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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Chasm_Dweller on 2024-04-10 03:15:41.

For the past several nights I’ve been woken up, give or take, around two or three in the morning by bright lights.

It started on Friday. I really didn’t think too much about it. My next door neighbors, the James’—older couple, both kids are out of the house—go out for drinks on Friday nights and they usually come back pretty late. Around this time, maybe a little earlier.

What I’m trying to say is, it wasn’t on my list of priorities to investigate. I was tired. I had just been woken up and all I wanted to do was go back to sleep. I assumed it was just those obnoxiously bright car lights coming in through the window. Case closed.

Was I annoyed? Sure. Did I give a big enough shit to get out of bed? No.

Late night disturbances aren’t exactly unheard of out there. This isn’t a gated community, anyone could just mosey on in. Crackheads. Drunks. Some weirdo going for a midnight stroll. Kids sneak out all the time to meet and get high, or hook up together. Racoons have fights over garbage. And living in a household with three cats and a dog, some bumps in the night are to be expected. I wasn’t about to haul my ass out of bed for nothing.

I just laid there and tried to go back to sleep. At some point Beantly, my black cat, batted the door open, which I will admit startled me.

I wasn’t spooked by the light. I was just a little on edge. I don’t like the dark. There’s always been something about it that’s unnerving to me. Maybe it’s just the fact that it’s harder to see in general or maybe because it's easier for my eyes to play tricks on me: shapes turn into figures, walls of shadow become hiding places for lurking, hungry things, and suddenly I feel very, very vulnerable.

My cats and my dog make it a little easier. When I felt Beantly’s familiar weight hop onto the bed and wander towards me, I calmed down and, eventually, drifted off.

When I woke up Taco and Marbles had joined us as well as Molly. Molly is my dog, I don’t know what breed she is. She came from the animal shelter, taken off the street after someone called animal control to pick up a litter of puppies under their shed. I don’t need to know what she is. She’s my Molly and that’s all that matters.

It’s pretty common for them to sneak into my room when I’m asleep and join me. They never want to lay down with me when I first go to bed. Molly likes to sleep at the bottom of the stairs, Taco on the bathroom mat, Marbles sleeps on the couch and Beantly hangs outside my door. I don’t know why. Now it’s just become the expected pattern. I can always rely on them being there when I wake up, though.

Saturday and Sunday played out the same as Friday. Bright lights wake me up. I’m pissed but I'm too tired to do anything about it and eventually go back to sleep.

I was a little more irritated Sunday night/early Monday morning because I would have to get up early for work. Being woken up in the middle of the night usually meant that everyone in the office was going to be just a little bit more annoying. I can usually deal with Shannon with a baseline amount of sleep (aka not being woken up in the middle of the goddamn night). Sleep deprived, she is a nightmare.

I can’t stand her—or anyone really—when I’m tired. Everyone’s voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard and the ambience grinds on my every nerve. Sip from your coffee mug? I wish death upon you? Get the printer going? You deserve to be kicked in the shins. God forbid you start clicking your pen? I will set a blood curse upon your future kin.

It’s nothing personal. I just hate my job. I would quit but I’m not going to be able to buy food, unless I slave away at my desk for at least eight hours a day, five days a week.

Monday was when everything got a little… weird. I don’t really know what to make of it and I’m really freaking out. Maybe some of you know?

First day of the work week started slow, but was surprisingly bearable. David forgot his coffee mug, no one needed to print extra papers. Shannon still clicked her fucking pen though.

I was grateful to leave, when the day was over.

All of this happened because I stayed up late on Monday. Though I think if I had just done to sleep, the same events would have played out, I just wouldn't be as terrified as I am now. Ignorance is bliss and knowledge of these past late night dwelling has set its ass on my doorstep without prompt.

Though I guess I shouldn't be too surprised about it. Aren't most discoveries made by accident?

I shouldn’t have stayed up that late anyway. And it wasn’t even for a good reason. I was just binging a show and had two episodes left before I finished the season finale. The only problem was that episodes were about an hour long each and it was already about ten.

I caved and the final episode of season four rolled its credits about around twelve ten.

When I turned the TV off and the screen went black I sat for a few minutes and stared at my reflection. It wasn’t in some kind of philosophical trance, I was just so tired I contemplated just sleeping on the couch in my work clothes. I decided that I would regret that decision and, with some considerable effort, forced my limbs to comply with my begrudging decision.

I nudged Marbles, who had previously been purring as I absently stroked her piebald fur, from my lap. She glared at me, but hopped off and curled up in the corner of the couch opposite of where I sat. Then I rose to my feet and headed for my room upstairs.

I was about halfway through shambling up the steps when the light came. At the top of the stairs I could see it, shining through my cracked bedroom door. A line of bright white traveled up the wall.

Thoughts raced through my mind and half of them were nonsense.

Suddenly I was very awake and part of me wanted to run downstairs and see who was disturbing my sleep for the past couple of days. But something deep in my gut told me to stay still, so I did. And thank God.

I don’t know if I had decided to go downstairs if it would have changed the outcome, but standing there in the silence hearing nothing but my breathing and my heart thudding in my chest, I made an observation. It sat weirdly with me. And it took me a while to figure out why.

When it dawned on me—rather, when it slapped me in the face—my stomach felt a little heavier and my throat a little tighter.

There was no noise.

I had assumed that the light had come from a car. It made sense at the time, that light was bright and most people didn’t own flashlights that could produce that many watts. It had to be a car, but I didn’t hear the rumbling of the engine. It was just the sounds I was making: my breathing, the slight itching of my breath, and the desperate attempts I made to control it. That was it.

Suddenly I felt as if my heavy breathing was somehow dangerous. Like something might hear it and be able to locate me.

I’m a rational person, but every ounce of sense seemed to flee me for a second. Every single possibility flooded my mind and so many fears bubbled up, black and frothing to the surface.

When I had calmed down enough to think things through, My first thought was: had someone been snooping around my house? And then a slew of worries spilt after it, the floodgates once again open. What were they doing? What did they want?

Finally the reality of my situation laid itself out very clearly. I live alone. I don’t have a partner and I haven’t for the past five years. I’m not that tall and I’m not that strong. It was also the middle of the night. This would have been prime time to attack me without anyone coming to my aid. If someone broke and decided they wanted to hurt me, kill me, rape me, I wouldn’t be able to stop them.

This idea alone made my blood run cold.

My fears resolved themselves by the situation evolving into an even more bizarre scenario. This entire situation was like the cross section of a cabbage. I was trying to reach the core, peeling one leaf after another. Each time I shucked one second, there was another layer I had to deal with before I reached the core.

Monday was the night that the impossible showed itself around every corner.

I made another realization, the light was only coming from my bedroom. On the second floor. And it’s position was in such a way that I realized it could only be coming from my windows from my backyard facing the forest behind my house.

It mostly definitely was not a car. That idea had long left my head, but that was the final thing that killed that lingering thought.

So maybe someone was on my roof and shining their flashlight in through my bedroom’s back windows. Then the ‘whys’ spilled into my brain. It was all I could think about. Why now? Why wait three days? Why me? It didn’t make any sense.

When I moved here after graduation, my entire life was packed into two suitcases. The only thing remotely valuable were the electronics I bought with saved up birthday money, that amounted to a single TV and an iphone and the old as shit laptop glitched in the presence of a light breeze. What would someone gain from robbing me? Why were they on my roof?

But also, that didn’t line up either, I would have been able to hear them clomping around up there. There was nothing. The light was too still, too constant. It didn’t have that bobbing effect as my assumed would-be burglar supposedly paced back and forth.

Even if they were just standing still looking into my room, no flashlight can possibly be bright enough to have enough radius ...

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1c092xz/theres_something_in_my_backyard/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Ok-Programmer-6938 on 2024-04-10 00:34:28.

I used to love the outdoors. Camping, hiking, hunting, fishing, you name it I was taking an opportunity to participate in it. My girlfriend was the same. We had bonded over our mutual love of nature and the peace that it brought. Now, I'm terrified to spend any time in the woods. That thing I heard there...its voice still haunts my dreams.

We decided on a weekend trip to the Mogollon Rim of Northern Arizona. It was going to me, my girlfriend Allison, my friend Amanda and her Husband Dave, and my sister Maria with her boyfriend Gabe. The last two didn't like the idea of "roughing it" in a tent so we all went in on a nice cabin in a secluded part of the forest near a lake. The day of the drive, we all packed into my SUV and began the hours-long journey up into the mountains. After what felt like days, we came upon the turn-off given to us by the man who had rented us the cabin. It was at least another hour along uneven dirt-road into the depths of the forest before we found ourselves pulling up to our rather luxurious cabin. I couldn't hide my disappointment, I was hoping for something a little less modernized. Maybe without natural plumbing or electricity. Maria and Gabe were thrilled, and the others seemed excited, too. So, I told myself I'd enjoy this little slice of heaven out in the middle of nowhere. After all, how would I get to stay in a place like this?

We unpacked our things, found the key where the text said it would be, and went inside to find another note.

"The Septic system was emptied a few days ago, and the cabin hasn't been used since. You'll find fuel for the generator in a shed about five minutes walk from the cabin. Keep the doors locked and the lights off after ten, otherwise you might get unwanted attention. I hope you enjoy your stay!

-Ernest"

I read it out loud and laughed. "We've got indoor toilets, Power, and all the other modern amenities we could ever ask for. I hope no one thinks we're 'roughing it' out here," I teased. My sister just rolled her eyes. Dave and I finished unpacking things and gathered up fishing rods for everyone. "The lake's a twenty-minute hike from here. Anyone feel like going fishing?"

Gabe and Maria declined, but the rest of us made the journey out to the lake, and much to our surprise it was empty. "Got the whole thing to ourselves," Dave said with a slap to my back. "Hope the fish are biting."

We spent the entire day out on the lake, laughing, fishing, drinking, and having a great time. After several wonderful hours, we collected our catches and began the hike back to the cabin. By the time we had gotten back, the sun was disappearing behind the mountains, giving us just enough light to find our way back to the cabin without injury. Upon arrival, we noticed the lights were already on. "Guess they got the fuel for the generator," Allison said, amused "Didn't think they'd even leave the cabin."

That night, we fried up our fish and settled in for a pleasant evening. Even Gabe and Maria enjoyed the fish. The trip was already looking great.

We continued this way for three days. Everyone enjoying the trip in their own way, with Dave, Allison, Amanda and Myself often leaving early in the morning for a hike or to spend some time out by the lake and Gabe and Maria hanging out at the cabin. Every night we'd kill the lights at around 9:45 to follow the wishes of our host, and every morning we'd be up bright and early for another adventure. Everything was turning up aces, we were all having a great time.

Then, the fourth night came. Most of us had spent the day on a six-hour hike through rough trails and we were beat. We had crashed early, reminding Gabe and Maria that the lights needed to go out by ten so we could avoid things like bears. They rolled their eyes, but agreed.

I woke at 2:30 in the morning to the sound of panicked knocking. Slowly, I moved to sit up, but I felt Allison's hand seize my shoulder as she looked at me and shook her head fiercely.

"Hello?" I heard a man's voice call from the front door of the cabin. "Hey, I'm sorry to bother you all so late, it's just...your light was on and I'm kinda lost. I'm trying to find my friends at the trailhead. I think I got turned around somewhere. Hello?" the knocking resumed.

I opened my mouth to speak, but Allison covered it, whispering. "We don't talk to the thing in the woods." I blinked, staring at her in shock. After a while the knocking stopped, and Allison appeared to relax a little.

Untiil we heard the sound of something gently tapping the window of our bedroom. As I turned my head to look, Allison seized it and kissed me passionately. The tapping continued for several long minutes, during which she held that kiss and my face so that it remained away from the window. When the tapping stopped, she let me go. Her face was ghostly white. "I knows we're here now, it won't stop. It's going to come back..."

"What is?" I asked, confused.

"The Thing in the Forest."

"What is it?" I pressed.

She just shook her head and rolled over to go back to sleep. "We need to leave tomorrow." she muttered.

I didn't sleep much the rest of the night. The sound of the man at the door and his desperation, Allison's insistence that we ignore it, all of it seemed so strange to me. Like there was a piece of this puzzle I was missing.

When I finally woke from my restless slumber, Amanda and Dave were already up and making coffee. As I arrived, Dave turned to me and handed me a mug. "You tell Allie a scary story last night or something? She's spooked. White as a sheet. Never seen her like that." I blinked, staring at my coffee and looking up at Dave. He seemed chipper as ever, as though nothing strange had happened the evening prior.

"You didn't hear all that knocking last night? The guy who got lost?" I asked, baffled.

"Nah, Mandy and I were out like lights. Must've slept well past dawn, too. Man, that hike took a lot out of us. We were thinking of taking it easy tonight, you know? Maybe just head out to the lake and spend some time together."

I nodded, looking back down at my cup. "Allie said she wants to go home." I murmured.

"Well that's no good!" Amanda called from behind. "I just got done talking to her. She said you guys had a bit of a fright last night. That there was a bear or something trying to get in."

"Or something." I replied, shaking my head. "Look, I think it's a good idea. We should head back into town maybe just go home."

Dave frowned, "We paid a lot of money to stay here for a week, man. We've only stayed four nights. Can we at least stay one more so it feels like we gained something? I know you've got the car and all, but I think maybe Allie just got spooked. We shouldn't rush to leave."

I sighed, there was no way I was convincing these two to leave, but maybe Maria and Gabe would be willing to listen.

"Just because your little girlfriend had a bad dream doesn't mean we should all pack up and run away." Maria stated flatly. "We're having a great time out here."

When I found Allison, she was still very shaken, her eyes locked in the middle distance staring deep into the treeline at something that wasn't there.

"Hey," I murmured, causing her to jump. "Sorry, can we talk?"

She turned to face me full on "No one wants to leave, do they? They all believe it's nothing. That I'm overreacting to a bear or something." I nodded, and she sighed dejectedly, finding a seat on one of the chairs on the porch. "I'm not crazy." she said darkly. "I've heard about this thing. My grandad and dad used to me stories about the Thing in the Forest. They told me to never say anything to it. Never acknowledge it or look at it, because if I did and it recognized me, it would take me away. It would take me away and steal everything about me." she shivered. "The way they told the stories, it was like they had seen something like that happen." she looked to me, tears forming in her eyes. "Remember how I told you my dad died when I was young? That he was mauled by a bear?" I nodded. "He wasn't. That Thing got him. It got him and took everything that made my dad himself away. It left only what it didn't need."

I blinked as she told me this story. "How do you know that? How can you be sure it wasn't a bear or something?" I pressed.

"Because I heard him. The night after the search teams found what was left of him. I heard my dad calling to us. We all did." she whispered. "And my Grandpa held me close, and he told me 'We don't talk to the Thing in the Woods. We need to leave." she stated again. "We can't stay here."

I sighed, nodding. "How about I get us a motel back in town? It's only a three hour drive, and I can come back for the others tomorrow."

She shook her head desperately. "They won't be here tomorrow, don't you see? It's going to take them, they won't listen!"

"Allie, look, I...I get what you're saying. You're scared, and it sounds like whatever happened was very traumatic. I can take you away from here, but I can't just force the others to leave, too."

She nodded in defeat and looked to me. "I'll stay tonight...but I want you to stay with me, and I want you to listen to everything I tell you." I offered a reassuring nod and took her hand.

"You have my word."

We spent the day at the cabin, Allison spent time reinforcing the bedroom door with planks of wood, much to the amusement of everyone else. I followed along with her, providing her whatever help I could...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/YeetManXD69 on 2024-04-09 20:24:40.

When I was in eighth grade, something unexplainable happened to my best friend Jerald. Like any other summer night, he came to my house to sleepover. Outside, mosquitos buzzed, rain drizzled, and frogs croaked. The fragrance of raindrops was among my favorite sensations, so I kept the window open. My room was upstairs, far away from my parent’s, so we were always noisy. At around eleven pm, my older brother Sam agreed to take us to Taco Bell.

"Dude seriously, you're just getting water?" I ask.

"Come on dude, you know I'm not allowed to drink soda." Jerald says, looking concerned.

"Your parents aren't here, it's all right." says my brother, putting his hand on Jerald's shoulder. He then motions to Dr. Pepper on the soda machine. Jerald shakes his head and refuses. I wish I could go back, and force him to pick a soda instead. There's no telling if it would've even made a difference, but these thoughts persist. That was the last time I'd ever go to Taco Bell, can't bring myself to go back after what happened, having since cut off anything that serves as a reminder of that night.

After enjoying our tacos, Sam drove us back home, and we hung out for a bit before Sam called it a night, saying he was tired. What that really meant was he was going to his room to call his girlfriend. Naturally, Jerald and I headed up to my room for our usual Cod Zombies.

The flickering glow of my ancient television rested on our faces as we plowed through zombies. Unable to handle only getting to round ten five times in a row, we shut off the tv and crawled under our respective covers.

Of course, we continued to stay up late into the night discussing girls in our class, mostly who had the nicest ass. Jerald rattles his near empty ice water cup in his hand as he speaks.

"You can toss your drink over there if you're finished, besides, kinda gross to leave it out all night." I say.

“Eh, It's fine”. He said as he sat it down on the nightstand beside him.

“Fine, I’m just telling you, my mom always gets onto me for leaving cups out.” He nodded. Looking back, God I wish I had said more, if only I had just made him throw away that cup. Not long after, Jerald and I both drifted to sleep mid-conversation.

It's 4 am. I wake up to unsettling noises. A horrific hybrid of wheezing and snoring. Its presence sent goosebumps across every inch of my body. Just thinking of it now, my eyes are welling up with tears.

“What’s wrong?” I called out, still half asleep, jumping out of my bed towards Jerald's sleeping bag. His face was losing color, and he was trying to say something, holding a cup in his now shaking hand. Blue veins bulged across his face like running rivers. Vehemently, he regained his composure and spoke.

“Something’s in the cup.” he said, now sweating immensely. "I woke up thirsty, so I grabbed the cup to have a drink. Oh god! It swam into my throat! It had legs! It’s moving around in my stomach!"

I stared in disbelief. That couldn't be right, how would something alive get into his cup like that? It even had the lid still on. Still remains a mystery. Gross as it is, at first I thought it might have been a cockroach. Now, I really wish that were the case. Something told me he was serious, I’d never seen him this way in our many years of friendship. He looked frozen like someone who had just been caught doing something wrong.

“I... what? How?”

I couldn’t even think straight. I watched on with absolute disgust as I could now see his stomach writhing under the covers. Before I could react, he pulled himself out of the sleeping bag and darted towards the window. It was open, of course. But it didn't matter either way, he broke right through the glass. I still remember the sound when he hit the driveway.

His body... vanished. By the time I made my way to the window, he was long gone. The local police had a search party looking for weeks, not a trace. I don’t know if that thing caused him to jump, or if he couldn’t stand it swimming around in his body. I shudder writing this, every night I have nightmares, and I fear I’ll never stop having them. The recurring ones are the worst, especially the one where I wake up to Jerald standing beside my bed, vomiting out blood and organs. To this day, I boil the water I drink, and I only drink from translucent cups. I doubt it helps but I'm not taking any chances.

But four months later, they found his body. This poor group of kids geocaching in the woods found his bones arranged into one enormous pile. Everything else was gone. They were traumatized. My nightmares persist too, my most recent one involving me watching Jerald spit up his bones one by one.

Today, I went for a stroll with my dog, Bella. Took her to the usual spot, because I prefer the isolation. Pinecones littered the forest canopy beneath my feet. Everything was normal. Until I smelled it. This horrific stench that permeated the forest air around me. It made my eyes water, and I started gagging. The sound that came after was awful. It was this wheezing noise. Familiarity set in. I panicked. My heart beat at a million miles an hour. Bella sensed something was up, too. She started growling. Now, the sound came from behind me. I slowly craned my neck to see. I wish I did not do that.

Imagine how a person looks when they’re missing their bones and all their internal organs. It’s not a pleasant sight. A rotten husk of flesh somehow crawling towards me, gasping for air. The wheezing, the stench, I couldn’t stand it as it inched closer and closer to me. It attacked all my senses. My body didn't know how to react, I began to shut down just like that night Jerald disappeared.

I didn’t stay to discover its intentions. I’m unsure if that was still the same Jerald, or that creature controlling his brain. But either way, I will not be sleeping tonight, not ever. I've decided to relocate. Unbelievable that I've continued living in this godforsaken town after everything.

This evening I brushed my teeth as usual. As I stared into the mirror, trying to grasp what I had seen today, I reached for the clear cup on my bathroom counter and rinsed out my mouth. I wish I never did.

Jamming my hand into my mouth i attempt to stop it before it's too late. To no avail. With seemingly just seconds to react I try to weigh my options. My frantic decision leads me to lock myself in the bathroom. Every piece of furniture that would fit is now pressed up against the door. I can feel my heart pounding all the way in my stomach, imagine the sharpest stomach pain you've felt, then multiply that by forty. As I writhe on the cold tile floor, the familiar whirring of the garage door briefly shakes the house. I hear the front door pop open. My mom is home.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/scarymaxx on 2024-04-09 20:27:59.

