nosleep

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Pprdge_Frm_Rmbrs on 2024-11-30 03:39:02+00:00.

---

I’ve been traveling a lot for work, and I hate it—I have a young family at home and as of late, I’ve only been able to spend time with them on the weekends. Which has been extra frustrating as it’s made it more difficult to bond with my stepdaughter.

She was two when her mother and I started to date, and is very much, “mama’s girl.” Now four, and even with us recently having some break through moments, I still feel like there’s a distance between us. It’s understandable though—her father was never in the picture and for the first two years of her life, it was just her and her mom. Now there’s suddenly this man around all the time—it’s been a lot to process for someone so young.

My wife hasn’t spoken much on her daughter’s father—only to say that it was a short-lived fling and that he’d died shortly after they separated—he’d never even known she was pregnant. I’m not sure exactly how he passed away really, but I try not to pry about it as she becomes quiet and withdrawn whenever the topic is broached.

I’ve often speculated that maybe he wasn’t a “good” man as she mentioned that she moved to our town to “get away from it all”—came across the country to somewhere that no one would know who she was—wanted a fresh start.

It’s not the most traditional family origin story, but things were finally starting to come together for us, and then my company decided to send me out on the road.

It’s especially brutal now with the holidays—I missed Thanksgiving because I needed to be at a conference abroad. And a FaceTime while they were at dinner at my parents’ house just wasn’t enough.

They don’t know it, but sometimes when I get back to my hotel, I like to "spy" on them through our living room camera. It’s so sweet watching my stepdaughter play dolls with her mother or seeing them snuggled up on the couch watching a movie.

Usually, they're talking about ponies or princesses—but last night I overheard a… different… exchange between the two of them.

One that frightened me to my very core.

One that’s made me question whether I can ever go home again…

****

“Mama, do you ‘member when I was in your belly?”

“Of course I do! Carrying you in my tummy is something that Mama will never forget. Why do you ask, baby?”

“Oh, I just wanted to see if you ‘membered it too.”

“What do you mean, honey? Do you remember being in Mama’s belly?”

“Mhmm. It was nice in there—warm and cozy. ‘Cept I didn’t like the voice…”

“The voice? What voice, baby?”

“You know the voice, Mama.”

“I’m not sure, sweetheart—did you maybe hear me and daddy while you were in there? We talked to you all the time!”

“No, your voices were nice. This one was mean.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, darling—maybe it was a movie or TV show we were watching…”

“I don’t think so, Mama. It talked to me a lot.”

“…what did it talk to you about…?”

“Bad stuff…”

“…what kind of bad stuff, baby?”

“It likes to hurt people, Mama.”

“Oh, sweetheart… It sounds like maybe you had a nightmare. Was this something you dreamed last night?”

“No, Mama, these are mem’ries, not dreams.”

“What makes you say that, baby?”

“You should know, Mama—it’s your voice.”

“But you said my voice is nice and this one was mean.”

“No, it’s not your voice—it’s the voice from your head.”

“I… don’t have a voice in my head…”

“Yes, you do! It told me it’s always been with you.”

“No… I… I don’t know what you’re talking about. Stop this.”

“Don’t worry, Mama—it said it won’t hurt me. It said we’re friends.”

“Let’s talk about something else… Do you want to play dolls?”

“Who’s Janice, Mama?”

“Janice… How do you know…?”

“Did you hurt Janice, Mama?”

“I didn’t… That was… I was a just a child… Please, stop now.”

“It’s okay, Mama. It told me you don’t always ‘member what you do when it takes over.”

“Stop! There is no voice. There is no Janice. You will never speak that name again; do you understand me?!”

“What about the others?”

“Others…?”

“Janice was only the first. It said you’ve hurt a lot of people, Mama.”

“Shut up.”

“Do you still hear it, Mama?”

“Shut. Up.”

“Are you still hurting people, Mama?”

“SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!”

“Don’t yell at me, Mama!”

“I’m... I’m sorry, baby, but the things you’re talking about… They shouldn’t… Have you told anyone else about this voice?”

“No, Mama—just you.”

“Good. That’s… that’s good, sweetie... So, you’re getting pretty big, right?”

“Yea, I’m growing up!”

“Okay, and so, part of growing up is that sometimes, we need to keep things to ourselves… To protect ourselves and the people we love. Does that make sense?”

“It sounds like lying, Mama—you said I shouldn’t lie…”

“Not lying, just… keeping a secret… A secret just between you and me. Can you do that for me, love? To protect Mama?”

“I s’pose I can keep a secret.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, Mama. But can we still talk about it, sometimes.”

“I don’t think that’s a good…”

“But, Mama I wanted us to share ‘cause…”

“Because what, baby?”

“’Cause I have a voice too…”

****

They sat there for a time in silence—my wife stroking her daughter’s hair.

I held my phone so tightly I thought I might shatter the screen—my fingers going pure white from lack of blood—not sure if I could continue listening.

Thinking back on my relationship with my wife, there’d been several moments—brief moments—where I thought I’d seen a flash of something behind her eyes. A flicker of something within—a flicker of something evil.

But I’d always brushed it off. She’d never shown malice—never presented danger.

At least, not to me…

While I stood, rooted to the floor, in my hotel room—considering all the horrible things my wife may have done—she suddenly snapped her gaze directly into the camera.

And there it was—the darkness…

‘Can she see me?!’ I panically wondered.

Never taking her eyes away from the camera, she asked her daughter, “What does your voice talk to you about?”

“It wants to hurt people too, Mama.”

“Who does it want to hurt, baby?”

I heard my name…

****

My wife has called me eighty-seven times since last night, and I haven’t answered yet. I’m not sure what I’ll say to her when I finally have the courage to pick up the phone.

Now I’m cursing my cheap-ass for never paying for the service that saves recordings from our camera—I have no record of their conversation.

Other than the memory of it seared into my brain.

And my return flight is tomorrow morning.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/agonyblue on 2024-11-30 02:04:00+00:00.

---

In eighth grade, I met a girl who swore she saw the color orange every time anybody said the number 12. 

“It was like a halo at the edge of her vision,” she told us, as we bonded over a Twix bar my mom had packed me for lunch. The cafeteria din was overwhelming, I remember, but me and my friends had sat there captivated by the newest member of our group. 

“What about the number 13? Or 14?” My friend Jessica asked, in hushed tones.

But Lila shrugged, her blonde curls bouncing. “It doesn’t work like that.” 

Because it wasn’t just the color orange and the number 12. Lila’s synesthesia was one of the most progressed cases that doctors had ever seen. When she said the word cake, she tasted the color blue. When she heard trumpets, she swore she saw the color red. And when she multiplied certain numbers together, it was like fireworks. 

A beautiful, but confusing, way to look at the world. 

Of course, there’d always been hints that she was different, even when she was a baby. Lila was the youngest of three girls, born on the Summer Solstice and under a full moon. She’d been an early, easy, and silent birth. 

“Didn’t cry once,” her mother told my mom after they became fast friends at the bus stop dropoff. “Not a peep. In fact, she didn’t utter a single word until she was almost three years old.” 

My mother, a child psychologist, found that… interesting. Especially; after Lila’s mom told her how she’d discovered Lila drawing a pitch-perfect rendition of a red apple at the age of one. 

By the time I met her, Lila’s diagnosis had progressed to the point where her parents were starting to get severely worried. They’d moved back to Mooresville, Alabama, where both sets of grandparents lived, and where everyone could keep an eye on her.  

But to me, and my friends, she was just Lila. Moody, unusual, but most of all, interesting. There was a joke that our friend group liked to tell, especially as we got older and graduated into high school and beyond- some people could tell the weather based on pain in bum knees, but we could predict the inclement weather based on how stormy Lila’s temperament was. 

Even as a kid, she was like a tempest brought down to Earth, with her rain and clouds clearing only after she’d poured those feelings onto whatever canvas was closest. 

On the last day of high school, my friends and I had gathered in Jessica’s backyard, for one last bonfire and soiree. Lila had come, much to our surprise, as we hadn’t seen much of her recently. Because you see, at this point, Lila had been discovered for her work. Known for painting wild landscapes and scenes, using colors and shapes that were completely unexpected. Unfortunately, she was also known for her wild temper as well. In fact, she was becoming renowned for it. 

In college, I’d visited her in New York where she was studying under the tutelage of Trudy Benson, and was getting ready to submit her work for her first gallery showing. We did the usual tour of New York; shopping, eating, drinking, but with Lila- we spent most of the time in museums. And art galleries. 

On the last day of my trip to New York, we ended up spending the entire day in the Frick Collection. After wandering around for hours, tired, hungry, and lost, I’d spent the end half of my afternoon searching for her, only to find her standing stock-still, weeping in front of Monet’s The Garden. 

She was like that. A wild, colorful, beautiful thing lost in a sea of gray. 

We’d sort of lost touch after that, despite my best efforts, until three weeks ago when I’d suddenly received an invitation out of the blue. It was to the first *official* gallery showing of Lila Brown’s work, and her gallery was going crazy. She, and everyone else, was gearing up for the biggest art release that the underground art market had seen in years when suddenly… 

Lila Brown was reported missing. 

No one knew where she was, or what had happened. Cops couldn’t find any trace of where she’d gone, and her publicist and manager was bewildered and enraged. This wasn’t a stunt she was pulling to drive up prices; she was truly missing. 

My mom made me go to the show. 

The gallery was dim, with stark-white lighting throwing her pieces into relief. It was a sharp juxtaposition with the crowds outside, with people literally clawing at the door to be let in. She had painted thirteen enormous pieces, the canvas stretching from practically floor to ceiling. 

And the pieces themselves, they were, well…. Beautiful. And terrifying, because again, this was Lila Brown. Shapes and colors swirling into pools of red and gold and white, erupting back up into… figures. Self portraits. Lila Brown had painted herself into every single piece. 

She was different in each one, not always human, but still recognizable all the same. I felt tears rise in the back of my throat, as I realized something, and my head suddenly grew very hot and heavy. 

There, in the colors and shapes and swirls, she’d found what she was always looking for. A reality that finally matched what she’d always seen. You see, Lila Brown was finally happy. 

Gentle elevator music played overhead as I turned on my heel and walked out the door.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Incogneto_mode01 on 2024-11-30 01:45:25+00:00.

---

A few months ago I noticed something in my bathroom. In the corner, next to the vent. Large clumps of my hair trailing into the ducts. And when I say large clumps of hair I mean heads of hair. All I can assume is that it’s an accumulation of years of hair brushing, cutting, and all other manner of hairdressing. And that's all there was to the story for a long time. For weeks I stared into the vent more hair accumulating day by day. Something about it felt like an achievement, like something that I’ve been secretly working on under even my own nose. I felt like I needed to add more.

It wasn’t that bad at first. Every once in a while I’d brush my hair into the corner. Or put some hair in the vent from the sink. It’s not like I felt the need to add to the corner any time I brushed my hair. I just thought of it like a hobby. If I remembered the hair was there, I’d take five minutes to add to it. I sort of took pride in it. It was a constant in my apartment, pretty much the only one I’ve had in a while. It was good for me. Like a Zen garden. I felt relieved every time I added to the collection.

It was around the holiday season when I first noticed the hair moving. It wasn't much at first. A tiny tug once or twice a week. But soon enough, it became more than that. I sat in the bathroom and watched strands of hair get slowly dragged into the darkness of the vent. I was equally intrigued as I was devastated. On one hand I had no idea what was going on, but on the other I knew exactly what was going on. Something was taking my collection. Piece by Piece day by day. I felt furious, filled with rage. I slammed by fist into the drywall. I pulled my fist out of the neatly round hole and sighed. I would have to pay for that. But I was still mad, mad at whatever was stealing my hair. And I intended to do something about it.

It must have been the first time I had ventured out of the apartment in a week. I didn’t know exactly who ran this building but I intended to find them. It took me a while to find the maintenance closet, and the man who was sitting in there. A man named Diego. An older Hispanic man who worked here longer than I’d been alive. I asked him if he had a map of the vents or anything like that. He shook his head and sighed. I thanked him for his time and stomped back to the apartment. Even if I didn’t get anything from it, It still felt good to leave my  apartment. Staying anywhere too long could get to you.

It felt like being in the apartment too long had been getting to me. I started spending more time brushing my hair, Tangling it, and brushing it again. I sometimes spent hours in the bathroom just sitting there, pulling hair. I had to keep adding to the pile. To make up for the lost strands. To keep adding to my collection. This went on for a month. I didn’t leave my apartment much. Too many weird looks. Too many people staring at my scalp. I spent almost all my time in the bathroom. I brought food, water and even a sleeping bag. As I spent more time in the bathroom, my hearing became more acute. I could swear I heard muttering from just behind the door clicking from right behind me, or scratching from deep inside the vent. I didn’t know what was happening. By the time I left the bathroom I heard almost constant whispering coming from somewhere inside the walls.

I decided to find out what was in my wall. What was stealing my hair. I barely fit into the small metal duct connecting my bathroom to the rest of the ventilation system in the building. By the time I was most of the way into the vent, I had my hands next to my head. I could barely see two feet in front of me even with the flashlight wedged between my teeth. Despite my lack of sight I knew where to go, what turns to take. I can feel the hair. Hundreds of strands of hair leading down the long metal shaft. After what felt like hours I finally heard something. A wheezing coming from down the vent. I scrambled down the seemingly infinite shaft trying to find what was making the sound. Before long I had run into something. 

