into a lift in the early hours of the morning a couple days ago. If you happen to know anything about it, they'd be very forgiving if it could be returned.

Thank you,

Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 22/04/XX

Professor,

Experiments #8-12 are going very well. I am watching their progress with great interest. I request a few more samples of 09-476.

Experiment #7 is extraordinary. It has grown to the size of a foetus. In fact, it has taken the form of one. Analysis shows that it is behaving exactly like one, too, only growing at an enhanced rate due to the introduction of more concentrated 09-476. This is utterly remarkable. I have spent the day glancing at it while researching papers that might discuss something like this - I have found nothing. #7 is truly unique.

I have placed it in a tank in the centre of my laboratory. It requires very little care, no nutrients at all other than 09-476. It will not respond to stimuli at the minute, so I cannot claim that it holds any developmental cognitive function. Although, one time, I could have sworn it tilted its head toward me.

Please inform Floor Two that I will be needing more synthetic fluid. I am sure that they will understand how vital this experiment is when it is explained to them.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 24/04/XX

Dr Henrik.

This changes things.

If you're cultivating a foetus down there, you'll need some more staff. I'll send some junior researchers to assist with Number 7's development.

I agree, this is quite remarkable, but it has been done before. The most interesting part's the fact that it doesn't need to eat - how does it survive? Does it breathe? Does it think?

Please keep me updated, Henrik.

Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 05/05/XX

Professor,

I was right. It is life. #7 has begun to move certain limbs within its tank. It has now grown to the size of a newborn, yet it shows no signs of the same basic intelligence. Its skin is pale and translucent - I can note the lack of basic organ development. It is hollow.

I have attempted to test certain responses, such as tapping on the tank or playing auditory stimuli. It has stirred slightly each time. Once, it placed a fleshy hand to the glass. I will not leave the laboratory this week. I will sleep under my desk, just in case there are any updates. The rate at which it is developing is incredible.

Dr Henrik

Public University Announcement - 08/05/XX

Students and Faculty,

We apologise for the recent power cut. The mains have been repaired and power should be redirected to the rest of the University as soon as possible.

Thank you for your patience!

Cardiff

Dr Henrik Lars - 09/05/XX

Professor,

What the hell happened?! A power outage? When I'm involved in research this important?

There was no emergency power routed to my laboratory. #7 has suffered a catastrophic loss in muscle mass and size. I will be needing more 09-476 immediately. The space heaters and ventilation that provided #7 with the warmth and air it needs were switched off overnight, on the one day that I chose to go back to my home. I had to listen to it burbling when I walked back in the following morning. It sounded like screaming.

I attempted to email you on the day of the outage to notify you that #7 required more tissue to rebuild what had been damaged by the outage. You did not respond, so I spliced parts of my own calf tissue to implant in #7. I am fine. I will regrow.

This may take months to rebuild.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 10/05/XX

Henrik,

You did what?! You implanted part of your own body into an experimental homunculi because you thought it looked weak?!

This is really, really worrying Henrik. You're treating the thing like it's your own child, for god's sake! If I didn't understand how groundbreaking this thing was I'd shut it down. I mean - the ethical violations alone could destroy everything I've built here! And what if you start relying on it, huh? I don't want to have to send you to fucking grief counselling if Number Seven kicks the bucket.

This had better not get out to the rest of the University. I'm already telling the board that you're doing experiments on actual IVF foetuses just to keep rival institutions from stealing the data.

God, I swear if you don't give me something incredible.

Prof Brynn Goldman

Dr Henrik Lars - 16/05/XX

Professor,

I have something incredible. #7 was successfully transported out of his tank today. He has grown to be the size of a toddler, and he looks like one too. I believe the cells I transplanted have mixed with his DNA - he looks remarkably like I did when I was around 3 or 4. He has begun to take tentative steps, and although he cannot support his bodyweight nor open his eyes, he seems to have an understanding of the world around him. When lying on my desk, as he is now, he will pick up objects for mere moments before dropping them.

This is a conscious human! I have made something that no person living has been able to make!

I am requesting an expansion to my laboratory.

Dr Henrik

Dr Henrik Lars - 30/06/XX

Professor,

#7 has begun to say his first words. I lectured him on 09-476 today as part of his pre-schooling, and while he was perched upon the chair he muttered "Henrik" under his breath. He seems just like me - his eyes are the same shade of green and his hair is an identical russet colour. He is an inquisitive sort, he enjoys playing with the lego bricks I have placed in the laboratory. His designs are quite hard to understand but I believe he is simply making shapes at the minute. Some of them look quite like animals, however, which I have had to pluck from his mouth to ensure he does not choke.

Sometimes I see a glimmer of intellect behind his pupils, some flashing moment of self-actualisation. It is strange - for a second it is like a wildly intelligent creature lurks behind the facade of a boy.

Might childcare be an option? Supervised, of course. I wish to see how #7 grows when moulded by a mother-like figure. I have suggested some names in a list attached. They will obviously have to sign NDAs.

Dr Henrik

Professor Brynn Goldman - 01/07/XX

Henrik.

The results from Number Seven's check-up came back.

The thing has no organs. None. Still.

How in god's name does it survive?

I've looked over your nanny suggestions. Funnily enough, they all share a striking resemblance to your mother. Coincidence?

Prof Brynn Goldman

Professor Brynn Goldman - 12/07/XX

We found Number Seven in the cafeteria today, Henrik.

I thought you said it couldn't eat yet? I explicitly... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gue51l/re_playing_god/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/RooMorgue on 2024-11-18 19:30:00+00:00. *** Justice, my sister, ran away from home when she was eighteen years of age, or so for many years I thought. My parents were vague on the cause of her disappearance, and all matters pertaining to my sibling, come to that.

“A saint,” was all my father would say of her. “She was a saint in the eyes of God.”

“An angel,” my mother would insist. “That’s all you need to know.”

They would admit no fault in her absence, and yet I sensed something false in their praise and winced to hear it from such bitter mouths as theirs.

I’d feared both of my parents for as long as I could recall, which is a pitiful sort of existence for a child to know. They belonged to some evangelical religion that devoured them through its miserable hold, being that their conduct in all things was not as individuals, but as the mortal enactors of their severe and joyless faith.

I feared to trespass their rules or express any complaint lest they, by force, grind it out. The house was perpetually cold, a temple of gruelling worship in which toys, or television, or casual literature were forbidden, each room instead committed to such quantities of religious paraphernalia that there was scarce space in them to move.

I knew from savage paragraphs of my parents’ beloved texts that all suffering was holy, and corporal punishment just one means of pain listed among them. To be spared other agonies was a gift rarely granted, only the act of killing forbidden; the only reason my parents had never once raised a hand to me by my recollection was that being a mute, shy, and anxious child I had given them no true cause.

So it was that I did not ask about my sister, only imagined a thousand configurations of destiny that might well have befallen her.

After years of pure behaviour she had trespassed, I suspected, had disobeyed a curfew, tasted alcohol, or exalted in the touch of men. My mother would wash her hands and rock with mumbled prayer at the rare utterance of her name alone: in this way I knew my sisters’ failure as it was written in the law of my parents’ holy works.

They had put Justice out on the street, perhaps, or else she had run from them, leaving me, a boy of then just six alone in the harsh church that was our house.

By the end of the following decade I was desperate to join my sister in the world beyond, but having never been permitted to work by my parents or been given sufficient allowance to hide away I was jailed there, groomed to be the prophet of their faith.

I took to pacing the house in obsessive repetition by habit, particularly when my parents absented themselves to proselytise in the poor quarters of the city in which they felt the Word was most needed.

Sometimes I stood at the thin, high windows of that hideous abode and considered leaping to a sinful death on the grey street below, but thoughts of my sister prevented me, for I had hopes still of meeting her again.

I envisioned her coiled like an ammonite in the sheathe of an old sleeping bag, somewhere, or against the back of a faceless lover in an apartment beyond our parents’ reaches. Dancing on a stage under lights like gasoline on a black road in all their lurid colours—

So many images of Justice I conceived of, some of them happy, others lonely glances of the fringes to which my mother and father had thrust her in their rejection. But not once in my grim musings did I suppose that she was dead.

I knew there was some possibility of it—perhaps my father had struck her down in a holy rage, or she had seized in the grasp of drugged overdose in the infected womb of the city, or starved there.

Yet my parents’ belief that it was a sin to outright take a life was so strong that I could not conceive of them having any hand in it, and for reasons inexplicable I was certain that no other death had claimed her.

That Justice had disappeared led me to think that I too may likewise fade from view, however. My parents’ obsession with me standing as some great example of their religion disturbed me in its fervour; my name was often uttered in their prayers, my photograph placed beneath the shrine of crosses they knelt to where other families observed the glass face of a machine.

They had no reason to think I did not share in their delusion, for through fear I’d clasp my hands and mouth to God as they did, and so I seemed devout. But I had no want of their baleful religion of self-abasement, and as the months went on and my fixation with my sister’s vanishing expanded I at last dared to ask my mother if Justice had always been as saintly as they claimed.

“She was,” my mother insisted. “Our good girl, that she was. But we had a fear she’d change, when she got older. She was always having notions of leaving us... well, we prayed on it, and God saw fit to make a saint of her so all she’d be remembered for was the good she’d done, and not the sins that might have come after. Fire and brimstone licks us all around the ankles, child, but through His love we’re saved.”

She touched my cheek with one cool hand, and I cringed from the zeal in that caress, the look in her eyes that was a blindness in the seeing of what was not there.

“You’re so like her, you know,” my mother said. “You’re good. A credit to your faith.”

“I’m not,” I signed, but as always she misread the frustration in my gestures and took me gently by the hand.

“Oh, love. You don’t have to speak for people to hear the Word. You’re enough.”

It was the kindest sentiment my mother had ever expressed to me, and in other circumstances I might have taken comfort in it, but being that I was no believer it only drove my fear and melancholy deeper into me.

Once my mother had gone out into the city with her pamphlets, my father presumably with her, I resumed my wandering of the house again, thinking of Justice, whose face I knew better from photographs than from the tatters I had left of memory.

A soft, pale face she’d had, like the bead of a pearl rosary, eyes like the glow that accompanied sirens in the night; she looked as my mother had done when she was young, before the whittling of the Order had made a haggard branch of her. I wondered if Justice had gone that way, and if I, too, would be incised merely by proximity to my parents’ beliefs.

By the time my pacing led me to the top of the house I again felt the call of those tall windows, so ensnared was I by the terror of my fate that this seemed my only egress. It was as I stood pressed to their murky glass that I became aware of distant music above me, much like the recordings my mother would play while kneeling to her shrine of saints.

I stared up at the ceiling, momentarily bewildered; only when my eyes touched the outline of the door to the attic did it occur to me that this room which I had never entered was the source of that dark melody. To my knowledge the loft had rarely been used except for storage purposes, and so I’d had no cause or interest to explore it.

Now, attracted by the strain of mysterious song, I went to fetch a broom from a nearby cupboard and prodded the attic door until the ladder descended. At once the yellow glow of candlelight fell upon me, and with it the odours of incense and human habitation such as I had smelled sometimes in the street side gatherings of religious fanatics my parents frequented.

Against my better judgement I followed the lead of my tugging curiosity and climbed the steps up into that skyward quarter.

I found myself within a makeshift church, though one characterised by the hoarding mania the rest of the house had fallen prey to. Pews over spilling with stale cushions bisected the chamber, and clustered pillars of white candles threw up a canopy of shadows from wall to wall.

Underfoot lay handwritten prayers and hymns on yellowed paper, dropped down like summer wasps from their stands, and there were so many plaster sculptures of biblical figures hemmed in about the room that even had I been alone there I would have felt observed by their painted eyes.

Yet I was not alone, for upon entering the attic my gaze was drawn at once to the presence to which that shrine had been erected.

Upon the central altar sat a creature draped in pale fabric such as the saints wore in their portraits, its legs buckled in some weird mode of kneeling like plants grown twisted through disease or want of light. Its arms were bent backwards and vestigial, the fingers conjoined by a trellis of knotted skin; it had been burned, this thing, transformed by fire as my mother had described into a new and holy dread.

But it was only when that being turned its head to me, revealing, untouched, the miracle of beauty in its face that I recognised my sister, and what through an act of brutal ritual she’d become.

I screamed, first through the near thoughtless instinct of horror, then in despair, for even had I the ability to call through words for help I knew our few neighbours would bury themselves in the dark and dust of their homes and so hear nothing, or else tell themselves that they had not.

From some corner of the attic came a shuffling motion, and I pivoted so severely towards it that I near turned my ankle in the debris underfoot.

My father stood behind me, a dishevelled tent of bone and sallow features sunken into his clothes like some dead thing preserved by the sun.

Only his slow movement towards me across that junk room denoted his continued vitality, such as it had been reduced to through the dirge of his life.

“Ah, son,” my fa... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gud8er/what_became_of_my_dear_sister/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/geofflowe on 2024-11-18 19:39:37+00:00. *** Content Warning: Mentions of child abuse.

My grandmother used to tell me stories that were supposed to scare me into behaving. She’d threaten that if I didn’t behave, my father would remarry someone wicked, and I’d be at the mercy of a stepmother who’d make my life hell. It felt like nonsense at the time—a bedtime story to keep me from acting out.  

She told one particular story often, especially after my mother died when I was eight. The idea of my father remarrying was terrifying enough without her adding a wicked stepmother into the mix. But after she passed away last month, I found her stories coming back to me in the worst way.

The story went something like this: 

There were once two children—a boy and a girl—whose mother died when they were young. Their father, a businessman, traveled frequently, and when he remarried a woman he met on one of his trips, the children hoped for love and care. But the new wife was cruel. She accused them of mischief, locked them in their rooms, and denied them food as punishment.

One day, when their father was away, the stepmother went too far. She left the children outside, forbidding them to come inside for water or shade. The boy collapsed first, his sister trying to drag him back toward the house. By the time the stepmother returned, both were dead.

Panicked, she buried their bodies in the garden, under the onion patch. When the father came home, she cried and claimed the children had run away. Distraught, he believed her, held a memorial, and invited the extended family over for dinner. He asked the stepmother to prepare a feast to honor the children.

She went to the garden to pick vegetables, but as she pulled at the onions, she heard a voice whisper:

‘My mother, my mother, don’t pull on my hair.

You’ve killed me and now buried me here.’ 

Terrified, she ran inside, claiming nothing was wrong. The father, confused, went to the garden himself. When he picked the onions, they looked like human heads, pale and weeping.

Still, the stepmother cooked the meal, her tears mixing with the onions as she chopped them. But as the family gathered to eat, a song echoed through the house:

‘Our mother, our mother, don’t feed us to him.

Our father will miss us; your future is grim.’

The guests restrained the wicked stepmother and tore apart the house, searching for the children who had been singing. Eventually, they found their way to the garden and noticed the freshly turned dirt. They dug down and found the children’s bodies, headless and rotting beneath the onions. The stepmother confessed everything. She was hanged that same week.

 

My grandmother would end the story with a warning: “That’s why you must always behave. Otherwise, your father might find someone like her.”

Needless to say, I wasn’t too close to her and felt only a little sad when she passed. My father never remarried, and I was his only child, so we inherited their house when she passed a few years after my grandfather. While cleaning the attic, I found my grandfather’s journals while sorting through her belongings.

I wasn’t expecting anything unusual. Most of it was routine: entries about work, the good weather, or my grandmother. But one entry near the end caught my attention.

It was an entry from early in their marriage, and it read:

I dreamt of the children again. They sang the same song, crying for justice. My hands feel so heavy when I work in the garden. What did you do, Eleanor? What have you hidden from me?”

 

The words didn’t make sense.  Who were the children? My father was an only child, as far as I knew. Why did he mention digging in the garden? I never saw anything strange in the garden or at their house. 

Until now.

The sole inheritors of their will, my father and I moved into their house, a beautiful Victorian with a sprawling yard and nearby streams. The first night I heard it, I thought it was a prank. A faint melody drifted through the house, barely loud enough to hear. It sounded like children singing, but the words were indistinct, mixed with the babbling brooks nearby.

By the second night, I was sure it was coming from the garden. I stood at the back door, straining to listen, and heard it clearly this time:

“Our brother, our brother, you live in our home.”

I froze. It was the song from the story.

By the fourth night, the voices followed me inside. They sang as I tried to sleep, whispering in the walls and under the floorboards. I swore I could hear dirt shifting beneath the house. I had trouble sleeping, and when I asked my father about it, he would shut my questions down and tell me to ignore it all. 

Then things escalated. 

One night, as we were having dinner, we both froze. The singing was clear this time, the words unmistakable:

“Our brother, our brother, you sit in our place.

Your daughter won’t miss you or remember your face.”

 

The blood drained from my father’s face. I could tell he recognized the words, even if he wouldn’t admit it. “It’s just the pipes,” he muttered, shoving his chair back and retreating to his bedroom.

But I knew better.

The nights grew worse. The voices followed us into the house, whispering accusations. They would call out in unison, chillingly playful:

“He took our place. We want it back.”

I started seeing them—two pale, translucent figures standing in the garden at night, their hollow eyes fixed on the house. My father saw them, too, though he tried to deny it. His health began to deteriorate. He barely slept, jumping at every creak of the floorboards or gust of wind rattling the windows.

One morning, I found him in the kitchen, staring out at the garden with dark circles under his eyes. “I don’t know what they want from me,” he whispered. “I didn’t do anything.”

I decided to dig in the garden. The soil felt damp and heavy as if it hadn’t been touched in years, but the deeper I went, the more I found. First, small bones—too small to be anything but a child. Then, there was a clump of hair, brittle and matted with dirt.

The spirits became more aggressive, targeting my father specifically. His bedroom door would slam shut in the middle of the night. He’d wake up screaming, clutching his chest, claiming he felt small hands pulling at his hair.

One night, I woke to the sound of breaking glass. I ran to his room and found him collapsed on the floor, clutching the broken shards of a picture frame. “They won’t stop,” he gasped. “They want me dead.”

I tried to reassure him, but the look in his eyes told me he’d already given up.

The next morning, he was gone. His body was stiff, his eyes wide with terror, as though he’d seen something no living person should ever witness.

I thought the torment would end with him, that the ghosts would finally rest. But I was wrong.

The night after his funeral, the singing returned. It was louder this time, and the words had changed:

 

“Your father is gone, so we wait for you.

Your place is here; you’ll never break through.”

 

I’ve tried leaving the house. I always find myself back at the front door, no matter how far I drive or how fast I run. The garden is thriving again, the onions thick and vibrant, though I haven’t touched the soil.

The singing never stops.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Days? Weeks? Time seems different now. The voices call to me constantly, lulling me into a strange, dreamlike haze. Sometimes, I see my father standing in the garden, just beyond the onions, watching me with those empty eyes.

If you ever inherit an old house with a perfect garden, burn it down. Burn it to the ground and never look back. Because once you’re here, there’s no escape. And if you ever hear singing in your garden, ignore it. And for God’s sake, don’t dig.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/LanesGrandma on 2024-11-15 11:32:21+00:00. *** You wanted it, you asked for it, now you've got it — for the time being, r/nosleep is suspending some of its guidelines. Consider this an experiment; we'll see how it goes and whether it'll continue long term. Be aware that adjustments may have to be made as the experiment goes on, so check r/nosleepooc for information.

 

IN BRIEF: WHAT THIS MEANS (THE BORING PART) -----------------------------------------------

• r/nosleep still has Posting Guidelines which you need to carefully and thoroughly read before posting as they're your only warning. Failing to read and follow these revised guidelines is on you and will lead to subreddit bans. The revised guidelines include:

  • 24 Hour/1 Post Per Day | Audio, Image, Video | Codes and Puzzles | Discreet Links
  • Formatting | Identifying Information/Doxxing | Main Characters (Victimization) | Mental/Physical Health
  • Modmail, Removals and Reposts | Unacceptable Horror | Use of Intellectual Properties

• As always, you also have to abide by Reddit's Terms of Service and Reddiquette.

• If your post is removed, r/nosleep and r/nosleepauthors Mods won't offer in-depth explanations or help fixing your story. They also won't offer pre-post approval or in-depth reviews. Be sure to carefully and thoroughly read the revised Reposting Guidelines.

• If you're new to Reddit, you'll need to check the Beginner's Guide to Reddit for help.

• There won't be any more official r/nosleep events or contests.

• If you find your story has been plagiarised, contact Reddit directly.