Had we invented it, or was the Children’s Cathedral always there?

I know I wasn’t the first to arrive. Someone had built the moat, the drawbridge, and the great portcullis at the entryway, the one whose iron squares were just large enough for a child to wriggle through but barred adults from entry.

The cathedral was smaller when we first arrived. Elliot hadn’t yet built the winding staircases that led to the upper stories, and Naomi’s beautiful, terrifying tapestries wouldn’t grace the walls until we were all in nearly fourth grade. Of course, most of our building supplies were used for our own, private rooms.

I didn’t know the other kids in real life, though I believed they were real. Elliot said he lived in a big house in New Jersey, that his dad worked on Wall Street and bought him a new set of Legos every Friday when the market was up. Naomi lived in Canada and played hockey on a boys’ team. Maddie lived in Florida but hated the beach.

Maddie claimed that the cathedral’s first builder was Mr. Merchant himself, though he demured, saying he was simply the caretaker of the place. Indeed, we had never seen him lay a single brick. Instead, he tirelessly swept the dust from our various construction projects and helped deliver the various building materials we needed to build new rooms.

Nothing came for free. Mr. Merchant was hungry for stories. Not that we had much interesting to say, especially at first. He just wanted to hear about our days, the little victories and heartbreaks. You might tell him about pulling a tick from your dog’s belly, and his little gray face would light up, and then he’d cough and breathe out something deep and ashen from down in his lungs, a little swirl of particles that would cohere into a bucket full of bricks and a bit of mortar.

Early on, I watched with jealousy as Elliot and Naomi told stories that earned them great pallets of marble tiles and gold inlay. Elliot’s parents were going through a nasty divorce, and the tales of their fights and magnificent insults brought Mr. Merchant unending joy. As for Maddie, her teenage sister had died of an overdose. Her stories were sad and repetitive, not something I really wanted to hear, but Mr. Merchant listened and listened, gifting her crates overflowing with her favorite wallpapers and persian rugs.

I watched with jealousy as Maddie retreated to her room, carrying the crates behind her in that oddly weightless way they got in the cathedral. More than anything, I wanted to follow her, to see how her room was built and decorated. I took a step to follow her but Mr. Merchant put a hand on my shoulder.

“You know the rules,” he said, still coughing out bits of dust. “No visiting other children’s rooms.”

There were a lot of rules at the cathedral. Some unwritten. Most important of all was to never speak of the place when you were back home, awake. That one was surprisingly easy to keep. I didn’t like talking to my mom much anyway. Sometimes, when I woke, sweating, screaming that I was lost in the endless halls, my mom would ask me if I’d had a nightmare, and I’d say yeah, and she’d shrug her shoulders and go back to her room.

If I’m going to be honest, the cathedral was the best thing I had going on back then. Waking life was boring, sometimes cruel. School was an endless marathon of clock-watching, trying to slow down my mind enough to pay attention to the words coming out of the teacher’s mouth.

Home was worse. Flipping back and forth through the three channels we got on TV, while my mom brought home a parade of worse and worse boyfriends, guys with bad tattoos of NFL teams and an inability to remember my name.

Stories of my mother’s suitors were the ones Mr. Merchant wanted to hear most. He licked the ashes from his lips as I recounted the repulsive noises I’d heard through my bedroom wall, my mother in tears the next morning, shouting insults at a man after she found a wedding ring in the pocket of his jeans.

“Better,” Mr. Merchant said. “So much better than your usual tales.” He drew that last ‘s’ out, savoring it. As he spoke, more ashes flew from his lips, coalescing into a shining bucket of colored glass. I would have whooped with joy, if it had been allowed. I had never earned colored glass before. It was the rarest of treasures in the cathedral, used to build the great stained-glass windows that provided its only light.

Each of us was building one in our own room.

“What’s yours of?” I asked Maddie one day. “The picture in your stained glass, I mean.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. And we’re not supposed to talk about it anyway.”

I had just spent the morning building the bottom section of my own window. There was a generous amount of red involved, but what the exact image was destined to be was a mystery.

I felt Mr. Merchant’s hand on my shoulder. His touch was cold, and his fingernails were long and thick but well-trimmed. He held one up to his black-gray lips.

“Loose lips sink ships,” he said. Then he contorted his mouth a little, moving his lips so that they distorted around his teeth, revealing their too-long roots.

Usually, I was smart enough not to talk about the cathedral, but sometimes I drew it. Late at night, I’d sketch the towering spires that seemed to scrape the sky. Sometimes, too, I’d draw Mr. Merchant. I wasn’t much of an artist, so it took a lot of tries, but eventually I was able to capture the way his pupils pulled up at the edges, like a cat’s eyes.

In my best drawing, Mr. Merchant was standing on two bodies as they floated in a boiling lake. The two people are screaming as Mr. Merchant looks down at them in delight. It wasn’t too hard to identify them: my mother and her latest boyfriend, Tim. They were cartoonish and exaggerated, but the essence was there, and the tattoos were in all the right places.

“What the fuck is this?” my mother shouted on the day she found the drawings from where I’d squirreled them away under my mattress.

“Nothing,” I said. I wasn’t worried about what she’d do, not really. But I knew Mr. Merchant wouldn’t like this one bit.

My mother took my by the ears and shouted into my face. “Stop. Fucking. Drawing.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“And we’re getting married, by the way,” she added. “Over in Reno, next week.”

“Okay,” I said, my hot tears still running down my face onto the crumpled drawings, making the ink run.

When I got to the cathedral that night, I found that my body had grown. When I tried to squeeze through the portcullis, I could barely squeeze through. Halfway through, I found myself stuck, the rusted iron tearing into my skin, drawing blood.

“Telling makes you fat,” said Mr. Merchant, suddenly. Where had he appeared from? He smiled with his too-big teeth, and they all looked sharper than before.

“I didn’t mean to tell,” I said.

“But you did,” he said. “You did! So what am I supposed to do with you now?”

He reached out to where the rusty metal had bloodied my shoulder. Then, he gently dragged his fingers across the room, and brought them up to his nose, smelling it ever so slightly.

“I’ve invested a lot in you over the years,” he said. “I still remember the first time you called your mother a dirty word. I gave you a piece of glass for that. You remember, don’t you?”

I nodded weakly. I was having trouble breathing. My body felt too big, like I’d be stuck forever.

“I want you to finish your room,” he whispered, leaning down. “But we can’t have any more slip ups. We have to be more careful. Promise?”

“I promise,” I said.

“Swear.”

I nodded again, still wondering if he’d reach forward and snap my neck with his long fingers.

Then, he reached forward and pulled me into the cathedral.

“Come on,” he said. “I don’t want you to miss tonight. We’re celebrating.”

Inside the cathedral I found Maddie and Naomi standing in the cathedral’s central room where a small feast had been laid out. The food was all a bit strange, like pizzas made of soggy bread and ice cream and apple-shaped fruits that tasted like butter. It was if it had all been made by someone who had only seen pictures of food but never actually eaten it.

“Where’s Elliot?” I asked.

“Elliot’s job is done!” announced Mr. Merchant with a flourish. “His room is complete. And because today is a day of celebration, I will allow you all just once to visit it and behold his work!”

The girls and I looked at each other nervously. We’d never seen Mr. Merchant look so gleeful before. Then, like a drum major at the head of a marching band, he proceeded down the hall toward Elliot’s room, opening the door with the wave of a hand.

We walked inside and gasped. Inside, we found a lush room with a thick, tufted carpet and mahogany furniture. Everything smelled of vanilla tobacco. It might have been beautiful if not for the stained glass window, which stretched nearly a hundred feet high.

In the window, a boy was driving a car off the edge of a seaside cliff. His expression contorted with rage. All around him, the sky looked like it was on fire, but the waiting ocean below was black and filled with arms, all reaching up to drag him down.

I remembered Elliot’s first days in the cathedral, whispering stories to Mr. Merchant in exchange for cartful after cartful of black glass. Now we knew what he’d been building.

“What I love most about this one is the little details,” said Mr. Merchant. “Take the trunk for example. Look carefully and you’ll see a little sliver of red coming down the side. That’s...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/bladerunner3027 on 2024-04-09 19:00:12.

The first 20 years of my life were spent in a dingy basement underneath the house my grandparents owned on the top of the hill in our little town. My earliest memory is from my 5th birthday, I was given a single slice of red velvet cake, an old television was wheeled in and I was allowed to watch cartoons for an hour. I suppose it's a good thing that my first memory is a rarely-found happy needle in the haystack of that hellish existence.

Of course, I tried to escape a great many times throughout those two decades. It wasn't as easy as it may sound, though. The basement was made up of four bare walls, a singular dangling lightbulb, a metal bed frame with an impossibly thin mattress lying upon it, a free-standing sink and an old toilet. That was all. I wasn't even allowed the luxury of a window. Heaven knows I asked for one, though. Begged occasionally. I was told I would be allowed a window if I behaved myself for long enough. All I wanted was to be able to see what lay beyond the confines of my dim existence. I was taught about the outside world and told all about the green trees and the blue sky, but I was never allowed to see it for myself. It was an ever-out-of-reach carrot being dangled mere inches from my grasp. Grandpa and Grandma taught me other things too, like how to read and write. I'm not sure why they ever gave me enough knowledge of the outside world for me to be aware I was living a life of horror. Perhaps it was just another carrot they could entice me with, teasing me in a show of arrogance and confidence I would remain imprisoned for as long as they wished.

Escaping through the old, rusty metal door wasn't my only idea of freedom. I tried to kill myself a few times, too. A dinner knife through my chest, a noose made of various pieces of clothing and a jagged floor tile across my wrists. Of course, my attempts were all futile and only led to greater subjugation. They never took me out of the basement, Grandpa was a doctor and knew I would bring outside attention to what they were doing if I were to be taken to a hospital. Truth is, I never tried to hurt myself to be taken to the hospital anyway. I just wanted out, even if that meant death was the way. I came to miss the things taken away as punishment after my attempts, a good example being how my awful meals tasted even worse with plastic cutlery.

As you can imagine, my life was a waking nightmare and I grew to lose the hope I once had of ever escaping my captivity. That was until my 20th birthday. Whilst most other days were an amalgamation of mental torture through sheer boredom and destimulation, birthdays were always special in one way or another. During my worst years of acting out, birthdays served as a day of particularly cruel punishment. I vividly remember spending the 24 hours of my 13th birthday tied to the bare, cold wall and was given no food or drink. It's one of my worst memories, and I still wake up in a cold sweat when it occasionally forms a part of my nightly mares. Often though, I was given a small reward for getting through that year with acceptable enough behaviour. As I mentioned earlier, that typically involved cake and a CRT TV being brought down for me to watch some awfully outdated show or movie on. Still, though, this was the best part of my existence down there and my 20th was one I was looking forward to all year.

I had just woken up after they gave me the news I had behaved well enough for my reward the night before and was in a better mood than usual. Granted, all it took to clear that bar was a very slight desire to remain alive. I crawled out of bed and towards the sink to wash my face when I noticed something I hadn't seen in my entire existence there. The door was ever so slightly ajar, enough to reveal a tiny ray of sunlight and enough for me to be thoroughly intrigued. I hesitantly crept towards it and built up enough courage to swing it open for the first time in my life. I was faced with a set of wooden stairs beckoning me to climb them. To take my first steps that weren't in that basement. So I did. I struggled with the climbing motion but eventually made my way to the top and found myself standing in a living room. Something quickly distracted me, though.

A window. I had the ability to see the outside world with my own eyes. The deep blue sky was cloudless and the lawn at the top of the hill was spotlessly green. I had never seen such vivid colours before, and having them described to me was nothing like being able to gaze upon them myself. It was the most incredible moment in my life and simultaneously almost my fatal mistake. A figure came into view from the corner of my eye, and I quickly recognised the shape as my Grandpa. Before we could even make eye contact, I ran. A lot of what happened next is a haze, but I remember the fascinating feeling of my bare feet slamming against the pristine lawn as I sprinted as fast as my weak legs could carry me. The downhill nature of the hill helped me greatly, and I eventually managed to alert a younger couple who lived at the bottom of the hill with what probably sounded like the screams of a mad woman. I will always be grateful that they took me inside as opposed to ignoring me, and from there, it was a case of an innumerable amount of new experiences being thrown at me in order to explain the situation to various authorities. I ended up under police watch in the hospital, turns out that being under the medical care of a single doctor with inadequate facilities and resources leads to an incredibly unhealthy body. The nurses said they were shocked I had managed to maintain so many critical bodily functions considering what I had gone through.

Now, throughout the process of explaining my ordeal, I was naturally tempted to do the "right" thing and give up the location of my captivity at the top of the hill. But I didn't. I couldn't bear the thought of allowing my captors, my grandparents, to be given the luxury of a better imprisonment. They would be given a better bed, better meals, other people to socialise with, the ability to see the outside world and so much more that they never had the humanity to afford me. They didn't deserve that.

So I decided to go back.

I waited until the cover of dark to make my way back up the hill. Armed with a bucket of lighter fluid and a box of matches. They were old and I've come to learn that small-town practice at the time was often to keep the front door unlocked and so gaining access was fairly easy. Naturally, I crept down the steps to the basement. Not before I picked up the set of keys lying on the living room table and tested them to find the right one to the front door, though. The door was placed back into the ajar position which facilitated my escape. I wistfully looked around at what was all I had known up until very recently. My whole existence, every little bit of it, was in that basement.

That's why I had to start the fire there.

I emptied the bucket and made my way back towards the door to make a quick exit before lighting a match and tossing it at the far corner on my way out. I wanted to watch it all burn, but I needed to get out. I swung the door wide open once again and climbed those wooden steps one last time as smoke began to fill the basement behind me. I left the house on the top of the hill once and for all and made sure to lock the front door on my way out.

I slipped the key underneath the ragged doormat beneath my feet. Finally, I was the one dangling the carrot just out of reach. I hope the key survived the fire, so people always know how close their escape was, so they know it could have been so different, so easily.

It has been three weeks since the house on the hill burned down. This is the first time I have told anybody where I was imprisoned. Every night, I am tormented by the memories of my ordeal. It feels so incredibly real. I am unable to enjoy a single waking moment with the knowledge of what is to come upon my eyes closing that night.

I may have escaped in real life, but I am still held captive in my dreams.

I believe I always will be.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/YeetManXD69 on 2024-04-08 15:48:11.

After a long drive, I sit on the sand, squinting in the harsh sunlight. The sound of kids playing and the seagulls cacophonous squawking blend together over the rolling waves. Saltwater and sunscreen scents the surrounding air around us. My Dad and brother set up the umbrellas and chairs while I lounge, in the singular chair I set up. Yes I know, I'm lazy.

“Oh hey, did you see that picture they got of the moon?” Jeremy says. He drops the umbrella in a hurry to grab his phone. In doing so, he cuts his arm on the metal pole.

"Jesus! Watch what you're doing!" says my father.

"At least I'm doing something!"

Part of me feels guilty, but what am I to do? It’s not my fault he’s always been a dumbass and I've always been the favorite. Jeremy dusts sand off of the screen of his phone with his shirt, a goofy grin grows upon his face. I can tell he's excited to tell me something. I roll my eyes in anticipation.

“Says they found life.” “Can you believe it?” “Look at this, it looks human, really weird.” He shows me the picture on his phone, but it’s in grainy black and white. It shares similarities with an ultrasound picture, which makes sense. Funny, I guess babies resemble aliens when they’re first born. Jeremy certainly did.

“No, that’s not real.” I retort.

“No dude, it’s from NASA.”

“That can’t be right.” I say. “Come on, man, that even looks fake. You believe everything you're told! Last year you believed you spotted that Skin-walker near Maegen’s house!” I say, my nostrils beginning to flare.

“I did!” He says.

“Whatever.” I say, rolling my eyes. I want to enjoy the beach, not argue. Jeremy huffs putting his phone back into the chair, stuffing it into his sandy shirt, and picks up the sunscreen.

Despite the arguing at the store, he insisted we buy this new brand, this mineral sunscreen crap. See, Jeremy’s gotten into a wacky mindset. Now he’s worried chemicals and artificial shit are in everything. He won’t buy any product if he doesn’t scan it on this stupid app he bought. Yes, bought, I mean, who even pays for apps anymore?

I digress. This stuff was odd. First, it was the color gray. Who’d ever heard of gray sunscreen? Second, it smelled of the ashes of a fireplace, if you had poured water on them, say five minutes ago. Real specific, I know, but that’s the only way to describe that stench. Me, I refused to use it. I’ll stick to my harmful chemicals or whatever.

Disgusted, I watch as he coats his body in this gray goop, mixing it with the sand that covers him. I can’t help but laugh at how ridiculous he looks. As he reaches for his arm, he continues slathering the horrid concoction onto himself. Not paying any mind to the gash he received a few minutes earlier, he winces.

“Hey, idiot, you have a cut there, you shouldn’t put sunscreen on it, you should—”

I paused my words from the sight of puss pouring from Jeremy’s wound. It’s overflowing and has the texture of sea foam.

“What the fuck?!” Jeremy yells, as his skin bubbles and turns green. With no warning, his body swells, taking on the likeness of a bloated whale. I dart back, knocking my chair over violently in the process.

"Dad?" I shoot my father a concerning glance. Before I can say anymore, boiling hot green goo splashes onto my father. In an instant, it melts through him, leaving a smoking gaping hole in his stomach. I'll never forget that final look on his face, of pure confusion and fear. Now in place of Jeremy, a ghastly green acid-like substance boiling through the sand. My own father lies slouched over in his beach chair, his charred entrails exiting the wound in his gut.

Coming close to passing out, I manage to be saved by pure instinct. I knew if I stayed on that beach any longer, I'd be dead too. Unshakable urges to vomit overcome my body as i trudge forward in the wet sand. Puke plummets out of my mouth, covering the sand beneath my feet. I think about how disgusting this situation is, however I lack the ability to do anything about it. The sounds of beach goers screaming fills the air, drowning out the relaxing waves heard not too long ago. It's spreading. In the distance amongst the chaos, I spot a man screaming in the waves, jolting his arms. Only, where his arms should be, were pulsing red tentacles made out of his blood. I knew we should have stuck with the regular sunscreen.

In my escape, I noticed one man who seemed unfazed. Dressed in unassuming beach attire, but oddly enough he appeared to be taking notes. As I ran, I caught his view. He raised his arm and pointed at me, I can see he's speaking to somebody, possibly on a headset. This caused me to sprint even faster.

I made it off the beach, and am now sitting in the hotel room by myself, too shaken to even clean up myself. I tried to look up the mystery sunscreen brand, but found no results. Absolutely nothing. But it seems like something more, did the other beachgoers use the same sunscreen too? That couldn't be the case. And what about the guy in the water? Oh god, I can still hear the screams. What the hell caused all this? My deep thoughts are interrupted by some commotion outside my room. I think someone's at the door.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/CIAHerpes on 2024-04-09 10:15:34.

We had been driving for over two hours when the nightmare began. The anomalous behavior that would affect the area started as abruptly as a lightning strike. I felt strange and dissociated. Goosebumps rose all over arms as a smell like ozone filled the air, filtering through the air vents in thick, invisible clouds.

“I am so excited to see this!” my girlfriend Alice cried happily in the passenger seat. “Do you know I have never seen a full solar eclipse before?” I glanced over, feeling nervous. Yet Alice didn’t seem affected in the slightest. I wiped my forehead, clearing the trickles of sweat that had begun forming there.

“Do you smell that?” I asked, changing the mood abruptly. Alice glanced over at me, the smile falling off her face in a space of a moment. She shook her head.

“No, smell what?” she said. I gave her a look of disbelief. The smell of ozone was so thick that I could almost taste it at the back of my throat. I repressed an urge to gag. I rolled down the windows. The breeze cleared out some of the smell, but I still caught hints of it even on the fresh currents of air that streamed through the car.

All around us, the slit wrists of the sky shone a cyanotic blue, covering the earth like a suffocating blanket. Mountain ranges loomed overhead, their sharp peaks hidden under fresh virgin snow. We planned to hike to the top of the highest peak before the solar eclipse began.

“This whole place is so… empty,” Alice said, brushing a lock of blonde hair the color of platinum over her ear. “I can’t remember the last time I saw a house.” She took out her phone. She flicked on the screen before heaving a deep sigh. “And we get absolutely no service all the way out here. You better not get injured! We won’t be able to call for help.” I laughed nervously, wondering if she had just jinxed us.

“You’re the one who’s accident-prone,” I said, starting to relax slightly. The last trace of the foul ozone smell had dissipated by now. The clean mountain air and majestic landscapes rising all around us made the place seem like some kind of wonderland, far removed from the small sufferings and agonies of daily life.

***

After another twenty minutes of driving, surrounded on all sides by dark forests filled with evergreens and shadows, we saw a faded, brown sign reading: “TO MOUNT BLOODSTONE. 5 MILES.”