A large clump of hair, almost solid. I shined my light into the wall of hair, but I couldn’t see anything through the thick tangle of hair. I would have given up after that, I couldn’t move let alone get through that. That is until I felt something brush against my leg. As soon as it happened a jolt of energy came over my body and I rushed into the hair. Ripping through the wall and slipping into a shaft leading down. As soon as I hit the ground I feel something different about this tunnel. A warm wind blows in my face and I look up. What was once cold steel ducts turned into hard concrete. I click on the flashlight and shine it around. I wouldn’t have known I was in the basement if I hadn’t seen the ceiling. I get up and look at the walls, covered in tangles and strands of my hair big enough to cover the whole room. I felt a dripping on my arm. Something cold and sticky had started to cover my shoulder. I shined around the flashlight frantically and froze as I saw it.  What I saw that day in the basement is barely describable. But what I can tell you is it stared deep into my soul. I felt something inside me change. Realize how insane it all was. It stared at me, thoughts and feelings that were not mine fill my body. I dropped my flashlight and fell to the floor. The darkness engulfed me and all I could do was cry. 

At least, that was what I remember. All this was a month ago. Before I was taken to the hospital. My family had found me in the bathroom a few days after I passed out. The doctors told me that I had lost too much blood. That when my father came through the door, he found me with the skin off my head in my hands, slouched over. I don’t know what to believe anymore. I know what the doctors said has to be true. But still, I hear whispering in the back of my mind sometimes. Asking me for more.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/MyImaginaryCatPaw on 2024-11-29 23:25:30+00:00.

---

Cashiering is so easy it’s boring. It eventually becomes an endless line of faces I don’t care to remember, with mundane items I scan on auto pilot.

A pineapple. beep.

A pizza. beep.

A gallon of milk. beep.

I check the clock for the tenth time during my shift. It’s only 4 PM. I don’t clock out till midnight. I sigh.

New customer. I greet them with a standard “How you doing?”

A hoodie covers their face, they nod in response.

A shovel. beep.

A roll of duct tape. beep.

Rubber gloves. beep.

I raise my eyebrow and take a second look at the customer. I see stubble, a scar on his chin. His head is down so I can’t make out the rest of his features. He’s tall.

A hunting knife. beep.

A pack of Ziplocks. beep.

A flashlight. beep.

I glance around to check if anyone else is seeing what I’m seeing. The other customers in line are paying more attention to the magazine selection than Ted Bundy over here.

Welp. Gotta do my job.

Three gallons of bleach. beep.

A box of garbage bags. beep.

A meat grinder. beep.

What. The. Fuck! I risk yet another glance. He’s looking at me. Shit!

“That’ll be two hundred forty three dollars and eighty cents.”

He pays in cash. Of course he pays in cash.

“Have a good one.” My voice cracks.

He nods and walks away. I realize I never heard him speak.

I’m put off. Then the next lady in line wants to know where the eggs are when they are literally in her eye-line and it’s a normal boring day at work again.

After my shift is over I’ve got a headache and my feet hurt. I’m ready to go home, soak in my tub and binge watch something.

It’s cold outside, winter has been holding our town at gun point for a week. I put my hands in my sweater pockets to warm them on the short walk to my car.

As I’m approaching the employee parking lot I see a dark shape huddle down behind my car, the only one in the lot other than my boss’s truck. What the hell? I instantly remember the shady customer. My heart starts beating fast.

I ain’t going over there by myself. I head to go straight back inside the store. I see my boss, Rick. He’s locking up.

“Hey can you walk me to my car? I think I saw someone hiding over there. . .”

“Hiding?”

“Yeah, like someone ducked down behind my car.” My teeth are chattering, I regret not bringing a jacket.

“Yeah, I’ll walk you.” He finishes locking up and we briskly walk to the employee parking lot.

He circles my car a couple times while holding his phone as a flashlight, indicating with his hand that I stay back. I’m happy to comply.

“I’m not seeing anything. If there was someone out here they’re gone now.” I can see Rick’s breath.

“Thanks for checking.”

Inside my car I check the back, just in case. Empty, other than the fast food wrappers. I breath a sigh of relief.

It’s a calm ride home. It’s not until I’ve pulled into the parking garage that I notice a slip of paper on the dash board. A receipt. I don’t remember making any purchases, and I’m in the habit of throwing trash in the back. (Don’t judge me)

I scan the list of items and my heart stops.

:SHOVEL: :CTTAPE: :GLOVES: :EKNIFE: :IPLOCK: :HLIGHT: :(3)BLEACH: :GEBAGS: :RINDER:

There’s something written on the back. I turn it over, my hand shaking.

You forgot to check the trunk

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Xegin on 2024-11-29 13:26:15+00:00.

---

Peter awoke to the sound of uneven tapping on his bedroom window. In a groggy haze he rolled over on his side to check the time. Letting out a groan, the clock next to his bed read just past midnight. He rolled back over, closing his eyes hoping that the sound would go away and he could return to sleep, but that wasn’t the case. The tapping at his window grew louder and more rapid. Pulling back the covers, Peter reluctantly stepped out of bed to check on the sound. He gently rubbed his arms, surprised by the cold summer night. Still not awake he stumbled over to the window.

Tap…tap...tap…

The rhythmic tapping against the window like some persistent solicitor at the front door. Leaning over Peter brought his face close to the window. Rubbing at his eyes he let out a yawn as his brain made sense of what he was seeing through the foggy glass. There was a familiar face standing right outside his bedroom, tapping at the window with his finger. It took a minute for Peter’s brain to catch up realizing that the shirtless man outside was his father. With his eyes half open Peter let out another yawn. What normally should have been a confusing sight felt like a surreal dream and everything always seemed to make sense in his dreams. At least until he awaked.

Tap…tap..tap… his father continued rapping at the window.

“What are you doing outside Dad, it's late?”

“I know it’s late and it’s cold out, let me back inside already.”

His father’s voice seemed soothing and calm despite the furious tapping at the window.

“S-sure Dad.” Peter stammered out pushing up on the window frame. The window creaked, holding firmly in place. He looked at the window confused that somehow it could have bested him. Outside his father moved his hand up to the middle of the window continuing his rhythmic tapping at the window lock.

“O right” Peter muttered to himself reaching for the lock. Touching the freezing cold metal latch sent a chill through his spine shocking him awake. The dreamy atmosphere shattered in an instance. The moment felt wrong. Why was his father outside? Dread crept into the back of his throat. His father had died three months ago. Breaking out into a cold sweat, Peter took a step back from the window.

“Peter open the window!” the man shouted, losing his calm demeanor, tapping angrily at the window.

“No,” Peter whispered, taking another step away from the window.

The man that looked like his father let out a hideous inhuman sequel as his upper body seized up. His face twisted and contorted into a pained expression. Reeling back from the window the man threw his head back with a snap. A line formed down the man’s neck as his body pulled apart down the middle, revealing a maw of teeth. The creature's entire body vibrated as it let out a high-pitched yelling, running at full speed into the tree line behind Peter’s house.

Collapsing to the ground Peter sat in a slump staring out the window. There would be no more sleeping tonight or for many more nights to come.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/11velociraptors on 2024-11-29 21:16:54+00:00.

---

I (33M) live in Texas with my daughter, Alicia (8F) and my son Jay (4M). Their mom has been out of the picture for the past two years (not dead, just a piece of shit) and I've managed pretty well as a single father. The three of us lived in a two bedroom in a nice neighborhood, I've got a solid job, and the kids are thankfully healthy. 

Everything was smooth sailing until one night, two months ago, in which I was awoken by Jay poking me in the face. He was sobbing violently, though I recognized it as the "I'm afraid" kind of crying as opposed to the "I'm hurt" kind of crying, which made me a little less worried. Jay's always been nightmare-prone, so I assumed that's what was causing him distress. When I asked him what was wrong though, he said:

"The man in the next house is making scary faces at me."

I'd heard my fair share of Jay's stories about monsters terrorizing him from the dark corners of his bedroom, but this was something new. I assumed he meant our neighbor's house, and the lack of fantastical elements in his description made me uneasy. It felt too specific to be one of his usual nightmares. 

I got out of bed with Jay in tow and walked to my kids' room. Alicia was awake in the top bunk. From the soft glow of their nightlight, I could see her crossing her arms and scowling down at her little brother. I didn't turn on any lights to give myself a better view of the outdoors and peered out the bedroom window. Their window had curtains on it, but for once they hadn't been drawn all the way, and there was a small opening between them through which Jay must have looked out.

One side of the neighbor's house (the one to our left if you looked at the front of our house from the street) was visible from Alicia and Jay’s room. There were two windows on the neighbor's side of the house, but it was too dark inside to see anything. I recalled from what I’d seen in the daylight that the window on the left, the one closest to the front of the house, was the kitchen. I wasn't sure what the window on the right was as it always had its curtains drawn.

I asked Alicia if she'd seen anything, and she shook her head. 

"He's always having nightmares and crying. I don't want to share a room with him anymore, Dad. I never get any sleep—it's not fair!"

Of course, hearing that made Jay start crying again, so I let him sleep in my room for the night. He has this TMNT indoor "camping" tent that he prefers to his actual bed. Honestly, at that point, I half-suspected his nightmare to be a ploy to get me to let him "camp." Anyway, I guess I'm a total pushover because he slept in that tent in my room for the next two nights. On the third night, I was again woken up, but this time by Alicia, who was standing over me and shaking my arm. That kid hadn't woken me up in the middle of the night for years. When I asked her what was wrong, she said: 

"The neighbor was making faces at me." 

Those words, and the fear in my daughter's voice, really put me on edge.

"I closed the curtains when I said goodnight. Did you open them?"

"Only a little … but it's 'cause I heard a weird noise."

"What did you hear?"

Alicia couldn’t recall exactly. According to her, she had gotten out of bed to see what was going on, and when she lifted the curtain, she saw a light on in the neighbor's window. The curtains in the back room had been drawn back and our neighbor was standing in his house, right up against the window frame.

"What was he doing?"

Alicia thought for a moment, and then made an expression I never want to see on my child's face, or anyone else's for that matter, ever again. I won't do it justice by describing it, but it looked something like this: first she smiled with both sets of teeth, so that there was a little open sliver between the rows, and then she furrowed his eyebrows. She inclined her head towards me, kind of Kubrick-stare-esque, and strained the muscles in her neck. The worst part though was what she did with his hands. She held out her left arm, forearm up. Then she clenched her right hand into a fist and moved it back and forth rapidly over her forearm. Poor thing described it as "playing the violin", but it seemed pretty obvious to me that my neighbor was pantomiming cutting. Disturbed, I told Alicia to stop, and to not make either the expression or the gesture again. I was angry and confused. My neighbor, a man in his 40s, was a bit of a recluse, but he had seemed normal enough in the three or four times I'd spoken to him. I couldn't fathom why he would do something like that to my kids.

After asking Alicia a few more questions, I realized that my neighbor might not have done anything technically (or at least legally) wrong. It wasn't against the law to make inappropriate gestures in your own home, but it seemed like he was targeting my kids specifically. Legal or not, I planned to have a little chat with him the following morning.

My last question to Alicia was if our neighbor had made any other gestures, and she nodded. Then, she started making beckoning, "come-here" motions with both of his hands.

I had Alicia sleep in my room for the night as well. I also checked out the window in my kids' room, but like before, I saw nothing. The house was completely dark.

The next morning, before work and after dropping Alicia and Jay off to school, I spent a good five minutes knocking on my neighbor's front door. I figured he was home since his car was in the driveway, but he never answered the door. Eventually I had to leave for work, and as I was walking away, I turned around quickly to see if he was watching me. He was, the coward—I saw him for a split second at the front window before he ducked beneath the sill and out of view. Clearly, the guy had problems. I yelled out to him to stop fucking with us and then left. 

That same night, I put a plan in motion. While my kids slept in my room, I hung out in theirs. It was a Friday night, and I was ready to pull an all-nighter so that I could catch my neighbor in the act. Although I trusted my kids, I wanted to confirm that there was actually something nefarious going on before I escalated things. I made sure the house was locked up and all the curtains drawn, tucked my kids in, and sat on the floor under the window in their room. At around nine, I started marathoning Midnight Mass on my phone. I didn't want to wear headphones and miss any strange sounds, so I kept the volume low and mostly read subtitles.

At midnight, I started to hear strange sounds. Like Alicia said, it's a bit hard to describe—best I can do is that it was this low, repeated clicking sound. You know the "chk-chk" sound you make to beckon a horse? It was something like that. All I knew is that the sound was undoubtedly coming from a person. After a few minutes of this, the sound switched to what I think was supposed to be a whistle, but it came out all wrong, like someone sucking breath in through their teeth. The sound was so crisp that the neighbor's window must have been open, which was an unsettling thought given that there was only around fifteen feet of space between our houses.

Certain that the neighbor was at his window, and that this was my best chance to see him, I stood up and pulled the curtain back in one motion. I saw him right away. There was a dim light on in his room, allowing me to see that horrible expression Alicia had made the night prior. It was one thing to see my child's recreation, but it was far more frightening on an adult. His window was indeed open, and his arms were stuck out into the cold night, violently swiping against each other in a grotesque mimicry of self harm. 

When he saw me, and realized that he was looking at another grown man and not some poor child, he stopped his erratic motions. His cartoonish grin faded and another, more genuine emotion settled over his features: rage. 

The man grabbed the window and slammed it shut, then closed the curtains with the same forcefulness. I let my own curtain fall. I was a little shell-shocked, I think. Of course, I was perturbed by the sight of the man, by his face and his movement and the fact that he'd been doing that for who knows how many nights now in an attempt to frighten my kids. However, another detail stuck out as even more concerning to me, which was the fact that I genuinely wasn't sure if the man I had just seen was my neighbor. I'd seen him so few times in the years I'd lived in that house, and I was having trouble conjuring up his face. 