 

IN BRIEF: WHAT THIS MEANS (THE FUN PART) --------------------------------------------

• NO IMMERSION.
• NO PLAUSIBILITY.
• NO EVENT OR CONSEQUENCE.
• NO SCARED MAIN CHARACTER.
• Want to write in 3rd person omni? Go for it!
• Want to write in future tense? Go for it!
• Want to have your character trapped in a time loop but unable to remember that so they repeat the beginning of the story at the end? Go for it!
• Want to write that our reality is a simulation, or that the world ended, or that we've all been mind-wiped to forget important events? Go for it!
• Want to post stories that are mostly a list of rules or instructions for a ritual? Go for it!
• Want to post "It was all a dream" or "I had a bout of sleep paralysis" stories? Go for it!
• Want to post "I think I saw something scary but I'm not sure" stories with no in-story proof? Go for it!
• Want your main character to be a mouse or a scorpion or a jetski or a showerhead or a stove? Go for it!
• Want your main character to be at the bottom of the ocean or in space or in an alternate dimension with no possible way of posting to Reddit? Go for it!

 

We'll let you know if anything changes. Happy early holidays!

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/02321 on 2024-11-18 17:48:08+00:00. *** First:

Previous

Bit by bit my living situation had improved. I could afford heat, at least two meals a day, and warm socks. Those comforts came at a cost. A bullet wound in my shoulder was still healing up. The company I worked for offered magic-laced medicine that could heal wounds faster, but they cost more than I could afford. Better to let things heal on their own. A deep ache from my legs bothered me. It got to the point that I knew I needed to get a checkup before working again. I hated needing to see the doctor for old wounds simply because medical costs aren’t cheap. After this check-up, I might not be able to afford heat for the rest of the colder seasons this year.  

I wasn’t certain what sort of creature Dr. Fillow was. He looked human enough. I called to see if he had any open times for an appointment, but he told me he could swing by in a few hours. He was very busy treating supernatural creatures and sometimes humans like myself. He was always on the move, so it was easier to see him outside his clinic.  

He’s been by my place three times in the past two years when my legs got too bad to deal with. The scar above the right knee looked redder than normal. My knee also felt weird. It made an unnatural creaking sound and sometimes popped out of place if I pushed myself too hard. My left leg needed to be wrapped with a special cloth. It had turned black, the darkness fading around my hip. I hated looking at the scars. I should be thankful that I was able to get my legs back, but they were a constant reminder of the day I lost the person I cared about most.   

Dr. Fillow arrived with a few months' supply of cloth for the left leg. He needed to redo some painful spell work because the magic that kept my leg attached had been weakening, when I pulled magic from other sources through my body while on the job, it had messed with the spell that attached new flesh to old.   

“I hear you’ve been working again.” He said after the treatments were finished.  

He often stayed for a few minutes to chat and get caught up. I always offered him a drink or a snack, but he refused saying he didn’t like sweet things or liked tea. Once he accepted a cup of coffee. He wore a mask over half his face and sounded as if he always had a sore throat. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen his full face before. He adjusted large glasses over top of his mask and brushed aside light brown hair.   

“I needed the money. I figured it was about time. I can’t seem to get any easy jobs though.” I shrugged.  

My legs hurt like hell. I dreaded the idea of staying in bed for a few more days to recover. I needed to get a job soon to pay for this treatment.  

“Don’t push yourself too hard. Paying off your debts is not worth your life. Have you found anyone to support you?” He asked looking around my barren and rundown apartment.  

“No. I figured I needed to get myself back together before I dragged a person into my mess. And with scars like these, it’s not as if I’ll find someone who would be interested in a simple fling either.”  

“No friends? Nothing of the sort?” He offered almost sounding worried about me.  

I shrugged again. I was about to tell him that August offered to work with me whenever he was free. I didn’t feel like boring him with my personal life. Or lack of one.   

“Go make some friends. Get some rest. Call me if your pain increases.” He said as he stood up ready to leave.  

This was all the advice I'd heard before. I paid what I could then mentally flinched when I saw the rest of the amount I still owed. I promised I would take it easy as the doctor left to see another one of his patients.   

I did plan on staying in bed and resting for as long as I needed. However, two days later I found myself sitting on a bench in a park ten minutes away from my apartment. A job came in saying a handful of people saw some sort of large animal and a young girl had gone missing shortly after the sightings. It wasn’t confirmed a creature had been behind these events, but The Corporation didn’t like taking chances. The park was so nearby I figured I would check it out.  

I walked over during the day looking for any kind of clues. The park led off into a short nature trail. I assumed if there was a creature it would hang out in the trees. An entire day of searching led to nothing. Since monsters came out at night, I was stuck staying up late.   

Aside from some recent graffiti, nothing appeared out of place around the park or the trial. My legs ached from all the walking. I spent a few hours sitting on a bench almost wanting for something to happen.   

I found out the hard way if I focused hard way not use my talent of seeing traces of magic after my leg treatments. The migraines I got did not mix well with the leg pain, making them both unbearable. Speaking of something unbearable, my phone kept going off because August figured out how to send GIFs. I should have blocked him. He would on occasion send a good cat gif in the mess of other memes that made it worth letting his messages go through.  

“Is your girlfriend worried about you?”  

A voice made me jump. A girl had silently walked behind the bench to see over my shoulder. She had gotten a glimpse of the random messages. I stood up to face her honestly expecting a monster. Instead, I found a petite dark-haired girl wearing a plain white dress. She even had sandals in this cold weather. She had her hands behind her back. Healing bruises spotted her arms.  She looked anywhere between sixteen and nineteen. She shouldn’t be out in a dark park at this hour without a coat. I put my phone and wallet in my pants pocket then took off my jacket. I offered it to her without hesitation.  

“Where do you live? Do you need help getting home?” I offered.  

She smiled in a way that looked very familiar. Her black hair and dimples made me think of August. She took my jacket, snuggling down into the warm collar for a moment.  

“I’m not normally the kind of girl who lets strange men take me home.” She joked in an overly sweet voice.  

“I’ll call you a cab.” I said not wanting her to get any ideas. “By chance do you have any siblings?” I added.  

She shook her head confused over the odd question.  

“No. Are you disappointed I don’t have a sister?” She suggested.  

It was as if she was trying to flirt. She was very bad at it if that was her goal.   

“No, you look like a friend of mine. Must just be the hairstyle. Now come on, let’s call a ride for you.”  

The smile on her face appeared forced. I wasn’t going along with the game she wanted to play. I started to walk down the pathway towards the park entrance with her following behind. My phone didn’t want to turn on again. Sometimes it shut off in the colder weather.  

“What are you doing out at this time of night?” I asked her as we walked.  

“Looking for monsters, how about you?” She said, her sweet tone dropping slightly.  

I froze. Carefully I turned my head towards her, my brain trying to work out if she was a threat. Some creatures looked like innocent weak humans to lure in their meals. She may be a monster ready to rip my heart out, or just a weird girl in the park because she had an interest in the occult. If I made a run for it, I risked leaving a poor girl stranded. If I didn’t leave, then I also risked getting eaten.  

I wasn’t aware of how right I was about the risk of being dinner for a creature. A burst of wind came down on us. I started to move to grab the odd girl to get her out of danger. My body was too slow. To my horror, a beast came down from the sky. In one lightning-fast movement, a black beak scooped her up around the waist. In two beats of its wings, it lifted back into the sky tossing her into the air. Her small body was swallowed whole by the monster that recently started to stalk the park.  

It was a crow the size of a car with three glowing red eyes but oddly enough, paws as legs. Like hell, I was going to let her get eaten like that. We stopped near a bench. I prayed I had enough strength to fight back in time to save her.  

Every living thing had magic. The amount depended on many different factors. I was in the middle of a park with countless plants, trees, and dormant insects all with their own life force. That magic leaked into the air. It was a reason why some forests felt so strange to humans. If you knew how you could ask to use the power nature held. Humans weren’t built to handle magic. I still made a silent request to everything around me. I put out my will to take whatever was given. I then grabbed a hold of the bench that had been bolted down into the stone walkway. A burst of power came through. I aimed for the glowing eyes in the sky and threw the bench as hard as I could towards it.   

The metal and wood found its target. I heard the impact and saw the crow fall from the sky screeching the entire way down. The backlash of using so much magic hit hard. My right knee popped out and I swore it felt as if it was going to come apart at the old scars. My arms burst with pain and my muscles cramped up. Each one of my hands curled uselessly. I forced myself forward towards the downed crow hoping it wasn’t too late to ... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1guap7m/im_a_contract_worker_for_a_secret_corporation/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Weird-Suggestion-152 on 2024-11-18 16:57:30+00:00. *** When I was a kid, I experienced something so traumatic that my brain erased it from my memory. Completely. For years, it was just... gone.

At least, it was until one afternoon.

I was sitting on the couch with my son, watching random educational videos on YouTube. He’s six, full of energy, and obsessed with learning videos. He wants to know everything about everything. It was nice. Just the two of us hanging out, him curled up next to me, asking a million questions.

Then it came on. The upbeat jingle, and that cheerful, sing-songy voice. School House Rock. “Three is a magic number, yes, it is, it's a magic number, somewhere in the ancient mystic trinity, you get three as a magic number…”

My chest tightened immediately, like a fist had closed around my heart. I froze. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. That song, that melody, it reached deep into my brain and pulled out something I didn’t even know was there. The memories hit me like a freight train.

“Daddy?” My son’s voice was distant, muffled, like I was underwater. “You okay?”

I blinked and realized I was staring at the TV, my hand clenched so tightly around the arm of the couch that my knuckles were white. My son was looking up at me, his face scrunched in confusion.

“I... ” I started to say something, anything to brush it off, but my throat felt like sandpaper.

“Daddy?” he said again.

“I’m fine,” I lied, forcing my hand to let go of the couch. “I just... need to run to the bathroom.”

I stood up, nearly tripping over the coffee table as I made my way to the bathroom. My legs felt weak, my whole body trembling. I gripped the edge of the sink, trying to steady myself.

The song was still playing in the living room, that stupid, happy voice echoing in my head.

3, 6, 9,12, 15, 18, 21, 24, 27...30

It wasn’t just a song. It was the song. The one they played to calm us down.

When I was a child, I went to Crestwood Middle School. The school was large, but very old. It had poor insulation, making it freezing in the winter, and hot in the summer. No matter how much they tried to paint the place, it always looked outdated. The hallways echoed; the floors creaked. Hell, most of the faculty had been students there themselves as children.

The rules were strict, and the teachers didn’t mess around. Dress codes, assigned seats at lunch, even how we walked in the hallways was monitored. It felt like every corner of the school was under their watchful eyes, even when you couldn’t see them.

Most of the staff at Crestwood were all about rules and discipline. They acted like they were running a military academy instead of an elementary school. But my favorite teacher, Ms. Harper, was different.

 She was warm, playful, like she actually liked kids. While the other teachers scowled and barked orders, she’d crack jokes and smile. She wore colorful dresses that swished when she walked, and her room always smelled clean, unlike the rest of the school, which smelled more like old books, old wood, and mildew.

Everyone loved her. She was the one teacher who made me feel safe at that school. She’d ask about our hobbies, encourage me to draw or write stories, and even kept a stash of candy in her desk for when we did well on tests.

But despite the safety of Ms. Harper’s classroom, us kids couldn’t help but feel uneasy at Crestwood. Maybe it was just the age of the school, maybe it was the rules. Or maybe, it was the rumors. Every kid in the school had heard them. Stories about kids disappearing, about strange noises in the vents, about the principal supposedly eating kids who misbehaved. It all sounded ridiculous, but at Crestwood, the line between “weird” and “normal” was thinner than at most schools.

My best friend at the time was a kid named Alex. He was small for his age, with messy hair and a laugh that was contagious. We bonded over many things, Pokémon cards, PlayStation 2, but it was our shared obsession with urban legends that really fueled our friendship, and Crestwood was full of them. Whenever we heard a new one, we’d go off on “missions” to investigate them. Most of the time, it was harmless fun; investigating the “haunted” bathroom, or trying to sneak into the teachers’ lounge. But one day, we heard a new rumor. There was a hidden basement under the school.

Over the next couple weeks, Alex and I started asking around about the basement rumor to the 8th graders. According to the stories, it was where the teachers took “the bad kids.” No one knew what happened down there. Some said that is where Principal Johnson eats kids, some said its haunted, or there was some kind of monster that lived down there. But one thing was certain. The kids who’d gone missing over the years? Supposedly, that’s where they ended up.

Alex was obsessed with the idea. “We have to find it,” he told me one afternoon.

“I don’t know, man,” I said, kicking a rock across the cracked blacktop. “What if we get caught, or what if the rumors are true, and we go missing?”

He shot back, his eyes wide with excitement. “But what if we’re the ones who finally figure it out? We’d be legends!”

I wasn’t as enthusiastic as he was, but I went along with it anyway. It was hard to say no to Alex once he got an idea in his head. It didn’t hurt that he was my only friend.

That afternoon, after the final bell rang, we didn’t head straight home. Instead, we stayed behind, hiding in the bushes until the coast was clear.

“Okay,” Alex whispered, peeking out. “Now’s our chance.”

We slipped back into the building through a side door that never quite latched properly. The halls were silent. Just being in the school while it was empty was unsettling enough by itself.

“Where do we even start?” I whispered.

Alex pointed down the hallway toward the janitor’s closet. “Mark said it’s somewhere near there.” Mark was a 8th grader, the loud and obnoxious kind. I didn’t trust him, but Alex did.

We crept down the hall, our sneakers squeaking softly on the floor. The janitor’s closet was locked, as expected, but Alex had come prepared. He pulled an old, expired credit card from his pocket he had gotten from his parents and started fiddling with the door.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” I muttered, glancing nervously over my shoulder.

“Shut up and keep watch,” he hissed.

It only took him a few minutes to get the door open. I was about to congratulate him when I saw the look on his face.

“Uh... dude?”

I turned to see what he was looking at. Inside the closet, behind the rows of cleaning supplies and buckets, there was a small door.

Neither of us said anything for a moment.

“So... do we open it?” Alex asked, his voice trembling just a little.

I wanted to say no. Every instinct in my body was screaming at me to get out of there. But Alex was already reaching for the latch.

Alex pulled the door open, revealing a narrow, dark hallway.

“Whoa...” Alex said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The walls were old brick, and the floor was plain, cracked concrete. The only light came from the janitor’s closet, spilling weakly into the space. At the far end of the hallway was an olde wooden door with a padlock dangling from its latch.

“Okay, it’s locked. Let’s go,” I said, my voice shaky.

But Alex wasn’t listening. He was already going down the hallway.

“Alex!” I hissed, glancing over my shoulder toward the main hall. “Come on, man, this is stupid! We’re gonna get caught!”

“Nobody’s even here,” Alex said, his voice echoing slightly off the cold walls. “It’s fine. Just come on.”

I hesitated, my heart hammering in my chest. The silence in the school was oppressive, my heart was beating out of my chest, but I couldn’t leave Alex there alone. With a sigh, I went after him, the cold stale air of the hallway hitting me like a slap.

Alex stood at the far end of the hallway, staring at the padlocked door. He reached out and jiggled the lock.

“It’s old,” he said. “I bet we could break it.”

“Or,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “we could leave. Right now. This is crazy, Alex. We’ll get in so much trouble.”

Alex ignored me. He turned back toward the janitor’s closet and climbed up. For a split second, I felt relief, thinking he was giving up. Then I heard the scrape of metal.

“What are you doing?” I called out.

Alex came back into view, struggling to carry a red fire extinguisher. “If we can’t pick it, we’ll just smash it.”

“Are you serious?” I said, panic rising in my voice. “That’s gonna be so loud!”

“So what? Nobody’s here,” he said, grinning. “Relax, dude.”

Before I could argue, he hoisted the extinguisher and swung it at the padlock.

Clang!

The sound was deafening in the tiny hallway. I flinched, glancing up at the door, fully expecting someone to come storming in.

“Alex, stop!” I hissed. “We’re gonna get caught!”

But Alex just shook his head. “One more, and it’ll break.”

He raised the extinguisher again and brought it down with all his strength. The lock gave way, clattering to the ground.

“There,” Alex said triumphantly, dropping the fire extinguisher with a thud. “See? Told you it’d be fine.”

I wanted to scream at him, to beg him to leave, but he was already reaching for the handle.

“Alex-” I started, but it was too late. He pulled the door open.

Alex pulled the door open, and both of us leaned forward, holding our breath as we peered into whatever was on the other side.

Behind the door, there it was.

A set of old stone steps, worn smooth in the center, descend... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gu9fgj/3_6_9_12_15_18_21_24_27_thirty/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/0hShaSha on 2024-11-18 10:08:08+00:00. *** ---

"AhhhhhHhh! Hello, we need an ambulance and police immediately! I'm here at... at..." cried the distraught teenager, barely able to string words together, her voice cracking under the weight of panic.

---\\\*

1 Year Ago

"Shh, don't talk about that, Grace," Emily whispered. "Don't you know what happened?"

Grace hesitated, swallowing hard. She did know. Everyone knew—whispers and gossip filled the hallways whenever the subject came up. But what happened to Curtis was officially ruled an accident.

"Grace, you're new here," chimed another teacher, her voice carrying a tone of patronizing reassurance. "You’ll learn that kids have accidents. They fall, they get hurt—it doesn’t mean their parents are abusive. You’ll see when you have more experience."

Grace nodded, biting her tongue. Deep down, she wasn’t so sure.

---\\\*

"Teeechs"

"Teeechs!" screamed Polly one afternoon, her tiny voice ringing across the room.

Grace turned, startled. "What did you call me?"

Polly repeated the word as she shaped playdough in her hands, then giggled and returned to her creation.

Grace froze. It had been years since she’d heard that nickname. Curtis had been the only child in her class to call her "Teechs." He used it like it was her real name, laughing each time he said it. But after his sudden death, the name disappeared with him—until now.

That night, alone in her classroom, Grace noticed something strange. On the chalkboard, someone had written, "Teechs." The letters were faint but unmistakable, as if scratched in with a nail.

Grace’s eyes brimmed with tears, but she quickly wiped them away. She couldn’t fall apart here.

---\\\*

Christmas Eve

Polly tugged at her dad’s sleeve, insisting they buy a cake.

"But it’s not your birthday," James said, amused.

"Dad, it’s Curtis’s birthday," Polly replied, her voice soft but firm. "Please, can we? For him?"

James froze. Polly couldn’t possibly know about Curtis, his son from his first marriage, who had passed away before she was born. But Polly seemed so sure. For a fleeting moment, he imagined the life he never had—both his children celebrating Curtis’s ninth birthday together.

Later that evening, when her mom returned home, she was met with a shocking sight: Polly, wearing her favorite blue dress and a paper birthday hat, sat beside a cake adorned with nine candles.

"What the hell is this?" her mom barked, her voice laced with fury.

"It’s Curtis’s birthday," Polly said timidly.

Her mother’s face twisted with rage. "Don’t you dare talk about that boy again! Do you hear me?"

She grabbed Polly’s hat and tore it apart. "He’s a curse, not a blessing. Even in death, he won’t leave me alone!"

James intervened, restraining her as Polly cried. "Stop! You’re scaring her!" he yelled.

Polly whimpered, "Mom, don’t call him a curse. His name is Curtis..."

That night, James woke to the sound of faint laughter coming from Polly’s room. He found her sitting in the dark, whispering to someone. When he asked who she was talking to, she simply said, "Curtis."

---\\\*

At School

Two weeks later, Grace noticed Polly dozing off during lunch.

"Polly," Grace said gently, "why are you sleeping? It’s lunchtime. You should eat."

Polly shook her head. "Mom forgot to give me lunch again..."

It was the sixth time that month. Grace’s frustration boiled over. She couldn’t ignore this anymore.

"I’m calling your mom," Grace said firmly.

Polly’s eyes widened with fear. "No! Don’t call her! She’ll hit me..."

Before Grace could process this, Emily pulled her aside.

"Let it go," Emily warned. "Don’t jump to conclusions. I’ll talk to Polly’s dad later."

Grace clenched her jaw. Something wasn’t right, but no one seemed willing to see it.

---\\\*

The Secret

Polly tugged at Grace’s sleeve the following week. "Teechs," she whispered, "can I tell you a secret?"

Grace knelt down to her level, her tone gentle. "Of course, Polly. What is it?"

"Curtis taught me to call you that," Polly said, her face lighting up with a smile. "He told me you were his favorite teacher. He said he missed you & how you always made everyone close their eyes & count to ten before lunchtime to sneak tiffin in his bag."

Grace felt her stomach drop. "Polly, how do you know Curtis?"

Polly avoided eye contact. "I found his diary in my playroom. He told me things about you... about lunch breaks and the tiffin you used to give him."

Grace’s hands trembled. Curtis’s diary had vanished after his death. How could Polly have it?

That night, as Grace reread the diary entries, the temperature in her room seemed to drop. Shadows danced on the walls, and faint laughter echoed behind her. She made a decision: she would contact the police.

---\\\*

Curtis’s Plan

As Polly lay in bed that night, the familiar voice of her brother echoed in the darkness.