“Finally!” Alice cried triumphantly, her whole expression changing into one of excitement. “I’ve never been here before, but Kaitlyn told me this place has the best view in the county!” As the mountain loomed in front of us like a crouching giant, I could see why.

It towered over all the surrounding mountains, its sharp, white peak stabbing upwards into the blue sky like a spire. Steep cliffs of light brown stone surrounded it on all sides. Untouched forests of maple, oak and pine grew thick and vibrant on Mount Bloodstone’s rocky soil.

“We still have four hours until the eclipse starts,” Alice said, looking down at her cell phone. The pavement suddenly ended, and the road turned into a snaking path of treadmarks and loose stones. My SUV handled it easily, but it was slow going. A few minutes later, we broke out through the forests and thick brush that carpeted the land. On the driver’s side stood a cliff of jutting rectangular stones and a drop of hundreds of feet to a field of massive stones far below us if I accidentally veered off the narrow road. On the passenger’s side, there were just smooth, vertical walls of hard granite.

“The parking area is supposed to be up ahead just a few miles,” Alice said excitedly. I felt sickening waves of dread passing through my stomach as I glanced out the window at the steep drop waiting only inches away on my side of the car. I wasn’t exactly terrified of heights, and I had no problem going on planes or roller coasters, but situations like this always sent butterflies fluttering through my chest and caused my feet to tingle with anxiety. It was the idea of unsecured heights, the realization that an accidental jerk of the wheel or a tire blowing out at the exact wrong moment could send us careening over the edge.

“You’re not nervous right now?” I asked. Alice only laughed.

“Nope. I trust you, Brian,” she said, putting a warm hand on my shoulder. Her soft skin reminded me of suede, unmarked and unlined. I still couldn’t believe that such a beautiful girl wanted to be with me. We had been together for three months, and it had been one of the happiest periods I could remember.

I looked over at her with love, taking my eyes off the road for a moment. Suddenly, it felt like all of the tires exploded at once, and the car began swerving wildly out of control, the steering wheel spinning wildly in my hands with a pull like a falling stone.

***

“Fuck!” I cried. Alice screamed next to me, her voice filled with mortal terror.

The SUV nearly swerved off the edge of the cliff when the metal rims caught on something and veered hard in the opposite direction. The vehicle swung hard into the rock wall on Alice’s side. There was the tortured shredding of metal, the explosion of glass. Screams filled the car, but I didn’t realize until later that they had come from my own mouth.

My head flew forward, smashing hard into the steering wheel. I immediately tasted salty blood as I bit my tongue hard. My vision went white and pain like lightning ripped its way through my forehead. Time seemed to spiral away into something strange and alien. Stunned, I sat there, not knowing what had happened.

“Brian!” Alice’s voice rang out from next to me, sounding muted and far away. I felt someone shaking my arm gently. “Brian! Can you hear me?” I blinked fast, my vision starting to return to normal. My head felt like it was being pressed in a vice. A splitting migraine ripped its way through my skull. I groaned, raising my hands to my forehead. I tried pushing on the sides of my head, as if I could keep it from splitting apart from simple willpower alone. After a few moments, the pain subsided slightly. I inhaled deeply and spit blood on the floor.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m OK,” I said, though I wasn’t sure how true that was. I pulled my fingers away from my forehead, seeing they were slick with blood. I glanced over at Alice, but other than a small cut across her cheek, she seemed totally unhurt. “What the fuck just happened?” She shook her head, uncertainty crossing her eyes.

“We had an accident,” she said, glancing down at her cell phone. She tried calling 911, putting it up to her ear. She gave me a grim look and shook her head. “There’s no cell phone towers anywhere around here. We’re going to have to walk to find help, or at least until we can find somewhere with cell phone reception.”

“An accident? With what?! The goddamned air?” A rush of adrenaline pushed the pain away temporarily. I flung the door open, stumbling out of the SUV. I looked back on the dirt road that spiraled around its way around the mountain and out of view, seeing the glint of steel. Confused, I started over in that direction.

“Wait!” Alice yelled, quickly jumping out of the vehicle and sprinting to catch up with me. “You don’t look very steady on your feet yet. Maybe you should sit down…”

“Look at this fucking shit!” I cried, pointing to what lay stretched across the road, dug slightly into the dirt. Alice’s eyes widened in understanding as she saw it too.

Someone had set up a spike strip. The gleaming spikes of metal reaching up like claws still had pieces of my shredded tires caught on their sharp points.

***

“Someone’s out to get us,” I whispered nervously, glancing both ways down the dirt road. I had no idea what to do now. We were out in the absolute middle of nowhere. I didn’t even know which direction to go, unless I wanted to try hiking back dozens of miles to the last gas station we had seen. The SUV was blocking the narrow road.

Further down, I saw a small dirt turnaround jutting off to the side. I drove the vehicle on its rims and pulled over, locking the doors. I grabbed my backpack and filled it with my water bottle, buck knife and the small amount of food we had in the car, mostly trail mix and candy. It wouldn’t last long, I knew, and the water would run out even sooner if we didn’t find a river or stream. I grabbed my Swiss army knife and lighter and put them in my pocket, just in case of emergencies.

“Which way?” Alice asked. It was a good question. This road didn’t just lead to the trail that wound its way to the top of Mount Bloodstone, after all, but also continued down the other side and potentially to civilization. I had no map, so I just shrugged and motioned forward.

“I think we should keep moving in the same direction,” I said. “The last gas station was at least twenty miles back that way. For all we know, there could be a house or another gas station much closer if we just keep going straight.” It was weak logic, and I knew I was grasping at straws, but at that moment, straws were all we had.

Alice grabbed her backpack and, side by side, we started hiking up the winding road that ascended the steep slopes of Mount Bloodstone.

***

We had been walking for nearly an hour when I noticed a strange smell wafting on the breeze. It was an overwhelming smell of ozone, thick and cloying, just like I had noticed earlier. I nearly gagged, bending over.

“Oh God, what is that?” I asked. “It’s like a chemical factory is nearby or something.” Alice just shook her head.

From the nearb...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Wooleyty on 2024-04-09 04:27:23.

My parents had just passed away about a year before all this. They officially committed suicide but I know my parents, they would never do that. I don’t know if they were murdered or it was an accident but I can’t believe that they did that. I had been staying at their place the last year after they died. Since coming here I’ve had these nightmares about the amusement park we will just call “The Amusement Park” for anonymity.

The amusement park lay in ruins, a forgotten relic of a bygone era. The rusted Ferris wheel towered over the decaying midway, its skeletal arms stretching out like accusing fingers. The merry-go-round's painted horses were faded and peeling, their once-vibrant colors now muted by time and neglect. The air was thick with an eerie stillness, punctuated only by the distant groan of rusted metal and the rustling of leaves in the long-neglected gardens. It was a place of shadow and secrets, a place where nightmares came to life.

My name is Alex, and I've been experiencing these nightmares for as long as I can remember. They always start the same way: I'm lost in this abandoned amusement park, running from something unspeakable. I wake up in a cold sweat, my heart racing.

But the worst part is that I can't remember ever visiting this place. I've tried to talk to my therapist about it, but she doesn't seem to understand the depth of my fear.

As if the nightmares weren't enough, lately I've been experiencing these strange flashes of memory whenever I'm near the park. Images of a terrified child being dragged through the darkened corridors, a sinister laugh echoing through the abandoned ticket booths. Each time, I swear I see a shadowy figure following me, watching my every move. It's almost as if I'm being haunted.

Despite my growing unease, I can't help but feel drawn to the park. It's like some irresistible force is pulling me back. I've tried to stay away, to move on with my life, but the memories and the nightmares persist. Finally, I decide to confront my fears and return to the place that has haunted my dreams for as long as I can remember.

As I approach the park, the memories flood back in. Flashes of terror and pain consume my senses, making it difficult to focus on the present. I force myself to walk through the gates, my heart pounding in my chest. The familiar scent of popcorn and sweat hangs in the air, mingling with the musty odor of neglect. The rusty Ferris wheel creaks ominously overhead, as if warning me to turn back.

But I can't turn back. I have to face my demons, whatever they may be. I begin to wander aimlessly through the park, feeling as if I'm in a dream. Everywhere I look, there are reminders of my past: the abandoned ticket booths with their faded posters, the overgrown gardens where I once played as a child. It's as if the park itself is a living, breathing manifestation of my memories.

As I explore further, I come across an abandoned carnival game, its metal frame twisted and rusted. In the center of the game, a creepy clown's painted smile seems to mock me. I shiver, unable to tear my eyes away from the ghastly visage. Suddenly, I hear footsteps behind me. I whirl around, my heart pounding in my chest.

But it's only a groundskeeper, an older man with a tired expression. He eyes me warily, as if unsure of why I'm here. I open my mouth to speak, to ask him about the history of the park, but the words catch in my throat. He must sense my fear, because he nods sympathetically.

"It's a sad place, isn't it?" he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "So much life and joy once, and now..." He trails off, shaking his head. "People say it's cursed. I don't know about that, but..." He gestures vaguely around us.

I nod, unable to speak. The weight of the park's history presses down on me, making it difficult to breathe. "Do you know why it closed?" I manage to choke out. "Is there any reason... any explanation?"

The groundskeeper sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping. "There were rumors, of course. People said it was because of the accident, that the owners couldn't bear the guilt. Others said it was the economy, that they just couldn't compete anymore. But..." He pauses, glancing around again, as if he's afraid someone might be listening. "There were always whispers. Strange things happening here, things that shouldn't."

He shakes his head, as if clearing away the memories, and offers me a half-hearted smile. "But that's just talk. Gossip.”

I nod, not sure what else to say. The weight of the park's history feels like an anchor, dragging me down into the depths of my fears. Despite the groundskeeper's words, I can't help but feel as if there's more to the story. As if the park is hiding something. As if it's haunted.” He stared at me with no expression, “well, you should be getting out of here anyways. Private property and all.”

As I turn to leave, I notice a small, overgrown path leading deeper into the park. On impulse, I decide to follow it, driven by a strange mixture of curiosity and dread. The path winds its way through a dense grove of trees, their branches intertwined overhead like a canopy of bones. The air grows cool and damp, the sunlight struggling to penetrate the dense foliage.

As I walk, I can't shake the feeling that I'm not alone. The sense of being watched is almost palpable, as if the very trees themselves are alive and aware of my presence. The farther I venture into the grove, the stronger the feeling becomes. I fight down a rising sense of panic, telling myself it's just my imagination, that there's nothing here but nature.

But then, I see it. A flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye, something small and gray darting between the trees. My heart leaps into my throat, and I spin around, my hands trembling. It's a cat, I realize, a stray cat. Its coat is matted and dirty, and it has the most haunted expression I've ever seen. It regards me warily, as if trying to decide whether or not I pose a threat.

I swallow hard, trying to steady my breath. "Hello," I manage to choke out. "Are you lost?" The cat remains motionless, its gaze unwavering. "It's okay," I say softly. "You can come with me if you want."

Slowly, cautiously, the cat edges closer. It's like it's testing my intentions, trying to decide whether or not I'm trustworthy. I hold out a trembling hand, palm up. After a moment's hesitation, the cat carefully climbs into my hand. Its fur is soft and warm, and it purrs contentedly as I scratch behind its ear.

As I continue to walk through the grove, the cat seems to grow more comfortable with me, occasionally darting ahead to explore a new branch or bush before returning to my side. The weight of the park's history still presses down on me, but somehow the presence of this small, lost creature makes it feel less oppressive.

Suddenly, a loud crash of metal falling is heard and the cat leaps out of my hand and runs off. I tried to chase him but I couldn’t find him anywhere until suddenly, I hear a loud scream from the cat, off to my right. It was like a scream, then yelp, then silence. I froze as I knew he was dead.

I turn around and see nothing but trees, no one was there. I feel a chill run down my spine and shiver. I can't help but think that someone must have stabbed the cat, or maybe even killed him with a blunt object.

I hear another crash, this time closer. My heart pounds in my chest as I realize that whatever's making these noises is getting closer. I try to calm myself down, but fear is rising up inside me, making it hard to breathe.

I start to back away slowly, trying to put some distance between myself and whatever's causing the commotion. The path seems to narrow, the trees closing in around me like a tunnel. I feel trapped, panic rising with every step.

Another crash echoes through the grove, louder than before. It sounds like metal twisting and snapping, like a sculpture being warped out of shape. I peer through the trees, straining to see anything in the darkness. My heart is racing, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

Suddenly, a figure steps into my line of sight. He's tall impossibly tall and broad-shouldered, his features obscured by the shadows. As he began lurching toward me, I ran.

My breath comes in ragged gasps as I push myself to run faster, my lungs burning with the effort. The figure behind me seems to gain ground with each stride, closing in on me with an unnerving speed. I run for the exit and make my way out of the park. As I look back I can see that the figure has stopped right before the exit and it was watching me as I ran for my life.

Shaking uncontrollably, I manage to find my way to a nearby payphone and dial 911. My hands are trembling so badly that I can barely hold the receiver. The operator picks up, their voice calm and reassuring. I try to tell them what happened, but the words won't come out right. My breath is ragged, my thoughts jumbled. They keep asking me questions, but all I can do is stare down the dark alley, waiting for the police to arrive.

When they finally get here, two officers step out of their squad car. They approach me cautiously, their hands on their holsters. They ask me what happened, and I try to explain, but it sounds even more unbelievable now that I'm saying it out loud. They ask me to show them where it happened, and reluctantly, I lead them back into the park.

The officers listen to my story, their eyes flicking back and forth between me and the trees. They ask ...

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1bzgyof/i_lost_a_year_of_my_life_as_a_child/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/1One1MoreNightmare on 2024-04-09 10:00:17.

Late one night, a couple of weeks or so ago, just as I was settling down to enjoy my dinner of dry oven-baked chips and chicken nuggets, there came a sharp knock at the door. I frowned, not because I was looking forward to this meal, the same one I’d had every night for the last week, but because I wasn’t expecting anyone, nor do I normally get random drop-ins from friends. I made my way to the front door and opened it, only to find darkness and emptiness greeting me. Confused, I cast my eyes downward and saw a plain, brown paper bag resting on the doorstep.

I flicked on the porch light, then bent down to examine the bag and its contents. Inside, I could see an assortment of groceries, groceries that I had not ordered. I looked around again, but no one was there. The street was clear, which was weird, as the time between the doorbell ringing and me opening the door would have been mere seconds. I was surprised someone had managed to drop off the food, ring the bell, and either get back to their car or on their bike and get out of view in that time.

Glancing around for the last time, I scooped the bag up in my arms and stepped back inside. I cleared some space and emptied the groceries on the bench. There was no receipt, no indication of where they had come from. I didn’t recognize any of the brands, as none bore familiar recognizable labels. Among the items, there was a pack of red steak, its packaging marked only with a "harvested date". Weird. There was a 2-liter bottle of SPF 500 Sunblock. Seemed a bit overkill. An oversized jar of "Garlic-free" herbs and spices, an unmarked bottle of red wine, and a mysterious bottle of tomato sauce. A plain, white sticker on the front of the bottle with the words “Life-Sauce” across it. That was it. No ingredients list, company marketing, bottled or expiry dates.

Now, honestly, under normal circumstances, I would have endeavored to return these groceries. But, with inflation the way it is, and the economy tanking, I decided to keep the groceries for myself. Plus, there were no contact details or receipts to be found even if I did want to return them.

So, I put the meat in the freezer, the wine in the empty wine rack, the herbs and spices with the others, and left the sunscreen on the counter.

But I opened the sauce immediately, pouring a generous amount over my dinner. Its flavor was unlike any other tomato sauce I had tasted, rich and savory with subtle hints of spices. It was a luxury I had cut out of my weekly shops as I tightened my financial belt, and I savored every bite.

Over the following days, I found myself consuming the sauce with almost every meal, amazed at its ability to enhance even the simplest of dishes. I would go overboard too – drowning my food in delicious red condiment. And within days, I was down to the last remaining drops, the clear container looking empty in my hands. I decided not to throw it out in the hope I could scrape the last drops on my breakfast.

But the following morning, when I opened the fridge in the morning, my jaw dropped.

There, on the middle shelf of my fridge where I left it, was my tomato sauce bottle. Only, it was no longer empty. I picked the bottle up, staring at it perplexed. I turned it over, and back again. It was heavy, full to the brim with the dark red sauce. On the front was the label “Life-Sauce” as it was before. Only, this time, underneath, in a small font was the number one.

I wondered whether it was always there, and I had just missed it. It still didn’t explain how I was currently holding a completely full bottle of sauce when it was completely empty the night before. I was completely stumped. But I was also hungry. So, I put aside the mystery sauce and fried up some bacon and eggs.

Once again, over the next couple of days, I managed to work my way through the bottle of sauce with little effort. I placed the practically empty bottle in the fridge, and once again in the morning, it was full. The only difference was that number 1 had now been updated to a 2.

And so this continued, each time I emptied the bottle, I would find it miraculously refilled the next morning, as if by some unseen hand.

Then, last week, there came another knock at the door. I had once again been about to eat my dinner and had just poured a generous helping of the sauce on my plate. I was holding the bottle in my hand, looking at the number 13 that was now branded on the bottle, wondering for the hundredth time how the bottle refilled itself and how the number kept changing when three sharp knocks at the door broke my concentration. I opened the door and was met by a tall, elderly man, dressed in attire straight out of a Sherlock Holmes film. He held in one hand a black walking cane with a large diamond head, a red shimmer flickering in his eyes, his pale skin stretched tight across his gaunt face. He nodded politely and apologized for the late-night intrusion, speaking with a distinct European accent.

He inquired if I had received his misplaced groceries, but I feigned ignorance, shuffling slightly in the doorway as I attempted to shield the sauce that was on the bench behind me from his view.

I saw his eyes shift from behind my back to my face. I stifled a breath as I figured I had just been sprung, then relaxed slightly. Even if he did see the bottle on the bench, how would he know that we didn’t just buy from the same place? We stood in silence for a moment, before he cleared his throat and apologized again for keeping me from my dinner, turning his shoulder to leave.

“Oh, one more thing before I leave”, he said as I had started closing the door. I stopped and looked at him.

“If by chance it should be delivered to your humble abode, you ought to be informed of the contents of the groceries. Allow me to clarify, I do not obtain my provisions from any ordinary purveyor. To acquire the necessities I require, I conduct transactions in the shadowy corners of the web. Life has undeniably become more expedient in this century, I dare say.”

I shuffled uneasily in the doorway as he continued.

“Amidst the assortment of specialty items lies a sunscreen, providing shelter to individuals afflicted with Porphyria, a sensitivity to sunlight. Also present were delectable cuts of red meat sourced from Bi-Pedal mammals. Furthermore, there was the sauce, touted by the vendor as possessing a unique potency, able to regenerate itself by drawing upon the life force of an unsuspecting human. ”

I must have worn a look of confusion on my face, which he seemed to enjoy as he continued.

“Therefore, should you chance upon it, exercise caution in its utilization, so as not to arouse suspicion. Those who have been depleted of their life essence typically reside in close proximity, within a radius of a few blocks at most.”

My jaw ajar, I mumbled something akin to a thank you and closed my door, returning to my food as I contemplated what he had meant. ‘Drawing upon the life force of an unsuspecting human’? What was that?

I slid my plate to the side and opened my phone. I had no idea where to begin, so I started with “Sauce that regenerates itself by drawing upon life force of an unsuspecting human”. Nothing relevant came up. Then I searched “Tomato sauce that magically refills itself”. Again, no relevant results.

Lastly, I typed in “mysterious deaths near me”. This got a lot of results. I filtered to news, and then to the last month.

Multiple news stories covered mysterious cases in my local suburbs, cases where people had been found dead in their homes. In most cases, their partners had woken to find a pale, gaunt and lifeless version of the partner they had fallen asleep next to the night before. There had been no signs of injury, no blood nearby, and they had been completely normal in most cases the night before.

But they were now completely drained of blood.

My stomach dropped as I finally understood what he was saying. I felt like vomiting, realizing that, somehow, I had been dining on the thick, bloody, savory, delicious blood of my neighbors for the last few weeks.

Life-Sauce = Life Source.

My head spun as I grabbed the bottle and stumbled towards the kitchen bin, ready to throw the sauce out and destroy everything else that had come in that grocery bag that night...

But then, you know, with inflation the way it is, and the economy tanking...

And it was the best sauce I have ever tasted...

I am more aware now of the amount I use. I try not to waste it. I am proud that in the week since that visit, the number sits at only 15. I think I have done pretty well if I am honest, don’t you?

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Pprdge_Frm_Rmbrs on 2024-04-09 05:11:30.

It had been an ordinary Saturday night.

My husband, John, and I hosted our friends Thomas and Shannon Watson, and their son Emmett for dinner. John is a wizard on the grill, and prepared a delicious meal of steak, potatoes, and grilled asparagus for everyone while I gossiped with Thomas and Shannon, and Emmett played video games with our boys Noah and Liam.

We ate around 6pm and then the adults played cards while the kids watched a movie in the living room. It was around 9pm when the Watsons left and John cleaned up as I got our sons ready for bed.

I remember every minute of it.