I sat on the floor for a minute, my blood thundering in my ears. I definitely had enough evidence at that point to call the cops, right? Just as I was about to pull out my phone, I heard a tremendous smack against the glass of the bedroom window. 

After a brief hesitation, I pulled the curtain back again. There were no lights on in the neighbor's house, and there was also no one outside from what I could see. I pulled the curtains back a little further and saw a handprint in the top corner of the windowpane. It's worth noting that our house is on a raised foundation and that particular window is very tall, so even though the window is on the first floor, the man outside would've needed an insane vertical to get his hand up there. 

I pulled out my phone and dialed 9-1-1. As I explained the situation to them, I quickly walked around the house to see if I could catch a glimpse of the man. My last stop was my bedroom. Once inside, I locked the door...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/DivineAnime1 on 2024-11-29 20:27:35+00:00.

---

It started as a dare. Everything stupid in high school always does. I still remember Jake’s cocky smirk as he said, “Come on, Danny. What are you afraid of? A little ghost story?” And like an idiot, I said yes. That’s how I ended up at Windcliff Manor, clutching a flashlight like my life depended on it, standing in front of the creepiest building I’d ever seen.

Windcliff Manor wasn’t just abandoned ,it was cursed. Or so the stories went. An old psychiatric hospital, its last patient was a woman named Eleanor Grace. She’d gone missing fifty years ago, right from her room. No one ever found her body, and no one ever figured out how she’d escaped. But people say you can still hear her, whispering, calling out for help.

There were four of us: Jake, of course, our unofficial leader; Amanda, who thought the whole thing was hilarious; Sarah, who clung to Jake like a shadow; and me. I didn’t want to be there. I’ll admit that right now. But I wasn’t about to let Jake think I was scared.

The manor loomed over us, its windows gaping like empty eye sockets. The wind howled through the broken shutters, and the place stank of mildew and rot. Jake kicked the door open with a grin, the old wood creaking under his boot.

“After you, Danny,” he said with a mock bow.

I swallowed my fear and stepped inside. The air was thick and cold, like walking into a freezer. Our footsteps echoed in the empty hall, the beams of our flashlights cutting through the darkness. The walls were covered in peeling paint and graffiti mostly curse words and crude drawings. But every now and then, we’d see something stranger: symbols I didn’t recognize, like circles and jagged lines carved deep into the plaster.

“This is where they kept the crazies,” Jake said, his voice bouncing off the walls. “Straightjackets, padded rooms, the whole nine yards.”

“Yeah, but where’s the ghost?” Amanda teased, snapping a photo with her phone. “Eleanor! Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

“Shut up,” Sarah hissed. “That’s not funny.”

But Amanda didn’t stop. She was laughing, pretending to be scared, when we heard it a faint sound, like the rustling of fabric. We froze, our flashlights darting around the hall. The sound came again, soft and deliberate. It wasn’t the wind. It was footsteps.

“Jake?” Sarah whispered, her voice trembling.

Jake put a finger to his lips, signaling us to be quiet. The footsteps grew louder, echoing through the hall, until they stopped just ahead. There was a door at the end of the corridor, its wood warped with age. The sound had come from behind it.

Jake grinned, more out of nerves than bravado. “Looks like Eleanor wants visitors.”

“Don’t,” I said, my voice barely audible. But he ignored me. He pushed the door open, and the hinges screamed in protest. The room inside was small, with a single rusted bed frame and a broken chair. On the wall was a mirror, cracked and dirty, but still intact.

“See? Nothing,” Jake said, stepping inside.

That’s when we heard the whisper.

It wasn’t loud. In fact, it was so quiet I almost thought I’d imagined it. But the words were clear: “Help me.” My blood turned to ice. The whisper didn’t come from the room. It came from the mirror.

Jake laughed nervously. “Nice try, Danny. You’re not scaring me.”

“I didn’t say anything,” I stammered.

Sarah grabbed his arm. “Jake, let’s just go.”

But Jake was already walking toward the mirror. He wiped a hand across its surface, smearing the grime. For a second, there was nothing but our reflections, distorted by the cracks. Then, slowly, something else appeared.

A face.

It was pale and gaunt, with hollow eyes and a mouth that seemed stretched too wide, as though it had been screaming forever. The face wasn’t looking at Jake, it was looking at me.

“Jesus Christ!” Jake stumbled back, crashing into Sarah.

The mirror shattered. Not cracked, shattered. The pieces flew outward, one of them slicing Jake’s cheek.

I screamed, Amanda screamed, and suddenly the door slammed shut behind us.

We were trapped.

“Open it!” Sarah yelled, pounding on the door.

Jake grabbed the handle, twisting and pulling, but it wouldn’t budge. The whispers started again, louder this time, coming from every direction.

“Help me. Stay with me. Don’t leave me.”

“Stop it!” Amanda cried. “Who’s saying that? Stop it!”

Then the temperature dropped. My breath fogged in front of me, and frost began creeping along the walls. I turned, and that’s when I saw her.

Eleanor.

She stood in the corner, her body flickering like a dying lightbulb. Her face was the same as the one in the mirror—pale, hollow, and broken. Her hair hung in limp strands over her shoulders, and her hospital gown was stained with something dark and sticky.

She raised a hand, pointing at me. “Stay.”

“No!” I shouted, stumbling backward. “Get away from me!”

The whispers turned to screams, a deafening chorus of voices that made my ears ache. Eleanor stepped closer, her movements jerky and unnatural. Her feet didn’t touch the ground.

Jake finally got the door open, and we bolted. I don’t know how we made it out, but when we hit the fresh air, the screams stopped. The night was quiet again, except for the sound of Amanda sobbing and Sarah yelling at Jake for bringing us there.

But when I looked back at the manor, I saw her in the window, watching us. She wasn’t flickering anymore. She was solid. Real. And she was smiling.

We never talked about what happened, but sometimes, late at night, I hear her voice. Just a whisper.

Help Me !

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/MagesticFireFly on 2024-11-29 19:58:37+00:00.

---

July 26th, 2022, is a date forever etched in my memory—a day of unbearable loss, the day my precious Morgan was stolen from us.

It started like any other sweltering summer day. The heat was relentless, and with all three kids at home—Morgan, my eldest, and her three-year-old twin brothers, Jack and Milo—I was struggling to keep them entertained. Nursery and school were on break, and we were all restless. To break the monotony, I packed a simple picnic and decided to head to the local park, a place we visited often and loved dearly.

The park had always been my sanctuary, a sprawling haven surrounded by woods, buzzing with life and activity. It gave the kids endless hours of joy and gave me some peace of mind. I never imagined it could become the setting for my worst nightmare.

After an afternoon of laughter, running, and play, we packed up to head home. As we were walking back to the car, Jack and Milo spotted an ice cream van and, squealing with excitement, took off at full speed. I turned to Morgan, urging her to run with us, but she hesitated, wincing as she said her feet hurt. Gently, I suggested she sit and wait at a nearby picnic table while I got her an ice cream. The table was just behind us—I thought it would be safe.

How wrong I was.

By the time I paid for the ice creams and turned around, Morgan was gone. The picnic table was empty. At first, I thought maybe she had wandered off nearby, so I looked around, calling her name. The seconds stretched into minutes, and my calls grew frantic. She was nowhere to be seen. My heart thundered as I scanned every corner of the park, shouting for her, asking everyone I passed if they had seen a little girl. But no one had.

I dropped the ice creams and started running, screaming her name louder and louder. Panic gripped me as my mind raced through worst-case scenarios. I called my husband, barely able to form coherent words, and then the police. Within hours, a search was underway.

The days that followed felt like a living nightmare. Search parties combed the woods, helicopters circled overhead, and volunteers plastered Morgan's picture across town. But as the days turned into weeks, hope began to fade. Leads dried up. The police had no evidence, no witnesses. Eventually, the search parties dwindled, and people moved on with their lives.

But I couldn't.

Morgan was my world, my bright, beautiful little girl with a smile that could light up the darkest room. The world may have forgotten her, but I never did.

Two years had passed since Morgan vanished, and I had long stopped hoping for her return. The grief had settled into me, heavy and unrelenting, and the idea of seeing her again felt like an impossible dream. That’s why, when my husband called me a few weeks ago, sobbing and begging me to come to the police station, my first thought was of the worst.

“She's been found,” he choked out.

My heart plummeted. I braced myself for what he really meant—that her body had been found. That after two years of uncertainty, at least we’d have answers and a chance to say goodbye. I told myself it was better this way, better than not knowing. But as I drove to the station, my hands trembling on the wheel, I couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

When I arrived, an officer met me and guided me into a small, quiet room. My husband was already there, his face pale and tear-streaked. The officer began to explain, but the words didn’t make sense.

“She was found wandering a street near the park,” he said gently. “A local shopkeeper recognised her and called us.”

It didn’t compute. “She’s… alive?” I whispered, hardly daring to believe it.

My husband shot me a look—a mix of disbelief, relief, and something else I couldn’t place. The officer nodded. “Yes. She’s alive.”

My heart felt like it might burst. Relief, hope, and confusion warred inside me. “Did she… did she say anything? About where she’s been? Or who took her?” my husband asked, his voice shaking. The officer hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “She’s been through a lot. She’s still processing it. All she’s really mentioned is someone she calls the ‘shadow man.’” He paused before adding, “We’ve arranged for therapy sessions to help her adjust. It’s important to ease her into things—this will take time.”

“Can we see her?” I asked, hardly able to contain myself. My voice cracked, tears threatening to spill over.

The officer smiled kindly and led us to another room. And there she was. My Morgan, sitting quietly at a table, looking small and uncertain. My husband ran to her, dropping to his knees and wrapping her in his arms. I hung back for a moment, overwhelmed by the sight of her. She looked just as she had the day she disappeared. Her pink pony T-shirt and blue jeans were the same, right down to the tiny grass stain on the knee. Her blonde curls sat perfectly at her shoulders, exactly as I remembered them. She hadn’t grown a single inch. At six years old, she’d been petite, but now, at eight, she should have looked different. Her face, her posture, her very presence—it was like time had stopped the moment she disappeared.

I shook off the unease, reminding myself that trauma can do strange things. Maybe her time away had stunted her growth, or maybe I was imagining it because of how overwhelming it all felt. But even as I reassured myself, a part of me couldn’t ignore the oddness of it all.

“Morgan,” I whispered, stepping closer. “Sweetheart, it’s me.” Her eyes met mine, and for a brief moment, they lit up with recognition. She broke into a small, hesitant smile. “Mommy,” she said softly.

That one word shattered every wall I had built around my heart. I rushed forward, pulling her into my arms, feeling her warmth, smelling the faint scent of her strawberry shampoo. She was here. She was real. And yet, as I held her close, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something about this wasn’t as simple as it seemed.

As the weeks went on, life slowly returned to normal—or at least, a version of it. Morgan’s brothers were overjoyed to have her back, and she slipped seamlessly back into her role as the bright, cheerful older sister. She was the same lovely little girl she’d always been, and soon, I stopped questioning her miraculous return. My doubts faded into the background, buried under the relief of having her home.

Morgan was making great progress in therapy. Her psychologist reassured us that the “shadow man” was likely a manifestation of trauma—a coping mechanism to help her process whatever she’d been through. We were advised not to press her for details and instead focus on creating a safe and loving environment. “Just enjoy having her home,” the psychologist had said. So, I did my best to let go of the unease that occasionally crept in. But then strange things started happening.

One night, I woke in the middle of the night and padded to the bathroom. On my way back to bed, I passed Morgan’s room and paused when I heard something—a faint, hushed whisper. My heart skipped. I slowly pushed the door open.

“Morgan?” I called softly.

She was sitting in the middle of her room, legs crossed, her head tilted back. She was staring up at the corner of the ceiling, whispering something I couldn’t make out. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, and she seemed completely oblivious to my presence.

“Morgan,” I said again, a little louder this time, stepping inside.

Still, she didn’t react. I moved closer, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. She blinked then, as if waking from a trance, and turned to look at me. Her expression was calm, even serene, but something about the moment made my skin crawl.

“Come on, sweetheart,” I said softly, assuming she was sleepwalking. I guided her back to bed, tucked her in, and kissed her forehead. But as I closed her door and went back to my own room, I couldn’t shake the image of her staring at that empty corner.

The next few nights were the same. I’d wake to the sound of whispers, find her sitting in the same spot, her gaze fixed on the same corner of the ceiling. She always seemed calm, but I couldn’t help feeling a growing sense of dread.

Finally, one night as I tucked her into bed, I decided to break the rules. Against the psychologist’s advice, I asked her about it.

“Morgan,” I said gently, sitting on the edge of her bed. “Who are you speaking to at night?”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, she glanced at the corner of the ceiling, as if she were seeking permission to answer. My stomach tightened.

I forced a smile and tried a different approach. “Okay, let’s play a game,” I said lightly. “I’ll ask a question, and you just say ‘apples’ for yes and ‘oranges’ for no. Sound good?”

She nodded hesitantly.

“Is your name Morgan?” I asked, starting with something simple.

“Apples,” she said softly.

“Are you speaking to someone at night?” I continued.

“Apples."

“Can you say who?”

“Oranges.”

I hesitated. My pulse quickened as I asked the next question, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Are they the ones who took you?”

There was a pause, so long that I thought she wouldn’t answer. But then, finally, she said it.

“Apples.”

I tried to convince Morgan to sleep in my bed that night. I was terrified—not just for her, but of whatever was happening in that room. The logical part of me insisted it was all trauma-induced, that the whispers and fixation on the ceiling were just her mind’s way of coping. But there was something else, something I co...

---

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/StrangeAccounts on 2024-11-29 16:59:03+00:00.