"I can’t stay anymore, Polly," Curtis whispered.

Tears streamed down her cheeks. "Why not? You said we’d always be together."

"You can come with me," Curtis replied. "But you have to do something first."

"What?" Polly asked, her voice shaking.

"Remember the peanuts from class? Break them into tiny pieces and put them in Mom’s food," Curtis said. "And don’t forget to hide her epi-pen. You know where they are, right?"

Polly hesitated, her tiny hands trembling. "But she’s my mommy," she whispered. "She loves me, doesn’t she?"

Curtis’s voice grew cold. "She loves hurting us. She deserves this, Polly. Then we can be together forever."

---

---

The Final Act

The next evening, James found his wife convulsing on the floor, her lips blue and her breathing shallow.

"Why is Mom shaking like that?" Polly asked, her voice innocent.

"She hit us both," Curtis whispered in her ear, his tone icy. "She sent me to the sky when it wasn’t my time."

Polly’s eyes filled with tears. "Can I go with you now?"

"Yes," Curtis replied. "Go to the terrace. If you jump, we’ll be together forever."

---\\\*

The Tragic Discovery

"AhhhhhHhh! Hello, we need an ambulance and police immediately! I’m here at... at..."

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Braven025 on 2024-11-18 15:27:40+00:00. *** Day One

It was Friday morning. I started my day nursing a hangover from the night before, drinking my way through a pot of coffee and munching on toaster strudels (real healthy, I know). I had a morning filled with zoom meetings, and was feeling thankful for the option to keep the camera off because, let’s face it, I’m not as young as I used to be and good lord, does a night of drinking do some damage.

Anyway, as I was going into my last meeting before lunch, my phone rang. I silenced it quickly and set it face down so I wouldn’t be distracted. It’s no good to be off cam AND distracted. After the meeting, I forgot all about the call and got up from my desk to make myself some lunch – a salad with grilled chicken (cancels out the toaster strudel, right? Right?)

Just as I sat back at my desk, my phone rang again. When I picked it up, I saw I had five missed calls – two from my husband, Dylan, and three from a number I didn’t recognize. What the heck? I dropped my fork and mashed the answer button. It was the latter that was calling me back.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Mrs. Harding?”

“Who’s this?” I asked.

“This is Detective Phillips from the police department.”

My mind jumped to the missed calls from Dylan. Oh, God. Did something happen to him? A car accident? A shoot out? Fuck! My heart was beating out of my chest. Words lodged in my throat like a wad of wet bread. I sputtered, then asked, “Is my husband alright?”

“What?” the detective said, obviously confused.

“My husband,” I gasped. “Is that what you’re calling about?”

“Oh, no ma’am…”

“Thank God,” I breathed. “What can I do for you?”

“Ma’am…I’m calling because we found your son.”

Shock prickled through me. “Excuse me?”

“Your son, ma’am, we found him. He turned up at the police station last night and we were able to positively identify him this morning.”

My mind started spinning at the detective’s words. He must have the wrong Mrs. Harding. I don’t have a son. I don’t have any children at all. Dylan and I never wanted them. We have a nice life, just the two of us and our dog, Gus. Financially, we do well. We can pick up and travel whenever we want. Besides, I just never had that maternal instinct. And there’s nothing freaking wrong with that, despite what my mother thinks.

“Hello? Ma’am? Did you hear what I said?”

The detective’s voice jarred me from my thoughts. “Um…yeah, but…”

“We need you to come down to the station. Your husband is already on his way.”

Dylan was? Why?

“I think you must have the wrong number, Detective Phillips.”

“Shit,” he swore. “Is this Alyssa Harding, address 563 Pine Tree Court?”

“Yes, it is, but—”

“Phew,” the detective said. “Thought I’d really messed up there. You’re definitely the Mrs. Harding I’m looking for. Please, come down to the station at 555 Wilson Avenue ASAP.”

Before I could get another word out, the call disconnected. I pulled the phone back from my head and stared at it in disbelief. I was the Mrs. Harding he was looking for? It didn’t make any sense. What made less sense was that Dylan was headed to the station, too.

I logged off work, changed out of my “work clothes” (consisting of yoga pants and an old t-shirt), and pulled my hair up into a messy bun. Gus tap danced around me as I hurriedly got ready, then I dropped a treat on the floor so he wouldn’t get mad when I left him. Outside, there was a warm breeze, odd for an afternoon in mid-November. Something about it just felt wrong.

My hands trembled the whole way to the police station as I navigated my Prius through the leaf-strewn streets. I pulled up outside the low brick building and heard my name the second I stepped out onto the street. I turned. Dylan was rushing toward me, a grin plastered on his face. I almost didn’t recognize him.

“Alyssa! God, I tried to call you twice! Why didn’t you pick up?”

“I-I was in meetings all morning,” I said, thrown off by his intensity. “What is going on, Dylan?”

“Didn’t you talk to the detective?” he asked, grabbing my hand. He pulled me toward the glass entrance to the building with such force, I stumbled over the broken concrete a couple of times.

“Yes, but, I don’t understand,” I said, breathing heavy. Something was really wrong here.

“They found him, Lyss!” Dylan cried, prying open the door. “They found Logan!”

Logan. Logan. The word tumbled around in my head like a single item inside a dryer. Logan. They found him. What the fuck was going on?

I stopped short, yanking my hand from my husband’s, this man who looked like my husband anyway, but certainly wasn’t acting like him. “Dylan, stop!”

He stopped walking and blinked at me, confusion clouding his face. “Lyss, what’s going on? Didn’t you hear me? They found Logan! Why are you acting so strange?”

I bit down on my tongue, fighting the urge to unleash a series of swear words. I wasn’t the one acting strange here. Why couldn’t he see that? Who the fuck was Logan? Why were we even here?

I took a deep, measured breath. “Dylan, I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know who Logan is, and why the fuck we should care that they found him.”

My words were like a slap to the face. Dylan recoiled, a look of disgust coming over him. His eyes darkened and he leaned in close, murmuring to me, hot breath washing over my face. “Please don’t do this right now. Just come with me.”

I wanted to turn around and walk away. But I didn’t. I should’ve. If these past four days have taught me anything, it’s that following Dylan through that police station was the worst mistake I’ve ever made in my life. But something inside me told me to go with him. Curiosity, I guess. Wanting answers. The urgency in Dylan’s demeanor. I should’ve fucking run.

“Fine,” I said quietly.

We took the elevator up to the second floor and pushed through a set of double doors to a reception area. Dylan approached an officer behind a desk.

“Mr. and Mrs. Harding here to see Detective Phillips,” he said.

The officer’s face lit up. “Yes, of course, he’s waiting for you. You can head right back to his office.”

He pointed straight back through a maze of cubicles and Dylan motioned me forward. Dread snaked through me and my legs started to tremble as we walked. Officers in cubicles stopped to stare at us. One was even crying, wiping tears from her cheeks with a wad of tissues. What was with all the fucking dramatics?

The office door swung open before we even got there, and a man in his mid-forties with a slight pot belly and a full beard grinned out at us. “He’s right in here, folks, come, come. He’s been waiting anxiously for you.”

He sounded so excited, it was almost contagious. Until I remembered that there was nothing to be excited about. Whatever was going on was seriously fucked up. Dylan went first, stepping over the threshold and into the small office. I saw his body tense, then relax with a rush of breath.

“It really is you!” he cried, his voice breaking. “Lyss, it’s him! After all this time, our son has come home!”

I stepped timidly into the office. A boy—maybe six or seven—sat perched on a chair, his dark curly hair disheveled and standing up at odd angles on his head. He clutched a juicebox in one hand and a ratty teddy bear in the other. He was pale, but his cheeks were unnaturally rosy, and he looked up at us with the darkest, widest eyes I’ve ever seen.

Seeing him was like a gut punch. Fear course through me like an electric shock. This kid, whoever he was, definitely wasn’t my son. In fact, I was pretty sure he was pure fucking evil.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/CQ-Erickson on 2024-11-18 12:59:07+00:00. *** Nobody writes about the Grinning Prince.

The thing about urban legends is that while they are supposedly an oral tradition, people love writing about them online. You can pretty much trace the whole Polybius myth from one message board post to dozens of podcasts over the course of 25 years.

Not the Grinning Prince.

And not even the show. Not really.

Everyone who was a kid in the NYC area in the 70s and 80s remembers this tv show. It was the most popular kids program on a local channel (the one that showed baseball). But somehow it never went to other markets, and even weirder, nobody in the area recorded it. By the time it went off the air in 84 plenty of people had VCRs, but no matter how much you search YouTube, you won’t even find clips of the garden full of psychedelic puppets being herded by singing hippies. Over the years a few people posted clips, but they were pulled almost immediately. You will never see a full episode posted , so you will never hear The Roster. You will never hear the puppets say the one thing they absolutely said at least once in every episode:

“ALL THINGS SERVE THE GRINNING PRINCE”

The Roster was the end of the show, when the hippies would put down their guitars, and sing (a cappella and off key) four names. For example “We see Jordan and Kyle and Kerry and Julie and… YOU!”

Everyone knew the rules. At some point, an older sibling or a friend would warn you: when they said your name in the roster, you had to place the thing you loved the most on the the ground in your yard, with a letter asking The Prince for a gift. If you did, you would get your gift. If you didn’t, first the Grinning Prince would warn you in your dreams that night. If you still disobeyed, the Prince would visit your bed the next night. If you disobeyed again… nobody knew. Something bad.

My name, the real one on my birth certificate, is uncommon. My nickname was (and is) marginally less weird, but still unpopular. So I never got called on The Roster.

My cousin Davey wasn’t that lucky. He tried not to cry when I asked him where his Wayne Foundation playset was. He had just gotten it for Christmas and I was incredibly jealous. If any of you collected Mego superheroes you would understand. He solemnly explained that he ignored The Prince when he dreamt of him.

The next night, Davey woke up to a withered, six fingered hand rising up from the side of his bed, reaching for him. He spent the rest of the night in his parents’ bedroom, screaming. In the morning, while his mom was doing laundry, he went in the yard and dug into the frozen ground. I was four. He was six. That conversation is my earliest, clearest memory.

There is no reason why I should have cared so much about finding this show as an adult. But I am stubborn and nosy. Being stubborn and nosy aren’t the worst flaws you can have, but they have cost me most of my relationships over the years. This gives me a lot of free time.

I have been selling stuff - mostly original comic art- at horror and sci-fi conventions for twenty years. Twenty years of pestering the other vendors for a copy of an episode of this show. Usually conventions are amazing for “lost” media like this. I have a 4k print of the unaltered versions of the Original Trilogy, and a VHS with what appears to be an authentic 20 minutes of London After Midnight. But I could never find a copy of this show.

Three months ago, at the big con in San Diego, a pink haired girl in her mid 20s came to my booth. She was holding a disc with the show’s name on it. I didn’t have a DVD player with me(or at home, not for ten years), but she only wanted twenty dollars for it. I don’t know how she knew who I was or that I was looking for the show, but she looked incredibly familiar. Which made no sense. I didn’t know any women her age, pink haired or otherwise.

When I got the disk home and finally found a laptop to play it, I understood where I knew her from. She was the girl without the guitar. Her clothes and hair were obviously different, but she hadn’t changed in 40 years. When the Roster came around I was sort of expecting it, but it still felt like there was ice going down my spine when they said both of my names.

Obviously at this point the logical thing to do was just put my guitar in the yard.

But I’m stubborn. And nosy.

I woke up screaming on my bathroom floor. I don’t know how I got there. Even immediately after I woke up I couldn’t remember The Prince’s face. Only his hand. The six fingers ending in long nails that burned like candles.

So the next night I put a 1974 black Fender Telecaster Custom(same model that Keith hit a fan with on The Stones 81 tour) outside in the yard with my letter. I live alone, and was more freaked out than curious. I left the television on for company.

Around 3AM I woke up with the sense that I was being watched. The TV was an old school snowy screen, like we would get when the cable went out.

Then the hand rose up from the side of my bed. I don’t know if I screamed. I only know that I froze. It came up slowly, no particular hurry, the fingernail candles casting shadows against the wall. It stank of soil and decay.

It didn’t move like a person. It didn’t move like anything in this world.

Even in my terrified state I was able to recognize it.

It was claymation.

I didn’t bother getting dressed before running for my keys and wallet and bolting out of the house. I ended up at White Castle(the only place open), frantically doing an image search. I was filled with cosmic dread. But I was still stubborn. And nosy. I found it right away. I was right.

The thing that was in my bedroom was the old intro animation from the Saturday night horror movie on the same channel that aired the show. A six fingered hand rising from a creepy swamp.

When the sun came up, I went home to find my guitar exactly where I left it. My offering had been rejected.

Of course it was. I had tried to cheat.

Later, I would go into the yard dragging the thing I really loved the most. The only painting my dad ever finished: a lighthouse at the cusp of a storm, guiding the ships in. I have had it on my wall my entire life.

The following morning it was gone, along with my note. That night there was a package at my door. I opened it and found three photo albums.

Once I knew that the whole thing was real, I could have asked for anything in the note I left. If The Grinning Prince could appear in my dreams, and the host of the show could appear ageless, then I could ask to be rich, or young, or immortal or whatever. That’s not how I’m wired though. For my gift I wanted three answers:

• what was the point of the show?

-why did it stop?

-what happened to the kids who couldn’t or wouldn’t

leave the offering?

I sat on my couch and opened the first album. 1970s pale gold and olive tones shine in the pictures. I saw the hosts, their names, their real names, not the ones from the show, were handwritten above them: Carmen and Patricia. I touch the picture and suddenly I’m not me. I’m Carmen.

We are puppeteers. It is 1971, and we are in NYC trying to get a job with the public television kids show that has somehow become a huge hit. Our manager gets us an interview with a local channel. Station management pitches us on our own show. But there are rules. Very specific rules. We have to prove our loyalty to station management. We have to pledge ourselves to the smiling presence lurking behind everything. It seems like a game. Patricia and I sacrifice the puppets we made ourselves in sixth grade. We promise each other that we will ask for the same gift, for our show to go on forever. I don’t know what Patricia really asked for. It wasn’t to stay young: at her wake she was an old lady, and I was the same, like always. My mind is as fresh as my body. I can’t forget anything we did, I hear every kids name that I called. I see the ones that didn’t listen…

I snap the book shut, and open the second one. This one isn’t just pictures, it is a collage of 80s and 90s photos, newspaper clippings, magazine articles. They swirl into a vivid montage of what happened after the show stopped. It wasn’t needed any more. One generation of kids in one city was enough. Four names called a day. Five days a week. For ten years. Every kid grew up to serve the Prince in their own way. They gave him other names and made up party games to summon him. They put versions of him in 80s album covers and 90s comic books and 2000s creepypasta. They even backwards masked a worship service into a Philadelphia based teen dance show(also not on YouTube). Every bit helped. All things serve the Grinning Prince.

I didn’t open the last album. Not at first. I changed my mind, I didn’t want to know what happened to the other kids. The ones who wouldn’t listen. Nothing good could come from seeing that

But I’m stubborn. And nosy.

I really tried not to open the album. I tried to ignore my curiosity. I lasted a day.

I spent the whole day wandering through midtown.

I could have asked for so many things besides knowledge. I’ve never been to Europe. Billy Joel’s house is for sale. I haven’t had a hairline since Clinton was in office.

I could be like Carmen, with an eternally young face and pink hair, handing DVDs to unsuspecting idiots at conventions.

But no. I had to have answers.

So I saw the symbols of the Prince embedded in billboards and corporate logos. I heard the demonic cadence of his hymns in songs playing i... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gu447q/some_tv_shows_shouldnt_get_a_rewatch/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/spnsuperfan1 on 2024-11-18 06:18:52+00:00. *** First | Previous

Of course, on top of a blood sucking serial killer, I now have this to deal with.

FML.

If you're new, you can read what I've been covering in my therapy sessions: here.

I might have to move my therapy session up from next week. It’s just been punch after punch these past couple weeks and honestly? I feel like I’m about to crash out.

Which is really disappointing because according to my therapist I’ve been making really good progress. I went down from two sessions a week to two every month for crying out loud!

Addressing the elephant in the title, I’m pretty sure the stalking started sometime after Halloween. I’m not sure when I picked up on it, but it started off small. The quick flicker of a shadow in my peripheral vision. The feeling of being watched or followed, only to find nobody there when I tuned around. The small pit of dread that formed in my stomach after thinking I heard my name being whispered in the wind.

A sense of paranoia started to invade the back of my mind. Deep down I knew something was wrong, but I couldn’t quite place what.

Then everything came to a head the other night. My stalker approached me while I was in my backyard.

It was almost midnight. The sun had long since set. Pale blue light shone from the moon, bouncing off the litany of stars that littered the sky, making them glow ethereally. The celestial beauty was in its waxing gibbous phase. Not quite full, but close. The full moon would show itself in a day or two.

I live out in the woods, on the outskirts of Winchester, far away from people. I know it’s shocking, a self proclaimed city-girl roughing it in the wild. But I gotta say, it’s pretty damn peaceful out here. At least it was.

My home is a one story timber frame log cabin that was built in the late eighties. Since it was quite the fixer upper, I got it for dirt cheap. Most of the renovations have been completed though. The last things on my list are to fix the gutters above the porch, paint my bedroom, re-tile the kitchen floors, and fix a pesky leak in the roof.

I’d been out on the back patio sipping on a cold beer, stargazing. My eye particularly gazing upon the Cassiopeia, Orion, and Andromeda constellations. The quiet sounds of nature and the heat radiating off my crackling bonfire, coupled with the scenery, made for a perfectly relaxing activity. Just the thing I needed after an exhausting day at work.

I was on the cusp of falling asleep when something suddenly pulled me to attention. The sound of a stick breaking and leaves gently crunching just beyond the tree line.

I sat up in the green lawn chair I’d been lounging in, sobering up quickly. Slowly, my eyes analyzed the tree line and accompanying surroundings. ”Lucy~ the wind seemed to whisper, tauntingly.

Then I saw them. Soft glowing yellow eyes. The figure they belonged to loomed beneath the dark depths provided by the trees canopy. Then slowly, they pushed forward, revealing the tip of a glistening black snout. Soon, the moonlight illuminated a large white wolf.

My breath hitched in my throat as the wolf stood there at the edge of my property, watching, waiting. Analyzing. Those piercing eyes gazed right into my soul.

My staring contest with The White Wolf couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds, but in the moment it felt like thirty minutes.

A sweet tinkling emanated from the metallic wind chimes that hung on the low branches of my trees as a gentle breeze blew by. On other branches, dangling dream catchers and cedar bundles swayed in tandem with the wind. A slight feeling of relief rushed through me as I was reminded of all the protective wards surrounding my property. Two twin horseshoes were nailed to a pair of old oak trees at the apex of the yard. And every couple of days I’d walk the perimeter of the cabin, replenishing the mountain ash that lined the outside of my home.

With a slight chuff, The White Wolf stood in place and bowed his head while still maintaining eye contact. The look it gave was as if it were trying to say “I’ll get you one day. You’re mine.”

Then, just as suddenly as the creature appeared, it disappeared back into the woods where it came from.

Once again alone, I chugged the rest of my beer and went inside for the night. Paranoia wracked my brain rendering me unable to sleep. Like I was going to anyway after that interaction.

The White Wolf definitely wasn’t a regular lupine, my wards proved that fact. If it’s fae or something else, I don’t know. However, I have a sneaking suspicion this might be connected to Demon Dan in some way. But right now he’s like a fart lost in the wind, so…

Anyway, enough about me. You guys don’t come here to solely read about my personal crap. Nah, you come for the action and to see me get my ass handed to me time after time. I get it. I understand.

It’s why I’m still a rookie. I have only been at Winchester PD for about eight months now.

Moving on, there’s an update on Rudy, our supposed serial killer. I say supposed because the results came back on the blood we found on his clothes. It wasn’t human but cervid- deer blood.

That doesn’t mean he isn’t responsible for the deaths of Lana and our other victims. We just needed something concrete to prove it. Sure we have Ms. Walker’s witness testimony, but that’s circumstantial at best. Do you know how easy it is for the brain to misremember things? How easily memories can be misinterpreted, manipulated, and influenced?

And on top of all that, because Rudy is lucid- for the most part- the division doesn’t have grounds for termination. He’s a revenant, yes, but so far all we can prove is that he drank Bambi like a god damned Capri-sun.

For now, he’s being kept in one of the maximum security underground holding cells until we can prove he’s our killer or someone from The Court comes along to evaluate his case.

All Dustin and I could do is keep working the case until Rudy revealed something or new evidence surfaced. So that’s exactly what we did.