Brushing teeth, pajamas, reading stories—kissing Noah on the forehead when he finally lost the fight to keep his eyes open—secretly turning Liam’s nightlight on for him, even though he claimed that nine was too old for such things.

When I began my own bedtime preparations, John came into the bathroom and wrapped me in a hug from behind. Even after twelve years of marriage and two kids, there was a flutter in my stomach as he pulled me tightly to him. Feeling a little frisky, having had a few glasses of wine earlier, I told him to go wait in bed for me to finish up and that I was about to, “give him the ride of his life.” Which meant we were going to have very quiet, under the covers, parent sex, and pray that neither of the boys woke up.

But as I was finishing brushing my teeth, I heard John’s chainsaw-esque snores ripping through the air. During the card game, he’d been drinking some bourbon that Thomas brought over, and alcohol always made him drowsy—he passed out the minute his head hit the pillow. I chuckled as I crawled into my side of the bed and he woke briefly to tell me that he was just “resting his eyes for a minute”—knowing that he would be out cold ‘til the morning. And, laying my head on his chest, I drifted off to the rhythmic rise and fall of his breaths.

Yes, it had been an extraordinarily ordinary evening—exceedingly mundane—unequivocally average. No different from any other time we hosted the Watsons, or the hundreds of times I’d put the children bed, or the dozens of times John and I made “intimate” plans only for one of us to fall asleep. Likely, in the years to follow, it would have never stood out from the background—I would have forgotten the details.

Yet they’re seared into my memory now—I make a point to drift through them every day—to immortalize every image, taste, sound, smell…feel…

Because it was the last ordinary night I ever had.

Because it was the last time that I saw my family.

****

When I awoke the following morning, I sensed something was different before I even opened my eyes.

You know how everyone’s house has its own unique smell? A scent built up over time—permeated into the very walls—changed and personalized over the years by the various occupants. One that the inhabitants become immune to quickly, but is noticed instantly by guests. You’d never quite be able to describe your own, but you’d know instantly if it changed.

That morning, I smelled my house for the first time in twelve years—for the first time since John and I moved into it and it was new to us.

And it was wrong.

Primal instinct triggered by the change in environment put me slightly on-edge, and I reached over to John’s side of the bed for comfort, only to find it empty.

John never got up early after a night of drinking, especially not after a night of drinking bourbon. When I fell asleep the night before, I had expected to wake in the morning and hear a still-storing John next to me—even planned to sneak noiselessly out of bed to make everyone breakfast.

But there was silence in the room.

It was strange, and the feeling of unease rose more, but I told myself I was being silly.

‘Maybe he wanted to surprise me and went downstairs to make waffles,’ I hoped—they’re my favorite, and on occasion, I’d enter the kitchen to find a giant stack of them waiting for me and the kids. It didn’t account for the difference in ambient smell, but as Spring was beginning, I wondered if that might just be due to flowers blooming or trees budding outside—could have been that John opened up a window somewhere.

I rubbed the sand from my eyes, and gave a groggy yawn as I sat up in bed—a small part of me worried that when my vision came into focus, the room around me wouldn’t be the same as the one that I went to sleep in the night before. But I was relieved to find everything looked normal. The walls were still blue, the comforter over me orange, the lamps on the wooden bedside tables were white, and a photo from John’s and my wedding hung next to the bathroom door.

Checking my phone, I was shocked to see it was nearing 9am as I hadn’t slept past seven since Liam was born, and I questioned how many glasses of wine I’d really had the night before. I also saw that I’d received a text twenty minutes earlier from ‘Hubby’ and opened it to find a message that read, “Imma make you pancakes—gone to the store for eggs.”

I smiled as I typed out my response, “You’re the best! Oh, and if you’re still there, grab fruit snacks for Noah; we’re out.”

Climbing out of bed, I put my phone in my pocket, stretched, and left the room anticipating the sounds of my boys playing games or watching TV downstairs—worrying about what messes they might have already made in the twenty minutes since their father left. However, my ears were met with more silence as I walked through the hall.

It was unexplainably eerie to me. There was a stillness to the morning that I hadn’t felt in the nine years since Liam had been born, and even less so in the six after Noah came along. John hadn’t mentioned taking them with him to the store in his message, but I supposed it was possible that he had. Approaching Liam’s door, I decided to poke my head in and see if he, his brother, or both of them might be inside.

“Liam?” I called, as I turned the knob. And, when I peered within, I froze.

It wasn’t Liam’s room.

At least, the contents of it weren’t Liam’s.

Where a child’s bed usually sat under the window, there was a desk with a computer. The bookshelf on the far wall wasn’t filled with toys and Lego models—it contained thick, heavy books. On the walls that should have been adorned with posters from video games, there were framed college degrees.

It was unmistakably an adult’s office.

“What the shit?” I said aloud, as I closed my eyes tightly and reopened them several times—thinking I must somehow be hallucinating and eventually Liam’s things would reappear in front of me.

But the office remained.

Backing out into the hallway, I scanned both directions to ensure I’d opened Liam’s door, but as a mother, I already knew that I had. There was no amount of tiredness, or hangover, or whatever I was experiencing that morning that would have made me mistake my own child’s room—I’d found it in the pitch-black many times before—knew the number of steps from my bedroom to his without even having to count them.

As well, we didn’t have an office in our house and never had. John’s a carpenter and I’m a nurse—we had no need for one as neither of us ever worked from home.

“Liam?! Noah?!” Anxiety rising, I shouted my son’s names, but received no answer. I ran down to Noah’s room and ripped the door open to find that it too was changed. It full of exercise equipment. No dinosaurs on the walls, no toy trucks strewn across the floor.

It was a home gym…

“What the fuck is happening…?” I whispered to myself before then screaming, “LIAM?! NOAH?! JOHN?! This is a prank, right?! Come out, now! It’s not funny!”

But even as I said the words, I didn’t believe them. There was no way that the three of them could have completely overhauled both rooms overnight without me waking for any of it.

As I was starting to hyperventilate, my phone buzzed—I got another text from ‘Hubby.’

“Who’s Noah?” It read.

Instantly, I called him, and as soon as I heard the line pick up on the other end, I launched into questions.

“John, what the hell is going on? Where are the boys? Why is Liam’s room an office and Noah’s a home gym?”

But it wasn’t John’s voice that answered me.

“Honey, slow down. Who are Noah and Liam? And did you call me John? Are you okay?”

It was Thomas—Thomas Watson was on the other line.

Suspecting I somehow hit the wrong button when I made the call, I pulled the phone away from my ear to check the Caller ID.

It said, ‘Hubby’ at the top of the screen.

“Thomas?! Why do you have John’s phone? Where is here? WHERE ARE MY SONS?!”

I was sprinting through the house checking for any sign of them as I yelled at Thomas on the phone. There wasn’t a single piece of evidence anywhere that children had ever lived there—no toys, no stains on the carpet, no height marks in the kitchen to track their growth. The wall leading down the stairs that had contained at least fifteen photos of each of them the night before was bare.

“Kara, please try to calm down. Look, I’m leaving the store now—I’ll be home in twenty minutes. Maybe you had a nightmare or something? Just try to breathe and talk to me.” He said. His tone one of reassurance.

But I could not “calm down.” My sons were missing—all traces of them lifted from my home. Everything else about the place remained the same—the furnishings, the paint colors, the decorations. Yet it was as if Noah and Liam had never existed—every picture, every drawing they’d done for me, their game systems, children’s books and movies—gone.

“Where...

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1bzhvdw/my_name_is_kara_logan_and_i_just_want_to_go_home/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ImUpsideDownNow on 2024-04-09 04:28:29.

Had this entire thing not started on Facebook Messenger of all places, I might have had an easier time believing that the gates of hell had opened into my inbox, doing their best to scare me into an early grave.

But because it was the blue chatbox lighting up my screen, offering me a message from someone outside my friends list, I met it with a healthy scepticism. Angus Bateman wanted to contact me, which was a bit of a shock considering he’d died in what our headmaster called a ‘tragic accident’ only yesterday, leaving the school reeling from his death and me without a psychology teacher. Admittedly, my hands shook as I clicked the message because I couldn’t quite grasp the idea of somebody being so horribly cruel already.

open your windows

That was all it said. No punctuation (Mr. Bateman was a stickler for the capital letter) and no introduction. Just that. I remember the wash of cold rolling over my skin as I closed the message, the way even the existence of it made me shudder. But it was 1 am, and I knew at least some of my nastiest classmates used this as their prime be-an-ass time, so I shook it off and moved on. Or rather, that was the plan before a jarring ping sounded around my room and another message appeared, right below the first.

you haven’t opened your windows

Goosebumps. Thousands of them, but I wasn’t popular at school and any reply would leave me the subject of about 20 group chats about how dumb and gullible I was. So I swallowed, closing the message again and reporting the page, blocking it for good measure. Let someone else deal with these assholes.

And in theory, it worked. I left it behind, tabbed back into the game I was playing, tried to free my mind from dead teachers climbing inside my computer and swinging bloodied hands out to grab me. All that was perfectly fine, until my PC took on a mind of its own. Ping after ping after ping, coming in so thick and fast that they all merged into one unbearable trill, drowning me in noise. So many that I clumsily tabbed out and let myself die inside my game, reaching hurriedly to turn down my speakers. It didn’t get any quieter.

it’s cold where i am let me in

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

it’s cold

The messages stopped dead when I clicked the chat, as though the person on the other end saw my presence and felt satisfied, raising fingers from their keyboard. It was a cold war, neither of us willing to type as I breathed shallow gasps into the emptiness, moonlight blanketing me in the only glow my room provided. Just this one night, I wished I’d left the light on. Just tonight, the darkness felt as though it was swallowing me.

Nobody spoke.

It’s the reason I wrenched the plug from the wall, watching the screen succumb to darkness as I let out a silent breath of relief. I felt about nine years old as I grabbed at my phone, galloping across my room and throwing myself on the bed as though a mangled manifestation of my teacher was waiting for me under it, grinning a bloodied smile and hoping a toe would peek under the covers for him to chew on.

Still, my stomach churned as I lay in the fetal position, white-knuckled grip on my phone clutching it for dear life. I shouldn’t have been as scared as I was, but there was a chill in the air. I swore I felt a thousand eyes on me at once, bleeding into my skin from every angle inside my room. If I lay still enough, I could hear ragged breaths that didn’t match my own.

But I was an imaginative kid. I’d been told that my whole life.

I wished I’d imagined the next message, lighting up my phone in a sick glow of horror.

i’m at your window i smell your skin

I clutched the phone tighter, trying to steady my breathing. The kids at school didn’t know where I lived - but still, I rolled over and turned my back to the window I swore I could hear brittle nails scratching across, wondering if I was brave enough to run to the bathroom to throw up or if I’d just do it right here on my worn, bedside trainers. I could have called for my mother, but I was far too old for that and besides, their room was unusually silent for this time of night. My mistake was my own sick curiosity, believing the fear of the known to be less horrifying than the unknown. I was wrong. I was so, dreadfully wrong. So I looked.

i’m watching you and you look so warm

you should be cold like me

I couldn’t tear my eyes away. The messages came in faster than anyone should have been able to type them, and if I’d been of sound mind, I’d have known that and run right out of my dimly lit tomb.

i’m going to climb in soon and drag you to the cold place

I could call for my Mum. Maybe it was stupid and childish and maybe somehow, the kids from school would find out that tears were gathering in my eyes and I was shaking uncontrollably, but it was okay, because at least I’d feel safe. I’ll never know what possessed me to do it, but I sent a clumsily stabbed reply, a pleading who is this? to my tormentor. It made it less real, as though being the butt of the joke would bring this to its crescendo. But it didn’t. My phone vibrated horribly, more violently than the last time. The words blazed from the screen, Mr. Bateman's beaming profile picture aside them. His eyes were hollowed in the picture, dripping down to his cold, empty smile.

i’m going to eat you i’m going to eat you i’m going to eat you i’m going to eat you i’m going to eat you i’m going to eat you i’m going to eat you i’m going to eat you i’m going to eat you i’m going to eat you i’m going to eat you i’m going to eat you

“Mum!” I shrieked, voice cracking and muffled as I buried my face into the covers, “Mum!”

The fear had such a grip around my throat that I thought I might pass out, but I didn’t. I didn’t, and it meant I saw my monitor turn itself back on - the monitor I turned off at the plug - long enough for a huge, blackened message to blaze across it inside a chat box that looked like it had been drawn by a child. And yes, I could definitely hear the breathing now, because it left a trail of ice down the back of my neck and sent a single strand of hair billowing in front of my eyes.

I DIDN’T NEED YOUR WINDOW IM IN NOW

I couldn’t tell you how I knew in that moment that both of my parents were dead, tucked up in their beds in a sea of their own blood and necks snapped at the most horrible angle. Maybe it spoke to me and whispered hellish nothings in my ear, maybe it was the deathly smell crawling down my throat from the hallway. I can’t tell you why I wrote it all down either, desperately clinging to my own sanity as it felt like someone was stealing it from me.

I hear footsteps now, thunderous ones. I smell the crimson trails of blood it leaves on the ceiling under its bare feet, streaking somewhere above my head. It’s near, I know it, I smell the copper, I taste it. I can’t write fast enough because it’s moving too quickly its in the hallway it knows im here i think i hear it whispering to me it wants me to lkook into its eyes jesus christ its at my

door what the fuck is that jesus what the fuck is that mother of god its turning its head why does it look like that its looking right at m

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/HeadOfSpectre on 2024-04-08 22:09:51.

Excerpt from the journal of Brother Michael Chester

August 19th, 2022

As of 6:00 PM today, the site has been fully secured as per the instructions of Grandmaster Parsons. He requested that I keep him updated on our investigation/progress during the coming days and I will make a point not to disappoint him. He seems to believe that there is something of value at the bottom of this lake, and though I personally have my doubts, I am in no position to question him.

Not openly, at least.

In private, I can’t help but wonder if this little salvage operation is a waste of our resources. Our organization has more important things to do than chase conspiracy theories. And hell… what’s he thinking sending us out to Tevam Sound? That place is crawling with Fae shit that I’d rather not fuck around with. It’s basically Imperium territory. There’s enough dangerous things out here that we already have to deal with without adding rumors of crashed spaceships into the mix… but I digress. Orders are orders. I don’t have to like them, I just have to follow them.

I suppose to be fair, there are a few eyewitnesses in town who claim they spotted several ‘floating orbs’ in the sky a little over a month back. Supposedly, one of those orbs ‘burst into flame’ and crashed into the lake.

If I had to guess, what they’re describing sounds more like either a meteor shower (unlikely) or some sort of light show. Tevam Sound is in cottage country, and Silver Lake has several cottages scattered around it. It’s likely that some kids were having some fun with drones or fireworks and a bunch of local idiots saw them and thought they were having a close encounter. Ultimately, I don’t expect this little expedition of ours to turn up anything more than junk at best. Although with all that said, I guess there could be worse dead end postings.

The lake is beautiful at this time of year, and while my team and I conduct our preliminary survey, we’re renting a small cottage on the water.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d suspect that Grandmaster Parsons was sending us on some sort of glorified vacation, although I’m quite certain that word isn’t anywhere to be found in Parsons vocabulary. Either way, I don’t suppose I have a real reason to complain much. We’ll conduct our search, collect our data and send our updates to the Grandmaster. In a week or two, he’ll see how pointless this all was, and call us in. Until then, maybe I ought to make the most of my time here.

A couple of the men Parsons sent with me are among the more devoted followers of the Brethrens doctrine… but I’ve never been a particularly religious man myself, and Tevam Sound is a college town. I know at least one of my Men is going to try and have some fun. Maybe I ought to as well?You know, the more I write this down, the less agitated I feel about this whole situation. Maybe the Lord really does work in mysterious ways?

Excerpt from the journal of Brother Michael Chester

August 23rd, 2022

As expected, we’ve had no meaningful updates during our time here. We’ve used every tool at our disposal to sweep this lake up and down. We’ve sent down divers near the alleged crash site. Nothing. I can’t say I’m surprised, although Parsons is adamant we keep searching.

Given how cozy this posting has become, I’m really not obligated to complain. This whole pointless operation has basically turned into a glorified fishing trip. My team has, for the most part, taken the same attitude towards this posting as I have. You’d think a few of them had gone back to college, with the way they’re acting.

Andrews sent most of us a picture from the bar last night. A photo of his big, dumb, grinning face with a bunch of girls from the local University seated at a table behind him. It was accompanied by the message: “Which one am I fucking tonight, boys?”

A couple of the other men, Jenkins and Roberts tried to take bets, but no one was that interested in it. Edwards and Thornton, our more zealous members didn’t seem to appreciate their attitude. They requested that I discipline Andrews, but I’m not going to bother with that.

I don’t care where that potato faced lout sticks his dick and I don’t care if Edwards and Thornton are bothered by what he does after dark. We’re here to do a job. That’s my concern, and nothing else. It’s a stupid job, but we’re going to do it.

We did have one mildly interesting encounter the other day.

Someone from the University came by to check in on us, a man. He introduced himself as ‘Mr. Frost’. I never got his first name. There was something off about him. Although I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. For the most part, he seemed normal, although I got the impression that he was trying a little too hard to be friendly. He had this overeager, too wide smile that didn’t sit right with me.

Honestly, I’m surprised the University sent anyone to check in on us. We had informed them that we would be undertaking a survey of the lake, just to make sure that they were keeping out of our way, and at the time they hadn’t really seemed to care. We hadn’t told them exactly what we were looking for either… although Frost already seemed to know and he didn’t exactly mince words on the subject either.

Simply put, he told us that both the local police and the University had already investigated the allegations of some sort of UFO. They’d combed the lake about a month back, turned up nothing and dismissed the whole thing as a hoax.

Although…

Well.

The way he said it didn’t quite sit right with me.

“You’re wasting your time,” He said. “There’s nothing you want out here. That I can guarantee.”

Maybe it was his choice of words? Like he knew something I didn’t? Either way, I explained to her that our organization wanted to independently verify that data, and once he seemed to understand that we weren’t leaving, I could see a sort of disappointed look cross his face.

I told him that I figured we probably were just chasing a hoax, but the top brass had given us our marching orders, so our hands were tied. He said he completely understood, saying “We are all deferential to our employers.”

Weird way of phrasing that… but he left without a fuss, so there was that, and there weren’t any other prominent red flags about the man.

Still… I keep thinking back to that encounter. Something was just… off about it. I just don’t know what.

I’ve seen some shit during my time with the Brethren. The kind of shit most people wouldn’t believe. I know there’s more to the world than meets the eye, and I’d like to think I’d notice if the man I was talking to wasn’t entirely human. But none of the usual red flags popped up with him. I don’t know… maybe I’m overthinking all of this.

Last month, we put down a group of fucking vampires. Now we’re out here digging into this sci-fi bullshit. I’m not used to having so little to do… not that I’m complaining much. It’s peaceful out here… even now that I’m sitting here, writing this I’m sitting on the back porch of our little cottage, watching the sun go down over the lake. Through the light shining through the trees, I can see Jenkins, Edwards and Thornton sitting around a fucking campfire, like a couple of kids. Pretty sure Roberts went fishing. I’ve never been on a job this quiet before. It’s probably normal for a guy like me to start jumping at shadows…

Probably.

Excerpt from the journal of Brother Michael Chester

August 27th, 2022

Thornton found something during our sweep today. We were out a little further than usual from the crash site. There’s a large creek that shoots off of the lake. It was too shallow to take the boat through, so we waded up and down, searching for anything of interest. There’s a lot of rocks scattered about and a lotta trash caught by said rocks… I didn’t think we’d find anything of value there, but I guess I was wrong.

Thornton found it at the bottom of a short waterfall, lodged between a few of the rocks. A chunk of burnt metal. I figured that it might’ve just been a standard piece of debris. A chunk off a boat, or something. At best, the results would be inconclusive. But we still brought it back to the cottage so Edwards could run some tests on it.

The results are not inconclusive. Not entirely. I’m not sure what we’ve found, but it’s some sort of weird high strength, heatproof aluminum alloy.

Well… supposedly heatproof. It’s been burned almost completely black. He’s still looking into it, but he doesn’t think something like this came off a regular boat. He doesn’t want to say with confidence where it might’ve come from… but I know what he’s thinking.

It’s what we’re all thinking.

I dunno… I’ve seen some weird shit in my day, but aliens? Guess I shouldn’t close my mind off to it… but the idea just seems too weird for me. I’ll file my report with Parsons in the morning, although I already know he’s going to make us redouble our efforts. If there’s one piece of this alleged spaceship out there, then there’s probably more. And now that we know what we’re looking for, it might be easier to find it.

Excerpt from the journal of Brother Michael Chester

August 29th, 2022

Andrews is missing. He went out drinking last night and didn’t come back. I spent half he fucking day in town, looking for him. Far as I can tell, he was at one of the bars last night. The bartender saw him leave with a woman. He described her as: “Red hair, dark skin and a nice body.”

After that though, the tra...

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Prior-Card-6627 on 2024-04-08 14:27:36.