---

They sent for me in the dead of winter. It was the season of the long night in Antarctica, when the sun refused to rise and I had no idea what to expect. Even the instructions were vague, almost cryptic, except for one clear detail: I was to report to a research outpost near the pole, isolated in the most desolate place on Earth.

As my plane landed, a storm whipped the ice, wind screeching and rattling the metal of the craft. The sky was a bruised shade of purple, and the lights from the base ahead blinked like tiny, pale stars. I felt an oppressive weight settle on my chest the moment I stepped onto the icy ground.

A young soldier, face half-hidden under a hood and goggles, approached. He looked relieved to see the priest’s collar under my thick wool coat, a good feeling despite me being clearly out of place.

“Father Martin?” he asked, his voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around his mouth.

I nodded, clutching my bag close, feeling the bite of the wind seep through every layer. “I am. And you are?”

“Corporal Haines, sir,” he replied, standing stiffly. “They’ve been waiting for you. You’re to come with me to the briefing room immediately.”

I followed, casting a last look at the endless stretch of ice, only broken by low hills and jagged cliffs in the distance. There was nothing here but emptiness and the howling wind. The silence was unlike anything I’d ever known, vast and profound, but laced with something… unsettling. I pushed the feeling aside as we reached the entrance.

Inside the outpost I was met with metal walls, harsh fluorescent lights, and soldiers in somber green coats, glancing at me with something I couldn't quite place.

We passed down narrow corridors until Haines stopped outside a heavy steel door. He knocked, and a voice inside called for us to enter. The door creaked open to reveal a man in a crisp uniform, older, with an air of authority that distinctly marked him as someone in command.

He stood when I entered, offering a sharp nod. “Father Martin,” he said, extending his hand. “Colonel Beckett. Thanks for coming.”

I shook his hand, feeling the firmness of his grip. “I wasn’t given many details, Colonel. Only that I was needed here… for something unusual.”

He exchanged a look with Haines, and I caught a flicker of discomfort in his expression. “Yes, we apologize for the secrecy. There are… certain elements of this mission we felt best to leave unsaid until you arrived.”

I raised an eyebrow, feeling the knot in my stomach tighten. “Go on.”

He hesitated, just for a moment, before continuing. “There’s a formation nearby. A cave. It’s something we found while mapping this area. Strange, enormous… almost like a natural monument. We’ve had personnel go in and out of it, but… it’s difficult to explain.”

Beckett’s gaze settled on me, and in his eyes, I saw something that chilled me to the bone. Fear.

“I think it’s best if you see it for yourself,” he said quietly.

The drive out was grim. The wind had picked up, tearing against the sides of the vehicle like it was clawing to get in. Outside, snow and ice stretched endlessly, broken only by jagged, leaden rocks protruding like the spine of some long dead giant buried beneath the white. Corporal Haines drove in silence, his hands clenched on the wheel. I sat in the back with two soldiers, neither spoke. They watched the windows, stiff, tense, as if the very land outside might put up a fight against us.

Colonel Beckett had given me minimal information before sending us off. “The cave… there’s something about it,” he’d said, staring down at a map on his desk, though I sensed he wasn’t really seeing it. “We had a team survey it when we first found it, but they didn’t get far before… before they started acting strangely. One of them even—” He broke off, and I’d seen a shadow flicker across his face.

“How do you mean, ‘acting strangely’?” I’d pressed, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.

He looked up at me, his face set, yet his eyes betrayed something close to dread. “Degradation. Paranoia, hallucinations… one man said he felt like he was being watched. Another claimed he could hear voices whispering. They didn’t make it far into the cave before I pulled them out. It’s as though the place has a… a presence.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t put much stock into the supernatural, but my men do. They’ll feel better having a priest along.”

Now, as we drove toward that ominous formation, his words replayed in my mind. Something about it has a presence.

The soldiers and I remained silent until, finally, the vehicle stopped. Haines killed the engine, and the sudden silence was so intense it was almost violent. We stepped out into the biting wind, and there, only a few yards away, it stood.

A massive stone formation jutted out of the ice, half-buried, its shape tenebrous and abrasive against the pale landscape. It had to be about 150 feet tall and 50 feet wide. The entrance itself was a wide, black opening, rounded at the edges with jagged rocks outlining it. The snow seemed to pile around the cavern in unnatural drifts, almost as though the cave had disturbed the ice into cracking and shifting at odd, unnatural angles.

One of the soldiers, Private Mills, stood beside me, his voice low. “Doesn’t look right, does it?”

“No,” I murmured, swallowing. “It doesn’t.”

Sergeant Davis, the tallest of the group, tried to break the tension with a forced chuckle. “It’s just a weird rock formation,” he muttered, though his gaze never left the entrance. “Nothing more.”

I glanced at him, studying the tightness around his mouth, the way he clenched his rifle. They all carried their weapons as if they expected something to leap from the depths at any moment.

“Look,” Davis continued, his tone gruff as he glanced at me. “I don’t know if you really believe in any of this priest stuff, but… just stay close, alright?”

I nodded, offering what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’ll stay close.”

The men visibly relaxed, but only just. Together, we approached the mouth of the cave. Each step crunching under us while the wind muffled out all other sounds. The entrance loomed larger the closer we came, and my skin prickled with this inexplicable sensation of being watched, as if something lay behind those pitch shaded pools of emptiness and was observing us from within.

Private Mills stopped suddenly, his gaze fixed on the ground near the opening. “Look,” he whispered, and we followed his gaze. Tracks—bare footprints in the snow, leading toward the cave mouth and disappearing. The size of the prints suggested they weren't from a grown man, but rather from a child.

“Who…?” Corporal Haines began, his voice barely audible.

“No one’s been out here recently,” Sergeant Davis muttered, voice strained. “And no one goes barefoot in this weather. They’d be dead in minutes.”

I felt my hand instinctively reach for the small silver crucifix around my neck. Beckett’s words echoed in my mind. There’s something about it… a presence.

Without another word, we moved forward, stepping into the cavern’s gaping mouth. The light behind us faded rapidly, and warm, damp air seemed to seep from the walls, filling the space with an almost suffocating blanket.

The beams from our flashlights swept over the cave walls, casting long, shifting shadows that seemed to ripple with the flicker of movement. Inside, the air carrying a faint, earthy smell that reminded me of wet metal. Something about it made my skin crawl, though I couldn’t place why.

“Father,” Sergeant Davis said, his voice rough but low. He shifted on his feet, eyes avoiding mine. “Before we go deeper… maybe you could… you know, say something. For luck.”

The other soldiers nodded, their faces tense and wary in the dim glow. Despite their rifles and years of training, they looked like nervous young boys.

I nodded, gathering my words, feeling the chill settle deeper into my skin. I raised a hand, fingers grazing the crucifix that hung from my neck. "Almighty God, we place ourselves in Your hands as we walk through this place. Shield us, guide us, and let Your light be our way. Protect these men, keep them steady, and grant us the courage to see this journey through.”

As I spoke, a low, distant noise echoed through the cavern. It was faint, just a whisper of a sound, but unmistakably unnatural—a slow, grinding roll that rumbled through the walls. It was as if the stone was shifting, groaning under some unimaginable force. It lingered in the background, fading in and out like a dull protest.

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, gripping their weapons a little tighter. Mills spoke up, his voice soft. “You… you heard that, right? I mean, that wasn’t just me?”

“It’s probably just the earth settling,” Davis offered, though his voice rattled. “These caves are old… could be shifting ice, rocks settling, something like that.”

“Yeah,” Corporal Haines muttered, “Just rocks.”

I lowered my hand, tucking the cross back into my jacket. “We’ll be alright,” I said, though my words sounded hollow, even to my own ears.

We pressed on, single file, stepping deeper into the cave’s dark throat. The walls grew narrower, angling downward in a gradual slope. It felt oddly smooth underfoot, not jagged or broken as one would expect. Instead, it was a continuous, winding path, curving gently downward like the inside of some strange, winding funnel.

The rock itself shimmer when the flashlight beams caught it,...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1h2q8dd/im_a_priest_i_was_sent_to_antarctica_theres/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/RonnieBarko on 2024-11-29 16:18:16+00:00.

---

I’m not usually the type to post here, but something’s been gnawing at me, and I need a second opinion. It started a couple of weeks ago when I stumbled on this obscure indie game called Blood Detective. I’m a sucker for anything dark and gritty, so I figured I’d give it a shot. The game’s premise is simple: you’re a detective solving a series of murders in a fictional city.

But here’s the thing—one of the murders in the game feels... too familiar.

There’s a case I read about years ago. A guy was found dead in an abandoned house, staged like he was sitting at a dinner party. The killer had dressed him in a tuxedo, set the table with rotting food, and even lit candles. It was sick, but what really stood out to me was a random detail: the victim had a rose sewn into his chest.

Guess what’s in the game? The same exact setup.

I thought it was just a weird coincidence. Indie devs pull inspiration from real life all the time, right? But then I noticed something else. The game gave an address for the crime scene—a random house in its fictional world. For fun, I plugged the address into Google Maps. The real-world location is an actual abandoned house. And it looks exactly like the one in the game.

At this point, I should’ve walked away. Instead, I dug deeper.

I started cross-referencing other murders in the game with real-world cases. Two more matched. Different locations, different victims, but the details in the game were spot on. Right down to stuff that wasn’t made public, like how one victim was missing a tooth or how another had a specific tattoo.

I know how crazy this sounds, but I can’t shake the feeling that whoever made this game knows more than they should.

I’ve been combing through forums and old case files, trying to figure out where the dev got their info. I’ve even been poking around in the game’s files—nothing illegal yet, just some harmless snooping. The deeper I go, the worse it gets.

Here’s the kicker: last night, I got a notification that the game updated. A new chapter dropped, with another murder to solve. The opening screen? A map zooming in on my town.

I couldn’t resist checking out the new chapter. I loaded it up, fully expecting the usual eerie vibes. Instead, the game dropped me straight into a map screen—only this time, it wasn’t the fictional city anymore. It was a pixelated version of my actual town.

At first, I thought I was imagining things. The street names were slightly different, but the layout? Perfect match. My apartment building was even on there.

I started exploring, clicking through the map. The game let me zoom in on houses, including mine. That’s when I noticed something that nearly made me shut the whole thing down. My building was marked with a red X.

Naturally, I panicked. I tried to rationalize it—maybe this was a coincidence, maybe the devs pulled real-world data for the game’s map system. But then the game’s detective character popped up, pixelated and silent, and walked straight into my building.

The screen went black for a moment. When it loaded again, the detective was inside an apartment. It was my apartment.

I’m not exaggerating. The details were spot on—the crappy beige walls, the mismatched furniture, even the stack of empty coffee mugs on my desk. I don’t know how the devs did it, but they recreated my living space down to the last detail.

Then, the detective walked into my bedroom. I could feel my heart pounding as the screen showed my bed, unmade like I’d left it. On the nightstand was a single rose.

That’s when the game threw up a dialogue box. One line: "Are you ready to play?"

I slammed my laptop shut and sat there in silence for a good five minutes. I haven’t opened the game since, but I feel like I’m being watched. My blinds are closed, my phone’s camera is taped over, and I’ve started sleeping with a bat under my bed.

Here’s the thing, though. The rational part of my brain is telling me this has to be a sick prank—some genius dev who found my info online and decided to mess with me. But the rest of me? It’s screaming that there’s more to this.

I’ve been digging into the game files again, but they’re encrypted to hell. I found what looks like a user ID in the metadata, though. If I can crack it, I might be able to trace it back to the creator.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/googlyeyes93 on 2024-11-29 16:21:09+00:00.

---

“Alright folks, time to sit tight and listen We’re due to arrive in half an hour and there’s a lot to brief.” Jepsen was shouting from the front of the cabin, bringing all of our attention forward. “There’s food and water over by the wall, if you’re hungry, eat now.”

I still felt like I was going to puke after waking up from hypersleep, unsure of where I was and groggy as all hell. There was no way I was going to eat right now, with everything in me needed just to keep my attention on Jepsen.

“You’re all here because your skills earned you a spot. I know the big shots told you that taking this mission is like getting the goddamn Golden Ticket to tickle Wonka’s balls. I’m going to tell you that they offered that for a reason- most of you ain’t gonna see it. We don’t know what the hell we’re walking into up here, and for every single one of you to survive, I need you to be on your shit like never before.” Jepsen was already laying in, spit flying from his lips as he shouted for all of us to hear. I scanned the cabin, counting ten of us total, all suited up with armaments standing by.

Look, I’m not usually one to come out of retirement, but when they approached me a few weeks ago, offering what Jepsen said, essentially, I couldn’t say no. Sure I was pretty successful in the freelance market when it comes to security these days, but considering how much shit I have on Uncle Sam, I had figured they would have paid me enough to ensure my silence by now. Guess all it took was the right people needing my skills, along with these other saps in here. All of us definitely fit a stereotype- male, older, obvious military background, and a majority of us with scars to show for it.

“Now, I imagine before a few days ago none of you knew space travel like this existed. Star Trek shit, but that’s just the start of what you’re going to find. We’re currently en route to a space station known as the Styx Outpost. This place is where the elite of the elite live, safe with all their money and away from the troubles and worries back on Earth. Outpost Styx is the size of a small skyscraper and has all the amenities anyone could need to live for hundreds of years. These people are the ones who you don’t even hear about because they’re rich enough to make it happen, got it? All told, with staff and ancillary engineers for the station, there are around two hundred people living in this place.”

A man leaning against the wall to my right raised his hand up, inquiring. Jepsen nodded toward him before he asked his question, “All due respect sir, these people should have some damn fine security up there already with that kind of money.”