The morning after my encounter with The White Wolf was a bad one. My mind and body were exhausted from the lack of sleep and overthinking. During the commute to work, I was constantly peeking out the rearview mirror of my car, paranoid that I would spot it again. Standing, staring, analyzing.

I could’ve sworn I heard my name being whispered into my ear in the precinct’s parking lot. A quick look over my shoulder revealed the lot to be desolate of any living things. When I turned back around, the living shit was scared out of me.

“Ow! What the hell, Hale?” Dustin questioned rubbing his sore shoulder in an attempt to relieve the pain. I’d punched the appendage out of reflex after he startled me.“What’s got you so jumpy?”

“Had a bad night,” I replied apologetically.

Dustin pressed his lips together as he got a good look at me in the morning light. Still tending to his shoulder he said, “I can tell. You look like shit.”

“You gotta reason for sneaking up on me this morning, Dustin?” I asked, my lack of sleep making me more irritable than normal. I was seriously debating punching him again in the same spot just for the way he was grinning down at me.

“Well, I’ve been thinking,” he shoved his hands into his pockets to escape from the cold November air, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

“Oh no, should I be worried?” I interjected with a sarcastic smile, heading towards the precinct.

Dustin rolled his eyes, his grin deepened before he followed after me into our place of work. “About Rudy. How we might be able to get something out of him.”

“We’ve both been interrogating him for the past two days, Dustin, and we still can’t get him to say anything,” I had to remind him as we walked through the main corridor after the lobby.

“I understand that, Lucky, but hear me out. Good cop, bad cop?”

I stopped, scoffing after pressing the down button on the elevators. “Let me guess, you want to be bad cop?”

Ding! The elevator I summoned reached our floor, the doors gliding open. We both stepped in. “No, actually, I was thinking you could be bad cop on this one. My gut is telling me if you get him upset enough you might lodge something free from his memory.”

Dustin stuck a key into the button panel. With a satisfying click, another hidden panel popped open. The white button lit up with a golden light as he pressed it.

“Don’t tell me you actually believe in that amnesia crap act?” I crossed my arms into my chest as the doors closed.

Davidson shrugged. “I mean… he did turn himself in. He seems like he genuinely doesn’t remember something.”

“I know, but something about him just doesn’t sit right with me.”

The door to the elevator opened as we reached the bottom floor. Dustin stepped out first, and I followed. We walked down a long concrete corridor filled with doors on either end, nearly all the rooms containing some type of dangerous supernatural. The division was still reeling from the events on Halloween night. Plus there seemed to have been an unusual surge of supernatu... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gtyh6y/im_a_rookie_with_the_winchester_police_department/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Jughead_J0nes on 2024-11-18 04:04:20+00:00. *** You know that optical illusion where you’re driving by a plane coming in to land, and you’re both moving at the perfect speed and the perfect angle, and it looks like it’s not moving at all? I’ve seen this dozens of times, and it never bothered me, until it destroyed my life.

I’m a pretty regular person, at least professionally. I show up for work at 6:58 AM every day, and leave right at 4:00. So when I noticed a 737 doing the “not moving” illusion two days in a row, I didn’t think anything of it. Nothing beyond “Hey, I saw a plane there yesterday.” The third day I figured it just must be the same flight. The 2:30 in from Chicago or something. It quickly became a fixture on my drive home, a little joke I had with myself. “There’s the magic plane again!”

After a week or so I had a day where I worked late. Nothing too bad, 15 extra minutes or so to finish up a project. When I drove back home, there it was, in the same spot, doing its same illusion. This confused me more than anything. I didn’t think the world was ending, but the chance that the plane happened to be 15 minutes late on the same day I was, seemed pretty much impossible. I thought that maybe it was a different flight, but the plane looked like the same model, same airline, and I don’t think two planes would land so close to each other on the same runway, right?

The next day I got curious, so instead of taking a little overtime I decided to leave 15 minutes early and break even on the week. When I took the curve onto the highway, there it was. The same plane 15 or so minutes early this time. If the fight being delayed the same day I was is almost impossible, the same flight being 15 minutes early the same time I was is definitely impossible. It really shook me, and I didn’t think about much else when I got home, or at work the next day.

I decided to run a little test. I felt on the verge of crazy, and even my test felt a little silly at the time. When I got off work, instead of heading straight home, I found a parking lot near the airport, an Arby’s. I parked and found my “magic plane” in the sky, expecting it to just fly by because I was at a different angle. I figured the optical illusion would break if I wasn’t driving. I was wrong, because it wasn’t an illusion. The plane stayed there. Minute after agonizing minute, it just hung in the air, refusing to move.

I stayed there for a half an hour, every second begging the plane to move. I tried to convince myself it had a crazy headwind. I even tried to convince myself it might be some new experimental commercial aircraft that could hover. I mean as wild as that sounds it seems more probable than a plane just… stopping. I stayed until I saw one plane land and another take off. That’s what finally convinced me I wasn’t going to see anything change.

Thank god it was a Friday, I couldn’t imagine going to work the day after that. I barely made it home. It was like driving after learning my Dad died, just so full of emotion that basic function was hard.

When I did get home, I didn’t do much. I just showered and tried to go to sleep. I guess eventually my brain just got tired of running the same few explanations and gave up.

I felt better in the morning. I managed to sleep off the shakes of the previous night and put together a decent breakfast for myself, trying to fill the gap of a skipped dinner. I contemplated going to the doctor, but I could only imagine the incredulous look on her face as she shipped me off to a shrink. I was always scared of doctors anyway. I ended up spending that weekend holed up, just watching movies and YouTube. I realized that I was gravitating towards things with movement, finding them more comforting than anything else.

The next few work days went by with very little of note. It might be more crazy than the plane itself how fast I adapted to it being there. I just kinda… didn’t look up. I knew it would be there, but I somehow managed to convince myself the whole situation was fine. As long as I didn’t look at it, I didn’t have to think about it too hard. Over that week at work my headspace slowly started to fill back up with the normal drudge any office type worker thinks about. PTO, deadlines, the works.

I asked a couple of my coworkers about the plane at the start of the week (indirectly of course, asking if they know the illusion I was talking about) and only got confused looks and segways to other topics. I left it alone after that, and by the end of the week I only thought about the plane when I was passing it on the highway. Again, crazy how quickly it became normal. I think that’s why it shook me so hard when I saw a tree off the highway that refused to move.

There was a breeze. I know there was a breeze. All the trees around this one were moving, just a gentle back and forth of their branches. This one was stuck. I guess it’s possible the trees around it were blocking the wind, but it was more than just not moving. It was stuck. Like pausing a movie. Even when something isn’t moving it has some sort of life to it, some imperceptible sense of change. This tree didn’t have that.

I took off work and went to the doctor the next day, yelling at myself for normalizing the plane so quickly. I should’ve gone the second I stopped and confirmed it was frozen in air. Like I said, doctors scare me. I don’t like being poked and prodded just for the doctor to tell me I’m actually fine and not to worry. I figured it was time to get over that, though, considering at this point I was genuinely scared I was losing it. I have some health problems that run in my family. My Dad died of some heart thing they never really got to the bottom of, and his Dad before that. I didn’t think some genetic heart issues would translate to going insane but I’d be willing to go with just about any theory that made a semblance of sense.

The doctor told me exactly what I expected to hear. Physically I was fine. I could tell she wanted to just ship me off to a shrink, but I insisted the problem had to be more material. I did do a psych evaluation, but that turned up nothing besides the obvious. Sure I was acting strange, but that all related back to the stuck things, easily explained by stress, nothing to imply why I was seeing them in the first place. After squabbling over a brain scan for what felt like hours the doctor relented, warning me that insurance would most likely not cover it. I told her I didn’t care and would pay out of pocket if I had too.

I never want to do an MRI again. I think I’d rather let my brain rot if fixing it meant going back in that donut of hell. If you don’t know, an MRI machine is LOUD, like can’t hear your own thoughts loud. Weird rhythmic thunking and clanging noises just driving into your head. I won’t embarrass myself by trying to type out the sounds but trust me, they’re awful. I was in there for 30 seconds of my 20 minute scan before waves of panic washed over me, made worse by the pads and tape that were immobilizing my head. I didn’t think I was claustrophobic when I went in there, but I sure as hell do now.

The worst part of it was that the MRI showed us… nothing. I guess it showed us something by showing us nothing. The scan came up clean. There was no tumor, no shadow, nothing. So either things really are getting stuck, or I’m just going crazy.

I went home. I put up all my PTO, told work I had a family emergency, and got on the road. Pulled an 8 hour drive in one go. I nearly ran out of gas but I really didn’t want to stop. The more I moved the less chance I saw something stuck. I still saw them though. I counted three on the drive. A sign on a chain link fence, a bush next to a stop sign, and a section of a wheat field. All frozen. I wonder how many I missed. I have to assume there’s more I just never saw.

I felt better after a few days at home. A nostalgic sense of normalcy was exactly what my head needed. Even just a change of scenery seemed to help. For the last half of the drive or so, I didn’t see any of the stuck things. Either my brain just started to calm down on the way back home, or the stuck things were somehow localized. I don’t know which one I was hoping for, but I didn’t really care. The stuck things felt far away, and that brought me some peace.

My Mom wasn’t totally sure what was going on, but she was happy to have me home. I hinted at what was going on with the stuck things, but dropped it when I could tell she wouldn’t understand. I ended up just telling her work had been stressful and I needed a reset, which seemed to satisfy her.

Three days into my impromptu vacation I felt good enough to go out. I called up a few high school friends and asked if they could hang out. I don’t make it back home that often, so even though they have their own lives to pay attention to, three of them managed to make time, which I appreciated. We went and saw a movie, which ended up being a mistake. As we walked into the theater, I saw my first stuck person.

I just glimpsed her out of the corner of my eye at first. A woman sitting on a bench, presumably waiting for someone. I barely saw her, but the fraction of a second I did was enough. I’m too good at spotting the stuck things. I could just tell something was wrong. I couldn’t look back, I just kept my head straight and walked right into the theater. My stomach dropped, and I spent the movie fighting off a panic attack. Did the stuck things follow me here? Am I causing them? Are they actuall... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gtw84i/things_keep_getting_stuck/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Napsterblock2 on 2024-11-18 04:47:39+00:00. *** When I was a kid, around twelve or thirteen I used to make youtube videos. I think It's somewhat of a universal experience for my generation to try to replicate what our favorite creators were doing with the vague allure of “making it big” as the carrot on the stick to keep us moving. In the same way the children of past generations aspired to be astronauts or adventurers, this is what we did. Somewhere along the line, most of us realized how slim our chances were of ever being noticed and quit. Some people deleted their videos and pushed them out of their mind; while others, myself included, forgot about them entirely leaving them to fall into the sea of thousands of other channels just like it, never to be seen again. 

A few weeks ago, I was visiting my parents for the weekend when my father offhandedly mentioned all the old youtube videos that I used to make and asked what happened to them. I might be misremembering this but I could swear I saw both my parents tense on the mention; but that would make too much sense. Before he asked about them they were totally gone from my mind, and when she did the memories came flooding back to me. I remembered all the hours I spent adding shitty transitions in Imovie and running around in my backyard acting out skits for the audience of none. I couldn't believe that such an important part of my childhood was just gone from my mind like that, so I decided to look at all my old videos to see what the young me was getting up to back then.

I found the login information for my old account scribbled into a notebook that was tucked away in the attic of my parents house and I took it home with me. When I got home the next week, I logged in to the old account and looked at the old videos. They were all still public after all these years, but still maintained the same lack of engagement I remember being sad about so many years ago. I went back to the oldest video and started watching it. It was an old video of me playing in my yard titled “Super Spies”. The video started with a bad title that read the name of the video that then cut to me in my yard. There was a black and white filter over the whole video that I'm pretty sure I used when I recorded the raw footage. I acted out a skit where I was all the characters, I never had any friends or siblings to make these videos with and my parents refused to be a part of them. I acted out what I thought an old detective movie looked like; a man (played by me but with a hat) came in and asked me to help find his missing brother. The entire hour and a half long odyssey of a skit took place entirely in the office which was just my yard and consisted of this detective somehow figuring out that my client murdered his brother to give himself sympathy points to help him win the election for mayor. It was a cute video that I remember some parts of making. I somehow sat through the entire thing, I was kinda impressed by my own improv skills at such a young age.

 After that, I went on to the next oldest video, called “Minecraft”. In this video which was a much more approachable fifteen minutes was my playing Minecraft pocket edition on my mother’s phone. I didn't know that you could play minecraft on a computer at the time, or at least that's why I assumed I was using a laptop to record a phone screen in some glare filled disaster of a video because I had zero memory of making any videos about video games. I started a new world and started to play. I built a small wooden box with a fence post for a window and stayed the night there. I waited for the entire night with zero commentary at all, just my own breathing into the microphone. When the morning came, I went mining for the rest of the video; from the way I was talking it looked like I was making a tutorial for how to play the game. At one point I said something that I found a little strange. I said that I would soon figure out how to play multiplayer and I would be able to play with my best friend Tanner. I found it a little cute that I didn't know that there was no multiplayer yet; but I found it strange because I don't remember ever knowing anybody named Tanner, and I wouldn't have had a best friend because when I was a kid I didn't have any friends. When I was watching all of these videos it was pretty late at night but that one line inspired me to dig deeper and find out who this Tanner was, and I wouldn't have to look much deeper to do so.

I was going to go to bed, but the next video piqued my curiosity; It was titled “Lego with Tanner”, and so I had to press on. This video was another gauntlet to get through, clocking in at an hour, fifteen for length, and it didn't make up for it with entertainment value. In this video, I was sitting in my room playing with Lego. The camera was looking at a base plate where the Figures were and my hands were seen playing with the pieces. But there was also another set of hands that I assumed belonged to Tanner, whoever he was. We both acted out some skits that we were making up as we went along, each voicing our own characters. I used my regular voice for my character but the other child used an exaggerated voice the whole time. I thought about how much dedication it took to keep it up for that Long. We were each trying to make our own character the coolest one, despite the efforts of the other one. It was a ridiculous video full of new powers made up on the spot and impossible challenges. I didn't care much for the video, I only really wanted to find out more about this kid. I still don't remember any of this happening, which wouldn't be a problem if I didn't remember clearly that I had absolutely no friends when I was young. It might seem sad but that's besides the point, I never had any friends and I was hated by anyone I tried to befriend. So who was this kid? At this point, it was late and I was tired; I decided to go to bed and watch more of these videos the next day.

I wracked my brain all through the next day, trying to remember there being anyone from my childhood who didn't hate me, and found nothing. At one point I texted my mother to ask her if I had any friends when I was young, she said that she couldn't remember me ever having friends. She asked why and I told her that I had been looking through the old videos that I made and In them, I was with another kid my age. She seemed to get upset with me after that and told me to stop using my phone when I should be working; she didn't reply when I told her I was on my lunch break.

When I got home later that day I tried to call my mother to no avail, so I went and started to watch the next video. This one was titled “The Battle”. It was three hours long, (a new record for length) and consisted of me and Tanner acting out a fight scene in my yard. This video was particularly momentous because it was the first time I was able to see tanner fully. He was a regular looking kid, darker skin then my own and black hair that was spiked up with an ungodly amount of hair product. Seeing his face and hearing his real voice continued to not ring any bells. I don't know why but  felt a strange feeling seeing him so close to me; I had no reason 

 In this video we were acting out a fight between two characters that we made up. It was less of a skit and more of the both of us play-fighting in my backyard. It made me happy however, to see my young self happy, most of my memories from my childhood were not as nice so it was good to see that It wasn't all bad. One thing stuck out to me that I still can't get out of my head as I write this, Tanner was so nice to me. Every time he hit me a little too hard he would ask if I was okay and I don't know why but it touched me. I'll spare you readers any trauma dumping, but I was never liked much and I still don't have any friends. It made me really happy to see someone being nice to me, even if I still don't remember it. I don't know why I can't remember this and It makes me mad that I can't, I deserve to have happy memories too, don't I?

After the video ended, I noticed that my eyes had been a little bit. I wiped my eyes and then saw that I missed a call from my mother, how focused must I have been on that video. I called her back and she answered. I greeted her but she started on something immediately. She seemed angry. She said that she had been thinking and that she didn't want videos of her child to be on the internet, she wanted me to delete them. I told her that I would unlist them and explained what that meant to her. She refused to accept that and started yelling at me for not doing what she said. She continued to berate me and told me to delete them, she wanted them gone and said she didn't want anybody to see them, not even me for some reason. I told her I deleted them and that satisfied her, I tried to turn the conversation around and ask her how she had been doing, but she hung up abruptly without an answer. I obviously didn't delete the videos, my parents have never been very good with technology and wouldn't know if I did or didn't. I unlisted all of the videos just in case she searched for them. This is nothing special for her but I got some similar feeling to when I saw the other boy in the video, that strange feeling that I was in immense danger.

Today was a rough day, I don't want to watch more of the videos. I do but It would just take so much energy to do so, energy I don't have. I know I would feel even more like shit if I did nothing to unravel this mystery, so I'm writing this. I will see if you know anything, I don't know what you could know but anything more than I do would do.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Roos85 on 2024-11-18 03:11:04+00:00. *** Whenever I heard that familiar sound of the door opening, I would get so excited. Molly had taken her two young sons to soccer practice, while I sat and waited patiently for them to get back.

I was trying to keep myself entertained when the sound of broken glass caught my attention. Then the sounds of footsteps creeping around the house. A sense of fear washed over me as the door slowly opened and a masked figure crept into the room while whistling a creepy tune. There was nothing familiar about him which only heightened my sense of fear.

The man in the mask walked slowly around the room, whistling in sheer delight as if the excitement of his intended goal made him giddy.

"Perfect!" I heard him say as he began to conceal himself behind the curtain. I couldn't see him, but I could hear him breathing deeply.

It wasn't long before I heard the sound of the front door opening. The sound of the masked intruder's breath intensified as Molly came into the room unaware that someone was lurking in the shadows.

She came over to greet me as she always did. I tried my best to warn her but it was too late. The maniac was already behind her, slipping a steel blade in under her chin and slicing her throat.

It didn't take long for Ben, the older of Molly's two kids, to walk in and find his mother holding her throat and gasping for breath. She tried to warn him of the danger that was still in the room and all I could do was sit and watch.

He never saw it coming. The killer plunged the knife into his spine and then finished him off with a slice to the throat.

Alex had gone to his room and had no idea the man who had just murdered his brother and mother was now making his way upstairs to finish what he started.

Alex sat in his gaming chair, headphones blaring as the killer crept up behind. I couldn’t see what happened, but the sounds that echoed through the house were much to go by. I was glad I didn’t.

After the killer was done he came back to the room. The killer was careful to remove any evidence he left behind. He was very meticulous and knew exactly what he was doing.

Before he left, he walked over to me and leaned down to me, lifting his mask and revealing his seemingly normal appearance.

"It's funny, you're the only witness and you can't speak, " he laughed as he turned and walked away.

The heartbroken father eventually came home and discovered his whole world had been torn apart. He was inconsolable, a broken tormented shell of a man, forever changed by the sight of his slain family.

After a little nap, men in white suits came into the house to gather evidence from the bodies that were still laid on the floor. One of the men was whistling a familiar tune as he took pictures of the bodies. He took the camera away from his face to reveal, to my horror, the same man who had committed this horrible act.

He turned to me and smiled. "Hey, little hamster, remember me? Do you want to hear something funny? I'm going to make it look like Dad did it.”

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/IamHereNowAtLeast on 2024-11-18 01:03:39+00:00. *** The only word that I can think of that describes how I feel, inadequate.

I’ve always wanted to do more for my wife. But she’s always assured me over and over that things are fine and that she just needs the time and space to process things. 

Yet night after night, the routine has been the same.

Just before 11 p.m., as if driven by some unseen force, Ellen rises, quietly excuses herself, and disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks shut, and the locking of the door is followed by muffled sounds of her crying—not super loud, but loud enough to be the only sound I hear once she starts.

I often find myself thinking about our life together. 

When did this start? Did I do something? Did I miss something when we first started dating?

I tend to then replay our entire relationship in my head, looking for signs I might have missed, while I wait for her to come out of the bathroom.

We met during our junior year of college.

Our first run-in was at one of those cliché frat parties, an event called Jerseys & Jorts. And as you guessed it, every guy and girl there was sporting some sort of sports jersey and a pair of cut off jeans. 

Our eyes met while we were both waiting in an obnoxiously loud line for a drink. She was stunning. Then, after I probably stared a little too long, she said hello and introduced herself.

“Ellen Callas.”

She complimented my Mutombo Nuggets jersey, an old vintage jersey imbued with a rainbow of vibrant colors. I complimented her retro Robinson USA jersey, a bonafide classic. She had borrowed it from her roommate.