It was a pretty simple little poem I received as a text 3 days ago from a number I didn't have saved. I've made a few moves and had some phone changes over the past 10 years, even though I've never gotten rid of the number. So getting a call or text from an unsaved number with an area code matching mine is no real surprise, it usually ends up being an old friend, wrong number, debt collector etc..

I didn't recognize the number, and no matter how many times I try to text back they refuse to respond, I've had to have sent no less than 100 messages and 50 phone calls (all have gone straight to voicemail so i assume I'm blocked) all that was sent was this poem.

In the mirror's glare,

My reflection twists and sneers,

Cursed skin, whispers fear.

At first I chalked it up as a prank, maybe some sort of internet trend for middle schoolers. Someone sends a scary haiku to a random number to get a funny response. That was, until later that night while getting ready for bed.

I found myself staring into the mirror, noticing almost every small flaw in my skin. Noticing how much looser it seemed, and I'm not a very self conscious person. I stared at my face and all along my body in the mirror for what felt like maybe 20-30 minutes. Until my alarm started blaring and took me out of my trance. I've been staring at the mirror for a little over 10 hours.

Calling off work seemed like my best bet at that point, I felt drained and thought I might be sick in the head or something. Completely losing track of 10 hours while staring in the mirror.

My bed is undoubtedly the cleanest area in my home. I can't sleep in a dirty bed, so I knew something was wrong even after staying up all night. I found myself twisting and turning. Feeling like I had a layer of gunk on my whole body. I could feel a strange shifting all around with every adjustment and repositioning.

All I could think about were those words.

In the mirror's glare,

My reflection twists and sneers,

Cursed skin, whispers fear.

It wasn't even an hour after my poor attempt at sleep. I thought maybe some TV and an Advil could help my discomfort. Sadly, that was not the case. The moment I sat on my couch I felt it. The worst, most disgusting feeling that I still cannot put into words. Almost like bubbles sprouting from under my loose skin where I'd sat down, traveling all the way up my body, until I was filled.

It all felt unnerving, but the worst was when the bubbles began to pop, almost as if they were filled with lime juice, or alcohol. The burn I felt shocked me. It was excruciating. I knew my body was in pain. Too much to move, but all I could think about was my skin. It didn't look right, the bubbles are proving the point I made while staring in the mirror. This skin is all wrong. I needed to get out of it.

Reaching for anything to help me get out of this skin was a hassle. The moment I made contact with anything in my vicinity the bubbles would come back, sprouting from the part of my body that made contact with the objects. I knew they hurt, but the only reason I was frustrated with them is because it meant my body would be too shocked to move. And if I was going to get rid of this skin, I needed to move.

After my struggle with controlling my body I decided my nails and teeth would have to work.

I've been writing this with the little bit of clarity i have left, my left forearm is almost completely raw, nothing but flesh and tendons are showing. Both legs where much harder to remove the skin, they look shredded with chunks of my skin hanging on, revealing veins and muscle.

This was all due to that awful poem.

In the mirror's glare,

My reflection twists and sneers,

Cursed skin, whispers fear.

This is my last shot at hope, along with the poem was a note. I cant use my phone to quote the note exactly. Due to my fingers being worn down and unable to work the touch screen, so i will paraphrase a bit. “Reading this poem will open your eyes, 3 times. Read the poem 3 times and look into a mirror, then the truth will begin to show itself. Spread the word to all that will listen, then you will find your solace.” it was written a bit more concise and mystic than this but I'm in no state to think of anything creative.

I'm sorry, I wrote the poem 3 times in this story in hopes you would read it, in hopes that this feeling would go away, maybe it could be passed on. My only advice to you now is avoid any mirrors, and send this poem out any way possible.

Maybe you will be more lucky than I, or maybe you will start to understand why the skin you have is a trap, a trap you can escape with just a look at your reflection.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/solardrxpp1 on 2024-04-09 00:39:18.

My escape from my law firm job came in the form of a woman announcing her maternity leave at a bookstore, which gave me a chance to take her place. A chance to drown in the musty scent of old paper, get reacquainted with the sun, and lose myself in the comforting rhythm of turning pages. But the transition from law firm life to bookstore life, it seemed, would require a different kind of adjustment.

My first day working at the bookstore went pretty good. I manned the front desk, greeting customers and stamping receipts with a satisfying "thwack." But after a while, the thrill of a new job wore off, and the dull ache in my feet began to throb. I shifted my weight, trying to find a comfortable position, when the bell above the door chimed.

A wave of relief washed over me as I looked up. There, standing in a huddle, were the Petersons – the kind, quiet couple with three rambunctious kids. They lived directly across the street from me in my neighborhood. Seeing them felt like a warm breeze on a chilly day.

Mrs. Peterson, a woman whose smile could light up a room, beamed at me first.

"Well, hello there!" she exclaimed, her voice laced with surprise. "What a surprise to see you here!"

“Hey Mrs. Peterson! It’s good to see you and your family, what can I do for y’all?”

She gave me a big smile and said, “I’ve been looking for a book written by Freida McFadden called The Inmate, and I was wondering if it was in stock?”

“Hm, I’m not entirely sure, but I can take a look for you!”

“That sounds good, thank you.”

I lifted my weight from the counter, the dull ache in my feet momentarily forgotten. Walking to the towering shelves, I scanned the rows for the alphabetical section. Finding the "F" section, I ran my finger along the spines, searching for the name "Freida McFadden." Relief washed over me as I finally spotted it – a medium paperback titled "The Inmate" nestled between a travel guide and a self-help book.

I grabbed the book and made my way back to the front desk. The Petersons were waiting, anticipation sparkling in Mrs. Peterson's eyes. With a dramatic "Ta-da!" I presented the book, holding it up next to my face with a wide grin. Mrs. Peterson let out a surprised laugh, the sound a little brittle at the edges.

“You scared me for a second there” she said, her gaze lingering a touch too long on the title.

I placed the book on the counter and scanned the barcode on the back of the soft-covered book. "$19.95," I said in my monotone professional-sounding voice. Mrs. Peterson handed me the money while her husband in the back, his eyebrows shooting up slightly as if surprised by the price, watched the exchange.

Our hands brushed slightly as she handed me the money, and it sent a shiver down my spine – her hands were cold.

"Thank you so much for the help!" she said.

Her family shuffled towards the door, their usual rambunctiousness replaced by a strange quiet. Then, as Mrs. Peterson reached the exit, she turned back, her gaze lingering on me for a beat too long. "See you around, neighbor," she said, a strange glint in her eyes.

The end of my shift consisted of me restocking shelves, dusting the spines of travel guides until they gleamed, and putting up colorful displays for the latest fantasy releases. At 9:00 PM, I was finally able to clock out.

Grabbing my keys, I made my way to the door, the silence of the bookstore a stark contrast to the usual daytime bustle. Opening the door, I stepped out into the cool night air.

My car, a dented but reliable Toyota Corolla, sat faithfully in the parking lot. Pulling on the handle, I inserted the keys and twisted and heard the familiar roar of the engine, a welcome sound.

Pulling into my driveway, exhaustion momentarily forgotten, I noticed a man across the street, perched on the Petersons' porch swing, his legs pumping back and forth in an unsettlingly rapid rhythm. An impossibly wide grin stretched across his face, the kind that didn't reach his eyes. He seemed far too awake and enthusiastic for the hour, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling intensity.

What struck me odd was the absence of the Peterson's car in their driveway. It was empty except for this strange man perched on their porch swing, grinning like a jack-o'-lantern carved with a rusty butter knife. Maybe they'd finally moved out, and Mrs. Peterson just didn’t want me to know. But why so quickly and so suddenly? They'd lived there for years, their minivan a permanent fixture in the driveway. If they moved out, then where was this new smiling neighbor's car? Did he not have one? I wanted to ask him about all of this but something about his smile made me really uncomfortable.

As I fumbled with my house keys, his grin widened, and he gave a boisterous wave – a gesture that felt more like a challenge than a greeting.

I plastered on a forced smile, unlocked my front door and went inside. Tired after a long day at work, I took a hot shower that barely managed to wash away the chill that had settled beneath my skin.

Exhausted, I skipped dinner and collapsed into bed, the image of the grinning man on the Petersons' porch flickering behind my eyelids.

I woke up the next morning and relief flooded me as I remembered it was my day off – a whole day to myself to unwind.

Fueling up on cold coffee and stale crackers, I flicked on the TV, and as I was watching, I suddenly remembered the strange neighbor and his unnervingly wide smile. Springing up from the couch, I was drawn to the window in my bedroom, the one that offered a perfect line of sight to the Petersons' house across the street.

A glance out the window revealed the sun fully risen, casting a warm glow on the street. My attention was drawn back to the man across the street. He was back on the porch, that unsettling grin still stretched across his face.

A knot of unease tightened in my stomach. It wasn't the social awkwardness of being caught staring, but a deeper, more primal sense of disquiet. Like I'd witnessed something I shouldn't have, something that hinted at a darkness lurking beneath the surface. I offered a weak wave and a strained smile, completely embarrassed that I'd just been caught staring at him through my window.

He, his grin unwavering, waved back, then stood frozen, his gaze locked on me through my bedroom window. A shiver danced down my spine like a spider scuttling across my skin. Retreating further into the house, I pulled the curtains shut, the interaction leaving a foul taste in my mouth.

The whole day I stayed glued to the couch watching Netflix. Time seemed to warp and twist, the hours melting away faster than I could keep track. A glance at my phone jolted me – 8:00 PM already.

Just as I rose from the couch to get some real food, a sudden, loud pounding on the door shattered the silence. I jumped, startled by the unexpected noise, my heart hammering in my chest. Cautiously, I approached the door, peering through the peephole.

A flash of red and blue light flickered in the hallway, instantly twisting my gut with a sickening dread. With a trembling hand, I unlocked the door.

A stern-faced police officer stood on my doorstep, a sea of blue uniforms behind him, and a bright yellow crime scene tape, illuminated by the flashing squad cars, stretched around the perimeter of the Petersons' property.

Before I could even stammer a greeting, the officer spoke, his voice clipped and official.

"We're here concerning the residents across the street, the Petersons. Do you know when you last saw them?"

“I... I saw them a few days ago at the bookstore," I stammered, my voice barely a whisper.

The next thing the officer said hit me like a punch to the face.

“We regret to inform you that the Petersons were found stabbed to death in their home.”

stabbed to death?

A chill ran down my spine, the image of the strange grinning man on their porch flashing in my mind. I swallowed hard, my voice barely a whisper.

“I saw a man on the Peterson's porch," I blurted out, the words tumbling from my lips before I could stop them.

The officer's brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

“What man? We didn't find any other person there.

His words sent a jolt through me. Doubt gnawed at me, the memory of the unsettling grin vivid in my mind. I stammered, unsure of what else to say.

"I... I don't know," I mumbled, feeling a wave of helplessness wash over me. The officer sighed, his gaze lingering on me for a moment longer than necessary.

“Look," he said, his voice softening slightly, "if you see anything suspicious, anything at all, please call this number." He handed me a card with a precinct phone number printed on it.

Before I could respond, he turned and walked back to the swarm of officers surrounding the Peterson's house, leaving me standing alone on my doorstep.

Who was that man? Was he connected to the Petersons' deaths?

Putting everything together made a horrifying kind of sense – the man I had been seeing must’ve murdered the Peterson’s and had been pretending to live there, and just recently, the man must’ve just moved on from the house and left. I have no way to prove this but, logic screams a horrifying truth.

Yesterday should have brought closure, but the guilt of not knowing more gnawed at me. The police investigation seemed to be at a standstill, they had no leads on who could be responsible, and I wasn’t able to get much sleep.

Needing a break, I decided to grab breakfast...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/markimdreaming on 2024-04-08 18:37:55.

PART 3 HERE

PART 2 HERE

PART 1 HERE

Obviously, we didn’t sleep that night. But we didn’t fake-sleep either. We just talked. We talked all night, about our lives, our families, friends, everything. It was a very sweet moment, which almost made me forget how shitty our situation was. She explained that her parents, despite presenting as a loving and caring couple, never paid much attention to her. As far as she knew, they never wanted her. She was an accident, that they kept because they’re too conservative to have an abortion. She didn’t have much friend either, just a few classmates that didn’t mind her, but that was it. Let’s just say that I could relate to the loneliness part.

Eventually, we came to the topic of what happened that day. We both had questions to ask each other obviously, a lot of new things took place.

“So, how did you know?” I asked.

“Know what?” She said.

“I mean, you knew that this man wanted to hide what was behind the door of the closet. How?”

She took a moment to think about it.

“Well, when you guys were talking, I started to have some sort of, I don’t know, vision? It was like, I could still see everything, but I was seeing something else, on top of it. It was a door, just where the man was standing.”

“The closet?” I asked.

“No, it was like, an old and wooden door, covered in mold. It seemed fragile. So, I got up, and opened it. Inside was a dark space, just like the one I find myself in when Vesel possesses me. There were whispers all around me, I couldn’t understand what they were seeing, it sounded like an old language. I wandered around for a little bit, but didn’t find a thing, until I found him. He was there, sitting on the floor, holding his own head, eyes white, no pupil, repeating the same thing: “the door is bad, no closet, it’s bad.”. Then, I had a strong feeling of guilt, sadness, despair all around me, like it was choking me. I ran back to the door, got out of there, and I was back. That’s how I figured…”

“Do you think you entered his mind? Like Vesel does?” I asked.

“I can’t possess him, but yes, I think I did enter his mind.” She answered.

“Are we even able to do that?”

“As far as I know, no. But I may have some idea of how I was able to.”

“Tell me, what is it?”

“Well, see, for 2 years, I was alone, and Vesel had me at his disposal whenever he wanted. He was possessing me pretty frequently, to get me blood bags, but he was also possessing me at other times, and I don’t know what he was doing with me, but I think he was using me, almost like his own body, using his abilities in me to have fun in the outside world. He probably thought that, because I was young, and also emotionally vulnerable, it wouldn’t do anything, but in the end, I think I now have some leftovers from what he did while possessing me, and I can access them now that my mind is getting stronger. I mean that’s my theory…”

“It holds up. Is that how you defeated him while he was possessing this man?” I said.

“Well, the beginning was pretty much the same. The old door, dark space, all of this, but this time, I found the man conscious. He was crying, on the floor, eyes closed. I tried to reason with him, to get him back, but he kept on crying, saying that he did everything wrong. Then I saw Vesel. He was standing still, his eyes were white, and he had a big smile on his face. It looked like he couldn’t see me, so, my instinct made me touch his face. His pupils came back, he looked at me with an air of surprise that I never saw on his face, and I said: “get out.” and pushed him. He fell on the floor and disappeared. That’s when I came back.

I thought about this. If she was able to get him out, there’s a chance that he could be defeated completely.

“Do you think that means you can beat him?” I asked.

“I don’t think I’m stronger than him at all, I think he was surprised this time…”

“Well, one thing is sure: we now know that he has weaknesses, and so we could defeat him!” I said.

“You are extremely optimistic, are you sure?” She asked.

“We don’t know until we try, don’t you think?”

“And how do you think we could do that?”

“We’re going to his museum. We’re going to burn the book he said he was in. And then, chances are that he’ll disappear.” I said.

“I don’t know if you realize, but from what we know, it’s a small book in the private collection of the museum. There are like, thousands of book there, and we have no hints, nothing, plus, it’s extremely secured, so, I don’t know how you plan on doing that…”

“Well, it’s not like we made any plans so far, so I suggest we improvise. We’ll go at night!”

She took a moment.

“Fine, I’m in. Let’s do this.

We kept on talking for the rest of the night, and when the day started, we got on our way. The drive was calm, both of us were pretty anxious about a possible interference from Vesel, but nothing happened. We stopped on our way to drink some blood from the bags we got from the man.

Later, we arrived at our city. Coming back there felt weird. I was there a few days ago, but it felt like I had been gone for months. We both put on our “disguises”: I was wearing sunglasses and a cap, and Claire had glasses and her hair were tied. We weren’t exactly unrecognizable, but that could do the job. We were earlier than planned, the museum wouldn’t close until another 4 hours. I stopped the car at a parking lot and there was a silence.

“Do you want to talk to your family?” Claire asked.

“Why do you ask this?” I answered.

“I mean, whatever happens tonight, I don’t think there’s an end to this where we go back to our normal life. So, maybe you want to, I don’t know, speak to them one last time.”

I thought about it. She was entirely right. Not only was I not sure that we could get rid of our condition and beat Vesel, but even if we were, there was no way life would get back to normal. To the eyes of my family, and Claire’s parents, I kidnapped her for no reason. Deep down, I wanted to talk to them again, one last time, but I knew it was not possible.

“I can’t” I said.

“Why is that?”

“Claire, right now, our houses and family are probably under police surveillance, there’s no way we can get to them without getting us and them in trouble. I want to, but I can’t. Do you want to?”

“Not really. You’re probably right anyway.” She said.

I took a moment to think about it. Then it hit me.

“Unless… I think I have a way to give one last word to my parents.” I said, starting the car.

“What’s that?” She asked.

“We need to go see my girlfriend. I could give her a letter to give to my parents, and yours too if you change your mind.”

“Sarah? Why wouldn’t she be under surveillance too?”

“We weren’t really advertising our relationship, it wasn’t very serious yet. We were together mainly because I was good at sex, and she was my ty…” I stopped, realizing what I was saying.

She looked at me with a shocked face. A smile formed on her face and she started laughing.

“Okay, right, mock me if you want, sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, it came out like that. Wait how did you know she was named Sarah? I never mentioned that.” I said.

“I mean, I don’t know if you remember but a few days ago, Vesel took a look at your mind while possessing me so, I saw many things too.” She answered.

I paused.

“Wait, what else did you see about her?” I asked, embarrassed.

She looked at me, clearly trying to contain a laugh.

“You don’t want to know, trust me.” She said.

She burst out laughing, and so did I.

“That’s not fair, you know my deep secrets and I don’t.” I said.

“What, you want to wander around my privacy?”

“I guess not, you’re right.”

We laughed for a bit. After a few minutes, we arrived at Sarah’s student room. We got out of the car and I took the time to make sure neither me or Claire were thirsty. We got to her door, and I knocked. I could hear her steps coming. The door opened and I tried to put on my most normal and relaxed face.

“Hello Sarah, can you get us in, I need you for something?”

She looked at us in complete disbelief.

“Come on in fast.” She whispered.

We got in and she closed and locked the door.

“What the hell Mark?! What the fuck are you doing here?! What did you do?” She was freaking out, which was understandable.

“Hey, I’m sorry to bother you with all of this okay.”

“Yeah, you can be, out of all the places you could have go, why the hell did you come here?”

“Did the cops came talk to you?” I asked.

“No, no one did.”

“Well, that’s why we came here.”

“Okay, and may I ask why you kidnapped that girl and disappeared before coming back here with her? If that’s not too much to ask?!” She said.

“You can ask, but you won’t believe the answer.”

“Try me.” She answered.

“Fine”

The three of us sat at her table and explained everything to her. She didn’t believe us, until Claire lifted her bed and that I put a knife in my harm to show it heal in seconds. She was absolutely flabberga...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/lets-split-up on 2024-04-08 22:17:12.

I first saw it happen at work. I’d just finished ringing up a customer when every hair on my neck stood on end. Something in my peripheral vision caught my eye. I work at a board game store, and standing in an alcove peering at the game shelves was a skinny dude with a scraggly beard. His back was to me, but when he turned sideways, right at the edge of my vision I could see his mouth was gaping wide open, like he was screaming.

Weird, right?

I glanced up, ready to laugh and ask him what was up—but the dude was just chilling, totally normal face. A slight wrinkle on his forehead, lips pursed as he read the back cover of Wingspan. He looked at me.

“Yo, I keep hearing about this. Is it any good?”

“Slightly overrated in my opinion,” I replied. “But many people do seem to enjoy it.”

“I’m trying to find a game my girlfriend might play. She’s not really into board games, and doesn’t like competitive stuff. You have any good co-op games?”

“Might I suggest a roll and write? Technically competitive, but you can’t attack or interact with other players and mostly do your own thing on your board. They’re also very beginner friendly…” I turned to grab one of the reserved ones from behind the counter, and as I turned back around I nearly jumped out of my skin, because the man had approached so he was directly in front of the counter—and his mouth was wide open in a scream. Eyes wide. Like he was a zombie about to bite me. But it must’ve been my imagination because as soon as I looked at him straight on, he just looked back at me, mouth quirked.

“You all right there, my dude?” he asked.

“U-um, Cartographers is our top selling roll and write,” I stammered, recovering myself.

But every time I took my eyes away from his face… in my periphery, he seemed to be like one of the undead, a corpse with a gaping mouth.

I decided to ignore his behavior in the hope that he’d stop. He placed an order for Cartographers, and I told him I’d give him a call when his copy came in. As I took down his details, much to my annoyance he did not stop, but continued to stand in my periphery silently screaming.