Jepsen actually laughed at that, nodding as he did, “They sure did. That’s why you’re getting offered such a stupid fucking reward. As of about six months ago, all communication with anyone up here went totally dark. No signs of life since, and no precursor of any kind to tell us what may be happening. They sent one final message before everything went dark and it means fuck all for all I can figure out. Just one message- ‘Don’t acknowledge them’. Figure out what that means and you win the big prize I guess.”

”So aliens got the rich bastards?” Another of the guys said with a laugh, getting a rise out of the rest of us with it.

“That’s the thing, we don’t know. A supply ship came up a couple months back for a scheduled delivery. No word from them since. Everything that comes up here ends up going radio silent the moment they step onto that outpost.” Jepsen mentioned, continuing on. “Now, considering our surroundings, we can’t go in here with regular munitions. You’ve been issues a new prototype gun, shoots out small electric bursts that are enough to paralyze most humans on contact. Use it wisely or-“

He was cut off by someone from the cockpit, a nervous voice cackling over the loudspeaker, “You guys uh… might want to see this. Sorry to interrupt, Jepsen… it’s important.”

Shutters on the window to my right began to open, revealing the empty void separated from us by thick plastic made to withstand a total lack of atmosphere. Far in the distance, the sun was blazing, providing heat and light to an entire solar system. All I could think about was sitting up in a nice cabin back on earth, wasting my days away in quiet where all this could never find me again. Soon, I hope…

Breath caught in my throat as the problem quickly floated past our window. A girl, probably no older than fifteen, floating aimlessly through the cosmos, at the mercy of whatever force pushed her out into the cold empty. Here eyes stared lifelessly ahead, a permanent state of panic frozen into them by whatever brought her here.

“Jesus, alright.” Jepsen swore. Beyond our ship, in the direction the girl was floating from, a small, sleek looking structure was floating in orbit. Styx loomed, not a single sign of life stirring through the massive windows hiding its inhabitants. Jepsen spoke up once more, “All told, we’re here to find out what the hell happened, rescue any survivors, and get the hell back home. Understood, folks?”

Everyone sort of murmured in agreement, all of us still transfixed on the girl floating past us in space. It was so eerie, floating by at a relatively fast speed yet everything about her was still, not a single strand of hair waving as she glided by, ghostlike in the raw sunlight filtering by. A shiver ran down my spine before pulling a victory lap and coming back up, making me visibly shake and draw the laughter of the men around me.

“There’s more…” The voice came over the radio again as the rest of us looked further from the body floating by, toward Styx looming in the background. It was hard to distinguish them against the vast darkness of space behind, but eventually I counted out around ten or eleven bodies floating through space, all orbiting around the Styx like they were waiting to be let in.

“Well, that’s just fucking creepy.” A soldier next to me, big guy with some of the worst brown hair dye I’ve ever seen, was whispering. I grunted in agreement as the pilot began giving us instructions for offboarding. I zoned out, just filing in behind the other guys to exit through the airlock when we connected. The bolt-rifle they gave us was light, almost too light. I felt like I was walking into some unknown hell armed with a damned Nerf gun.

”Alright, gentlemen.” Jepsen continued again, looking all of us in the eye as he stood in front of the airlock. “If you see anything suspicious, alert the others. Do not react in any way to draw attention. We’re not sure what happened up here, but those bodies outside aren’t a sign of welcome. Get back here alive.”

”Sir.” The ten of us said in unison, programming kicking in from the old days. This was nothing like the deserts of the Middle East, thank god, but at this point a little warm sun would be a blessing…

A loud hiss drove me back to the present, the hatch before us opening to a brightly lit hallway. White paneling was almost blinding, the LED lights above flickering off it and almost immediately giving me a headache from the buzz. Only the first couple of segments of the hall were lit though, with everything beyond it swallowed by darkness the further in it went. All of us took a moment, making peace with whatever we believed in, and stepped in.

Don’t think I’ve ever felt a stillness like I do here. Everything was quiet, but… not peaceful. There was discord, like when you know that the absence of any sound means trouble, like someone’s trying not to get caught doing something bad. My stomach is already turning, knowing we’re in way over our heads before we even get ten feet into this damn place. No choice, though. Got to keep moving.

We keep pace down the hallway, turning on flashlights as the station gives way to darkness. Before long though we’re introduced to a central atrium, like one huge towns square practically that everything branches off from in here. I could see signs for small businesses, restaurants, shopping, another sign that pointed towards a spa area, entertainment, and yet another that had ‘Lodging/Admin’ written on it in big letters, each with their own little hallway that split off. Dividing each path was a huge window, floor to ceiling, revealing the full majesty of space in every direction. Jepsen signaled for everyone to fan out, looking for any sign of what could be going on here.

It only took moments for everyone to find some sign of violence. Dried, brown blood spatters were all over the place, whether covering windows or decorating furniture around us. The occasional body part was littered on the floor, though not in any discernible shape at this point. The smell was the worst part though, permeating everything like we were in death’s shroud. All of us could feel the shadow of the reaper pressing down from above, telling us there was no way out. Almost gagged when I passed by a couch just to find a body on it, eyes torn from sockets as it lay there, hands still clawing to try and stop seeing whatever was there.

A scream came tearing through the entertainment wing, turning all of us to ice sculptures as it pierced our ears. All of us just looked at each other, unsure what to think of the noise. It sounded vaguely female, but the amount of rage and grief that was in it… I’ve heard that in a few places, usually surrounded by the sounds of bombs and gunfire, and it’s never a good thing.

Jepsen gave the signal...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1h2pdv1/i_was_hired_to_rescue_residents_of_a_far_off/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/MutedCantaloupe7942 on 2024-11-29 06:25:53+00:00.

---

So a little context to this I’m a young guy in a town that no one in the last century would be able to pick out on a map, and I met someone who I don’t think was human.

It all started out so very, plain.

I woke up on a crappy bed that should’ve been thrown out last year with springs that are killing my back. Went to work at 8 at the Home Depot on the only road that ever gets any traffic but it’s still just a 10 minute drive from my house.

Work just passed by, a few customers would come in to get big loads for construction sites but they mostly just need us for the forklift they already know where pretty much everything is and almost all the rest of the customers were looking for returns and refunds or which isle the bathroom seats were on. I clocked out at 4, nothing exciting happened no weird customer, nothing.

I went home and tried to make something resembling a stir fry but I realized a bit too late I was missing half the ingredients that made it any good. So I decided to go the store to see if anything was on sale to make the food taste like food.

Food prices are far too high for someone making barely 15 an hour, basically robbery if you ask me. I must have sat there calculating my budget with my stomach for a good hour before deciding on some cheap frozen veggies and the smallest bottle of soy sauce I’d ever seen.

People don’t appreciate the relationship they have with food nearly enough.

I haven’t eaten the same since that day.

It happened while I was leaving the store.

It was almost like a grunting and grinding sound mixed with weird muffled noises.

I know I should’ve just minded my own business and kept it pushing, but something broke through. I couldn’t see anything and couldn’t hear it well, but I did recognize one thing.

A cry being muffled by a hand is something that even if you’ve never heard it before, your brain just knows what it is.

It makes you wanna see what it is.

So I put my stuff down in my car and I go over to check what the noise was about. Dumb I know but what can I say habits are hard to break and I don’t know what else to do with them.

I don’t see it when rounding the corner, it’s a weird array of buildings and the lights seem to be only on in the parking lot. It wasn’t pitch black out but not much better with the lights too far.

So I walk into what look like an area for employees to go in through the back.

And that’s when I see them.

There must have been at least 6 guys on the ground. It was hard to tell with some of them being on top of each other.

But that’s not what caught my attention.

The girls or women maybe? Idk how old they were but they looked college age maybe? There was 4 of them.

I knew because they were just sitting there staring, hands over their mouths trying to push the cry’s back in ; almost scared to make a sound. Yet none of them seemed to be gearing to run away.

Almost like they were in a panic attack but trying to put it in a box if that makes sense.

But the strangest thing of all was the guy standing next to the guys on the pavement.

He looked as if he had just come into the situation too, he didn’t feel hostile you know?

Like that feeling you get when someone’s been aggressive or threatening just wasn’t there. He seemed almost bored.

The closer I got the more things I noticed about the scene. By the time I stopped I was about 30 feet away I could start to make out some objects on the ground, pipes and broken glass, a broken piece of wood. Almost all of it had some trace of struggle tied to it.

None of the girls or the guy had any sign of struggle or something that made me think they had anything to do with the fight.

The guy standing there looked to be early 20s, light skin and couldn’t have been taller than 5’11. He had almost black hair or maybe it was dark brown hard to tell. Just an average guy you’d pass on the street.

But then I saw his eyes, they were so brown. And what first looked like boredom on closer look almost seemed like, I don’t know what the word for it is.

Like someone looking for the secret image in a picture but can’t quite tell if it’s even there.

I don’t know what made me not call out or ask him what happened. After all this whole situation felt off.

Did a big fight happen?

Was he involved or just a passerby?

Why wouldn’t the girls take their eyes off him?

And then he looked over to me.

He didn’t say anything but I could almost feel the words popping up in my head from his stare.

Like as if he was saying something about modern art or the state of affairs of young people. As if the vision couldn’t be realized and he couldn’t be bothered to try and understand anymore.

While he kept taking glances at me he began to walk around looking at the debris. Like he was searching for something in particular, he kept giving me side glances almost as if picking out a gift for a friend and he couldn’t decide.

The girls started crying harder as he moved almost petrified when he came near them.

Finally he picked up a piece of rebar and inspected it closely and he gave me a look of something along the lines of “ a mighty sword”. And he swished it around him, like a kid playing with his new favorite stick.

Then he threw it near my feet.

The sound of metal and concrete will never be the same to me again.

Then while I’m looking between him and the rebar a small grin began to form on his face with a look of “ you don’t like my present?”.

My brain being sensible told me I should pick it up, after all if he was the one who messed up six guys by himself a weapon was mandatory.

Quick of a thought that was, came something far more sinister.

His grin was beginning to widen and morph to a bigger smile. His feet I noticed were almost sideways, his legs sounded heavy and the way he walked seemed almost as if it took great effort to do so.

He walked so casually as if he was about to greet a long time friend he hadn’t seen or heard from in a while. Maybe that’s what it would’ve looked like from a camera.

Every one of his steps triggered something in me, something almost instinctual. I still hadn’t said anything and I barely so much as twitched. But I knew, I knew what this feeling was.

Prey isn’t the right word for it, I was a part of the dinner show. Something like a cat would do with a mouse he had no interest in eating only making it suffer before the end. Priding itself on the pain of things weaker than it.

It was suffocating when he was in front of me. He looked down at the rebar and then back to me, almost pleading for me to pick it up, like a kid whose dad won’t play make believe anymore.

When I didn’t move he lifted his arm and pointed at me. Close enough to almost be touching me but not quite there. His eyes gave me a look of “I’m not touching you”.

One of the girls was starting to curl up in her knees but her hand never left her mouth.

Then he did something strange. Keeping his finger pointed at me he slowly began walking in a circle around me. I stared straight forward but I could feel his eyes on me the whole way around.

The first time he came around his smile was still playful, and he stopped right in front of me again. He held a finger up and looked at me as if I had one of something.

Then I realized he was telling me I had one question. So I asked him the only question I could think of.

“What are you ?” his smile got bigger.

“Hungry” almost too high of a voice for a man. Almost slurred.

Then he began walking around me again but this time felt different. When he stopped behind me the girls faces changed and the cry’s almost couldn’t be covered anymore. Everything in me was telling me to turn around and try to fight for my life before the thing behind me took it without a fight. But I did nothing.

As he was coming over my other side his smile hadn’t changed but the way his eyes looked hasn’t left me. Almost like they had sunk further into his face but they contained an anger that hadn’t been there before. But just like last time he held up one finger only this time I couldn’t think of a better question. Then it came to me.

“Who are you ?” I barely stuttered out.

His smile almost seemed to tear at the points of his mouth as he spoke.

“Fun”

Only this time his voice was almost split, like two people saying it at once. He tilted his head from side to side almost debating on his next corse of action.

He settled on walking around me again, only this time he didn’t stop behind me. His face looked almost unreal as he rounded my side. Like it couldn’t decide if he was experiencing euphoria or anger so hot it would burn him alive. This time though the finger that had been pointing at me was the one he held up, he kept making a swirly motion with it as if telling me this would be the last question.

My mind was racing trying to figure out what to say so I could leave alive. I thought about asking to leave but what about the rest of the people here ; what happens once I leave? I still didn’t understand what was happening now. I could only think of one thing to make it stop, one way so the girls and those guys might be able to leave so that someone might survive. I tried to summon all the bravery I didn’t have to ask him the next question.

“Can you please leave ?” I squeaked out. I don’t think that’s what he wanted to hear. His hand came right in front of my neck and he began snarling at me. He moved forward and began sniffing around ...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1h2fk12/i_met_someone_i_shouldnt_have/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/1BitterStudent on 2024-11-29 05:04:38+00:00.

---

Most people forget their dreams when they wake up. But what happened to me wasn't just a dream - it's a memory I'll carry for the rest of my life.

Have you ever been alone, with nobody to talk to for hours? I bet many of you want that sometimes. To escape from all the noise - the honking cars, people talking, and the constant sounds that fill every society. Just to have peace and quiet. But at the end of the day, you always end up going back to people, even if it sometimes annoys you.

But have you ever been truly alone? I mean the kind of alone where your words echo when you talk, with only yourself to answer back? No one in sight - just you, your breathing, and the empty world around you. Maybe some of you think you could handle that, but I doubt you'll ever have to experience it.

Let me tell you my story. The experience changed me completely - it left me feeling empty, constantly questioning if everything around me was real.

I wouldn't wish this on anyone. I'm just grateful someone was there to help me when it was over. Even though it was brief, it broke something in me and showed me a side of myself I never knew existed.