A couple minutes into our conversation, I realized she didn’t know who either Dikembe Mutombo or David Robinson were. Then we laughed at everyone in jean shorts, and how everyone would secretly look forward to somehow coming up with a new excuse or themed party where they could sport their jean shorts again.

“Why can’t people just admit they like wearing jean shorts?” 

We continued poking fun at Greek life at schools, and somehow ended up talking about our classes and our majors, then our roommates. It felt like we talked the entire night.

I was in love.

We followed each other on Instagram. It took me three weeks of barraging her with memes, which she often hearted, before she responded with a fateful message.

DO YOU WANT TO GET COFFEE WITH ME?

I thought I was dreaming. 

One morning later that week, we were in line at Picasso’s Coffee. I was babbling about how much I love cold brew. When we were finally up, she ordered tea… 

I was so caught off guard by her order, I somehow ended up ordering a berry blast smoothie. A thought had infiltrated my mind, I guess… What if she didn’t like coffee drinkers? 

When we finally sat down with our drinks, she laughed and pointed out that neither of us got a coffee, and that maybe it was a sign we would have to go again sometime soon. 

I officially asked Ellen to be my girlfriend at the art museum one morning while we were finally sipping coffees. We were standing opposite Van Gogh’s painting, The Ravine. It was her favorite painting in the museum. She loved talking about it.

“Not only is it one of his masterpieces, but underneath, there’s a totally different painting, maybe another masterpiece. He struggled to pick which image he wanted to present to the viewer.”

I loved the way she looked at that painting. She’s always been so much wiser than me.

Then time flew by. 

At times, the years feel like a single memory.

Ellen and I have been married three years, and we have a beautiful eight-month-old daughter named Zoe. I like to think we’re the picture of a happy family—weekend trips to the park, family dinners, and bedtime stories every night. 

Ellen has been everything I ever wanted in a partner: loving, supportive, and devoted to our family. I think we’ve been in love since our first "coffee" date, and having Zoe has only strengthened our relationship.

But this peculiar trait of hers has always weighed on me, and it’s something I still, after everything, can’t make sense of. Every night at 11 p.m, Ellen is in a locked bathroom and crying.

When she returns, her eyes are red and puffy, but she smiles and insists everything is fine.

The truth is I can’t quite remember exactly when it started, but I’m almost sure I first noticed it a couple weeks after we moved into the new house. Looking back, maybe it did start around then.

It was a lot of change quickly.

In one year, we got engaged and then married. I lost my job and it took longer to find a new one than we expected. Ellen lost her mom to breast cancer. And then we found out we had a baby on the way.

I figured this was Ellen’s way of coping. Grief, stress, enormous change. I tried to give her space, hoping she’d tell me when she was ready. 

“Ellen, are you okay?” I asked her as she slowly climbed into bed one night.

The crying had been more intense than usual. She looked as if she was hiding physical pain. She responded with a gentle smile, her eyes still glistening from the remnants of tears she hadn’t fully wiped away. 

"I’m okay, really. Just… thinking about things," she finally said.

“What kind of things?” I pressed gently.

She waved it off, gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, and changed the subject. I let it drop, thinking it was just a rough patch. We all have those, right?

But as time went on, I realized it wasn’t just a phase. 

It was something much deeper, something that didn’t fade.

Her 11 p.m. ritual continued.

No matter where we were—on vacation, at a friend’s house, even out at dinner on a date night —at 11 p.m., she’d find a bathroom, go in alone, and cry.

One day, I hoped that Ellen would bring it up to me in bed. That one topic that your partner finally feels safe enough to share with you just as you are both about to doze off.

Some strong mixture of sleepy comfort and courage.

I was ready for any explanation. But I realize now I’ll never know.  

I’m sorry, I read back what I’ve written and haven’t made it clear. I guess in some ways, Ellen is still here with Zoe and me. 

We lost Ellen in a car accident recently.

On July 5th, just before dawn, Ellen got up early one morning to go meet her dad at the harbor for a mile swim. It was a tradition of theirs, always the morning after the 4th. They joked that their time in the water calmed down the fish, who were spooked by all of the fireworks from the night before.

But she never made it to the pier. 

She was hit by a drunk driver who was just coming home from the bars.

So it’s me and Zoe now. And our families. 

My parents have been helping out as much as they can, though they both still work. 

Ellen’s dad tried his best for a while.

But I think the grief of losing both his wife and daughter was too much. Just a few weeks after Ellen’s funeral, he abruptly said he needed to go to Greece to visit family. I honestly didn’t even know they had family in Greece. Ellen nor anyone in her family ever mentioned them.

I look back now and wish I had asked Ellen’s dad about it after I first noticed.

Had they ever noticed it when Ellen lived at home?

Or maybe I should have pushed further with Ellen herself, to get an answer. I could have mentioned therapy. I could have gone with her and we could have figured it out together.

But now I find myself in the same position. Unable to help someone I love.

The night Ellen died, after the hospital, after sitting for hours in that cold, fluorescent waiting room, I finally came home with Zoe. My mom and dad stayed over with us.

Just a baby. Too young to understand what had happened. 

But that night, only more questions came.

When I put Zoe to bed, she started crying. It was loud and heart-wrenching, nothing like the soft cries of a sleepy baby. I held her, soothing her as best I could until she finally calmed down.

It wasn’t until after she’d fallen asleep in my arms that I glanced at the clock. It was just a few minutes after 11 p.m. My stomach dropped.

I hoped it was maybe just a coincidence.

Though as the days and nights passed, it was clear...

Every night at 11 p.m. on the dot, Zoe cries a horrible cry. Her body writhes, as if she's in some great pain. I can’t do anything for her. I hold her tightly in my arms and just let her cry out. 

Sometimes, when Zoe starts crying, the room seems to grow colder, like a sudden drop in temperature that chills my skin, my bones. The air itself feels heavy, as if something unseen is pressing down on us. It's not like this every time.

Sometimes it seems to do the opposite. Like the room gets warmer, lighter.

I know I probably sound crazy.

It's been like this longer than I'd ever care to admit. I just haven't known what to do.

Feeling hopeless, I finally confided in my parents about Zoe’s nightly crying.

At first, they thought I was just overwhelmed with grief, imagining things. In their defense, I couldn’t bring myself to explain that Ellen did the same thing. It’s like I was embarrassed to admit it. Not embarrassed of Ellen, but embarrassed I didn’t do more to help.

My parents did say no matter what was going on, I should get Zoe looked at it if she was crying terribly all the time. I first took her to our regular pediatrician.  

Dr. Connelly performed a comprehensive physical exam, checking Zoe’s vitals, growth metrics, and reflexes, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary. 

After a thorough discussion of her symptoms, Dr. Connelly suggested we rule out any unde... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gtssr1/my_wife_cries_at_11pm_every_night/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Morpheusismybrother on 2024-11-17 14:45:03+00:00. *** When we were little, my brother and I spent a lot of time with our nana. She was always full of joy and laughter, baking for us, giving us an endless amount of sweets, singing, crafting and cooking together with us. We had the most amazing times with her. My granddad had died before my brother and I were ever conceived and nana never married again. I'm not sure she ever even dated anyone. Not for lack of opportunity though, my nana was a beautiful, elegant lady. She truly always looked effortlessly stunning and will forever be my role model.

Since our parents had to work a lot and most likely also wanted to enjoy some time without their unruly twins, we spent weekends and most of our summers with nana in her cottage. A beautiful little house, with a thatched roof and flower pots in the windows, surrounded by a huge garden with all kinds of flowers, herbs, fruits, vegetables and trees. Nana grew everything there. She even had chickens. For us city kids, that garden and the cottage were a playground.

What we enjoyed most though, were her stories! When it was cold, the three of us would built a blanket fort in front of the fire place and huddle together with hot chocolate and biscuits, while nana read from her big, red, leatherboound book. The stories revolved around princesses and princes, fairies, gnomes and all kinds of fantastical beings. Also, they always had a happy ending. No matter what trouble the protagonists (suspiciously often a pair of twins, a boy and a girl), would find their way out of it and live happily ever after.

Two years ago, our beloved nana fell sick and even though the doctors tried everything, they couldn't do anything. Her life had reached it's end and my amazing nana died. Our whole family was distraught, I think I've never seen my mum in more pain. In that moment I, a grown woman, understood for the first time, that my nana was also my mother's mother. After nana was gone, none of us spoke for a week. It was too much.

We kept her cottage and gave her chickens to a trusted neighbour, but couldn't bear to set foot in the garden or the house for a year. Nana's absence ripped our hearts open every single time we tried.

Three weeks ago, I decided to give it another try. Especially since I'm thinking about having my own children soon with my fiancé. I really wanted to see, if I could find nana's story book and share these magical stories with my own kids. I met him right around the time nana died and he has comforted me so much. I don't know, how I would've made it through without him.

I arrived at the house, opened the garden gate and felt that familiar pang of sadness. I will never get used to her being gone. I made my way to the garden, biting back tears and into the house. The door creaked in the way it always had, as did the floor boards and I avoided the worst offenders, as if nothing ever happend. I started looking for the book and found it very easily. It lay on the kitchen counter, a letter on top of it. I was sure we didn't place it there, after we left last time and I was also pretty sure that I was the first to come back. Yet, in the moment I thought nothing of it. I looked at the letter and saw my name on the envelope, in Nana's cursive. I could've sworn the ink still looked wet.

"My darling granddaughter,

If you're reading this, I'm gone and you're looking for my book and I'm glad you are, I have a sinking feeling you'll need it. Please take it with you and keep it safe, so it in turn can keep you and our family safe. There are a few things you should know though and I should have told you all of this before I went away. I regret not doing that, but I never wanted to acknowledge the reality that one day, I would have to leave you behind. Trust that I did my best to stay. This book is special and powerful. If you start reading, always read to the end, never leave anything out and never change it's words when you say them aloud. It's also very important that nobody but you ever reads from this book. It chooses who it belongs to and for now it chose you. Trust me, it doesn't like to be shared. Make sure you do as I said, everything else you'll ever need to know will be in the book, just follow it's rules. If you break them, there will be unpredictable consequences. Make sure to always follow its advice. The book has always been a great asset to me, you could even call it a friend."

I was taken aback. This was definitely Nana's handwriting, but it didn't make sense at all. It sounded like she was being deeply sincere, but it seemed so odd. How would a book keep me safe and why could I not share it? Also how on earth would a book choose an owner? It seemed a bit batty, but regardless I took the book, carrying it out of the house, tightly pressed to my chest. The leather smelled like Nana's perfume and it felt warm to the touch. Holding it was strangely comforting. Nana had always worried about us a lot. Over the years, she has gifted us numerous talismans, one a pretty silver necklace with an "E"-shaped pendant I used to wear a lot, but took off after she died. It reminded me too much of her.

When I came home my fiancé was still out and I contemplated reading a little but then just put the book away. I decided to heed the letter's warnings, so I tucked the book into my sock drawer. I felt I had to keep it a secret, because if I told him, my fiancé surely would want to look. That couldn't happen. I also had this strange sense, that he could never know about the book. The next day we were invited to dinner at a friend's place, but I feigned a headache and encouraged him to go alone. I needed to read. Alone. My heart pounding in my chest, I took the book out from underneath my socks. Holding it felt instantly comfortable, just like last time. Gingerly I then placed it on the kitchen table, sat down in front of it and opened it. The first page was blank, then came the title, I brushed past all that, right into the text on page 1. The first words read: "Good afternoon, Ella" she read, with her heart pounding in anticipatory curiosity. She was wondering what she would find in this book her Nana left her."

The words were there, printed on the page. I glanced up and said to myself, "what the actual fuck is this?" I looked down again, still there. It wasn't like the words were appearing there. It looked like they had always been on this page, but how? It even called me by my name! Frantically I tried to remember, if there had been an Ella before me in our family. Was it coincidence? I then remembered that I would have to read until the end and I was scared that I couldn't make it, before my fiancé came home. I still had this uneasy certainty, that he shouldn't know about this. I did make it tough, just in time for him to return, the text in the book stopped and I shoved it back into its hiding place.

For the next few days I felt uneasy, almost like someone was standing behind me. I swear, I did feel someone breathe into my neck a few times, only there was nobody there. Luckily I was with my fiancé most of the time, so I couldn't think myself into a frenzy.

A week ago, I finally got a chance to look at the book again. This time it gave me instructions.

"Basic ways to keep yourself protected

To protect yourself from Fae, make sure you have iron at hand. It needs to be without impurities and can be wielded to fight them off. It is also advisable, to have salt and silver at the ready, in case ghosts, werewolves or other unsavoury guests show up in your house. Before you let anyone enter your house, get them to touch the aforementioned metals, to test their humanity. This also works for vampires. Make sure to regularly cleanse the house with sage. For other useful herbal remedies, turn to page 33"

It feels like a fever dream, I've followed the instructions to a t and the feeling of being watched disappeared. The sense of relief was so great, that I wonder, if there had been an underlying fear for much longer than just these past two weeks. Could there really be something watching me?

Though the book is surely a very strange thing, reading it is strangely comforting. Or it was. Until I opened it this morning. There was only one sentence, bold and red.

"Run or he will hurt you!"

The text hasn't changed since this morning, but it keeps getting darker and more distorted, almost like the ink is running, almost like letters written in fresh blood. I have no idea where to run to or who I'm supposed to run from. What do I do?

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/PostMortem33 on 2024-11-17 18:15:03+00:00. *** Orange narcotic strips and pink cotton candy clouds filled the sky. Two lovers sat on a bench, shared laughs and wondered about a life together forever. Children played in parks and drew chalk animals on concrete.

Summer’s end neared. Society and life would change forever. People would meet their dead relatives again. Moments later, millions of bright stars bloomed across the sky—the rapture, or a miracle from God? The small spheres materialized into existence as if by the flip of a switch, oblivious to any and all effects against humanity. The daytime stars exploded into an orange-purple dust—a silent process save for the distant boom at the end.

A blanket of strong light covered the sky. People took shelter or averted their gaze. Nations didn’t know how to react, except for the 999 witnesses of the entire event. Gathered as one big family, those people opened a church and streamed weekly masses online. The first man to see the full explosions became the leader. Nathaniel Sullivan, once a plumber, rose to fame as the number one televangelist in the world.

Three weeks after the event, dubbed The Bloom, the 999 announced Ambrosia, a miracle medicine.

“Dearest people of this world! Do not be afraid and have faith! Do you miss your dear family and friends who’ve passed away? Do you want to see them again? Ambrosia is the way; Ambrosia is the light!” Nathan Sullivan preached live on air.

The preacher said the 999 conducted internal tests. If it all went well, Sullivan would see his wife and daughter again. The man ingested Ambrosia. His body tensed and jerked on the leather chair. His pupils dilated to an abnormal size. The reverend calmed down moments after and fixated the camera with bloodshot eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks, and white thin lines brought back memories from the past.

After a few seconds passed, the image changed to static. Reverend Sullivan kneeled before only what he could have seen. The man stared at a fixed point in the room with hands clenched together. More tears streamed down his cheeks, and his lower lip trembled.

“I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said with arms extended, waiting for a long hug that never came.

“Daddy, come to us,” a boy’s voice whispered from a distant place. Devoid of life, it gurgled; water stuck in its throat. Yet, Nathaniel Sullivan’s eyes could not have betrayed him.

“I am. Right now,” Nathaniel Sullivan said. A concrete certainty washed over the man’s mind and body, and immense joy filled his broken heart.

Reverend Sullivan scanned the room and stared in confusion at every person in the room. The preacher moved with slow steps toward the large window and jumped from the 10th story of the sect’s church. A large crowd gathered around the mangled body. People touched the corpse as if Nathaniel Sullivan was a miracle man, a saint, a messiah sent by God to heal the entire world, end wars, eradicate famine, destroy addiction and bring closure to grieving families.

Several reruns of the incident reported no faces in the static. Social media platforms dissected the situation from one end to the other. Millions of people reported seeing the woman and boy in the static if only for a moment. Online and televised hysteria engulfed humanity’s hive mind. The sect announced a two-hour break to assess the situation. The next livestream’s numbers exceeded the first with a peak audience of 750 million people.

The doomsday cult had elected a new female leader. The live feed showed the woman in the middle of over a hundred members standing on the edge of the roof. Each pair of teary eyes studied the horizon. The preacher swallowed the Ambrosia pill first, and the rest followed suit. Seconds after, like death dominos, all the members leaped. The world heard continuous thumps and splashes, a grotesque symphony of broken bones and sinew.

Formal accusations could not be brought to what remains of the sect. All people who committed suicide did so out of free will. The remainder of the sect grew more powerful. Influential people across the world infiltrated it and the new religion became the fastest growing in history.

Ambrosia too became the fastest selling drug in the world. Entire families wanted to see deceased relatives or friends; parents forced kids to ingest the drug because grandparents waited to meet on the other side. Others only chased the high or wanted to see if the drug worked as advertised.

The sect’s shadow leaders, the people behind the curtain, spoke through government representatives or powerful media figures about the drug. The short press release read: The 999 is aware Ambrosia might be perceived as unethical, but it is a product like any other. The free-market dictates supply and demand, and no one is forced to buy it. The miracle pill has immediate and permanent effects, and we understand that. But one should look at this from another perspective: it brings closure to the end-user and allows for a final meeting with loved ones.

Priced at only $9.99/pill, the sect tailored Ambrosia for all budgets—over 100 million doses sold in the first day. People walked out of drug stores, grocery stores, markets and malls smiling and excited to see people long gone. With a 100% success rate, Ambrosia delivered on its promise: just one more moment of happiness.

News reports became hard to read or listen to. Corpses piled high, and graveyards hit maximum capacity, open fields the same. Crematories have become one of the most profitable businesses in the world.

Salmon pink and lavender purple skies blessed people’s sights with a sense of false serenity. Post-explosion Bloom dust still hung in the air, like ashes of a thousand-year burning flame, recently extinguished. People breathed in colored glitter, a disease of alien origin.

Police officer Robert Newson despised the new reality and hated to see people rushing to their deaths.

“Listen to that, Bob. They’re boasting about numbers again. This goddamn news makes me sick,” his best friend Vince said. “Damn, what this world has come to.”

“Screw them, man. It’s damaged way beyond repair. Heard the reported number of suicides now caps at 1.5 billion, but who knows the real numbers?”

“Yeah, it’s crazy. What frightens me most is that society acts like it’s normal. The sects sell Ambrosia like lollipops, and no one does anything. It’s all a gigantic mass depopulation plan. Fewer people means they’re easier to control and lie to.”

After paying the check at the diner, the men headed out for a walk and met a family. The mother, father and daughter hung from a branch of the oldest oak in town. The suicides had taken places just moments before.

“Jesus Christ, why? Why would you do this? You killed what most people would kill for,” Robert shouted at the dead parents.

The police officer thought about his wife’s and daughter’s funeral. Both stood silent, still and lifeless. A drunk driver had hit their car three years back—full frontal collision. The drunkard had fled the scene, unscathed and never to be seen again. Vince put a hand on Robert’s shoulder, removed his cap and didn’t say a word. Both knew prayers would not bring back the dead—no matter how much love existed in the world.

Society went through drastic changes. People had learned to adapt to a more gruesome reality, and to live under different circumstances and new laws. Robert Newson’s job almost became obsolete. Most people couldn’t be saved. World governments forbade police forces to intervene in cases of suicide.

A man stood in a pool of blood on a front porch with long slits on his forearms. Death embraced people with loving and cold arms and never let go.

“Will this insanity ever end, Vince?”

“As long as there’s demand for that stuff, I don’t think it will.”

Robert and Vince reminisced about the good, old days—family visits, kids playing, wives laughing, eating delicious barbecues and cracking open cold ones. Good years had gone by, and the world had morphed into a living hell.

The two best friends reached the woods at the edge of the city and walked on the trail towards the lake. Over a dozen bodies floated face down on the silvery surface. Death had become the number one pollution factor worldwide. The men stood frozen with mouths wide open.

“Jesus Christ. I just don’t understand how any of this works anymore,” Robert said.

“Let’s… Let’s just head back to my place and crash on the couch.”

Vince grabbed the remote control and flipped through the TV channels.

“A pilot crashed a plane in Romania, all 125 passengers dead.”

“A new wave of mass suicides in Japan. 85 people plunged to their deaths in Tokyo, 64 in Yokohama, 36 in Nagoya.”

“45 people at an Anti-Ambrosia protest sliced their throats open with a box-cutter.”

“A New-York man allegedly ingested Ambrosia and is still alive,” the news lady said, “and our colleague is right there with him setting up for a live interview.”

Robert and Vince looked at each other in disbelief. Could such a thing even be possible?