The next week, when I went in for a haircut, the guy sitting a couple of chairs over was also playing dead. He appeared to be slumped in the barber chair, head lolled to one side, blue eyes wide and unseeing. But the stylist kept flitting around him, scissors snipping, and when I turned to look at him directly, he was no longer playing dead, but instead speaking to the stylist, one hand gesturing from under the cape.

Yet when I looked away a moment later… gone were his gestures. I could hear his voice, but he appeared to be lying motionless in his chair in the corner of my eye. A corpse.

When my haircut was finished and I looked over again, he was gone from the chair.

This just kept happening. Honestly, I thought it must be some sort of online fad, with people randomly pretending to be dead. The internet has spawned stranger pranks. I don’t have much of an online presence and don’t keep up with popular memes or tiktok trends, and in my head, it made sense.

It remained a relatively rare occurrence for me, and mostly happened in large crowds—for example, the airport. That was where I finally figured out the cause. I was on my way to visit family, going through airport security. A little farther behind me in line stood a young couple who were pretending to be corpses whenever I stopped looking at them. It was annoying, and I kept turning my head quickly, hoping to catch them in the act, but they were always behaving normally the moment I looked directly at them. And of course, what should have tipped me off is that no one else in the line was reacting to their behavior. Only I could see it. But at that point I was still acting under the assumption that everyone else was in on some new tiktok prank, and I wasn’t. I’m 42 and definitely give “how do you do, fellow kids” vibes by today’s social media standards.

So anyway, I put my belongings on the conveyor belt, and the couple in my periphery were now 100% normal. Finally, I thought, they stopped pretending! But the moment I collected my stuff and turned around, I nearly shrieked because both of them loomed next to me, standing slouched, faces contorted into death masks. You can’t see sharp details in your periphery, but you can catch when someone is making a terrible dead face. But when I looked at them head-on to tell them to cut that shit out they were both—normal! Staring at me like I was the weird one! The woman actually hid behind her partner.

That’s when I realized two things—one, that I was the source of the weirdness, and two, that more specifically the source was in my stuff. I felt around in my pockets, my fingers closed on cold metal, and that’s when it all clicked for me.

I found my father’s pocket watch.

Now, a little background on this watch. Dad gave it to me the day before he died. It’s cracked and doesn’t run. He’d had it for as long as I can remember, and when I was little, I asked him why he always carried a broken watch. He told me it was a family heirloom and that the cracks didn’t matter because it told time in a different way. Those were his words. When he finally passed it down to me, he looked troubled as he told me, “I don’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse, to be able to see the things it shows. My father told me to sell it, but… I never could bring myself to.”

Dad was always very soft-spoken and polite. He ran an antiques shop that closed after he died. I think he wanted me to run it, but I never had the passion or the interest. Our lives just took different paths. The watch is the one antique he made sure to give to me.

What I’m still trying to figure out is why. Because as far as I can tell, there’s no ambiguity about it. The damned thing is definitely cursed.

See, once I knew the source was the watch, it all fell into place. At the end of that family trip, when I came back to work, I followed my hunch and looked up that guy who ordered the Cartographers game. He never came back to pick it up when it came in. I’d kept it sitting on the shelf for him, even though I should’ve just put it out on the main shelves for people to browse. It still had his name on it, and I searched his details and right away found his obituary from that same week he’d come into the store.

So, THAT’S what Dad meant about the watch telling time in a different way.

If I’d known what was going on back when the customer ordered the game, I could’ve warned him. Could’ve let him know, Hey bud, maybe grab something that’s in stock currently. Better yet, forget the games, go do whatever it is you want to in your last hours of life. Start checking off that bucket list. Maybe buy something more meaningful, since it’ll be your last chance to give your girlfriend a gift.

But…

Would he have listened?

Looking back, I remember when I was a kid how things would happen with Dad that didn’t make sense at the time. He’d get in random arguments with strangers. It was so uncharacteristic, because my father wasn’t a confrontational man. Always polite. But once in awhile, at the antique store, I remember he’d step outside with a customer, and the customer would leave upset, yelling or swearing or hysterically sobbing, sometimes leaving so quickly they’d forgot whatever it was they’d purchased. And once, too, at the mall, Dad was told to leave a store after upsetting an employee. Stuff like that.

Now I realize he must’ve tried to warn people.

But did it actually help those people? Any of them? Is the watch a blessing or a curse?

The watch wasn’t always cracked. Somebody cracked it. Hurled it against a wall, or the floor, maybe in a moment of frustration. Maybe my grandfather. But he didn’t throw it away. He passed it to my dad.

Now, I wish Dad had sold it. Wish he’d given it to someone else. I know it’s not his fault. Everyone has their time. But there are some things that maybe, people are just better off not knowing. And maybe Dad thought warning people was the right thing, but I’m team curse on this one. Knowing is definitely a curse. I’d rather not know. I should’ve thrown this watch away. But like my father, and his father before, I just… didn’t.

Now it’s too late. I’m sitting here at home, and every time I pass the bathroom mirror, every time I catch a glimpse of my reflection at the edge of my vision…

It’s just too late to unsee my own dead eyes, staring back at me.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Wooleyty on 2024-04-08 21:08:27.

As I sift through my father's old belongings, I can't help but feel a strange mixture of nostalgia and unease. His recent passing has left me with a lot of questions, and as I come across his old hunting gear, it all comes flooding back to me. There's something about that trip we took to the Arizona desert when I was a kid that just won't let go. It's like a bad dream that keeps resurfacing, haunting me in my sleep. I guess I just need to talk about it with someone who might understand.

So, here's what happened: My dad grew up near a reservation, and he always talked about how important hunting was to him. He taught me how to shoot when I was little, and when I was about 10, he decided to take me on my first real hunting trip. I was excited, but I'll admit, a little nervous too. We drove out into the desert, and as we walked deeper into the woods, the silence was almost deafening. The air was crisp and clean, and the sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling the forest floor with tiny pools of light. It was beautiful, but there was something else there too. Something ancient and primal. I could feel it in the air, in the way my dad moved through the woods.

We'd been walking for about an hour when I finally spotted it. Through the scope of my rifle, I saw the head of an elk, but it was odd. It seemed too tall to be an elk. I remember thinking that maybe it was standing on its hind legs, or that there was something wrong with it. I wanted to show my dad, but before I could say anything, I heard him whisper, "Don't move." His voice was low and steady, and it sent a shiver down my spine.

We stayed perfectly still for what felt like forever. Finally, I saw my dad nod his head slightly. I took a deep breath and turned back to the elk. As I centered my scope on its chest, I felt a strange mixture of fear and determination welling up inside me. I wanted to prove to my dad that I could do this, that I was strong enough. So, when I squeezed the trigger, I did it with all of my might.

There was a sharp crack! and the elk staggered backwards. It let out a gurgling sound, and then collapsed to the ground. My heart was pounding in my chest, and my hands were shaking uncontrollably. I couldn't believe what I had just done. But as I looked at my dad, I saw a smile spread across his face. He clapped me on the shoulder and said, "Not bad, kid. Not bad at all."

We searched for the elk for what seemed like hours, but we couldn't find it. The woods were thick and unyielding, and the underbrush made it nearly impossible to track the animal. Eventually, we decided to head back to the camp, but as we walked, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. My dad, on the other hand, seemed increasingly uneasy. He kept glancing over his shoulder, as if he expected something to jump out from behind a tree.

When we finally made it back to the camp, we were both exhausted. My dad built a fire and we cooked some dinner, but neither of us could eat much. I tried to make small talk, to pretend that everything was normal, but the silence between us was deafening. As the sun set and the stars began to emerge, I could see the worry etched into my father's face.

Late into the night, I woke up to the sound of rustling leaves. I thought it was my dad, but when I looked over, he was fast asleep. The rustling grew louder, and then I saw it. A shadowy figure moving through the trees, darting from one hiding spot to another. I felt a chill run down my spine, and I knew that we were not alone.

I nudged my dad awake, and he sat up with a start. He listened intently for a moment, then nodded in the direction of the noise. "Stay here," he whispered, before creeping off into the darkness. I could see the tension in his body as he moved, every muscle taut and ready to spring into action. I wanted to call out to him, to tell him to be careful, but I knew that I couldn't.

I sat there, alone in the camp, and listened to the night around me. The rustling grew louder, and I could hear what sounded like footsteps crunching through the underbrush. I reached for my rifle, feeling the cold metal reassuringly heavy in my hand. I knew that whatever was out there, it was no ordinary animal.

It was then that I heard what sounded like my dad calling to me. I start to walk in that direction before I hear my dad's voice again, behind me. I turn fast and see my dad standing there with his flashlight. I asked him what he needed and looked confused at me and said, "I need you to stay in your tent like I told you."

My dad walked me back to the tent but when I tired to tell him what happened, he kept shhing me to stay quiet.

As we sat in the tent, I started to hear my mothers voice calling my dad and I knew something wasn't right. My dad put his finger to his lips, telling me to stay quiet and not to go outside. We sat in silence for what felt like hours, but was probably only a few minutes. I could hear the voice outside growing louder and more frantic. I didn't understand what was happening, but I knew that we were in danger.

As the voice crescendos more frantically, my dad put his hand on my mouth to stop my whimpering as I started crying, seeing my dad this scared. He pointed at the tent flap and I understood; we were going to escape through the back. We crawled out of the tent, my dad throwing me over his shoulder and headed straight for his truck. He entered in the drivers door, throwing me into the passengers seat. We left that night, leaving everything behind. I didn't know what was going on, but I knew that I never wanted to go back to that camp.

As we drove through the night, my dad kept glancing in the rearview mirror, making sure we weren't being followed. He was silent for the rest of the drive, his jaw clenched tight. I could tell that whatever had happened out there, it had changed him. When we finally reached our home, he helped me out of the car and into the house, but he didn't come in. Instead, he went back to the car and sat there, staring at nothing for what seemed like hours.

As the days went by, he became more and more distant, spending most of his time locked away in his study, refusing to talk about what had happened. I tried to be understanding, but I couldn't help but feel like I was losing him.

School resumed, and I tried to focus on my studies, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those shadowy figures darting through the trees, their eyes glowing in the darkness. I would wake up in the middle of the night, convinced that I could hear whispering outside my bedroom door.

Eventually though, school took over my life and I soon forgot about the incident. I think that made my father feel better, not having to explain anything to me.

Time passed, I graduated from high school and went off to college. My father and I didn't talk as much as we used to, but we were still close. I'd visit him during the holidays and we'd share stories about our lives, but he never once mentioned what had happened that night in the camp.

I sometimes wondered if I had imagined it all, if the whole thing had been some sort of nightmare. But then I'd remember the look in my father's eyes, the way he'd become a different person after that night.

My father passed away last month and I'm just now getting into his things at his home. When I saw the dusty camping/hunting equipment, the fear dropped into my stomach. That night came blasting into my memory and I felt the primal fear that I felt that night.

After that night, my father never went on any camping or hunting trips. What was once his favorite past time, haunted him.

I don't know what happened out there that night, but I know it changed my father. It made him cold and distant, and I'm sure it haunted him until the end. I wish I had been able to help him, to understand him better. But now it's too late.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/K1DR on 2024-04-08 20:33:17.

She was one in a litter of twelve, so cute and perfect. At least she was to me. According to the breeder, she was the ‘runt’ of the litter, and didn’t get along with the other cats. All the other customers stayed away from her. Opting for the traditionally pretty kittens, at least that’s what I thought initially, but perhaps they could see something in her gorgeous little eyes that I couldn’t.When people came to visit, they’d always say; they don’t know what it is, but there is something ‘off’ about the way Lilly looked. Lilly is what I called her, Gentle and Elegant, and lilies always hold a special place in my heart.

It was love at first sight for me and Lilly. When I saw her the first time it was like I’d entered a trance, how cute she was, a playful little fluff ball rolling around, no bigger than a can of coke. and without fear or hesitation Lilly came and snuggled with me, despite me being a stranger in the breeders home.

I took her home, fed her well and played with her as anyone would, and for a couple of months she was the perfect kitten. But one day she welcomed me home with a little present. With a big look of pride upon her face she had a bird's egg at her feet. I assume it was a pigeon’s egg of sorts. I should have told her off immediately to prevent anything further from happening, but I understood it was meant as a gift and I couldn’t be mad at such a cute teeny face. I couldn’t help myself but give her a pet and some treats.

No longer than a week had passed before I had another egg gifted to me. I threw it away and tried to pay little attention to it. But another one soon showed up, and another, and another after that.

At this point I had to tell her off, these eggs are unhygienic and not all of them were intact. As kind as these gestures were, I didn’t appreciate having various stages of bird foetus on my bed sheets.

If only this was the worst of it.

Lilly must have misunderstood me telling her off, and read the loud unfriendly noises as ‘Lilly this is not good enough’. because soon enough, as I came home later that week, I was greeted by a horror scene of blood and viscera, splattered up the skirting and trailing deeper into my home. Positioned neatly in the center of my bedroom, as if to be sure I’d see it was a dead bird.

Again I should have immediately told her off, but honestly I was impressed, Lilly was still a teeny tiny kitten and the bird she brought in was no ordinary bird, it was a full sized adult raven, much larger than herself. I initially thought this bird must have already been dead, that she’d just scavenged it, but the fresh blood and the clear signs of a struggle disproved this theory instantly. All I could say was “wow” I cleared up the mess and threw the bird in the bin. I wasn’t angry or disgusted, mostly I was impressed. I should’ve been angry though, I should’ve shown stern disapproval.

Still, if only birds were the worst of it.

Later on Lilly brought more birds, ranging from young pigeons to large adult birds such as a parakeet and the occasional seagull. A fully sized seagull taken down by a kitten. And not only once.

I should have known it then, I should have put a stop to it then.

After all I had seen it, what other people noticed but couldn’t tell.

But, I must confess, I loved her for it. Such a brave and strong cat, all of this as a gift for me? To show her love for me. I was honored, even humbled by it.

By the time Lilly was 7 months old she was bringing home something new multiple times a week. Squirrels, rats, astonishingly a fox.

I’ve heard stories of cats standing their ground against foxes, but never had I heard about a cat hunting down and killing a fox.

Amazingly it was as if Lilly knew me, understood me. Her hunts would become cleaner, as if she knew the messier it was the more I’d have to clean it. She began to stop hunting animals that freaked me out, such as the mice and rats. And well... she started to hunt the birds that I ate.

I’m not proud of this, but it started when she brought home two chickens, I imagine from the neighbor down the road, and, well, I didn’t want to waste them. So I cooked them. In a curry. It tasted fresher than any chicken I had before, so tender and juicy, and I didn’t get ill afterwards so I tried cooking some of the other birds. I ate a raven, they’re not very flavorsome, but the meat is very tender. I ate a parakeet, very tasty and juicy, but far too finicky and bony. I even ate a seagull, but they don’t taste nice at all. Lilly noticed I only ate the birds, so she began to only hunt birds after that.

She must have caught all the chickens, as my neighbor stopped selling eggs at the local farmers market.

One day Lilly stopped for a while, a little over a week had passed, with no gifts. I should have known something was up. I’d thought all the birds had learnt to stay away from this area by now. Certainly no birds ever landed on my roof since. But no, Lilly was planning something. I don’t know how she did it, or how she planned it, but she wanted to get me a gift, far ‘better’ than any she’d given before. This is when the horror truly began.

I came home from work, find a small trail of blood, quite neat and tidy I thought. I wondered what it was that she’d gotten me this time... I know it’s shameful, but I was excited to see what we could eat tonight. I followed the trail, but stopped dead in my tracks when I saw it, propped up on a pillow, was a severed human head, gawking at me. Sat just to the right of it, proud and adorable as ever, was Lilly.

I couldn’t contain myself. I was shocked, horrified, but also excited and amazed. Did a cat, my cat, no, my kitten, slay a human being? How was it possible, it can’t be. I must be mad. I thought. But, do I recognise them? The head that is.

Upon closer inspection I did, it was Father Martin, the priest of the local parish. I don’t think this was an accident.

I must be going mad, but it’s as if Lilly could hear into my thoughts. See, I’m not religious, far from it. I believe in chaos and the endless entropy of the universe. But I believe you should be good, for the sake of being good. Not ‘good’ because a God tells you to be, and then also be ‘justified’ in being an arsehole to those who are different because ‘God tells you to’. It’s all nonsense, you hate these people because you hate them, not because the Bible says so. You merely use religion as a shield, and I hate it. I think Lilly knows I hate it too.

A week ago, right when Lilly stopped giving me birds. Father Martin had banished a gay couple from attending sermons and propped up a lot of anti gay and ‘get cured today’ posters. this pissed me off so much when I’d heard about it... It couldn't have been a coincidence. The timing is too specific, the target too decisive.

That night I dug a hole deep, and buried the head within. I’m sure a neighbor saw me. When I was digging I saw a light in the corner of my eyes, when I turned to look the light was turned off. But it seemed like no one said anything. When the police did their rounds, knocking on all the doors in the neighborhood, they asked me basic questions.

Whilst they conducted their interview, Lilly snuggled my leg, purring smugly. I just played dumb and they ate it up, they didn’t conduct a search or anything.

After all this, Lilly did seem a little put out. Almost sad. I guess in her eyes she’s managed a great feat for me, and I’d thrown it away.

The police mentioned something about Lilly, again saying that something was ‘off’ about her.

They couldn’t put their finger on it, same as all the rest.I knew what it was, what everyone subconsciously saw, but didn’t recognise. It’s not initially obvious because it doesn’t make sense, but its obvious when you know it. And If I’m honest, I knew it from the beginning. I think I blocked it from my head, pretending not to notice, blinded by my love. But Lilly, Lilly doesn’t have a shadow.

I didn’t know what to do, I came close to confessing, but what would that achieve?

no one would believe me, that my cat which was still not fully matured had decapitated an adult man. That’s insane... Or if by some strange miracle they believed me, well, Lilly would get put down. She’s my baby girl. She’s so cute and well behaved, most of the time at least.

I can’t rat her out but how can I let it continue?

My neighbor keeps looking at me whenever I’m in my garden, staring at me through their blinds, as if I don’t notice. They definitely saw me bury the head. I’m certain of it. But why didn’t they say anything? What are they up to? I hate it. I hate it so much. WHY AREN’T THEY DOING ANYTHING? Silently watching, silently knowing. I can’t stand it. I CAN’T STAND IT.

I suppose I shouldn’t have thought it, but I’m not entirely regretful that I did, a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

I received a new gift from my darling Lilly that week. My neighbors head, this time paired neatly with their arm. Well, I can’t bury them again, the neighbor on the other side might see, besides... Lilly would be disappointed again, and she’s so cute when she’s happy. I guess it wouldn’t hurt.

I heard once that it tastes like pork, but it doesn’t. Not really, the texture and smell is similar but it tastes totally different. In all honesty, it’s closer to magpie.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Objective_Sundae_489 on 2024-04-08 17:16:16.

I’ve lived in the woods for the majority of my life. The city and even suburbia was too loud for me. But being surrounded by trees and nature calms me to the extent that nothing can replace my small cozy cabin in the woods. I built it myself, most of my family asked if I was going to have it become an Air BnB, but they seemed shocked when I told them I built it for myself. I live alone and they worry about me. They’ve tried to then persuade me to find a roommate or even a girlfriend. But there was no point to finding someone because I built the cabin as a studio layout. Why should I bring someone else into my home when I am perfectly comfortable with living alone?

One day, my grandmother was visiting me and before she arrived, I laid the table with the kettle pre boiled for tea and put out some bite sized sandwiches. She was very old-fashioned and always had a cup of tea in front of her period so, I made sure to make her feel at home.

A few minutes later, she knocked on my door lightly. I answered and welcomed her inside.

“You live too far out here for me to be making this trip.” She complained as I welcomed her inside.

“I can always come to you, grandma.” I chuckled and had told her this multiple times when she visited me.

She shooed her hand away disagreeing, “Nonsense, besides I have something I'd like to talk to you about today.” She immediately made her way over to my dining room table as soon as her eyes set on the kettle and teacups.

I pulled the chair out for her and she sat, the wood creaking below her. I sat across from her and began prepping the tea.

“Tea?” I asked getting ready to poor.

“Yes please. Do you have earl grey?”

I always had Earl grey; it was the only tea she would drink. Earl grey, a drop of cream and no sugar. I prepped her cup while she chatted with me.

“So, you said you had something you wanted to discuss?” I began drinking my tea as I sat Bck in my chair relaxing.

She nodded and brought her cup to her lips letting the steam fill her nostrils, “Yes, first how long have you lived out here?”

I had to think for a moment, “Oh, about five years now.”

“And you enjoy it?” She asked with an accusatory tone.

“Yes,” I smiled firmly.

“And you haven’t had any issues?”

I tilted my head to the side, “What do you mean?” She took a long sip of her tea before answering, “I am surprised you haven’t come in contact with the spirits that dwell within these woods.”

My grandmother was always a spiritual person. She believed in jinxes and bad luck and karma. She wasn't a witch exactly, but she also wasn't your typical Christian.

“What spirits?” I decided to indulge her.