It started the night I went to bed. One second I was lying down, the next I was suddenly awake - as if I'd only blinked. Something felt off. I was groggy, but not in the usual way. It felt like being awake and half-asleep at the same time. I blamed it on being exhausted from the day before and ignored how strange it felt to wake up like that.

I went downstairs, expecting to find Mom making breakfast. Dad usually leaves early for work, while Mom goes later. But there was no sound of cooking from the kitchen, no pots clattering, nothing sizzling on the stove. No Dad making his usual jokes about me sleeping in late.

I tried not to worry. Maybe they were just as tired as I was. I checked their bedroom, but found only their neatly made bed and their phones still on the nightstand, which was distressing since they almost always have their phones with them. That's when the panic started to set in.

I searched everywhere - the backyard, guest room, garage - but found no sign of them. I checked every corner and storage space in the house. Finally, I stood in front of the basement door. I'd always been scared of going down there, but panic pushed me forward. I shouted their names over and over, my voice echoing in the darkness. The lights flickered as I searched every possible hiding spot. In the end, I gave up.

I collapsed onto the living room couch. They were gone. Really gone. I was close to tears - nothing like this had ever happened before. As a last resort, I tried calling everyone - my aunts, uncles, cousins - but no one answered. Just one ring, then silence. I must have spent hours staring at my phone, calling again and again.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. I ran outside to check the neighbors' houses. But each knock just echoed back at me. When I peered through windows, I saw only darkness inside. I went door to door, eventually pounding on them desperately, begging for someone - anyone - to answer. But nobody came.

With nowhere else to look, I decided to try school. When I arrived, I heard the lunch bell ringing. I ran to the entrance, thinking I'd finally find people there.

But as I passed through the gates, a wave of dread washed over me. The grounds were completely empty. There were no students rushing to class, no guards telling off late arrivals like me. Just an endless, unnatural silence.

I walked to my classroom, checking every room along the way. Each one was perfectly clean, like they'd just been scrubbed down the night before. My footsteps echoed through the empty halls. I started shouting, then screaming, desperately checking room after room. But there was nothing except the sound of my own breathing and my curses bouncing off the walls.

I spent the whole afternoon running from place to place. I should have been exhausted, but somehow I had endless energy. In my panic, I went everywhere - Mom's office, Dad's clinic, the mall, even the train station. I knocked on car windows, hoping someone would honk at me to stop. I threw stones at windows, watching them shatter, desperate for someone to yell at me, to tell me to stop. But there was nothing. Just silence, hour after hour, until the sun finally set.

Back home, I tried to sleep, hoping I'd wake up and find out this was just a nightmare. But I couldn't keep my eyes closed. Despite all the running around, my body was buzzing with energy. Every time I forced my eyes shut, they would slowly open again, and I'd end up staring at the ceiling.

Unable to sleep, I did what I usually do - I went downstairs to watch TV. But what I saw made me freeze. I switched channels frantically, but it was the same on every one. The TV worked perfectly, showing moving images, but all the people were gone. Even in cartoons, only the backgrounds moved. Everything else was empty.

I turned off the TV, trying to shake off what I'd seen, and walked to the fridge. I found a pizza box - my usual comfort food when I'm down. I put it in the microwave and watched it heat up, the humming filling the silence. When it dinged, I almost jumped.

The first bite made me recoil. The pizza was... wrong. It had flavor, but it was like the food was trying to remember what it should taste like. I can't explain it better than that. Desperate, I started grabbing other food from the fridge, not caring if it was cold. But everything tasted the same way - like it was imitating real food but couldn't quite get it right. It was the strangest thing.

My mind went numb. I left the mess of food behind and curled up on the living room sofa. Finally, the tears came. I never thought I'd miss something as simple as hearing another person's voice.

I closed my eyes, and suddenly felt a hand touch me. I jumped up in terror, thinking of every horror movie I'd ever seen. But there was my mom's worried face and my dad's smile, which quickly turned serious when he saw my expression. He rushed to hug me.

"You're back, we're here, don't worry, we're here," he said. Something in his voice told me he knew exactly what had happened. I saw it in his eyes - the same sadness I'd felt when I realized I was alone. Mom joined the hug, repeating his words.

Years passed. I got married, had children, and kept that experience locked away like a distant nightmare. But recently, my daughter woke up screaming and ran to me. She wouldn't let go, terrified I might disappear. When my wife heard the commotion she came to us and joined in comforting our daughter. I found myself saying the exact words my father had said to me: "It's alright, we're here."

Now I regret never sharing this story earlier. My parents never told me their experience either. I thought my daughter would be different - she seemed fine at my age. I was wrong. I'm telling this story now as a warning, to prepare others who might enter that world. At the very least, you will know you’re not alone.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/emnuff on 2024-11-28 23:37:51+00:00.

---

Fall has always been my favorite season, especially Thanksgiving. The food, the smell of crisp air, the crunch of leaves underneath my feet. I’ve always found comfort in the spirit of Thanksgiving. But now, I can only remember my hand feeling the bitter cold farmhouse beside me, and my feet crunching a hazel eye growing out of the dirt in the garden.

I struggled to push through the backyard as I felt crooked hands pulling me into the ground, and deformed mouths groaning for me to stop moving. After what must have been 2 minutes wading through the rain in a sea of malformed limbs, I could finally breathe in the shed about 200 feet from the back door of my house. 

My grandparents left me their farm in the will, and their crops at Thanksgiving were always stellar. But there was something extra special about them- it wasn’t just their taste or texture that made this holiday the highlight of my year. My grandparents had always wished to grow a big and healthy family, and that’s just what they did: the dirt in their garden turned a single seed into an entire field of corn in mere hours, and a lone tomato gave me enough energy to break my school’s cross country record by over a minute. Grandpa Gil always called it a miracle- a gift from god, to make sure their family was always healthy and provided for.

When they passed, my Grandma Betty and Grandpa Gil had their ashes spread in the garden, part of the dirt that gave their family life for so many years. I had always respected their wishes, growing my own vegetables and paying respects to their patch whenever I could. My only mistake was leaving the faucet on last night- how was I supposed to know that the miracle came from the water, and not the ground?

I had barely cut the grass since I inherited my grandparents’ farm, so the sea of weeds behind me did well to consume the fleshy undergrowth. Still, in a flash of lightning, I caught a glimpse of the yard more vivid in my mind than anything I had ever thought of before. There were thousands of heads, pulsing and expanding out of the ground like rising bread. They looked nearly human, were it not for the ones that grew three eyes, or an ear that resembled a clot of blood more than anything else. What I didn’t like to think about was how they were clearly my grandparents- mixed together and screaming as a malevolent tumor, eating away at their miracle.

I grabbed the biggest can of gasoline I could find, and I poured it across the garden. The heads screamed as the foul concoction pooled in one of its mouths, or waterlogged an extra ear somewhere in the dirt. After an eternity, I had covered my entire yard- this organism- in fuel. Then, I took the lighter out of my coat pocket and dropped it to the ground, setting it ablaze.

I watched as the pitch black night turned to hell in an instant, my entire yard glowing red and orange. I shut my eyes and started to cry once I heard the screams of my grandparents- a thousand of them, wailing in pain as they were once again reduced to a pile of ash. I could hear their house begin to crumble and break, falling to the ground. I made my way to my truck and called the insurance agency, barely able to hang up the phone before collapsing of exhaustion.

In the morning, everything was gone. There was just a pile of charred rubble, and a massive patch of burnt grass. The rain had put out the rest of the fire, and my insurance agent, Leonel, assured me that the claim I had filed was sure to go through. We have been going through a drought, and I was far from the first to be paid for lightning damage in the countryside.

“Well would you look at that,” Leonel said, pointing toward the remains of my shed.

“What is it?” I ask.

“There’s a sunflower right over there, you see?”

There I saw it: a lone flower, watching the sun as it peeked over the horizon.

“Oh, there’s more than I thought. Look, there’s 3, 4- no, wait, 5!”

I could see it now- more and more stalks peeking out of the ground. From the distance, they looked tranquil. But something about them put me on edge- I didn't want to get any closer to them. I was done with this place.

“If that’s not a symbol of hope, I don’t know what is. Look, Ted, I know that this is hard. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through right now. But that? That’s a miracle, right there. If that’s not proof this will help you grow, I don’t know what is.”

I shuddered at the thought.

“Thanks Leonel,” I said. “But I don’t know about that. I think I’m going to move closer to the city,” I told him.

“I don’t think I need to grow for quite some time."

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/StrangeWartOnMyD on 2024-11-29 02:51:25+00:00.

---

it started with the smell.

Our Thanksgiving this year was a modest one, just my mom, dad, my younger sister Emily, and me. The turkey wasn’t huge, but it was plenty for four. Mom, as always, had gone all out with the sides—mashed potatoes, stuffing, candied yams, cranberry sauce—the works. The kind of spread that would make you slip into a food coma just looking at it.

We ate ourselves into oblivion, groaned about our full stomachs, and piled the leftovers into containers for the next few days.

But by the next morning, the kitchen smelled… off.

At first, I thought it was just the trash. Turkey bones, greasy scraps, and congealed gravy—that’s bound to stink, right? But Dad had already taken the trash out. Still, the smell lingered, thick and cloying. It wasn’t just food rot; it was sharp, metallic, and wet, like a mix of old pennies and mildew.

“Maybe something spilled under the fridge,” Mom suggested, spraying lemon-scented cleaner everywhere. We moved the fridge, cleaned under it—nothing. But the smell grew worse.

By Saturday morning, the smell had seeped into the rest of the house. No amount of candles, Febreze, or scrubbing could mask it. Worse, Emily swore she’d heard something moving in the walls the night before.

“Probably a raccoon or something,” Dad said, grabbing a flashlight. He stomped around the attic and checked the crawlspace, but there was no sign of anything alive—or dead.

That night, I woke to a strange sound. It wasn’t the skittering Emily had mentioned but a soft, wet noise, like something… chewing.

I froze in bed, every hair on my body standing on end.

The noise came from downstairs, from the kitchen.

I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight. Quietly, I crept out of bed and down the stairs. The smell hit me first, so strong it made my eyes water.

The leftovers.

They were sitting on the counter, lids off, the food inside rotting and blackened as if it had been sitting out for weeks, not two days. Maggots writhed in the cranberry sauce, and the turkey looked bloated, its skin mottled green and purple.

The chewing noise came from behind me.

I turned slowly, heart pounding.

Something hunched in the corner of the kitchen. Its back was to me, but I could see the sharp angles of its spine pressing against its pale, mottled skin. It was thin—too thin—with long, bony limbs that ended in claw-like fingers.

And it was eating.

Its hands moved mechanically, shoving handfuls of rotten turkey and stuffing into a mouth that stretched too wide, full of teeth too sharp.

I let out a small gasp, and it froze.

For a moment, the world went silent. Then it turned its head toward me, slow and deliberate.

Its face was… wrong. The features were human but distorted, stretched in ways that made my stomach churn. Its eyes were black pits, leaking something dark and viscous down its cheeks.

It smiled, bits of rancid food stuck between its teeth.

“Still hungry,” it rasped, its voice low and wet.

I stumbled back, nearly tripping over the chair.

It stood, unfolding itself to an impossible height, and took a step toward me.

I ran.

I don’t remember making it back to my room, but I must have because I woke up the next morning in bed, drenched in sweat. The smell was gone, and so were the leftovers.

I told my parents everything, but they didn’t believe me. Said I must have had a nightmare.

But last night, Emily went to grab a late-night snack and never came back.

We found her this morning, slumped over the kitchen table, her face frozen in an expression of pure terror. Her hands clutched her stomach, which was grotesquely swollen, the skin stretched and mottled.

The coroner said it looked like she’d been eating… but there was nothing in her stomach except for blackened turkey and maggots.

The leftovers are gone now, but the smell is back.

And I swear, last night, I heard something moving in the walls.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Pheasant_popper on 2024-11-28 21:36:02+00:00.

---

I've been hunting all my life, and I have yet to see anything else like what I saw. To this day I still don't have a definite answer for it, maybe some of y'all will know.

I was 19 at the time. I had just gotten off of work so I figured I might as well go hunting. I got my rifle and hopped in my truck, and away I went. I got there about 3 and a half hours before dark, plenty of time to get to my stand.

I crossed the creek and started up the hill and I saw something move fairly fast through the trees, I figured it must have just been a deer. Already spooked one, not good. Got to my stand and climbed up it, text my dad to tell him I got there safe. I loaded my rifle and got comfortable and waited.

About an hour later, a herd of does I had seen on my cameras showed up. They milled around for about 30 minutes before they left to go eat some acorns behind me. I saw a 4 point about 10 minutes later, not what I was after.

About 30 minutes later I hear something making racket about 200 yards in front of me, in a tree line across a field. I had an iron sighted gun so I wasn't willing to shoot the 200 yards. The gun I had was a .444 Marlin lever action, I'd hunted with it since I was 12 and had taken countless deer with it. It's a bit overkill for deer, but I liked the stopping power.

Eventually a deer walked out, looked like a pretty good buck. As he got closer, about 150 yards, I noticed something was off with him. Maybe it was that CWD disease or whatever it's called, I thought. It started making these unholy sounds and started to get up on its hind legs. I'd heard stories from old timers about things that go thump in the woods, but never believed them. I decided I was probably just tired from work. He stayed in the field, still acting weird, until it was just about time for me to get down and head back to the truck.

I started to get down and was about 10 feet off the ground when I heard a blood curdling scream from the field. It scared the daylights out of me and I slipped and fell off the ladder.