Jim Marshall, a blue-collar worker, had bloodshot eyes and cracked lips. The first and only known Ambrosia survivor’s face showed signs of seeing unfathomable beasts. The man rocked back and forth in the armchair.

“So, Mr. Marshall, could you tell us about your experience with Ambrosia?” the interviewer asked. “I’m sure our viewers at home want to know all the details.”

“Nothing is real. Ambrosia brings only madness and death. It’s a mere gat... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gtjrzq/many_people_dont_know_it_yet_but_the_world_is/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Dopabeane on 2024-11-17 18:02:33+00:00. *** I know how to make people talk.

It’s a pretty helpful skill. It’s even saved my life a few times. But every once in a great while, it gets me into massive trouble.

The first time it got me in trouble was in elementary school. It started with one of those guessing games with which frazzled teachers tend to end the day.

“It’s called ‘Truth or Lie,’” Mrs. Waters told us.

I could tell just looking at her that she was making this up off the top of her head. Practically pulling words out of thin air. Words that would grab our attention, words that would focus us, words that would make us do what she needed us to do.

“We go around the circle, and we each tell one truth and one lie. The person across from you has to guess which one is the truth and which is the lie. If the guesser gets it wrong, they go back to their desk. If they get it right, they stay in the circle and we move on to the next person. Who wants to start?”

I was insufferable then and I am insufferable now, so I shot my hand into the air. “I want to go first! Mrs. Waters, pick me, pick me!”

She almost rolled her eyes, which was no surprise; I had that effect on people back then. “Okay, Rachele. Tell us a truth, and tell us a lie.”

“No!” I said. “I want to be the first to guess!”

Mrs. Waters really did roll her eyes this time. “All righty. Sarah —” She turned to the girl sitting straight across from me — “tell us a truth, and a lie.”

I don’t remember what Sarah’s truth was, and I certainly don’t remember her lie. But I remember how she pouted when I correctly guessed which was which.

The class had gone halfway around the circle by the time we had our first elimination — Ben Markham, who burst into tears on his way back to his desk.

The circle shuffled closer to fill in his spot, and we continued.

When it was my turn again, I guessed correctly. And again on my third turn, the fourth, the fifth, the sixth. 

But my wins were quickly growing stale, and I was getting bored. The problem was, these truths and lies were so stupid. Worse, they were silly. Megan Knight’s truth was she had a cat named Corky, and her lie was she had a giant snail who ate cars. Scotty Spitzer wasn’t any better: his truth was he had a little brother named Tucker, and his lie was that Stone Cold Steve Austin was his big brother.

But when he made that claim — specifically, when he gleefully spouted the word “big brother” — I noticed that the girl across from me shifted weirdly. She turned in on herself, like a flower blooming in reverse. 

I locked in on her, suppressing a smile. "Celina, tell me a truth and tell me a lie."

"I have a new puppy named George, and an uncle who lives on the moon," she giggled.

“Those are dumb, Celina,” I complained.

Her smile froze.

"Come on." I focused on her, noting the way she twitched, how her left ankle kept rolling in and out. “Tell me something that’s actually interesting.”

“I — I can speak Spanish. But my mom doesn’t like me to.”

“Your mom being stupid isn’t interesting, Celina.” Following an instinct I didn’t understand but never denied, I kept my voice gentle. “Tell a truth that’s important.”

“Stop,” Mrs. Waters said sharply. "Right now."

I ignored her. “Tell us a truth about your brother, Celina.”

Celina immediately said, “I found my brother hanging in the garage. He had no shoes. His feet were purple and his tongue was too big for his mouth. I was in kindergarten when…when,” she finished lamely.

Then her eyes went wide and white as the oversized bone buttons on Mrs. Waters’ sweater, and she burst into tears.

I will spare you the fallout of that particular incident and move on to more important things.

As I grew older, I got better at making people talk. Better at finding words that grabbed attention, words that focus my targets, words that made them do what I wanted them to do.

When I turned twenty-one, I decided I wanted to be a cop. I was really good at it. So good I promoted three times in five years. I was a sergeant by age twenty-six.

I was on the verge of promoting to lieutenant when private industry came calling.

A law office, specifically. The attorney paid me well, but not as well as the lawyer who came knocking after him, who ended up not paying as well as the one who came knocking after her. 

When you get really good in the public sector, the private sector comes after you. When you get really, really good in the private sector, the government comes calling. 

And the government isn’t always good at being told “No.”

Officially, I worked for human resources as an interviewer. Unofficially, I was an Internal Affairs investigator on steroids. You would not believe the things I learned, or the catastrophes I helped avert.

That all went up in flames a few months ago.

During a very unconventional interview, the situation went off the rails in spectacular fashion and my subject told me things I wasn’t supposed to know.

Once again, I’ll spare you the details of the fallout.

Let’s just say that by the end of it, I was in almost incomprehensibly big trouble. As a result, I was terrified. When you’re that scared, you’ll do anything you’re told.

Sure enough, I was given a choice: Die, or do exactly as I was told.

I was told I would continue to work as an investigative interviewer for a multi-agency task force with the unassuming, weirdly charming name of the Agency of Helping Hands. I was told I would work under the supervision of an exceptionally brilliant and highly specialized psychiatrist. I was told that if I played my cards right, I’d be able to earn my own degree while working for this doctor.

I knew it was too good to be true. I knew it in my very core. But I also knew I didn’t have a choice.

So I took the job. 

I learned that the Agency of Helping Hands runs a prison. Officially, it’s called the North American Specialized Containment Unit, or NASCU. 

But everyone here just calls it the North American Pantheon.

That’s where I work now. My job is to interview the inmates. Some of these inmates are horrifying. Some are monsters. Many have never spoken a word to anyone. The rest gibber and taunt and terrorize, but they don’t ever say anything. 

They don’t really \*talk.\* 

And for a lot of reasons I cannot begin to explain right now, it is vitally important that they start talking. 

That’s why the agency needed me. It’s the only reason I’m alive:

Because I can make them talk. 

The agency started me with the easiest inmate in the facility, I guess to make sure I can really do what they need me to. They had me do a full forensic workup, the kind of thing I used to do for law offices. Personal history, physical report, mental condition, circumstances, and a transcript of the interview with my insights. 

I cannot describe this job. I really can't. This facility, these inmates, even the other staff — I don’t know. I don't what to do. I’m so scared. I freak out every time I think too hard. Panic attacks and night terrors have become my steadfast companions these past few months. But I guess that’s what happens when your understanding of the world has been inverted, and when that inversion has been burned to the ground. What happens when you live in a state of fear. 

So, rather than try and probably fail to explain it all — what I have to do, what I have to deal with, what will happen if I don’t — I’m going to just share that first report on that first prisoner. He goes by Numa.

For what it’s worth, I was told that Numa is the least dangerous inmate in the Pantheon.

Numa ====

Classification String: Noncooperative / Indestructible / Gaian / Constant / Moderate / Teras

On November 12, 1928, authorities received a distress call from a remote logging village deep in the Canadian Rockies. There is no extant proof of the village’s existence. Given the circumstances, the Agency of Helping Hands undertook extensive effort to ensure removal of all traces of the village and its inhabitants from the historical record.

A recording of the transmission exists in Agency archives. The recording is seventeen seconds long. Translated, it says this: “It came down from the mountain! It came for us! It’s here!”

What follows is a low, unsettlingly singsong roar – a sound without parallel, a sound that evolved to send the deepest, most primal core of the human mind into a panic. This panic does not recognize that a century has passed, or that thousands of miles now lay between it and the place that sound was made. 

Extreme weather and difficult terrain precluded timely assistance. All the authorities could hope for was to clean up the mess, whatever it was, as soon as they could. When they finally set foot in the village, they found death. 

Blood stained every inch of the village, coloring the snow and the ice beneath. Limbs, hair, viscera, and flesh were strewn across the paths. Wild animals and domesticated dogs alike were feeding on the carnage.

The initial hypothesis was that a pack of starving wolves had set upon the village, or perhaps that an unusually large bear woken prematurely from hibernation. Given the extent of the damage, some officials even postulated that the animal in question was an undiscovered and possibly isolated specimen of giant prehistoric cave bear woken by the constant rumble of the lumber mill.

Shellshocked authorities began to catalog the damage, so intent on their work that they failed to notice that one of their number had vanished – until one of the searche... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gtjhlb/fuck_hipaa_if_i_dont_talk_about_this_patient_im/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Sipixre on 2024-11-17 12:27:10+00:00. *** Ask anybody in the industry and they'll probably disagree with me, but I think there's really two camps: stuff that moves and stuff that doesn't. I did event lighting. Epileptic roving beams over a fog machine? Mechanized glowing set pieces? Rainbow colors? I did the fun stuff. The dynamic stuff. The rest is piddly shit, trying to hawk $80 residential floodlights or convince an office building your 6” recessed cans are slightly different and more better than someone else's identical cans that nobody is ever going to notice anyway.

I'm not big time famous or anything. I had a decent reputation and it's a small field, so I got crew jobs that were beneath me on all star tours, or I got to be the big fish in the small pond being the lighting designer for off-broadway shows and MLM “conferences.”

I had recently come off tour with an artist famous enough to need a pretty large crew but not famous enough to have a properly planned tour. The whole thing was an utter disaster. I don’t know why they went. This person was not prepared to be traveling through the countries they were in. There were power outages, vandalism, theft, even some assaults. The scary kind, not like, drunk people climbing shit and punching each other, which you get at even the best run shows. The expression “the show must go on” is the mantra that everyone in this industry lives by, so I kept things running as best I could, but by the time we were at the end of the tour we didn’t really have any cool effects. It was all I could do to keep the lights on. 

When I got home I was absolutely fed up with splicing wires together because some local vandal sliced up another one of my cables. I resolved my next few gigs were going to be corporate events and rich people's parties. Rich people can be difficult in their own way and I don’t love dealing with them, but there are significantly fewer stabbings or homeless people scalping copper when you’re at a $500,000 wedding at someone's summer estate in Connecticut or whatever. Those events typically get planned more than a year out so I wouldn't land many quickly. Conferences get planned well in advance too, but they always need substitute AV guys. The pay isn’t good… but it is pay. 

But then someone approached me. I got a sort of cryptic email from a colleague introducing a client who had a job for me. The client wanted to meet in person at his house to discuss. I googled the address and it was in the rich part of town. The multimillion dollar home part of town. I was hoping it was a wedding like I wanted, or maybe like a fancy renewal of vows. The guy sounded older on the phone but it could be for his kids.

I pulled up to his house at the appointed time. It was nice. It was old-money nice, not garish at all. Perfect.

I walked up to the door and rang the bell. An older gentleman answered the door 

“You must be Mr. Dones,” he said, shaking my hand. “I’m Eric Bukowski, we spoke on the phone.” 

“Marc is fine, Mr. Bukowski,” I said.

“Sure thing. Come on in,” he said, waving me into a very luxurious sitting room. “Can I offer you anything? Water? Ice tea?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“So, Marc,” he said. He paused for a moment, fidgeting. We were seated facing each other over a coffee table that cost more than my van. 

I perked up. This was weird. Might not be a real job, but at least it was going to be an interesting conversation. Nobody looks this awkward when hiring a vendor for a party. An orgy? Was I getting invited to an orgy?

“Your colleague Mr. Martin says you’re the right person for the job. He said you’re the man who can keep the lights on.”

“Well, sure,” I said. “I just came back from a tour where we barely had a power grid. But that’s usually not the hard part of the gig. Is this… event in a remote location?”

“Power is not an issue. The building is connected to the grid and I have them installing backup generators.” He didn’t say house. He said building. He bought or rented a whole building. A clue? I didn’t know where this was going. Usually orgies were in people’s houses, right?

“Okay,” I said, and I sat back. I’ve found that sometimes that’s the best way to deal with people like this. Let them do the talking. If I peppered him with too many questions he would likely get offended. I am, after all, only “the help” to a rich person.

“I’m not sure how to explain what is going to happen. There is of course, the risk that you laugh in my face and walk out the door. There is also the risk that you laugh behind my back, take the money, and do not take the job seriously, which is unacceptable, as this is a matter of life and death. I had considered leaving you completely in the dark, if you’ll pardon the choice of words, but a man deserves to choose his fate and not be led blindly.”

This was a weird talk. The weirdest talk I’ve ever gotten. As biased as I am towards the importance of my own profession, it’s not life or death. It’s never life or death.

“I’ve settled on a middle course, I think. The equinox will be in a few weeks. I own a property upstate. It’s fairly large and it’s fairly remote. It is connected to the power grid, so you don’t have to worry about that. There are battery banks and backup generators. It is however imperative that we keep the lights on for one hour–”

“Excuse me?” I said. Was this some kind of prank?

“Do you have a question?” he seemed perplexed, as if this was not the part of the talk where he was expecting questions.

“An hour?”

“Yes, one hour. At the time of the vernal equinox.”

“Just the regular lights? There’s no event? You don’t need lighting design?”

“There’s no artistic design needed, no. White lights. Floodlights. You may bring your own and set them up how you wish, in addition to what I’m having installed. They need to be kept on.” 

“For an hour.”

“Is that an issue, Marc?”

I was already composing a scathing email in my head, back to Alvaro, the stupid, smug Spaniard. Thinks he’s better than me? Thinks he’s Leo fucking Villareal? Sending me this childish assignment because he thinks I’m the “right man for the job”?

“No, of course not,” I said. I was still going to take the money, damn Alvaro. “More the opposite. I do more complex stuff and frankly I’m wondering if you need me for this. If you just need to keep them on, maybe you need an electrician. I’m fairly expensive.” I’m not, but I was thinking about what I could get away with. Double my usual fee? Triple?

“Don’t concern yourself about the money,” he said. “We’ll discuss full payment after it’s done, but I will put you on retainer for $250,000 and advance you $25,000 of it today if you agree to take the job.” 

This set alarm bells ringing. That was too much money, first of all, and the rest didn’t make sense. A retainer? Discuss payment after the fact? I revised my email to Alvaro. It was going to read, “WHAT THE FUCK” all caps, no punctuation.

“Hold on a minute,” I said. “I think I want to know what I’m getting into before I agree to this. And I will need to have my attorney look over anything that’s not my standard contract before I sign.”

Eric smiled at me. “Of course. If I may continue?”

I nodded.

“I need someone who is going to take this seriously. It will not be easy. We– I have reason to believe that this will in fact be very difficult. I had reached out to Alvaro Pérez Martin because he worked on a commission for a friend of mine, and I later saw the installation he did at the embassy. Very technically challenging from what I’m given to understand. And this is going to be a challenging assignment.

“Let me ask you a hypothetical question, if ghosts were real, how would you defend against them?”

“Ghosts? Like… are we talking Casper, or like The Poltergeist?”

“Imagine for a moment there is an entity. It’s invisible. It’s mostly incorporeal. It can pass through people and things. It can for a brief, limited time, interact with objects. Flip switches, knock over plates, that kind of thing. You can’t catch it, any box you put it in, it will glide right through.”

“Well,” I said, thinking deeply. “I suppose at first glance it seems like you can’t.” I paused. “But…” I paused again. “No, I’m pretty sure you can’t.”

Eric laughed. “But you have to try, Marc. You have to try.”

“Well, what do you propose?”

“It’s the simplest but maybe the most costly option. You replace what it breaks. You keep replacing it, even if it keeps breaking it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s either that or it becomes corporeal and wreaks havoc.”“I don’t think I like where this is going.”

“Let’s say for a minute this entity needs darkness to appear. It reaches the height of its power during the equinox. If it happens during the day, it’s out of luck. If it happens at night…well, moonlight will pose a problem for it. But if it’s overcast, it will be ready and waiting. And remember, it can move things. Small things. What do you think it will do?”

“The lights.”

“Exactly so.”

“So you want me to do what, exactly? It can reach through walls. I don’t think we can stop it from turning them off.”

“It has a very limited ability to physically interact with things. So we build a system with as few points of failure as possible and we bring backups of our backups. No extraneous light switches in the building, for example. Auxiliary power. And you.”

This guy was a lunatic for sure, but there was something kind of flattering about being told you have the kind of reputation where people thought you were able to successfully fi... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gtcheu/im_the_guy_who_keeps_the_lights_on/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Stxaar on 2024-11-17 08:46:50+00:00. *** It started as an innocent rabbit hole on YouTube. I had been scrolling aimlessly through suggested videos late at night when her face stopped me cold.

Samantha.

She’d been missing for over three years. Our whole high school had been shaken to the core when she disappeared without a trace. Posters went up around town, search parties were organized, and theories swirled: maybe she’d run away, or maybe something worse. Eventually, people moved on. But seeing her face in the thumbnail of a makeup tutorial froze me.

The video title read, “Soft Glam Look That’ll Make Him Love You! 💋”

It had to be her. Same fiery red hair, same piercing green eyes. But something about her looked…off. Her skin was too pale, her smile too stiff. I clicked the video.

The intro was bubbly and upbeat. “Hey, lovelies!” Samantha chirped, brushing her hair back. “Welcome back to my channel! Today, we’re going to do a soft glam look that’s just to die for!”

That voice. It was definitely her. But there was something robotic about her delivery, as though someone had written a script for her and she was forcing herself to sound cheerful. Her movements were too precise, almost unnatural, as if she were a puppet on strings.

I kept watching, trying to ignore the growing chill running down my spine. Halfway through the video, when she started blending eyeshadow, her hand slipped, smearing dark powder across her cheek. She froze. For a second, her bright, toothy smile faltered, and she looked directly into the camera—into me.

Her eyes weren’t just green. They were bloodshot, filled with an almost imperceptible plea for help. The video glitched for a moment, and when it resumed, she was smiling again, the smudge gone as if it had never happened.

I clicked on her channel.

There were dozens of videos. They all followed the same formula: Samantha doing her makeup, offering tips, and giving unnervingly cheerful commentary. But the more I watched, the more I noticed the cracks. Shadows moved in the background where there shouldn’t have been any. Faint whispers occasionally bled into the audio. And then there were her eyes, which sometimes darted to the side, as if checking for someone—or something—just off-screen.

The strangest part? The upload dates. The first video had been posted two weeks after she went missing.

My heart raced as I scrolled through the comments. Most were from people praising her makeup skills, but occasionally, there were odd ones: • “Why does she look so scared?” • “Anyone else hear the crying in the background at 3:17?” • “This channel gives me the creeps. Something’s wrong.”

I decided to dig deeper. I downloaded one of her videos and ran it through audio software, amplifying the background noise. What I heard made my stomach churn: soft, muffled sobbing. And beneath that, a voice—deep, gravelly, and angry.

“Keep smiling, or else.”

I slammed my laptop shut and tried to shake off the creeping dread. But I couldn’t let it go. I needed answers.

The next day, I skipped class and drove to her old house. Her parents had moved away after her disappearance, but the house was still empty, a FOR SALE sign swaying in the overgrown yard. I parked across the street and stared at the dark windows, trying to piece together what to do next.

Then my phone buzzed. A notification from YouTube.

Samantha had just uploaded a new video.

The title made my blood run cold: “Special Guest Does My Makeup! 💀”

I clicked it. The video started normally, with Samantha smiling brightly at the camera. But then she said, “I have someone very special here with me today! Say hi!”

The camera panned to the “guest.”

It was me.

My heart stopped as I stared at the screen. There I was, sitting stiffly next to her, my face pale and expressionless. She picked up a makeup brush and started applying blush to my cheeks, giggling like nothing was wrong. “You’re such a great model!” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

The version of me in the video didn’t react. He—I—just sat there, staring blankly ahead.

I scrambled to pause the video, but my phone froze. The screen flickered, and the video glitched, Samantha’s face warping into something grotesque—her smile stretching impossibly wide, her eyes hollowing out into dark voids.

Then, the video ended abruptly.

Before I could process what I’d just seen, my phone buzzed again. A notification. A comment on the video.

From Samantha.

“See you soon. 💋”

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Roos85 on 2024-11-17 02:55:09+00:00. *** No, I don’t have the source for the movies and before you ask, it's not mainstream porn you can find by just googling my name. They’re videos of me being murdered. Where would you even find those types of videos? Dark web maybe, I don’t know. I don’t like watching myself being murdered.

What I can tell you is I’ve starred in over 50 and according to the guy that distributes them I’m the most watched and most sought-after snuff star in history, If that's even a thing.

You’re probably wondering how one would even get into that business. Well, the short answer is by accident. You don’t wake up one day and decide you want to be murdered.

In my case, I answered an ad looking for an amateur porn actress. I was just starting in the business and the pay seemed reasonable. When I arrived at the location which was a house in an upmarket location, it didn’t raise any red flags. It all seemed legit until I asked to be paid upfront, and the response was let's see how you die first. Before I knew it, I was being held down and the cameras began rolling.