“These woods are protected by spirits and if you respect them, they will leave you be. But mark them or harm their land. You will be cursed.” Oh goody.

“Well, I’ve never run into anything like that, and I don’t feel like I’ve disrespected anything.” I didn’t believe what she said but there was no point in disagreeing with her. Even if I did disagree, she would still warn me of this and push it even more. “This forest lives and breathes life, and the spirits protect it. But if you disturb them, you may be visited by one of the tree spirits. Some also call it the stick spirit because of the way it looks, tall slender and well…sticky.”

“What does it do?” I asked.

She beamed at my curiosity, “The stick spirit is a type of tree spirit that roams these woods. It is not attached to any particular tree specifically. But protects all of them, for it moves because the trees cannot.” She explained. She was on her second cup of tea now and began eating some of the sandwiches I layed out, “Thank you, these are delicious,” she said admiring the sandwiches. What was I saying? Oh, yes, the stick spirit. The reason I worry for you is because I felt a presence outside your cabin. Something watching it. Watching you.”

Wonderful, I wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight.

“I feel you may have provoked this spirit. And I want to show you how to repair your relationship with it.” I did not have a relationship with this so-called stick spirit. But apparently, I did now.

“To get the stick spirit to forgive you, you must leave a pile of pine needles and dirt along with a drop of your blood at your front door. The spear will come and see your offering and forgive you. But if you don't, rumor and folklore goes that the spirit will haunt you in your sleep every night until death.”

Her silence then told me she was finished explaining period she shifted in her chair comma the wood creaking again, “My back is starting to hurt period i think i'm going to go home and lie down.”

“Of course, grandma.” I helped her up and outside to her car, “Are you going to be alright driving yourself home?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. But do what I told you. I can sense the spirit watching.”

“Yes, grandma.” She started her car and backed out my gravel driveway.

I saw it and go back inside. What on earth was she talking about? Stick spirit? But I was still curious. I went back inside and pulled out my laptop and began Googling Washington forest, stick spirits. Several articles came up and I clicked on an image of what grandma described. A pile of pine needles and dirt. Most of the articles claim the spirit smithed and legends and fairy tales you tell your kids to make them behave. I scoffed and shut my laptop. Just as I thought it was bullshit.

That evening I watched some Criminal Minds before going to bed. I loved crime shows and I could always tell who the murderer was before they caught them. There were also a lot of seasons which kept me hooked. Eventually, I felt my eyes grew heavy and decided to turn in for the night. I changed into my pajamas and crawled into bed, already warm from me sitting and watching TV. I turned out the light and eventually fell asleep. And no, I did not leave out pine needles, dirt and my blood on my front door.

My dreams that night were nothing short of horrifying. I was even convinced I wasn't dreaming. I could hear the wind blowing through the trees outside my house, the trees creaked and an owl hooted in the distance harmonized by crickets. My room was dark except for the moonlight spilling down at an angle onto my wooden floor. I remembered lying in bed having to pee, so I got up and used the bathroom before returning to bed. But when I came back to my bedroom. Something in the window caught my attention and I froze.

A face. A bloody face was staring at me. And it was not human. You know the scream mask? Imagine that but brown and on a stick figure you know how kids draw people? Yeah, that's what was staring at me through the window. But its head was tall and skinny like a stick.

It didn't move but I knew it saw me. I didn't dare take a step forward. My heart pounded in my chest. Sweat clammed my palms. What do I do? Do I retreat to the bathroom? Do I run? Do I invite in for tea? No, this thing wasn't real. I was definitely dreaming. I'm going to ignore it and go right back to bed.

I broke eye contact with the imaginary figure and walked back to my bed, as I lifted my leg to get into bed there was a loud smack against my window. Like something took a whip and hit it against the glass. I froze again and looked at the window. The stick figure was still there and its face turned to watch me walk to my bed. It did it again and this time I saw it do it. And again and again. Over and over until the glass began to crack. I huddled under my covers hiding, like a coward. Like a child scared of a monster under its bed. Except this thing was outside my window.

I began sobbing and yelled, “What do you want? Leave me alone!”

It kept hitting the window like it was throwing a temper tantrum. And then suddenly, it stopped. I stayed frozen under my sheets and even dared to breathe.

I didn't know how much time passed but I watched my sheets light and slowly as the sun rose. I was up all night frozen in fear. Afraid of something trying to break into my house. Slowly, I pulled the sheets from over my head and looked at the window. It wasn't broken and there was nothing there. I must have dreamt it. Didn't I?

I continued to do more research throughout the day and eventually decided to take a walk through the woods to get some fresh air. I followed a local trail and walked for 30 minutes or so before turning around to walk home. The fresh air cooled my skin as birds flew above me. I was relieved and beginning to forget about last night. Until a branch snapping behind me made me jolt. It was especially unnerving since it sounded similar to the nightmare noises I heard in my sleep.

I quickened my pace a bit. The fresh air was nice and all, but I didn't need it that much. I could stay inside for the rest of the day. Everything I needed was in my cabin.

As I walked home faster, now at a small jog I didn't turn around asked the snapping sounds became more frequent and closer on my heels. I was full on running now. You know this horror movie scenes of the protagonist running through the middle of the woods at night being chased by a serial killer? This felt like that but in broad daylight and I didn't know what was chasing me. But I had a suspicion. Was I really dreaming last night or? Or was the spirit really mad at me and not going to let me be?

Approaching the view of my cabin, I exhaled and ran faster to the front porch. I almost tripped on the last stair up when my eyes laid on the sight in front of me. All my doormat we...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/MajesticActivity6 on 2024-04-07 20:22:30.

I have always been passionate about exploring caves and tombs, particularly those that are uncharted and mysterious.

The thrill of venturing into these deep, dark spaces where few dare to tread is something that never fails to excite me. Even when faced with the most perilous and deadly caves, I remain undeterred by the dangers, embracing the adrenaline rush to the fullest.

Despite being well-equipped and prepared for my expeditions, there were moments where I feared for my life and believed that my time was up.

I even left farewell messages on my phone for my family, knowing that I had no children to worry about leaving behind as a father, and no teammates to slow me down in my solo cave explorations.

Today, I stumbled upon the most thrilling tomb I have ever encountered. It remains unexplored by anyone else, so I am eager to be the first to explore and document the incredible findings awaiting within.

I spent three months getting ready for my next dive, feeling both excited and nervous about what I might find.

In a remote area of the Earth, I stumbled upon something hidden deep underground within a cave system far away from civilization.

This cave was unique, with a vertical and damp structure that required the use of my rope for navigating. As I descended down the shaft, I came across the entrance to the tomb adorned with what looked like a image of a mysterious religious figure, covered in robes and being carried to an unknown destination.

The rest of the decorations were obscured by dust, and it was only during my second dive that I noticed them. Lucky for me, I had my phone to capture photos of the decorations for mapping purposes before proceeding further, additionally, I had a torch and spare flashlight with various gear to illuminate my path as I ventured deeper into the darkness.

As I descended the stairs, I observed the walls and brick structure, unsure which historical era the bricks reminded me of. Upon entering the initial room, I noticed dusty murals adorned the walls alongside empty torches, with the murals written in ancient Latin, a language I had studied during my adventures in exploring.

The initial mural displayed the following message:

"This is not a place where riches or devotion can be found, but a prison filled with the specter of death. Retreat now or face an endless torment."

The text sent chills running down my back, it was unlike any tombs I had seen before, but my curiosity pushed me to delve deeper. I snapped a few pictures and studied the second mural.

The message on the second mural was written like this:

"This prison that we have built is meant to be untouched and undisturbed, it should be left behind and forgotten forever, may god protect us from him."

I found myself pondering, "May god protect us from him?" It was evident that this location did not appreciate intrusion. Despite contemplating a retreat, the rush of adrenaline I experienced was unlike anything I had felt before, against my better instincts, I decided to press on.

The mural room opened up to a staircase that descended even further, prompting me to ponder just how far down it went. The sound of my footsteps reverberated through the empty staircase, indicating that the descent went on for quite a distance, eventually, the stairs came to an end, revealing a massive room adorned with various artworks.

"This find is the most incredible find of the era!" i spouted out loud.

The walls of the room were adorned with artwork, expanding upwards and outwards for a minimum of 30 meters. One particular detail caught my eye: could these artistic walls be serving as guidance or direction, possibly for individuals like me who overlooked the murals and continued exploring?

The main focus of the artwork was on a gathering of individuals dressed in unfamiliar attire, worshipping an altar emanating a dark gas that contained eerie faces showing a range of emotions from delight to fear. I noticed and observed the man laying on the altar, with black gas escaping from his chest. Despite his efforts to contain the gas with his hands, it was unsuccessful.

As I was busy capturing multiple photos of the artwork from different perspectives, I suddenly heard a low growl emanating from various directions, i heard the sound of large stones rumbling, which indicated to me that it was time to quickly leave.

Having captured sufficient photographs and explored to a satisfactory extent, I planned on returning at a later time. Unfortunately, while I was rushing up the stairs, I narrowly escaped death when a massive rock almost hit me on the head. I quickly ran back down the stairs when the way ahead to the entrance was completely blocked by enormous boulders.

It was a dreadful situation, far worse than any cave mishap I had encountered before. There seemed to be no escape, and my mind immediately turned to thoughts of my family, friends, and past cave expeditions. Surprisingly, I found myself thinking about exploring again, despite feeling scared and vulnerable. I realized I should have been better prepared with the right gear, but by then it was already too late. It was as if the cave was beckoning me further in, enticing me to continue exploring.

I was trying to go home, but I realized I was unable to leave anymore as the Tomb had summoned me and I had no choice but to go.

As I made my way back to the art room, I wished and hoped for a different way out, when all of a sudden my torch died, enveloping me in total darkness, causing my bag to fall to the ground and scatter its contents.

As my hands groped for my spare flashlight, I was startled by the sound of singing emanating from the shadows, singing a language that seemed unearthly and ancient to me. In a state of panic, I unintentionally kicked various objects into the darkness, including my flashlight which I had inadvertently switched on. Frantically searching for the flashlight, I began to see faces emerging from the shadows.

The volume of the singing increased, the faces in the shadows began to smile at me, but as soon as I switched on the flashlight, everything came to an abrupt halt.

My heart was racing uncontrollably, i needed to pause and collect myself for a moment, and after gathering my gear, I proceeded to venture deeper into the Tomb. As I had injured my leg accidently kicking my gear, I was unable to run and had to take slow steps while passing through the next chamber.

There was a lot of artwork that caught my attention and I quickly snapped photos to study later, one piece depicted the man earlier from the altar standing among eerie black smoke and terrifying faces, and another shown the figures from earlier paintings lifeless, engulfed in the black gas seeping into their wounds.

Beside this room, there was another chamber where sculptures of deceased individuals with horrifying expressions were positioned, all of them appearing to bow down to the man wearing a crown made of human skin on the altar.

I didn't even think about capturing this moment on my phone, I was more focused on finding an exit. Another set of stairs descended further into the darkness, my legs refused to move, and I was consumed by terror. A sensation of an otherworldly presence emanated from below, followed by the resumption of the eerie singing, which spurred me to glance backwards, only to find nothing in sight.

Out of nowhere, my legs collapsed causing me to tumble down the stairs, leaving me covered in bruises and injuries, and I had no strength to stand back up.

"What I witnessed came close to stealing everything I had." I found myself in the grand altar room, which was adorned with towering pillars and statues of deceased individuals. The torches cast a dim light, despite the flames burning black. Sunlight was pouring through a broken gap in the wall of the room, providing me with a potential escape route.

In my frantic rush to depart, I overlooked or possibly ignored the figure laying on the altar. The individual depicted in the paintings and artwork appeared in a distorted position with dark gas enveloping his mouth and chest, giving him a zombified and paralyzed appearance that deviated from his usual depiction in the artwork.

Stupidly, I began moving on my hands towards the sunlight because my legs were frozen.

Upon awakening, the corpselike man's lifeless fingers began to move, while dark gas slowly escaped from his mouth. I screamed and hurriedly crawled towards the opening, making sure to keep my phone in my pocket while abandoning the bag and my flashlight to lessen the burden, relying solely on the light from the torches and sunlight to guide me.

I turned around and saw the Man standing there, with frothy gas coming out of his mouth. Inside him, there were more faces that seemed to be singing a melodious tune, urging me not to leave, I made a conscious effort to ignore it.

Out of nowhere, the man began running towards me at an incomprehensible pace, with a dark fog foaming out his mouth and revealing sinister faces, embodying pure evil.

He jumped at me and seized my leg, dragging me towards the altar. I kicked with all my might with my now unparalyzed leg, but my efforts were in vain. Desperately, I clawed at the loose dirt, yearning for the sunlight.

The man exerted more force, causing several bones in my leg to break completely, I yelled until my voice was hoarse yet managed to hold firm to the ground. I was on the brink of freedom yet it was so...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/yohane66 on 2024-04-08 01:19:49.

I spent about eight years in prison doing hard time; paying for the mistakes made in my youth. Everyday I dealt with screaming guards and bloody fights between cell mates. Everyday was like living in my own personal hell. The only thing that kept me sane was what I had planned when I got out. You see, my dad owned about twenty acres of forest in Montana. When I was a kid, I found myself enthralled by mother nature's beauty. Living more in the wilderness than I did in my own home. The thought of all the gorgeous scenery and untainted air. Looking forward to that slice of paradise was the only thing keeping me sane.

When it finally came time for my release, the vast wilderness was my destination. After stepping off the bus and catching up with my family. I packed a bag, filling it with supplies and even a tent. After waiting this long, I planned to stay a few days. During the start of my trek, it was more awesome than I could've imagined. The air was so clean and pure, a far cry from the stench of blood and cold steel. The pine cones crushed beneath my feet, giving me a satisfying feeling. Different birds broke the silence with happy chirping. This was what I prayed for during those eight agonizing years.

As I continued onward, the sun started to set. Giving off a stunning orange glow that brought a smile to my face. I swear, people focus too much on the everyday hustle and bustle of life. I felt like I could stay out here and live happily. But since it was getting late, I needed to find a spot to set up camp. I wasn't picky, dirt would be better than one of those prison cots. I settled under the cover of some really tall pine trees. I had planned to build a fire and roast some marshmallows. But to do that, I needed some stray branches. That's when my trip took a strange turn.

As I walked deeper, little things seemed off to me. Like the many broken trees, not small ones either. There were thick and mighty oaks snapped clean in half. Upon further inspection, they didn't seem to be rotten. This left me dumbfounded, as I didn't remember any tornadoes in the forecast. Regardless, I pushed on in search of more wood. However this time, an awful smell caught my attention. The whole area seemed to reek of body odor or that of a decaying animal. But I assumed this sort of smell was normal in the middle of the wilderness.

Eventually I came across a small cave; it looked so peaceful and serene. Like I could throw out my tent and sleep there. But that putrid sewage like stench would fill the air even worse than before. Like someone had been dumping their trash in this cave for years. As I inched closer trying not to vomit; I saw something moving around inside. It looked like a small child, albeit covered in brown matted hair. As anyone else would have, I tried getting closer. To quell my curiosity and see what in the world this creature could be. But as I did, footsteps rivaling that of thunder started approaching me.

I tried to figure out what was going on, but before I could. Something struck my head hard, instantly sending me to the ground. My vision became hazy, and I felt something wet coming from my forehead. I rubbed my fingers into the liquid, quickly realizing it was my own blood. I glanced down to see a large rock; obviously what caused the damage. I'd try to stand up and gather my bearings. Unfortunately, this would be a moment that stuck with me for the rest of my life. Towering above me was a horrifying creature straight out of a monster movie.

It had to be around nine feet tall, covered in moss like brown hair. The creature's stench alone was enough to bring a man to his knees. Now I've never considered myself a coward. Especially considering I fought for my meals eight years straight. But standing before this colossal ape-like creature; left me with only one option…run. I sprinted in retreat as fast as I could, knowing my life depended on it. To my terror, I could hear the creatures booming footsteps chasing behind me. I don't know what it was trying to protect, but it would've killed me before I found out.

As I ran and ran, the behemoth had no trouble keeping pace with me. It was to the point that I was sure its long arms could have reached out and grabbed me. Not only that, but the grunting noise he made with every step was terrifying. It sounded inhuman, downright demonic if I was being honest. My lungs felt like they were about to burst; but stopping for a breath was not an option. There was no way I was going from locked away to being killed by this thing. Even when the blood had nearly stolen my vision, I kept going.

Thankfully, the end of this massive forest came into view. And seeing as I was out of his domain, I no longer heard the creature. Leaving all my supplies behind, I raced back to my fathers house. I explained to him what happened; but he shook his head. Going as far to accuse me of being on drugs. That i must have taken a bad hit and started hallucinating.

Even the large gash in my head had to be self-inflicted. I was so angry, but I guess it was understandable. After all, who would believe that I saw such a monster. I've never been a fan of the paranormal, but after researching. I came to the conclusion that what I saw was the legendary bigfoot. A being that until now, I would've told you was completely fabricated. It was so unreal, I wish it were drug induced.

Fortunately I never saw that terrifying beast again. And it was safe to say that I lost any and all interest in the great outdoors. Now with a job and living the straight and narrow. I've put all that behind me; but I will never forget my encounter with the terrifying sasquatch.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/S_G_Woodhouse on 2024-04-08 14:42:14.

They always say you shouldn't watch your parents' old VHS tapes. I should have known that this rule also applied to grandparents' tapes.

It's all still a blur in my head, and I think I could use some help from the Internet to sort it all out.

It all started when I moved in temporarily with my grandfather, who lives alone.

My plan to set up my own YouTube channel on UFOs and the paranormal had failed to take off, despite years of publishing online.

I found myself unable to pay my rent and facing eviction. I felt so humiliated by the situation that I didn't dare ask my parents for help, preferring instead to call my grandfather instead.

Since Grandma had left us, he had continued to live alone in his house lost in the forest a few dozen miles from the city.

I figured he wouldn't mind if I came to live with him for a while, just long enough to get back on my feet.

When I asked him on the phone, he only hesitated for a second before agreeing.

When I pulled up in front of the house in my car, he was already waiting for me on the doorstep with a big smile on his face.

"Thanks so much for taking me in, Grandpa," I said, giving him a hug.

"Don't worry, we all go through hard times, that's what family's for. Come on inside, it's cold outside, we'll bring your stuff in a bit later."

Describing my grandfather would be like describing the kindest of forest rangers. He spent a lot of his time outside, hunting and gathering all sorts of things, especially mushrooms. He even had a gigantic poster hanging in the living room with almost every type of mushroom there was, and just below it, several rifles hanging on the wall.

Just below that poster was an actual cupboard full of dried mushrooms.

"Don't worry, there's no risk of you eating something that'll make you vomit or worse. I only keep these for your father when he comes and bother me. Some could even make you see elephants for hours" he laughed.

I moved into the guest room, and for the next few days, everything went smoothly.

One day, in the late afternoon, the Internet connection went down.

This happened a lot, but it usually came back after 30 minutes at the most. But after waiting 1 hour, the Internet still hadn't come back.

I ended up getting up from the sofa and wandering around the house. My grandpa had left for the afternoon, so I was on my own.

When I got upstairs, I saw a trapdoor on the ceiling that I'd never noticed before. I remembered that during one of our discussions, he had told me that he still had lots of VHS tapes, including one of my favorite childhood movies. A dinosaur movie I remembered perfectly, but had forgotten the title.

When I asked him if we could watch it sometime, for old times' sake, he said the tape must be in the attic and he'd go and get it. But I guess he forgot.

I stared at the trapdoor. I'd been living here for a while, and it felt a bit like home. I didn't feel like I was overstepping my rights. Or, if I was, he wouldn't mind too much.

After all, there was only one room downstairs he'd strongly forbidden me to enter, since that was where he butchered animals and didn't want me to set foot in it.

I climbed up the ladder to the attic.

Immediately, dust fell on me and made me sneeze. I climbed the rickety wooden stairs.

The place was plunged into darkness, and not knowing where the light was, I used the flashlight on my phone.

I looked around for a collection of VHS tapes. And I was surprised to see a sickle in perfect condition, with an old TV set in front of it, itself resting on a piece of furniture.

Maybe it was his way of enjoying the viewing of his favorite horror movies

I opened the cabinet and shone the light inside.

No children's cartoon tapes, but dozens of tapes with dates on them like "02-05-1998" and nothing else. My eyes widened, what if these were old tapes of my father when he was still a teenager?

I just wanted to have a look. Just a few seconds, nothing else, then watch them with grandpa.

I smiled as I inserted a random VHS tape into the VCR.

At first there was nothing, everything was black.

Then a hand pulled back from the lens, and I discovered a scene that would remain engraved in my memory for the rest of my life.

A woman. Probably in her twenties, blonde, and tied to an iron chair.

The room looked like a slaughterhouse. Animal skins and carcasses hung on the wall. Knives and other implements whose function I didn't want to know hung on the wall too.

"Please, please don't do that please!" the woman kept shouting, crying.

And my worst nightmare came true.