When I got up, I looked back and it was on its hind legs in a dead sprint towards me. I took off running and jumped in the creek and laid down on the bank. I peeked over the side, and it was up there, walking and looking for presumably me. He saw me, so I raised my rifle and fired.

The shot rang out and I heard it hit him. I racked another round in but he was on the ground. I was relieved and my mind was spinning. Before I could think of my next move, he was back on his legs and started walking towards me.

I ran so fast I thought I was going to fall. He was about 15 yards behind me but he was closing in. I turned around and fired another shot with hopes that it would stun him. It didn't.

I counted my options and decided on a risky plan. I ran to a secondary path out, one which had a creek that was flooded from rain the night before. I swam across it, but he couldn't swim and he didn't want to seem to get anywhere near water.

He let out another blood curdling scream so I shot him again, this time he seemed like it hurt him. I had 1 bullet left after that.

I got to my truck, and of course it wouldn't start. That's what I get for driving a diesel in late November. I finally got it to turn over and started to back up when I saw him running at me, faster than he previously was. I stuck my rifle out the window of my truck and waited until he got close. He was about 10 feet in front of me when I fired.

I could see him well when he was that close. He was a 10 point. His head had no bottom jaw or eyes, and his hide was peeling away. His entire body looked witherered.

When I shot he hit the dirt, hard. I hightailed it home and told my dad what had happened, he didn't believe me.

I went back the next day to see if there was any proof. He was gone. All the tracks were gone. There was nothing to even indicate it had even happened besides my spent casings on the ground.

If anyone has any idea about what that thing was, please let me know. I'm writing this while I'm in the deer stand so hopefully it's not bad luck, although I do hear a strange sound in the trees across from me.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ThatGuyWhosAfraid on 2024-11-28 16:18:21+00:00.

---

I need advice.

I joined the United States Army in 2002. I will spare the tiny details and give the gist of what I was doing before the events I am about to disclose. The crew I was with consisted of several different intellectuals of several different subjects. I was brought in to lead the physics branch of five people (including me). There was also a chemistry and biology branch totaling fifteen different people, plus a guy who was under direct orders from the Secretary of Defense.

None of the scientists knew why they had been called, nor how underprepared they (or I suppose we) all were.

“As you know, we have taken all of your means of communication with the outside world. The task that you fifteen people have needs to be one of the best-kept secrets ever,” Wallace, the man who was giving orders, paced as he spoke, “I will be the only way for any of you to communicate with the outside world. Any questions?”

The Idea reminded me of how the atomic bombs were made, each scientist getting a piece of the puzzle without any idea of what the larger picture could be. One of the Biologists, Lawrence, raised his hand, “Why? What is the big secret?”

“We will get to that subject in a moment. Please just follow my orders right now.”

We were ushered into a plane, then (after several hours) a helicopter, and then after that, a building.

We made it to the location where we would be staying for the next several months, possibly years should we have to stay longer. The base was someplace in the middle of nowhere, probably in the Middle East considering the time it took and the surroundings. The base looked dirty on the outside, appearing abandoned. Inside the base were two other people keeping the place warm and clean.

The two greeted us and showed us around. We had all the basics, bedrooms, bathrooms, workplaces, etc. The place wasn’t quickly built, they had planned for this for a long while before we were brought over. Looking at the walls and the technology in the building, they must have been planning this for years.

In the center of the base, there was a shallow cave.

We couldn’t enter this center area immediately, the inside of the cave was highly radioactive. This meant that only one team at a time would be permitted to go inside the cave to get the data that they needed if they needed it.

My team was chosen to go second. The excitement of discovering something new to help America infected each team member. After the first group of five (the biologists) returned from the cave, we wasted no time getting the protective gear and rushing inside.

There wasn’t much to the cave itself, but opposite the entrance was a statue of some strange face, black as coal. The face was larger than everyone, probably eight feet tall. Whatever the face was made out of was very radioactive, emitting around 200 roentgen. The artistry and detail of the statue amazed me. But it did not make sense yet.

Why were we brought out to… Why were we brought out in the first place? What was going on?

After my group of five was done with our observations, we traded with the last group. And after the last group returned, we all were gathered in a room where Wallace began to speak.

“I apologize, there was some paperwork that needed to be signed.” He sat down with the rest of us, shifting, visibly uncomfortable. “What I say next may… it may come to confuse you, or… you won't believe it.” He let out a long sigh before continuing, “What you saw in that cave is older than any known life on Earth.”

“Are you suggesting that aliens made that statue in that cave?” Charlie, one of my physicist colleagues blurted.

“That isn’t a statue.” He paused, as what he was suggesting slowly began to sink in.

“That is the alien… himself?” Someone unfamiliar to me asked.

“That’s… definitely possible- but why did we-“ another person I didn’t know very well began to speak but was quickly cut off.

“Let me speak.” Wallace’s voice was dark, demanding the attention of all of us. “We know jack shit about this thing, why we only found it now- found it two years ago- nobody knows anything! That is why you all are here.” He paused. “Now, it is your job to figure out its origins. Figure out how it functions, and what we should do about it.”

The room was silent.

“Now, you are dismissed. I hope you all got all the samples and data you needed for today. You are only allowed to go in there with my supervision, or by getting approval from Kendrick.” Kendrick was one of the guys already here once we arrived.

We all made quick work, everyone gathering as much information as possible.

We spent the next few weeks examining, but other than our initial observations we had no idea what to do next. We poked and prodded the thing but got no reaction or anything, we couldn’t get a pulse or find breathing. Its skin was harder than any earth material, a mix of carbon and several different metals.

During the long weeks of not finding anything new, Lawrence would sit next to me during some of our meals. The Biologist and I had become somewhat of friends despite never meeting before this mission. He always made an attempt to get me to ‘open up’ about my life and how I ended up as the lead in our physics branch of five. Truth is, I am just good at math and I had no money. So I joined the army.

Lawrence never liked that answer, “It’s too boring of an answer for a guy with good looks like you.”

“Sorry, I’m not the main character with a tragic backstory.” I’d always respond.

Lawrence would then tell me about himself. I didn’t care at all, but I’d still ended up entertaining him, trying to be polite. He would talk about his mom back home, and how his dad was in the army before he passed away from some sort of cancer. He made the choice to join the army during his Sophomore year of high school, working hard to get into the best army-related programs while attempting to maintain a social life. In such a social life he would break the hearts of girls and even have his own heart broken; telling me names of girls I had never met. A far more fulfilling high school experience to contrast my high school experience which lacked any real human connection.

Seb or some other scientist would then sit down (Sebastian was a physicist under me) and be forced to tell us both about himself.

Lawrence brought a home-like feeling to a place that otherwise would put us all on edge.

But we all still had work to do.

A few of the guys were about to give up after one month, but on a random Saturday night, the thing opened his eyes.

I was the first in the room this time, I was the first to make contact, I was the first to see his two amber Irises almost- no, they were glowing. The inferno of hell seemed to reach for me from those eyes. This giant was alive.

The four other scientists who followed me paused, shock, horror, and fear washed over them.

Slowly, suddenly, loudly this alien turned the ends of his mouth into a smile. Dust, soot, and ash broke free from its face. A low sound was emitted from the thing as we watched, along with that sound one of the Geiger Counters began to show a massive increase in radiation. We were immediately called to leave the cave we had to retreat outside of the initial building as the radiation became out of control. A couple hundred feet outside the building entrance, we were still getting signs of dangerous radiation.

We had to set up an emergency camp, that night we surveyed the entire area. The radiation from the thing now was cast out across just under a mile radius with the cave as the center. The small ensemble of scientists all gathered under one tent to discuss what the hell happened that morning.

But none of us could come up with an explanation. The conclusion (or rather the solution) was that we needed better equipment, better and more accurate instruments, and- if possible, a way to dig this thing up.

The next day we got most of what we asked for and more. We now had fifteen experimental suits that were supposed to be better equipped to help us reach this thing buried in the sand, alongside fifteen more people who were all engineers. They brought instruments we had never seen before and showed us how to use them.

There was one girl among those new fifteen people, she gave me her latest invention, a stronger, better, drill.

“It’s simple but heavy. You carry that large battery and the drill can drive a hole in anything.”

“Thank you, this should help gather the samples we need.”

“If it’s alright, can I ask what kind of samples are you getting with such a drill? I mean, this isn’t the most advanced technology- you could get the same effect with a larger drill, or even an explosive.” She had an accusing look and tone that would have made any untrained person crack under the pressure. But if she didn’t already know, she didn’t need to know.

“There is a cave, its structure is very unstable but we need to get something out from the center.”

“What is in the center?”

“I can’t disclose that right now. You know how the government is with its secrets.”

I add straps to the large battery, allowing it to be carried like a backpack. The two of us talk a bit more- mostly about conspiracy theories. After some time had passed, it was time for the original fifteen scientists to return to the building and gather more data from the demonic statute.

The closer we got, the more radioactive the area became. The inside of the building went from zero roentgens to 200...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1h1zh6u/before_humans_stood_a_giant/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Dopabeane on 2024-11-28 23:28:04+00:00.

---

In October 1978, Philadelphia police responded to a dead body call at abandoned theater.

They arrived on scene to discover most of a corpse of young woman on the stage. Her hands and feet were bound.

At some point post-mortem, the perpetrator had decapitated the victim and stitched the head of a bald man onto her neck. Heavy stage makeup had been applied to the man’s face. His mouth was sewed shut. 

When one of the responding officers knelt down to inspect these sutures, the corpse’s eyes opened. 

The body shuddered to life, stretching until the bindings broke. The amalgam rose unsteadily to its feet, dipped into a formal bow, and began to move. 

The braver of the two officers grabbed the corpse, believing it to be a hoax of some kind. He grabbed it by the throat with such force that he tore the sutures attaching the man’s head to the woman’s neck.

Now only partially attached, the head flopped to the side. The officer recoiled, and the corpse continued to move as though nothing had happened.

At this point, someone yelled, “Stop it! You’re interrupting him!”

The speaker was a young girl of approximately ten years old, sitting at the highest point in the auditorium: A crumbling balcony with no visible point of egress.

The corpse paid her no attention, and began whirling feverishly around the stage. The head was still only partially detached, but the corpse seemed unaware. 

 Per their later testimony, the police officers slowly realized they were watching a one-man reenactment of a murder. As the gruesome performance carried on, the little girl in the corner began to cry with steadily increasing emotion. Her weeping finally culminated in a wail when the corpse mimed sawing his own head off. He pulled his head off, sutures snapping loudly as they parted through the flesh, then tucked it under his arm and ran backstage and out of sight. 

Despite the distance between the theater and AHH-NASCU, the Harlequin — by all accounts secure in his cell inside the facility —expressed knowledge of this incident. He provided staff with the address of the theater and told them, “My son is performing there tonight. Not one of his best, unfortunately, but I’ll tell him you’re coming if you like.”

Personnel were immediately dispatched to the theater.

By the time personnel arrived, two days had passed. They obtained the relevant police reports. Among other things, they learned the officers fled the scene without recovering the young girl since she was unreachable on the crumbling balcony.

Although the officers returned with reinforcements, the dancing corpse was nowhere to be found.

Neither was the child.

But when Agency personnel entered the theater during their investigation, both the girl and the dancing corpse were back inside.

Personnel quickly realized they had arrived toward the end of the performance. The child was sobbing so loudly that she inadvertently masked the sounds of their entry. They concealed themselves accordingly, taking refuge in a small alcove near the back of the auditorium, and watched as the corpse — which, in keeping with the police reports was a woman’s body with a man’s head sewn on — continued to dance.

Shortly after their arrival, the corpse completed its performance and retreated backstage.

Approximately two minutes later, a man with a face identical to that of the head sewn onto the woman’s corpse returned onstage, visibly weeping. In his arms was the woman’s corpse, now headless. Chest heaving silently, he gave a deep bow. 

As agents watched, the crying child bolted onstage and hugged the man, at which point the agents made themselves known. 

The man vanished backstage. When agents attempted to follow, the child interfered. By the time she was restrained, the man was nowhere to be found. 

Resigned, they returned to interrogate the girl, who was still standing onstage. 

She refused to provide her name, but was willing to answer other questions. When asked what the corpse had been doing, the girl answered, “He’s showing me what Randall did.” When asked if the entity was Randall, she shook her head. When asked who the man was, she said, “Pantomime. He taught me how to act.” Finally, when asked why Pantomime would show her such a terrible thing, she said, “Because he’s sorry.” 

She refused to provide any additional information. When the agents attempted to take her into custody, Pantomime reappeared and attacked them with catastrophic results, allowing her to escape.

Once she was no longer onsite, Pantomime transformed. He became docile and even expressed regret in a nonverbal manner for the injuries he inflicted on the agents. He then waited obediently for additional personnel to arrive, and came into Agency custody without further incident. 

When asked why, he wrote a simple answer: 

Because my father can’t get me if I go with you

Investigation post-arrest showed that Pantomime’s stomach contained partially-digested bone matter and meat from a human victim. When Agency personnel removed his mouth sutures, they discovered that his tongue was missing. 

Experimentation shows that Pantomime is able to remove and reattach his head and limbs at will. He is able to attach his head and limbs onto dead bodies. Pantomime maintains control over any limb attached to another individual. For example, if his head is attached to someone else, he has complete control over that body until decomposition compromises the structures. 

Additionally, Pantomime has the ability to project mental images and fantasies into reality for limited amounts of time. He can only do this after consuming human brain tissue. Pantomime’s most-frequently projected “scenes” consist of himself and a young woman. Nothing of note ever happens in these scenes.