All I can say is dying is like going to sleep during surgery, it's painful, yes at the start and scary, but when your heart starts slowing down you get a rush of euphoria before everything goes silent before the lights go out.

I couldn’t tell if there was an afterlife. I don’t stay dead long enough to find out. It's like going to sleep without dreaming, there’s a nanosecond of darkness before you wake up again.

You would think that a guy whose business is death could be easily scared, but when I suddenly woke up as they were loading me into a shallow grave in the woods he screamed like a little girl.

It took some time to calm him down. You would swear it was him that was just brutally murdered with the way he reacted, but once the initial shock wore off he look me dead in the eye (no pun intended) and said, I’m going to make you a fucking star.

I can’t go into details on how I get snuffed out, but I can say, the money is great. More than I could ever make being in mainstream porn.

The problem isn’t the fact that my employer is a death dealer of women. Actually, no women have been murdered apart from me of course, since I started. The problem is the reaction I'm starting to get the more my popularity grows.

The surprising thing is the people who notice me are the most ordinary people you could imagine. Not monsters that hide away in the shadows fantasizing about murdering women. I mean school teachers, doctors, and even young teenagers.

The biggest shock for me was when I was sitting in a cafe and I was approached by a young dad who had his two young daughters with him. He sat staring at me while his daughters sat eating chocolate muffins. I knew why he was looking at me even if he didn’t. As I was finishing up my latte I looked up to see him standing next to me with a strange grin on his face.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” He suddenly asked.

I was in my comfort clothes, a baggy t-shirt with a pair of sweatpants and the tattoo of a pentagram on my arm was on show. He began studying me to figure out how he knew and when I was just about to speak, he noticed the tattoo on my arm. It was like a light switch on in his brain and he suddenly realized where he knew me from. His face turned deathly pale and he began to stutter a bit before he hurried himself and his daughters out of the cafe.

I was never really worried about being noticed before, because the men that watched me expected me to be dead. I also never gave a second thought to my tattoo being the thing that gave me away. I mean how many girls out there have the same tattoo? When I got it done I was told it was a popular choice. That all changed when I got a phone call from my mother.

My poor mother had no clue about the type of business I was in. She always thought I was into some lifestyle stuff, like a trainer to the stars or something. I think the dream was better than the reality and always told her friends I was a successful businesswoman of some sort. Technically she wasn’t wrong.

All that changed when she rang me in hysterics. She could barely contain herself over the phone. “You’re alive, you’re alive, is all she kept on repeating down the phone. After I calmed her down and reassured her I was very much alive I waited until her breathing had slowed to a more relaxed state.

“Alison, for a moment I thought I was speaking to a ghost.” My mother was always my biggest fan in life and it broke my heart to hear her this upset.

“The police were here. Men in suits, detectives I think they were. They told me you were dead. Oh my sweet girl they told me you were dead. They had found blood and something about a tape or the internet. The bastards gave me a heart attack. I knew you weren’t dead.”

That night, I went to stay with my mother. Just to reassure her that I was still physically present and to just hug her. Mainly to reassure myself that I was definitely still present in this world. Deep down, I knew what this was about. Of course, someone who wasn’t a degenerate monster was going to watch my movies and try to put a name on the woman who should be somewhere in a shallow grave. But I always thought people would think the movies were just great fakes because you can only be the star of one snuff movie, not fifty.

A few weeks had passed and apart from my losing a year or two off of her life things had settled down.

I had decided to quit, it was never going to be a long-term thing, but if I was going to stop, my final movie was going to be my best. Go out with a bang I always say.

It was the day of the shoot and on the way to the location, I couldn’t escape the feeling I was being watched. I put it down to my nerves because I was going to die in the most brutal way possible. It was going to be so bad no one was ever going to think it was faked. And the fact it was going to be the last video of me, made it sound all the more believable.

I knew it was going to be painful, but the pain never lasted and all I was thinking was, it's going to be a spectacular death and it was. But as the euphoria swept over me and I began to slip into the darkness, I watched as men in swat gear burst into the room followed by men in suits.

As always I came back to life with a big gasp of air, like a baby taking its first breath after being expelled from the womb. I was expecting to be in the room where I was murdered, but this time I found myself on a cold metal slab. As I looked around what looked like an operating room I saw two men in suits. One was smiling, while the other appeared to hand over money from his wallet.

“Hi, welcome back. I just bet my colleague fifty dollars that you would come back from the dead,” he said as he put the note into his top pocket.

“I must say, I am a big fan of your movies. Damsel in the Dungeon is my personal favourite,” said the smartly dressed man as he smiled down at me.

This was the first time I had ever felt in danger. A sudden panic washed over me as I tried to get up off the table.

The two men in suits smiled at each other before handing me a hospital gown.

“Where am I,” I asked nervously.

“You have nothing to worry about, it's not like we are going to kill you,” said one of the men as they burst out laughing.

The two men walked me to an interview room and sat me down at a table opposite them.

“You still haven’t told me who you are and my reasons for being here.”

The two men adjusted themselves into a more serious posture.

“Sorry for the confusion. My name is Agent Harris and my colleague here is Agent Butler.”

“I look across at the two young agents sitting across from me as their frozen expressions fixate on me.”

“Agents? Are you F.B.I. or something,” I nervously asked.

One of the agents gave a disgruntled laugh as if I offended him.

“Close, we’re with the CIA.”

“What do you want with me? I didn’t know dying was illegal.”

The two men sat upright as one of them put a picture of a woman in front of me.

“We need your help with a delicate situation. It’s of the utmost importance to the security of this country.”

I looked down at the picture of a woman who looked strangely enough like me. Apart from her expensive-looking attire and different-coloured hair, we had the same facial features and we looked to be the same height.

“The woman in the picture is the wife of the Russian minister for defense Sergei Shoigu,” said the Agent with a sound of urgency in his voice.

“What does this have to do with me?” I asked.

“She has a lot of secrets that could be very important to us. The problem is her husband isn’t a nice man. Fortunately for us, her husband isn’t a nice man and treats her like a dog. So she wants a way out of the marriage, but being the man he is, he’s not going to let her go so easily.”

“I still don’t get what this has to do with me.”

The two agents look at each other before fixating their stares at me again.

“Sergei is a very powerful man. Even if we got her out of the country we couldn’t guarantee her safety. The only way we could do that is if we faked her death, but it has to look convincing and that is where you come in.”

It suddenly began to make sense. I remember a guy friend of mine who was big into conspiracy theories and would always bang on about how the moon landings were faked in a studio.

“So would I be correct in thinking you want me to make another movie given my special talent?”

The two agents ... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gt40rs/im_a_snuff_film_superstar_but_im_starting_to/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Scineronic on 2024-11-17 01:57:53+00:00. *** My story begins in a cemetery like all those horror B movies that I watched as a kid. My sister and I were burying our father. Fucking cancer got him. That was horrifying in its own right. Well, I am going to skip over my father's death and burial. It's not really important to this story. Right now, all that needs to be said about his funeral is that it was short and sweet and brought a tear to everybody's eye. He was a good man, and people loved him.

After the funeral, my sister and I went for a walk in the cemetery. Looking at the gravestones was like going back in time through history. Each name had its own story to tell, I just wished I could hear it. Oh, the irony. When my mother had died during my childhood, my father had taken my sister and I on a walk through the cemetery after her funeral. At one point we stopped at a grave from the 19th century. I know it sounds like a fucking Hallmark movie, but I still remember what he said. "How many people do you think remember his story? Not many, I would venture. If any, that is. That's the tragedy of history—it can never be complete. There are stories that will always be lost to time. Make sure that your mother's story is not one of them."

I went in my own head during that walk with my sister. Her voice was like the crunching of leaves beneath our feet—just noise. I was too busy thinking about death. How long would people remember the stories of my parents? How long until they became another lost piece of history, even after what I've done? How long until my story will be lost to history? I mean how many people will read this post that I'm writing? And how many of those that read it will think that I belong in the fucking looney bin? A lot, I venture.

It was in my head that I first heard my father's voice. I thought it was the grief speaking, but his voice kept speaking. It gave me a migraine. My sister saw the state I was in and drove me home. She offered to stay with me, but I told her that I would be fine on my own. My father was still speaking to me. I decided to respond to what I thought was my own grief. What do you want, dad? He of course responded. He wanted to tell his story.

I've written the occasional short story now and then. I thought this was my grief trying to inspire me. What the hell, I thought and sat behind my computer. No, my father said to me. Use a pen and paper. I think that was the moment I thought that this might be a little more than a son's grief over his dead dad. Nevertheless, I grabbed a pen and some paper and began writing. Word by word, my father told me his life story. I transcribed every word exactly, and little by little my migraine lessened. He told me stories that he had never shared before, stories that would put a living man to shame. I guess the dead rise above that kind of human sentiment.

When I penned the last word of his story, I realized that my migraine had completely disappeared. I also realized that I had written well into the morning. If I hadn't taken a few days off work for my father's funeral, I would have had to wake up in just a couple hours to get ready for work. Thank God for minor miracles. It didn't matter any way, I couldn't sleep if I wanted to. I sat back in my chair and looked at the pile of paper in front of me. It was a hell of a lot longer than just a short story. It was the story of my father. His fucking life. And I had written it.

When the cemetery opened up, I was one of its first arrivals. I first went to the grave of my father. The dirt was still new. I spoke to him. I wanted him to speak back, but apparently he had already told his story. He had found his peace. I walked around cemetery, hoping for something to pop out at me. Another story. I did eventually find someone who was willing to share their life to me. I wrote that one down too. Since then, I've heard and written down many stories.

It's been a while since that day in the cemetery. I've written down the stories of all my family that I can find. I've written the stories of friends that have gone too soon. I've also written the stories of complete strangers. Sometimes these strangers are good people. Sometimes they're not. The bad ones make me wish that I had never been "blessed" with this power.

I've written the stories of murderers and rapists and anything else you can think of. The evil hidden beneath the surface (literally) is unimaginable. The worst of them laugh as I transcribe their story. Every evil, every heinous act, is a fucking joke to them. And I am forced to transcribe it. I don't have a choice. The second I hear a voice of the dead, I have to write. With one monster, I tried not to, and it almost killed.

Stephen Martin—that was his name. I found him in some rural cemetery that I now can't even remember the name of. I've been to hundreds of those bone gardens. The names all get mixed up in my head. He told his story, and I did the best I could to keep my hand away from the damn pen and paper. I tried to restrain myself. I didn't want to write down something that horrific. Martin hadn't always lived in that rural area. He had gone there after "retirement." For most of his life, he had lived in the city. And the children... there were so many children. So many parents that had no idea what happened to their kids. And this cunt got away with it. Got away with it all. These children died, their parents mourned over a body they would never find, and he got a fucking retirement. It made me sick. After hearing the briefest synopsis of his life, I promised myself I wasn't going to write down this fucker's story.

The sweats, the fever, the chest pain—those were only some of my symptoms. My sister came over during that time. I begged her not to, but she did. She screamed at me much to my surprise. Hell of a thing to do to your dying brother, I thought. She wanted to know why the hell I hadn't gone to a doctor—why I hadn't tried to find out what was fucking killing me. The problem was, I knew what was killing me. It was that piece of shit in my head. He was tearing me apart from the inside. Another issue was that I also knew how to cure myself. I just needed to put pen to paper. On this front, Martin mocked me. He mocked how I was dying. He mocked how fucking stupid I was to let him kill me. He said that I would be the first son of a bitch killed by a dead man. Unfortunately for him, I just no longer gave a shit. Let him fucking kill me, I thought.

As you might have guessed by the fact that I'm writing this, I did eventually write his story. Something clicked in my head: this bastard's piss-poor life shouldn't be the reason that good people would lose their stories to time. My father's words echoed in the back of my mind: "That's the tragedy of history—it can never be complete." I'm not naive enough to assume that I can create a complete account of history, but I know I can do my damnedest. So I wrote Martin's story. At first I would constantly vomit—and then dry heave—over every graphic description of Martin's deeds, but eventually I became numb to it. I hated that. After I finished his story, I went to bed, but before I did so, I locked the pages of Martin's story in a safe. I wanted to burn his fucking story, but I feared that would make him come back. I put him in a different safe than all the other ones. This bastard didn't deserve to be with my father. His pages deserved to rot alone for all eternity.

I guess it's time for me to present the proof that backs up all this shit. Surely, you didn't think that I would tell you all this without some proof? If I did, they'd lock me up in a goddamn looney bin. A couple months after I transcribed Martin's story, I realized I could give the parents some closure. I knew where their kids were buried. Martin had bared his entire soul—miserable thing that it was—to me. One day, I left an anonymous message to a police precinct in the city where he did his killings. They found them. They found them all. Their parents got closure and were able to bury their kids. I hope that caused Martin to roll in his grave. Maybe someday I will write down their story too. Be able to live through all the good of their lives before they met Martin. But probably not for a while. I already know the end of their stories. And those are not stories I want to rehear anytime soon.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Holeysweaterguy on 2024-11-17 01:24:49+00:00. *** So I was overseas on business last week and we stayed at a pretty nice hotel in a mid-sized city. It’s not the richest place in the world and we were advised to take precautions, use the safe overnight, make sure the door is locked from the inside, keep together outside the hotel etc.

I’m always fairly cautious anyway when I stay in hotels anywhere, and I like to push a chair up against the door handle as an extra precaution before going to bed at nights. Sometimes I’ll wedge a shoe under the handle but in this place the back of the chair went right up to the handle. So that was fine.

This room had a bed on legs so I had a little look under there each night as well, just in case a robber or someone was hiding (which I’d read about happening in this particular country). On top of that I’d quickly check the wardrobe. Call me paranoid but doing all that helps me sleep more soundly.

Anyway, forward to the third night. When I came into the room after a day working the aircon wasn’t turning on. Reading the panel beneath it said, “If the unit doesn’t switch on check that the balcony door is closed.” Sure enough it was slightly ajar. I looked out onto the narrow balcony, not much more than a ledge, which was completely empty, slid the door shut and then the aircon started working again. I figured the cleaning staff must have left the door open to air the room.

Anyway I went through my ritual of putting the chair against the door, checking under the bed, looking in the wardrobe. All seemed clear and I went to bed. But I had a really fitful night, which I put down to stress from the work I was doing out there, and had a bad dream that there was someone looking over me muttering in my ear. Waking from the nightmare around 4am I sat up in bed but couldn’t see anything. I thought I heard some kind of shuffling noise but nothing happened, and when I turned the lights on all seemed normal. Nothing was missing, and my valuables were in the safe anyway.

We travelled home the next day without a problem. I unpacked my things, realising that I left one of my T-shirts behind in the room, but otherwise all was good…. until I reviewed my photo reel that evening. I had taken a photo of the room on the first day as I always do, as I’ll send it to my folks. The photo showed the view from the door. The bed, coffee machine, panel TV, and the work desk which comes out into the centre of the room just beyond the bed, and the big windows beyond. Behind the desk between it and the window you can see the chair, the area under the desk being a clear space so you can see the chair’s base and wheels.

You’re probably thinking that’s not strange at all, and it’s not. But here’s the thing. I also took a photo on the morning of the day I checked out, which was directly after my fitful sleep the night before. And the room looks exactly the same, except for one detail. This time, the area under the desk isn’t clear. Instead the space between tabletop and floor is covered by a panel…

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/11velociraptors on 2024-11-16 21:18:58+00:00. *** The first time it happened, I almost dismissed it as a dream. It was the middle of the night, and I opened my eyes to a dark bedroom. The house was cool, pleasantly so, and the comfort of the blankets around me almost lulled me right back to sleep. Before I slipped into unconsciousness, I became aware of a faint whisper. 

Turning onto my side, I was surprised to see my wife sitting up in bed. Her body was turned away from me, angled towards the far corner of our room. I assumed at first that she was speaking to me, but her words came out in a constant, almost desperate stream. Once I became cognizant enough to decipher her hushed speech, I recognized it as a prayer.

Gemma, though what I'd call a "casually practicing" Catholic, had never prayed in her sleep before. In fact, in the decade we'd been together, I hadn't known her to talk in her sleep at all. I found myself unsettled by the intensity of her words. Sitting up, I placed a hand on her back, and the touch seemed to startle her awake. She jerked forwards and opened her eyes, looking at me in confusion. 

"Hello?" She said, and something about the indignant way she said it dispelled the tension in the room. 

"Sorry to wake you but you were talking in your sleep. Reciting the 'Our Father,' actually." 

She found this amusing and was asleep again in no time. I, however, had a much more difficult time falling back asleep after that. Something told me to stay vigilant, though I couldn't for the life of me figure out why. Even as Gemma slept peacefully beside me, I kept finding myself sitting up to survey the dark corner she'd been angled towards while praying. 

A full week passed before it happened again. This time, when I awoke in the middle of the night, I could tell immediately that Gemma wasn't in bed next to me. I got up and walked into the hall, checking the upstairs rooms to no avail. When I went downstairs, I heard Gemma before I saw her. I followed the sound of frantic whispering into the living room, where she stood in front of the fireplace mantle, praying before a silver urn. 

As I drew nearer, I saw that Gemma's eyes were still closed. When I called out to her and didn't receive a response, I realized that she was still asleep somehow. I was thankful she hadn't fallen down the stairs, but I was also concerned with the sudden escalation of her parasomnia. The one thing I knew about sleepwalking was that you weren't supposed to wake the person up, so I gently put my hands on Gemma's shoulders and started to walk her back towards our bedroom. She didn't stop whispering as we walked, and, even stranger, I realized after a while that she wasn't speaking English. I thought it sounded like Latin, which wouldn't be too weird, right? Lots of Catholic prayers were originally written in Latin after all. That explanation was enough to reassure me as I walked through the dark house beside my sleeping wife. Or at least, it was enough until we reached the bottom of the stairwell, at which point Gemma opened her eyes, looked at me, and said: 

"You're both going to die in this house, Marco." 

For a moment, I was frozen in place, surprised by both her words and the absolute certainty behind them. It was only after her macabre statement that Gemma seemed to fully awaken. She blinked slowly, looking blearily at our surroundings. 

"Marc? What's going on?" 

"You were sleepwalking." 

"What? I've never sleepwalked in all my life." 

"Yeah … And you said something a little creepy at the end there. Do you remember anything? Maybe a dream that might've spilled out into real life?" 

As it turned out, Gemma had been dreaming, though not about me or the house. In her dream, she'd been laying immobile inside of a glass casket. She described two humanoid silhouettes on either side of her, one made of shadow and the other of pure light. The former poured water into the casket while the latter tried to scoop it out. She was unable to move as the water level crept higher and higher, threatening to cover her nose and mouth as the bright figure tried its best to slow the flood. 

Gemma and I, both fully alert at that point, went to the kitchen to drink some tea and wait for our nerves to settle. As the tea steeped, I found myself thinking of my mother in law, Thérèse, and not only because our cups had once belonged to her. Gemma's mother had lived with us for the last year of her life, and had passed away only a month prior to Gemma's first sleeptalking incident. As a result, there were reminders of her all over the house—her tea set in the kitchen, her mirror in the corner of our bedroom, her portrait hanging in the hall. But it was Gemma's words, not her mother's things, that made me think of Thérèse. You see, my name is Marc, and everyone in my life refers to me as such, with the exception of my mother in law, who used to call me "Marco." How strange it was that Gemma had called me that in her sleep. 

Two weeks passed, and while I sometimes awoke to Gemma murmuring quiet prayers in her sleep, her sleepwalking seemed like a one-time incident. While Gemma continued to have nightmares, and while I continued to be somewhat creeped-out by the sleeptalking, it wasn't a major impediment to our lives, and thus we both did our best to ignore it. That is, until this morning.

It was just after one when I awoke. I'd grown accustomed to having my sleep interrupted by Gemma's prayers, but this time, I opened my eyes to find my wife's side of the bed empty. I rolled onto my back and was startled to see Gemma standing at the foot of our bed, facing towards the bedroom door. Her hands were clasped in front of her chest, her head bowed and her lips moving rapidly. Annoyed at having my rest disturbed yet again, I started to get out of bed when an odd sensation befell me. Before my foot touched the ground, I felt the overwhelming urge to stay put. For no reason that I could discern, I felt a compulsion to pull the covers over my head and hide like a child. 

"Gems?" I called out, and she raised an open palm towards me, signaling for me to stay put. 

"It's here." She said. I pushed down the urge and got out of bed, coming to a stop beside my wife. The air in the room was very, very cold.

"Who?" I asked her, though I'm not sure why. I knew she was only sleep talking, but she just sounded so damn certain. Gemma didn't answer. I looked towards the bedroom door and realized that at some point after I awoke, it had opened. 

My heartbeat quickened at the thought of an intruder in our house. Retrieving the baseball bat I kept under our bed, I began walking towards the door when Gemma suddenly moved, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me backwards. 