A younger version of my grandfather walked into the camera, axe in hand. Without any hesitation, he cut her head off with one clean stroke. I couldn't hold back the scream that came from my mouth next.

At the same moment, the worst thing that could happen, happened.

I heard the front door open and close.

My grandfather was back.

For a second, I imagined him coming up the stairs in the half-light, that same axe in his hand.

I stood up on my shaky legs.

I didn't have time to tidy up and get out of there, he was going to see that I'd seen what I shouldn't see.

I walked as slowly and quickly as I could towards the stairs, even though he must have heard me shouting, he still didn't know exactly where I was in the house.

I went down the stairs.

I can't believe it, my grandfather is a murderer, a psycho

I tried to think of my options, but it was already too late, he'd just arrived upstairs.

No words were necessary.

He simply looked at the open attic hatch, and the look in my eyes, to understand that I had seen what I should never have seen.

I rushed into the first room on my right, the bathroom.

Damn, there's no window to get out!

I could already imagine him taking out his axe and breaking down the door like in the movie The Shining. Except I had nothing to defend myself with, and the movie was probably going to end prematurely this time.

"Please I won't say anything grandpa, just let me go," I begged him.

"Sweetie, it's not what you think, open the door please," he replied.

I was crying, seeing my life flash before my eyes as I watched the door handle move back and forth, hyperventilating. My head became light. He was still talking through the door, but I could no longer understand what he was saying.

It was too much. Even as I knew I was telling myself I was living my last moments, I fainted.

The light was dazzling.

I got to my feet, still confused, and realized I was lying on the couch and right under the ceiling bulb.

"Are you feeling better?"

I turned my head, and saw my grandfather sitting not far from me, scrutinizing me with his eyes.

I was still dazzled by the light that had flooded my eyes a few moments ago, and I still felt an intense sense of confusion from the shock. My stomach was also churning and I had a bitter taste in my mouth.

"I know it's hard, but you'll have to get up and follow me."

I obeyed, seeing no other option in my condition.

He helped me get up and walk, holding me under the armpit. I couldn't help shivering at his touch.

We walked, and the whole time he seemed to be scrutinizing me out of the corner of his eye every five seconds.

He opened a door and we went down a few steps.

When I looked around, I realized despite the confusion where we were : the same room in which he had killed that poor woman, and probably dozens of others before. And probably me in a few moments.

"Grandpa please, you don't have to do this."

"Sit down," he simply replied.

I sat down on a wooden chair I hadn't noticed.

On the iron chair where I'd seen him kill that girl, sat the TV from the attic with a VCR underneath.

He put his hand on the TV.

"Listen to me carefully. You should never have seen what was on that tape, but not for the reasons you think."

He glared at me, and I felt like I was still floating.

"I don't want to make you see this shocking scene again, but please, listen to what happens right afterwards," and as he said this he played the tape shortly after the murder.

He crouched down right next to me.

"You can hear it, right?" he asked.

At first I couldn't see what he was talking about, but then I heard it. The woman, despite the fact that her head had separated from her body, was still screaming. But it wasn't really the woman's voice anymore. It sounded like it was filled with rage and malice.

"I will take your soul! You and all the others!"

My grandfather was standing right next to my face, staring at me.

"I... I hear it, what is it?"

"We're not sure. And you shouldn't know too much either sweetie."

"Wait, how do I know this isn't just a trick?"

He stood up slowly, looking hesitant. I vaguely tried to keep my balance on my chair in the meanwhile.

"Once the head is separated from the body, I keep it in order to send them... somewhere secret, to study them."

He stood right in front of me and stared, "They're all still alive in jars, right behind that wardrobe door. Can't you hear them?"

He seemed to hesitate but finally stood next to the door, still staring at me.

"They're screaming, look at their faces," and with that he opened the door.

Inside were dozens of jars containing women's heads in clear liquid.

In shock, I saw them one by one start to scream, their eyes black.

Demons.

We finally went back upstairs and I spent the rest of the day in bed, still in shock. I even threw up several times during the night. I had so many questions, bu...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/AcidStreet7 on 2024-04-08 09:29:08.

I woke up to him slamming his head against our front door. They’d told me he was confined, and escape was unlikely.

I come from a small town, one of those wasteland sorts–heavy fog washes over the roads come morning, and during the night there are no visible stars but the moon, shining triumphantly over our house. So no one can save me

My husband and I lived in a neighborhood that contains two houses; one is mine and the other has been evacuated since the accident.

My husband had tried to shield me from the house opposite ours, as I was pregnant and he was worried that if I went near there, our late neighbors would pass over their rumored disease to me and the baby. I insisted that I was strong, but agreed to stay away from their house. It wasn’t inviting, besides. It was old and there was mildew growing over the outside walls, and the interior was no more comforting. The entire place was lit with white bulbs, which against the age of the house made it appear uncanny. Sterile lights, no warmth.

I used to watch it from my bedroom window, while my husband would get undressed from his strenuous day of work. But one night, while I was peering at the window, I saw it. What the news had mentioned half-heartedly, as if it was nothing to be worried about. PEOPLE WERE EATING PEOPLE. A phenomenon as ridiculous as that, I figured, shouldn’t be taken seriously anyway.

Our neighbor had a young son, eight or so. He and his mother were seated in the kitchen, and the son loomed dreadfully over his mother, smoothing a wet, swollen finger over her hair. Slicking it back, so he had more room to see the expanse of her face. I moved closer to the window, until my cheek brushed up against the cold glass. The boy held his mothers face, then picked a fork up from the table. He was soaking wet and his body seemed to be yellow, flushed as if he had jaundice. His brittle skin was ripping, as if the poor thing were so thin his skin was but a paper splayed over him, bound to break.

Slowly, he stuck the fork into his mothers cheek, and pulled downward, revealing the fatty flesh that sat so delicately underneath. His thumb squeezed into her face, and she didn’t move. She appeared transfixed, maybe on drugs. The boy pulled away from his mother but kept his fingers of her flesh, pulling the fork further until it reached her nose.

Then, he stabbed the fork through the cartilage and bone of her nose, and brought the matter to his face. Eating it, an empty expression on his face, eyes wide and twitching. He looked away from his mother then shoved his hand back into her cheek, squelching it like jelly, his other hand banging profusely against the table.

I stood up and I screamed for my husband. He ran inside and I showed him what I was seeing, while tears streamed down my face.

He kept his mouth pursed, while I pleaded for him to go help them. Help that poor child. I thought of my own child, unborn and waiting to come into a world like this.

“No.” He said, sternly. “They will die soon.”

“Then I’m calling the police, please! This–I can’t just let this happen right beside us–”

“You’re NOT calling the police. You are going to make yourself sick.” He shut the curtain then put both his hands upon my shoulders, and suddenly I felt him grow colder. Usually his touch comforted me, it was always burning hot with love and care, but now I felt entrapped by him. He leaned forward, kissing my cheek. “You just go to bed now.”

“No, I can’t! God, no!”

His grip tightened around me, and his head lingered near mine. His lips brushed up against my ear, and his breath felt heavy, unkind. “Wouldn’t you want to be left alone if you were them, sweetheart?”

I didn’t know he’d already contracted it. Neither did he. I don’t think they ever realize they’ve got the disease.

I ended up taking a sleeping pill and forcing myself to forget about it, as his firm words made me wonder if I had hallucinated it. He could be convincing like that.

I woke up in the middle of the night, to an empty room. My bed was the only thing that was there, my soft mattress; for a moment there was silence, comfort, and my senses hadn’t yet kicked in.

Then they did. My legs felt wet. Truth be told, I laughed to myself. Maybe an accident, though it wasn’t typical of me, but who knows–I’d never been pregnant before. I shifted my knee

And the pain hit me. I didn’t scream, but only sat still. I felt soaking wet, every part of me from my waist down felt like it was cold and air was whipping through my body. I tried to sit up, and did so just enough so I could turn on my lamp. Light flooded the room, and I saw that my lower body was almost pooled in blood.

By then the sheet had become so wet that it could’ve been a part of my body. I thrashed and kicked it off of me, then put a hand on my open stomach. My hand just continued to move deeper and deeper into my own body until I cried out and began to shake. I wiped the blood over my face, slipping as I tried to get up, help myself. I thought I could feel everything, my ribcage, my organs, everything was freezing and soaking and moving in ways I couldn’t understand and the room began to spin and I could hear my husband laughing in the bathroom and I wanted to kill him

I lost my daughter. I also lost myself. It has been a month since this occurred–and I was only a pinprick away from dying. I was able to get to the hospital and they stitched me back up. If my husband had eaten me just a bit extra he would’ve ended my life, on top of the life of our child. Not a day goes by that I do not wish the doctors would stop testing him, stop experimenting on his body to see what this disease is, and instead let him rot and starve and die.

I knew they should’ve. Because now he is back at my doorstep. Skin yellow and engorged, flailing like a deranged animal.

Help. The police won’t.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/meags_13 on 2024-04-08 05:33:24.

My grandfather was a simple man.

He worked for the newspaper company every week since he was twelve years old, only taking off for his father's funeral, the birth of his eldest daughter, and to fight in Vietnam. He married my grandmother after the war in a white-clapboard chapel in a rented suit. He collected early American history memorabilia. He believed in God.

When Grandma died, he got a bit more social. Called sometimes. Asked me what I was learning in History. Mom said it was because he was lonely. As I got older though, I became something of a history buff myself and I think Grandad connected with that. He would show me all these letters he had collected over the years - letters that the earliest of settlers had written to each other and back home when they were trying to establish towns that would survive. Jamestown. Roanoke. They were fascinating.

When Grandad died, he left all those letters in two boxes. He had planned, organized everything so it would be easy for us. He had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's and had never faced an enemy he couldn't shoot, so that's exactly what he did. He stared down his plaque-ridden brain in the mirror during a moment of lucidity and shot it with his '45.

The two boxes were labeled: 'DONATE TO MUSEUM,' and 'FOR CARRIE.'

Almost everything was in the museum donation box, which I thought was only right since they were priceless artifacts. Mom already had the Smithsonian on the line. In my box though, the things he had passed along 'for Carrie,' there were two letters, and one was from him.

_

Dear Carrie,

If you are reading this, I am dead, and I hope it's not too hard on you or your mom. The other letters I left you were given to me by a friend in the auction circuit, and he picked them up from a n antique shop- the owner gave them out for free, the bastard.

I realize I am burdening you with this knowledge, but it has to go on to somebody, and I know your brothers, God love em, couldn't cut it. But you know. You know the horrors this country was founded on and you can be trusted to do what's needed when They come back.

When I got back from Nam, I went looking for a reason to believe in America. I found this instead.

Love,

Grandad

_

Needless to say, I was spooked, and intrigued. Maybe a little numb from the week's grief and chaos. I folded up the letters in my pocket and threw away the box they came in. The rest went to the Smithsonian.

I went back to my room and read everything, stayed up for hours. At first, I thought they were the ramblings of demented and lonely old man. Then I figured they were fakes, hoaxes that were just believed by a demented and lonely old man. Parts of it read like a PBS special on the settlers; the others like a horror movie. These things, surely, could not be real. I didn't learn these things in school.

- 1

April 7, 1606

It is a grey day. All morn it has rained, and the men are weary and in foul spirits. The ground here is soft and wet, giving way underfoot like it does in Scotland, only the air swarms with a most pestilent insect that makes us itch and groan during the nights.

The native peoples do not go to the place we seek. They describe it using a word our interpreter says has no direct translation, but whenever they speak of it, they wave to blackened cobs of corn or rotten fish, dead things that fall to decay and stench. I bear no ill will towards these natives; I think them only a superstitious group, like the Scots. Perhaps it's the wet ground.

Three of my men perished last night. They did not have the same fever as the others, who suffered from horrible aches and sweats until they collapsed, but simply did not weak up in the morning after appearing strong and healthy yesterday. We found their mouths wide open and fixed in crooked screams, which has bothered the others. They begin to speak of a curse, to whisper about what the natives said. They point out to me that the roots of the trees here are thicker and blacker, and that the animals are dying. There are no birds or fish or mice, only the accursed insects.

I have nothing to say to this, other than that if the land is not wanted by the natives, it is uncontested and therefore we would be fools not to accept what providence has shown us. I tell them the king will appreciate our efforts, and I hope it is true, but these are dark waters.

Jem McCallister

Of course, I spent hours Googling 'Jem McCallister Settler'. I baffled over the date - 1606 -when the first American settlement, Jamestown, was supposedly not created until 1607. There were no results. It seemed like just another doomed early expedition.

- 2

April 9, 1606

At last we have reached The Place of Burning, as the natives call it. I do not know why. It is lush with forest plants and trees and as damp as everything else we have seen. We have called it 'Richtown,' because we hope for riches in the name of King James.

Still, there are no animals around. Our livestock continue to die. When they do, they are so skinny that there is no significant amount of meat to take from them, and when we cut them open, any meat we find is foul and stinking anyway.

Seven more men have died as well. Our numbers have reduced to twenty three, and the women. To my shame, the women have had to work in the labors of men, carrying lumber and helping to build houses. It is not right, but we must do what we can to survive in this strange land. We have begun to clear land and fell trees to build, and we need not make walls for there are no other people, and no animals.

But at night, we all hear the howling. It is like no wolf I have ever encountered, but like a mother who has lost her babe. I fear it is a banshee, and tell the men not to wander when the sun sets. Still, no beast comes for our remaining pigs or cows. Only the sickness that has taken the rest of them. Poor Beth Lyons is with child and due any day now, and I fear the babe will surely not live to see the summer. It is foolish on Patrick to have brought her along. I do not know what we will do once the last of the livestock perishes, for there is not one deer or squirrel or bird here to sustain us.

Jem McCallister

-

I went to a conservationist, one of those experts in old things, and showed him just the first two letters to see if they were real. He raised an eyebrow at the content, asked me a few times where I got it to which I replied a few times some vague story about collecting memorabilia, then said he'd send it to get carbon dated for me.

When the results came back, the conservator handed them to me with a pale face and suspicious eyes. The carbon dating of the paper on which the letter was written went back to about 1580 to 1620. That puts 1606 right smack in the middle and likely accurate, so I knew I was dealing with something real, not a hoax. Not dementia.

But the strange thing was that the chemical analysis of the letters revealed levels of sulfur 120 times normal background levels. I couldn't find any reason for this in my research, nor could I find record of a 'Place of Burning' or a strange disease that killed off animals and people. I managed to dig up a record of an expedition to the New World from around that time headed by a James McCallister, but it was listed by the English writers at the time as 'lost.'

• 3

April 14, 1606

This is a horrid place. No animal dares to set foot in our small town, and those we have brought ourselves are all dead now, their meat blackened and useless. All day, it smells of smoke and of rotten eggs.

We are hungry. I have written to the governor in England and pleaded for him to send supplies, but it will be months before such things can arrive, and we have thus far been unable to plant crops. The ground is too wet. All we have are the roots that grow naturally here, thick and tuberous things that taste of nothing but bitterness, and make us tired and sluggish the rest of the day.

Beth Lyons gave birth last night. The babe was born with black eyes, no whites. His skin was grey like that of a fish, and he screamed and screamed from the moment he came out- not in the desperate, wailing way that infants do, but almost in rage. Beth would not speak, and would not hold it.

Patrick says he doesn't want the child in his house. He put it in the cradle and said the boy 'stared at him.' When I went to see it, the child had its mouth wide open like the corpses of our men who had died from the illness and its eyes were full of hatred. I swear before Christ that it spoke to me, in the voice of a man, or rather, of many men, and said this:

'Foolish son of Adam, I will feast on your marrow. I will devour your soul as I devour all children of flesh. This infant shall be neither the first nor the last.'

Beth started to scream and has not stopped. Her laughed, then began to scream as well. We took it out and have placed it in the church we built, hoping the House of God could drive out whatever evil resided in it, or at least contain it.

This morning, we found Beth dead. Patrick had killed her, to stop the screaming, then shot himself. The baby continues to cry and nobody, not even Father Noah will enter the church.

I pray God deliver us from this terror, but I fear with each day that God does not reside here.

Jem McCallister

-

Virginia Dare, of course, was supposed to be the first white child born on American soil. This, I realized with a chill, thinking of th...

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I didn't believe in ghosts... until I saw one in real life that is.

Growing up, I was always told that that thing in the corner of your eye that you noticed but when you turned around nothing was and the unexpected shiver you felt randomly, even on hot summer days was a ghost. I always assumed these were jokes because I was taught that there was no such thing as the paranormal, more specifically, ghosts and spirits. The only real thing about a ghost were the costumes my friends would dress up in for Halloween. I was quite happy living in my blissful, non-believing world that anything that went bump in the night was all made up. Sometimes I wish I still lived in that world...

This incident happened a few weeks ago. The six week summer hols were almost over and school was about to start up again. Being stupid and bored teenagers, me and a group of friends decided to explore abandoned buildings in our town. We always did this during the daytime, however, my best girl friend, Amy, came up with a daring idea. She said that there was one place we had yet to explore: an old, rotting house on the outskirts of the industrial buildings. We all agreed to go but Amy said that we should do it at night. Of course, we were all very concerned about doing this now but Amy played the "chicken card" on us, so we all agreed to go at night.

When night came, we all snuck out of our homes and met up at a bus stop near the industrial estate. Despite it being warm, we were all shivering with a mixture of excitement and slight fear. The potential of getting seen by strangers living in the house wasn't what we feared though... it was getting in trouble with our parents for sneaking out so late.

Once we were all together, we walked to the outskirts of the industrial area and the house came into view. It was large and wooded, with what looked to be at least three floors. It smelled and it gave a very "dead" vibe. During the day, we probably wouldn't have been so nervous about going inside because nothing bad ever happens during the day right? In my head, it's at night were the drug dealers and killers come out to play. But either way, we persisted and walked up the steps to the front door. The wooden floorboards of the porch creaked as if they were going to crack by the weight of a feather. Luckily, they didn't and one of us opened the door that looked like it was going to fall off the hinges. Of course, it was dark, so we all pulled out our phones and turned on our lights to see.

The house was empty but the smell of decaying animals, feces and dirt filled the air. Cobwebs stuck to ever nook and cranie of the walls, ceiling and floor. To cover more ground, Amy suggested that we split up. So that's what we did. I ended up going with my other girl friend Pip and my guy friend Scott. We decided we were gonna take the upstairs area while Amy and the others stayed downstairs. Once upstairs, me and my group explored the rooms that looked like they used to be inhabited by children. The walls of one room were a decaying pink while the other was a decaying blue. There were some leftover toys, like dolls in dresses and race cars. Scott made a joke about how maybe some kids died in these rooms and that their ghosts still remain. Pip laughed and I just rolled my eyes, after all, I didn't believe in ghosts.

I decided to go off on my own at one point as I was getting bored of following Pip and Scott's slow ass pace. Eventually, I discovered the ladder to the loft so, without telling anyone, I pulled it down and climbed up. It was even smellier in there than the whole house combined. I shown my light around and eventually landed on something in the far off corner. Not wanting to go up any further, I squinted my eyes and the thing moved to look at me. It was girl. She must have been no older than six or seven. Her presence at first spooked me but then I became more concerned for her wellbeing. I asked her if she was okay but she said nothing. However, eventually she stood up and walked over, well, more liked glided over because as she came closer to me I noticed she didn't have any goddamn feet! At first I thought I was seeing things but then she got right up to my face and screamed so loudly I think it popped an eardrum. I yelled in surprise at my feet slipped. I fell off the ladder and landed on the floor, right onto my back. Pip and Scott must’ve heard me because they came running in to see if I was alright. They got me up and I tried to explain what I just saw. Pip got excited, saying I must've seen a ghost. I was about to protest when I realised that I couldn't be so sure if it was a ghost or not.

Just then, we heard screams coming from downstairs so we rushed down and saw Amy and out other friends standing outside on the porch, shaking and sweating like mad. We asked them what was wrong and the shouted at us to get out and that they just saw a tall old man with a pitchfork yelling at them to get out. Thinking about my own experience, I actually listened to them for a change and we all got the hell out of there and straight back to the bus stop. We all then discussed about what the hell we just saw. I told them about my experience up in the loft and Amy even said that she saw a glimpse of the basement and about 12 or maybe even more children, malnourished and begging for release. We all went straight back to our houses after that but I couldn't sleep. I decided to do some research on the place and what I discovered still frightens me to this day:

About fifty years ago, that place was owned by an old man who would take in children whos parents couldn't look after them. People thought he was a saviour, however, within his walls was a child's worst nightmare. He would use his pitchfork to threaten the children and even stab them with it if they did something he didn't like. Most children were kept in the basement as punishment for disobedience and most even died down there from lack of actual food. According to the article, some children were even found deceased in the loft having been locked up there. That though, wasn't even the worst part. A couple of pictures were on the article of some of the dead children... and one of them I recognised. The girl from the attic. Who screamed at me... I had seen her ghost.

From that moment on, I started to search for anything I deemed paranormal and suspicious. That thing in the corner of my eye, the shiver I feel even during a hot summers day... maybe it's not just my imagination. Ghosts are real... and that terrifies me...