"Don't. Move. Don't you move, Marco." 

That name again. 

"My love, what is going on with you? Why are you calling me that?" I gently pulled my free hand from her grip and put a palm on her cheek. When I touched her, I found that her skin was damp with tears. I felt a pang in my chest. Poor thing was probably having that same nightmare again. 

"Please wake up." 

For a moment, my wife was quiet. Her whispered prayers ceased and she stood there motionless as I willed her to awaken. 

Then, suddenly, she gasped, inhaling like someone who'd been holding their breath for a long time. Her eyes fluttered open, locking with mine. 

"Gemma?" I said, and then the house erupted with sound. The wall mounted mirror came crashing to the ground, as did our framed family photo hanging near the door. Instinctively, I pulled Gemma close and wrapped my arms around her as the sound of shattering glass filled the room. A shard from the mirror had wedged itself into my calf and I cursed sharply. I waited for the tremors to subside, but after a minute, I realized that there were no tremors. It hadn't felt like an earthquake at all. Instead it almost seemed like the mirror and photo had flung themselves off of the wall of their own volition. 

Gemma stirred in my arms and I let her go. She was fully awake by then, and so after telling her to be careful of the glass, I picked my way around the mess on the floor to check out the rest of the house. The scene was … bizarre. Some objects had fallen and shattered in every room, but many of their neighboring items remained perfectly intact. The tea set in the kitchen, for example, had fallen from the shelf, but the row of glasses right next to it hadn't moved an inch. It looked like someone had walked through each room in the house and picked out a few specific objects to destroy. 

I found my wife in the living room, staring down at the carpet. The silver urn had been knocked from the mantle and the ashes within it were strewn all over the floor. I felt so bad for Gemma—between her mother and her parasomnia and now this earthquake, she'd been through so much in the past few months. I gave her a hug and told her I was sorry, and strangely, instead of tearing up as I expected, she smiled at me. 

"It's alright, dear. Nothing we can't replace, right?" She stretched her arms above her head and yawned. "I'll help you clean up in the morning. Too tired at the moment." Without another word, she turned around and made her way back upstairs to bed. 

How she was so calm, I had no clue. I spent some time tending to my leg and was pleased to see that the cut was quite small and probably wouldn't need stitches. After making sure there was no glass left in my skin, I patched myself up and got to work cleaning. ... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gsxa8q/my_wife_has_started_to_pray_in_her_sleep/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/DivineAnime1 on 2024-11-16 20:52:19+00:00. *** They told us the truth under oath: aliens aren’t coming from the stars—they’re already here, hiding beneath the oceans. When former NASA scientists and Area 51 workers testified before Congress, the world shook. The media couldn’t get enough of it. Official reports hinted at sonar readings too symmetrical to be natural, structures too deep for any human to build, and something alive, moving in the darkest parts of the ocean.

At first, people thought it was a hoax, another conspiracy theory to stir the pot. But then funding for deep-sea exploration tripled overnight. What scared me wasn’t the testimony itself but the silence that followed—the way the governments of the world seemed to drop the conversation as if admitting too much would doom us all.

I didn’t believe in any of it, not really. I was just a deep-sea diver trying to make a living. But when Merrick, a billionaire with an ego the size of the ocean, offered me a fortune to take him and a marine biologist named Dr. Evelyn Park to the Mariana Trench, I couldn’t say no. He wasn’t subtle about his intentions. “We’re going to find proof,” he said. “Proof that they’re down there.”

The Mariana Trench isn’t just the deepest part of the ocean—it’s the closest thing we have to another planet. At over 36,000 feet deep, it’s a place where the human body wouldn’t last a second. The pressure is so intense it can crush steel. The temperatures are so cold they border on freezing. It’s pitch black, silent, and utterly alien.

Merrick had spared no expense in chartering The Nautilus, a state-of-the-art submersible designed to withstand the crushing depths. As we descended into the abyss, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were trespassing, crossing a threshold humans weren’t meant to cross.

By the time we passed 10,000 feet, the light from the surface was long gone. The world outside was a black void, broken only by the occasional flicker of bioluminescent creatures. Evelyn marveled at every glowing jellyfish and deep-sea anglerfish that floated past the viewport. “Look at them,” she whispered. “They’ve adapted to total darkness. They’re not just surviving—they’re thriving.”

Merrick wasn’t interested in the lifeforms we could see. His eyes were glued to the sonar, where a faint, rhythmic pulse had been growing louder with every meter we descended. The signal had been picked up by satellite arrays weeks ago, emanating from a specific part of the trench. It was what had drawn him—and us—here.

“It’s not geological,” Evelyn said, studying the signal. “The intervals are too precise.”

Merrick grinned. “Exactly. It’s artificial. A signal. Someone—or something—is down there.”

I didn’t like how certain he sounded.

At 22,000 feet, the ocean started to feel different. The water itself seemed heavier, colder. The submersible creaked and groaned as the pressure mounted, but that wasn’t what unnerved me. It was the silence. The sonar, which had been steadily pinging, now returned strange echoes—delayed, distorted, like something out there was answering us.

The rhythmic pulse we’d been following grew louder, more defined. It wasn’t random. It was a pattern, deliberate and mechanical. And it was close.

Then we saw it.

The floodlights illuminated a ridge on the ocean floor, and beyond it, something impossible: a structure. It was massive, partially buried in sediment, with smooth, curving lines that glimmered faintly in the light. It wasn’t made of stone or metal but something else, a material that seemed to shift and flow like liquid but held its shape.

The structure was covered in intricate patterns, lines and grooves that pulsed faintly with light, like veins carrying some alien energy. Evelyn stared, her face pale. “That’s… that’s not natural. It can’t be.”

Merrick leaned forward, his face alight with greed. “It’s a monolith,” he said. “Proof. This is it.”

Evelyn was scanning the structure with every tool at her disposal, but nothing made sense. “The readings are… inconsistent. The material doesn’t match anything on Earth. And it’s… emitting something.”

“What do you mean, ‘emitting’?” I asked.

“A low-frequency hum,” she said. “It’s resonating through the water.”

As if on cue, the hum grew louder. It wasn’t just in our ears—it was in our bodies, vibrating through our bones. The lights on the monolith flared, and the entire structure seemed to come alive.

Then they appeared.

From behind the monolith, shapes emerged. At first, they blended into the structure, their shimmering bodies reflecting the light. But as they moved, it became clear they weren’t part of the monolith—they were something else entirely.

They were humanoid in shape but impossibly alien. Their limbs were elongated and webbed, their skin a liquid-metal sheen that shifted and flowed like mercury. Their heads had no eyes, no mouth, just smooth, featureless domes that seemed to absorb the light. And yet, I felt them watching us, their presence suffocating.

One of them tilted its head, and a ripple passed through its body. The sonar fell silent.

“They know we’re here,” Evelyn whispered.

Merrick didn’t seem scared—he seemed thrilled. “Get closer,” he demanded. “We need to document this.”

Before I could stop him, Merrick activated the submersible’s maneuvering thrusters, bringing us dangerously close to the monolith. The creatures reacted instantly. One of them surged forward, its liquid-metal body twisting and elongating as it slammed into the viewport. The sub shook violently, alarms blaring as the glass began to crack.

“Merrick, stop!” Evelyn screamed, but he was too focused on the controls. “They’re testing us,” she said, her voice trembling. “We’re intruding!”

The creature struck again, this time with more force. A long, clawed appendage shot out from its body, piercing the side of the sub. Water began to flood the cabin. The pressure difference dragged Merrick toward the breach.

“No!” he yelled, clawing at the console, but it was useless. The water took him in an instant, pulling him out through the jagged hole. The force shredded his body before he even cleared the sub. Blood and fragments of flesh clouded the water as the creatures descended upon him.

Evelyn and I watched in horror as the creatures swarmed Merrick’s remains, their bodies undulating as they tore into him. The monolith pulsed in response, its grooves glowing brighter, as if feeding on the carnage.

“They’re distracted,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “We need to go.”

I activated the safety protocoll for emergencies to seal off the submarine and slammed the controls into reverse, praying the sub would hold together long enough to get us out of there. The creatures didn’t follow—not because they had let us go, but because they were still busy with Merrick. The sight of them, their fluid bodies shimmering as they devoured him, would haunt me forever.

The monolith’s hum began to fade as we ascended, but the silence that replaced it was worse. It wasn’t peace—it was a warning.

Evelyn clutched her chest, her breathing shallow. “They didn’t let us go,” she said. “They… they were done with us.”

The ascent felt endless. Every creak of the sub’s hull, every groan of the pressure, made me think we wouldn’t make it. But somehow, we broke the surface, the sunlight almost blinding after the abyss.

The official report listed Merrick’s death as an accident, the result of equipment failure. Evelyn and I were sworn to secrecy, our footage confiscated by government officials who offered no explanation but plenty of threats.

I tried to move on, to forget what I saw, but the hum never left me. It’s faint, almost imperceptible, but it’s there, resonating in my chest like a second heartbeat. Evelyn says she hears it too.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, I dream of the monolith and the creatures waiting behind it. I see Merrick’s broken body, and I hear the hum growing louder.

They’re still down there, watching, waiting.

And I know someday they’ll call us back.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Obvious-Secretary151 on 2024-11-16 19:21:52+00:00. *** I never should have opened that email.

It came late one night, buried in the sea of spam clogging my inbox. The subject line was simple: "Play the Game. Win the Prize." I don’t know what possessed me to click it. Maybe I was bored, or maybe the insomnia had scrambled my brain. Either way, I clicked.

The email had no text, just a link. Against every ounce of common sense, I hovered over it, hesitating only a second before clicking. My browser opened to a black screen with a single line of text:

"Welcome to The Game. Will you play? Yes / No."

I stared at it, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. It had to be a prank or some kind of viral marketing stunt. I typed "Yes" and hit enter.

The screen flickered, and new text appeared.

"The rules are simple: Do what we ask. No questions. No quitting. Win, and you’ll receive a reward beyond your wildest dreams. Lose, and… well, you won’t."

A countdown started in the corner of the screen: 30 seconds. Underneath, a new message appeared:

"Level 1: Knock on your neighbor’s door."

I laughed. Was this it? A weird scavenger hunt? My neighbor, Mrs. Kline, was a sweet old lady who baked cookies for the whole block. I figured I’d humor the game and give her a laugh.

I grabbed my phone and walked next door. The house was dark, but I knocked lightly anyway. No answer. I tried again, harder this time. Still nothing. As I turned to leave, my phone buzzed.

"We didn’t say ‘lightly.’ Knock harder."

I froze, staring at the screen. How did they know?

Heart pounding, I raised my fist and pounded on the door. This time, the lights flickered on, and Mrs. Kline opened the door, looking confused but unharmed. I mumbled an apology about a prank and rushed back to my house.

My computer dinged.

"Well done. Level 2: Leave your front door unlocked for the next hour."

This time, I hesitated. My neighborhood wasn’t exactly crime-ridden, but leaving my door open at night? No way. I hovered over the browser’s close button, but the screen glitched and froze. My phone buzzed again.

"No quitting."

Against my better judgment, I unlocked the door. Then I sat on the couch, staring at it for what felt like forever. Nothing happened. No shadows moved across the porch, no footsteps crept up the stairs. Just silence.

When the hour was up, my computer dinged again.

"Good. Level 3: Look under your bed."

A chill ran down my spine. I hadn’t looked under my bed in years—not since I was a kid and convinced monsters lived there. It was ridiculous, I told myself. Still, I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling creeping up my neck.

I grabbed a flashlight and knelt on the floor, shining it into the darkness under my bed. At first, I saw nothing but a few stray socks and some dust. Then something moved.

It was quick—just a flash of pale skin and fingers too long to be human. I jerked back, heart pounding. But when I looked again, it was gone.

My computer dinged.

"Did you see it? :) Level 4: Invite it out."

I slammed my laptop shut, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Whatever this game was, it wasn’t a joke.

But it wasn’t over. My phone buzzed again. This time, it wasn’t a message. It was a video.

The shaky footage showed my bedroom—my bedroom, filmed from the corner near the ceiling. The camera zoomed in on the bed, and slowly, something crawled out from underneath it.

The thing was impossibly thin, its limbs bending in ways they shouldn’t. Its face was a blank, pale expanse with no eyes, no mouth—nothing but smooth, featureless skin. It tilted its head toward the camera, as if it knew I was watching.

The video ended. A new message appeared on my phone:

"Level 5: It’s inside now. Hide."

The sound of footsteps echoed from upstairs.

I didn’t think. I grabbed my keys and bolted out the front door, sprinting down the street as fast as I could. Behind me, I swear I heard the sound of laughter—low, guttural, and wrong.

I spent the night in my car, parked in a well-lit gas station. When I finally returned home the next morning, the house was empty. My computer was gone. My phone, too. It was like the game had never existed.

But I know it did.

Because sometimes, late at night, I hear those footsteps again.

And I wonder if I ever really stopped playing.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/googlyeyes93 on 2024-11-16 18:33:28+00:00. *** “Alright, off the wagon. I ain’t taking any animal o’ mine through here.” The rough voice came through my dreams but didn’t quite register. There was a light approaching in my dream, something beautiful, a star maybe? “I said off!”

Pain started in my shoulder and my stomach dropped as I hit empty space. I barely had time to register my dizziness before my fall, I briefly saw the hanging lantern spinning in a rush before I crashed to the damp ground below, taking a face full of grass and soil. I pulled myself up, spitting out dirt and trying to ascertain my whereabouts. Water was splashing in the distance. Were we finally there?

“You’re on your own.” The driver didn’t even look at me as he climbed back up on the wagon, barely giving a thought as he started off and left last words trailing back to me, “If your brother was there he’s probably dead. You do have my condolences.”

Stop. Stop thinking about it. I couldn’t let myself believe him dead. He had signed up without hesitation, leaving me back home with the choice to stay or follow. I felt the twinge of pain in my ankle where it had been broken, keeping me home and apart from him. We had been a team since I could remember, storytellers from the beginning…

I was brought back to the present by a howl coming from the nearby forest. The small port lay ahead, lanterns burning low, barely illuminating the encroaching darkness as their reflection played off the dark river ahead, making eyes in murky water that followed me as I walked. I could see a glow coming off Tybee, dim against the dense forest of the island.

Whether he was here or not, that would be my last stop on this journey. I started walking after grabbing my belongings off the ground, though it wasn’t much other than some dried beef and a canteen in my bag alongside the small bowie knife he had given me three Christmases ago, still shining bright as the day it met my hands. I gripped the cold leather on the hilt as the small tavern overlooking the port neared, hesitating as the hand under my long coat gripped the knife hilt while I pushed the door open.

Sound hit me in waves, as the smell of beer and tobacco hit me harder, overpowering my senses and almost knocking me over like the breakers crashing below. My grip loosened as I moved, stepping into the tavern’s warm embrace. The smell of roasting meat and baking bread overpowered the alcohol finally, and I relaxed my hand on the dagger. There was a friendly-looking girl standing at a nearby counter, filling a glass from a massive bottle of dark liquor.

“Be right with you sweetheart!” She shouted to me, taking the glass over to a table where one man sat alone. He gave her a nod and smile as she walked back to me. First thing I noticed was the blue army coat he wore, buttons fraying off. The second thing I noticed was the massive scar running down his face, only separated by the eyepatch covering what I assume was his now vacated socket. The barmaid was in front of me suddenly, flashing a bright smile and giving me a warmer welcome.

“Alrighty darlin’, you lookin’ for food, booze, a room, or the whole deal?” I snapped back, trying to pretend I wasn’t staring intently at the man. The squalor around us made a decent enough cover as I took a seat at the bar. She couldn’t be older than fifteen and looked to be running this place herself. Don’t know how she managed but she was standing at attention with a hand ready on a spatula behind her, waiting for something on the stove to finish.

“Uh, drink, please. Cider if you have it.” I said though she didn’t catch me at first. I tried yelling it louder when she finally understood me, moving back with a fresh glass from the nearby shelf to a cask at the far end. A soft, pink-orange liquid poured into the glass and foamed up. Peach cider… hadn’t had that in a long time. Not since meeting him here in the city, all those years ago…

Lost myself again for a moment before she handed me the cider, looking expectantly at me for any other questions.

“I need to get over to the island. Do you know if a boat is running in the morning?” I shouted across at her again. I saw her face pale, turning the shade of a new moon. Looked like one of those ghosts in the stories he would tell me…

“Hell, sir. Ain’t nobody wanted to go to the island in years. Not since Sherman at least.” A general hush fell over the nearby patrons when she said that, bringing them to glare at whoever had said the name before realizing it was the girl supplying them booze, overriding their cares about the Union with love of alcohol. “Chamber’s takes people on occasion, but he usually ends up comin’ back alone. There’s still bodies out there that just couldn’t be brought back. My papa’s probably one of ‘em. S’what mama says at least.”

She pointed toward the scarred man in the back, wearing the blue colors that seemed to be so prominent around these parts. I didn’t see many back home displaying their blues out in the open, even back home in the swamps. Hell, nobody wore their grays when we were back in Boston just a few years ago. This guy was either a hero or an absolute bastard and I wasn’t ready to find out. She spoke, even though I already knew what she was going to say. “He might be willin’ to help you.”

I nodded to her in thanks before taking my cider, walking over to the man as he trained his eye on me. I had seen the waters down past Florida once when I was young, where the water was the bluest thing on earth I’d ever seen. That’s what was in this man’s eye as I waded into its unknown depths. He swore under his breath as I approached.

“Dammit, Millie. What?” He asked in a voice like the shale outside was scraping his throat. I saw the beard growing gray under his sunken blue eye now, teeth missing and nose awkwardly cut short at the tip. Two cavalry sabers sat on the seat next to him, uninviting anyone nearby. I took a gulp of my cider before sitting across from him.

“I need your help.” I started out before he waved a hand and cut me off. He took a sip of his liquor, not showing any sign of tasting the pungent alcohol even I could smell coming off of it across the table.

“You want on Tybee? Go fuck yourself.” He started, still training his eye on me before going in again. “I’ve stopped taking you assholes there to ‘survey the land’. You never pay up frontfffffffffffff then you fuckin’ die before you can pay me. The government can either bring in some actual troops to figure shit out over there or just do what Sherman should have and finish his damn march.” He finally left off, taking a deep breath before chugging more of his drink in a quick gulp.

“I’m not looking for anything like that. I need to know if someone was there.” I started in before seeing his face change, from anger to… pity. “Shit…” He sat back in his chair, raising a hand and rubbing his scruffed hair back. He stroked his beard and looked at me, sizing me up. I looked back at him, never moving my gaze from his eye. “My condolences. Who was it, if I might ask.”

It was my turn to hesitate, wondering what I should tell him based on the coat over his shoulders. He must have noticed my apprehension, because he patted the coat fondly before dropping it down his back, letting the tattered grays show under it.

“I ain’t a traitor to the Union if that’s what you’re wondering.” He gave a half-hearted laugh as I eased back a bit in my seat. “No, I picked this off a particularly nasty bastard I had a grudge with, and one coat ain’t keeping me as warm nowadays. I’d stand up so you could see where I took my grudge but we all bleed red in the end. Someone in the war, I take it?”

“I… I know it’s a lot to ask,” I hadn’t expected such a level of observation, nothing I could have ever imagined in this barnacle-soaked coast outside Savannah. I had to steady myself, preparing to tell him the truth. “I’m looking for a soldier, he was-” I bit my tongue almost rather than say it “-is a negro, sir. He fought for Sherman, the last message I got from him was that he was stationed on the island until things were settled. He never came back after…”

“If’n he was one of Sherman’s he’s a brother of mine. I was part of the march too.” He took another drink throwing his head back and draining the glass, “Fuckin’ ceasefire was barely a week old when the stars fell.” “I know he’s probably not alive. I’ve heard the stories about the island…” I started mouthing off whatever I could to tell him I knew the risks. I had to go. “I made a promise. Even just borrowing a boat…”

His face softened as he looked at me. I tried to concentrate my gaze on the cider but couldn’t stop tears from dropping in, making ripples as the cider fizzled. There was a boulder, sitting right behind my tongue and threatening to let loose a landslide if any pebble of a word slid through. “I was there.” He offered up, looking me in the eyes, He nodded as if to reinforce his point. “I know what you’re going to find, but I owe the dead there some respect. If that means bringing peace to one of their friends, that’s a start.”

He stood now, hoisting the two sabers off the other chair and tightening their belt around his waist. He looked at me expectantly, still sitting with my cider and looking at him. I couldn’t believe he had agreed so easily to take me, much less that he had empathy for my plight. If he was out there… he was smiling at me when I entered that tavern.

“I didn’t get your name, sir?” I choked out, at least hoping I ... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1gstov6/fallen_stars_will_guide_us_home/