Pantomime’s tongue has been observed to reappear and disappear in apparently random fashion. It should be noted that on 11/26/2024, Pantomime’s tongue reappeared and he asked to speak to Commander R. Wingaryde. Pantomime disclosed largely nonspecific knowledge of a plot between the Harlequin and unknown Agency personnel. This disclosure, combined with the return of Pantomime’s ability to speak, prompted administration to schedule an interview with the Agency’s specialized interviewer with the goal of obtaining additional details about this plot.

It should be noted that Pantomime rarely speaks. Nevertheless, he can write and does so extensively with little prompting. The caveats with Pantomime’s writing are as follows: 

1. His writings take the form of stage plays, complete with character dialogue and stage directions 

2. Every one of Pantomime’s works is titled “All the World’s a Stage” 

3. The Harlequin is a recurring figure in Pantomime’s plays 

The relationship between Pantomime and the Harlequin is not understood. Pantomime consistently refuses to elaborate. The Harlequin describes their relationship thus: “My son sang most beautifully in my city bright.” 

Pantomime’s many plays are primarily a variation on a theme. They follow the life of Pantomime as he forms a friendship with a young woman named Sarita.

The plays are always told through Sarita’s perspective. Sarita is a poverty-stricken woman who is bullied mercilessly both at home and at work. Sarita’s childhood dream is to be an actress, although she knows it will never happen due to her unattractiveness and her lack of talent. But the dream doesn’t die. As stated in one of the most notable lines of the play, this dream “burns on in defiance of reality.” 

One day, Sarita finds an abandoned theater. She begins to spend her free time there, twirling around onstage and acting out scenes in private, far from critical eyes.

But unbeknownst to her, Pantomime lives in the theater and he loves to watch her.

One day, she catches him spying on her. Rather than running away, she chases him through the theater until she corners him backstage.

They form a friendship. Sarita and Pantomime spend their afternoons acting together. Something strange happens when they’re onstage – Sarita changes, becoming more beautiful, and the scenes they act out start to become real. She describes it as an enchantment, a real-life fantasy world that evaporates at the curtain call. 

What Sarita doesn’t know is that that Pantomime lives in the theater because it is used as a dumping ground by a killer. The stream of bodies provides Pantomime with a steady supply of human bones and human brains through which he derives the energy required to briefly project his and Sarita’s scenes into reality. 

One day, Sarita’s friend Debbie disappears. Sarita goes to Pantomime’s theater, bursting inside just in time to see Pantomime biting into Debbie’s head. 

Sarita believes Pantomime is the killer and runs away, never to return.

After her departure, Pantomime cries silently until the Harlequin appears. (Note: Alone of the characters in Pantomime’s plays, the Harlequin speaks in iambic pentameter. In his writings, Pantomime’s iambic pentameter is flawless. The Harlequin also speaks in iambic pentameter in the interview transcribed below. However, the interviewer noted multiple flaws in either meter or stressed syllables in the Harlequin’s iambic pentameter as verbally related by Pantomime. Whether this is relevant is not  known.)

The Harlequin asks, “Remember how you sang so beautifully for gods and monsters in my bright city?”

Pantomime only weeps.

 

The Harlequin tells Pantomime that he’ll take him back to the C...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1h28i88/fuck_hipaa_my_new_patient_tried_to_eat_his_girl/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Trash_Tia on 2024-11-28 21:31:02+00:00.

---

Over the last week, I know you've all been scared.

If you're a teenager reading this, 13-18, I'm not writing this to scare you more.

I want to tell you the truth.

The televised press conference we all just watched terrified me, but I'm here to tell you the experts are afraid of telling you the truth. This isn't intentional—they're just as scared as we are. They're terrified:

Not knowing what this thing is—or how to stop it—terrifies them.

But this sickness affecting the teenage population is NOT new.

It infected my town this time last year and took my brother.

Those who do know what it is tried to burn us to the ground to stop it from spreading. I spent half a year in a facility in their attempt to extract whatever this is from my veins, cruel procedures drilling into me and testing my bone marrow.

But it's already around you. It's in the air, melded into your brains.

It's November 28th, so you're already feeling it. It's not like fomites, anything you can catch. It's deeper than that.

I don't think I can describe just how this thing spreads without sounding out of my mind.

This thing is going to spread. You've seen it on the news, right?

It's contagious, except not in the way you think.

But it's not going to kill you.

Kill you permanently, anyway.

If I'm honest, I wish it did kill us. I wish it killed me.

OC, California, was what my younger self had called a "sunshine state."

Our little town, just on the edge of the coast, was paradise.

Aside from winter weather and the occasional freak storm, I had grown up in the sun.

I had known the beach my whole life—the soft sand underfoot and between my toes.

The shallows I waded into every morning without fail, trailing after my older brother and his friends, chasing the surf under shallow pinks streaked across the sky.

I knew salt and sweat, Ray-Bans perched on my head, the grossness of sunscreen gluing my hair to my neck. The memories of sandcastles, and the relentless, yet beautiful scorch of the sun on my skin.

The heat clashing with the coolness of the sea as I dipped under—waiting for that one wave that would toss me into the air, sending me spiraling with the ocean itself before tumbling me back down into the depths.

The surf that eventually carried me back to the shallows and spit me out to where Mom waited with ice cream, always ready to lather me in Factor 50.

Presently, I bit back a hiss when my school bus took yet another sharp turn, jerking my head into the window.

I was slowly starting to regret my decision to come on this stupid school retreat.

Why was it snowing?

Leaning my head against the ice-cold glass, I could only stare outside, confusion and slight panic prickling up and down my spine. In the seat in front of me, Sara Lakewood had sneezed again, a violent wet-sounding sneeze, and refused to cover up her damn mouth.

I was used to snow sometimes. Like, maybe a sprinkle, or even just a few inches if we were lucky.

"In OC California today on Wednesday, November 22nd, 2023: sunny, with a high of 75°F and a low of 61°F," that's what Alexa had said. “Sunny, with cloudier conditions as we move into the afternoon!”

Pressing my face into the glass, I squinted through spiraling snowflakes that seemed abnormally large, thicker, already obstructing my view. I wouldn't exactly call this cloudy conditions.

This was freak weather—the type I would expect to be on the national news or fear-mongering TikTok pages.

I tried my phone again; still no signal. I did get one single bar when the bus stopped, and we got stuck in a snowdrift (I still wasn’t sure how we were still alive—let alone why this driver kept going), but it was gone before I could try Mom’s phone.

There was barely any visibility outside, and I was having a hard time believing our driver when he assured us that everything was going to be fine.

That slight shudder in his tone wasn't helping. This guy had no idea what the fuck he was talking about.

The blanket of snow outside shouldn't have freaked me out as much as it did—but staring out into what would normally be golden landscapes and endless ocean, I only saw... white.

With my cheek uncomfortably pressed against the pane, I wrapped my jacket tighter around myself, surprised by my breath dancing in front of me in sharp wisps.

I shouldn't have been shocked that the school couldn't afford heating on the bus.

We were a tiny town, and most of our funding went into our sports department.

However, the least they could do was supply half a dozen kids who were not used to this type of weather—this deep-rooted cold sliding into every bone in my body—with heat packs.

I wasn't dressed for arctic conditions.

That morning, I was pretty sure my wardrobe would only be light sweaters and jeans.

California weather could be spotty at times, but it was always a guarantee that we were never going to get a literal fucking snow storm.

Still, if I really strained my ears, I could maybe trick myself into believing the blizzard outside was, in fact, ocean waves crashing against a shore—where I once felt safe.

“Summer.”

The familiar voice barely registered. I ignored it, curling into my seat and willing my body to stop shaking.

“I know you're ignoring me.”

I kept my focus on the snow piling up on the windows.

The sheer amount that had fallen in just under an hour was almost impossible.

I could already sense my classmates' chatter shift from TikTok and Twitch streamers to "what the fuck is going on outside?"

I was also unlucky enough to get seated in front of Wes Cameron. I had to bite back a hiss when he kicked my seat yet again in an attempt to balance on his seat to get a perfect shot of the storm.

He was acting like he'd never seen snow before, jabbering to his seat mate, who was currently my other least favorite person on this bus.

“Summahhhhhhhh.”

That annoying voice had turned into a sing-song.

“Go awaaaaay,” I mimicked his taunt. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“You don't look asleep.”

I shifted in my seat, trying to get comfortable. “Key word, trying.”

“Mom says you're not spending the holidays with us.”

“So?” I didn't turn around.

“That's not very festive of you, sis.”

When I didn't respond, he sighed. “So, you're going to ruin Christmas for everyone.”

“Ouch! Jeez man, you didn't have to do her like that!”

I wasn't expecting Wes to chime in, poking his head through the gap in my seat.

He shot me a grin, and I shoved him away, with a finger-poke to the forehead.

“Ow!”

I wasn't sure what made me snap. Wes Cameron trying to squeeze his head through the very small gap in my seat, or the idea that my brother still believed in the magic of fucking Christmas– when he treated the holidays like spring break.

He wasn't even conscious for the special day a year prior, passed out on the beach after his holiday party went sideways.

Since Mom was too embarrassed to acknowledge Wes’s behavior (or admit it to our neighbors), I was the one running to and from our house, with a barf bucket and fresh cans of soda when everyone else was tucking into their Christmas dinners.

Ah yes, the festive cheer of cleaning up your brother’s puke!

Dislodging myself from the window, I lifted my head to find the Golden Child himself looming over me, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, mimicking our mother.

He was wearing a reindeer sweater, which was already a flashing red flag.

The light up antlers sticking out made me feel nauseous.

The sweater was too big for him, baggy and hanging off his slim frame—definitely an attempt to get on Mom’s good side. His bobble hat was a… choice. Mom was obsessed with holiday-themed clothing.

Fallon, or "Fall"—since, apparently, our parents were comedic geniuses with names—was exactly one year older than me.

And despite his growing list of almost felonies, according to Mom, still the ”golden child”: while I was the kid she avoided talking about during family gatherings. The socially awkward one who was just going through a phase.

Mom named us after the seasons we were born under.

While I was born in July, summer months, long days, and an increasingly painful pregnancy (thanks for the tmi, Mom), Fallon was born in the fall, under cozy red skies and fallen leaves.

My brother was the literal fucking Golden Child.

But I didn't blame her for giving up on me.

Unlike my brother, who actually had a life, I had ditched surfing and the beach when I found my individuality, choosing to stay at home all day playing Stardew Valley.

I didn't abandon the outside completely, but I did stop traipsing after my brother and his friends, finding comfort in my own room.

The last time I hung out with my brother, Fallon left to get takeout pizza. I wanted to go with him, but he was crushing on a guy, and apparently, having his little sister third-wheeling was social death.

I made the mistake of heading back to my brother’s friend's, who were complaining of my presence.

They didn't want a fourteen year old kid hanging out with them, and I guess they were too polite to tell my brother.

So, I distanced myself.

That was until I was forced to acknowledge his existence—on this stupid field trip. Since his friends were joining us for the entire holiday, Mom insisting on this huge party bringing all our families together, my brother’s friends were also invited.

Hence, I was planning on spending my holidays elsewhere. My plan was to ignore Fallon’s ...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1h26962/every_adult_in_our_town_vanished_12_days_later_we/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Federal_Machine692 on 2024-11-28 14:54:51+00:00.

---

Luke sucks at soccer. I have to admit it. I know as a dad that is a terrible thing to say. But it is the truth.

My eight year old son is much better at math than running about dribbling the ball on the pitch. But he has the time of his life every time he steps on the soccer field. His enthusiasm, often rubbing off on his teammates and, many times, even the coach.

Whether it is a practice session during the weekdays or a game on the weekends, Luke gives it his all, even if the end result is not to his liking.

And today would be a good example of that.

His team the Trailblazers got their behinds razed in typical lawn mower fashion with a 0-7 drubbing.

While Luke secretly likes to address himself and his teammates as ‘Messi’s Boys’, the game today was messy alright, just like it had been all year round. The kids are yet to open their account this season.

But I honestly didn’t mind. I was just happy to see my son pursue something with passion.

While he did sit and brood at the end of each game, it never dampened the zest he had for life. And the losses only made him more determined.

  So, it has become customary for me to treat a sulking Luke to an ice cream at his favorite joint after every Sunday game, where he would sit and go over the game specifics, in the hopes that a change of tactics would somehow lead to a change of outcome in the next.

His attention however changed midway when he suddenly spotted a large limousine stop at a construction site nearby.

“Dad, do you drive one of those?” he asked, his gaze fixed on the car while he slowly licked his ice cream.  

I wasn’t surprised at the question since I worked as a driver for a car rental agency. But we no longer had those stretch limousines at our shop anymore. Its popularity had waned over the years, and a lot of travelling businessmen now find them tacky to use in the New York financial circles at least.

“No buddy. But your grandpa did. In fact, he used to pick me up from school in that car often, and we used to go on long drives.” I said.

“I would like to travel in that too someday”, Luke replied back, his eyes still fixed on the car.

“Well, maybe you can take your date to prom in that thing in a few years. Hopefully you will learn to kiss a girl before that,” I said teasingly, while Luke shrivelled his nose in mock disgust.

The sight of the limousine however stirred up mixed feelings in me. My dad, Henry Pritchard walked out of my life when I was 10 years old. I remember it vividly even today. He approached me one day and announced that he was traveling abroad for a little while. He emphasized that I was to be the man of the house until his return, and instructed me to take good care of Mom in his absence.

When he picked up his suitcase and left the apartment, I ran to my room to look through the window that overlooked the driveway. There, I saw a large red-colored limousine parked out in front.

Dad approached the car and then turned around to look at me. He knew I would be watching him from behind the curtains. He simply raised his hands and waved at me one last time before entering the car. I never saw or heard from him again.

 My thoughts were suddenly interrupted when I felt my phone ring in my pocket, it was from my Boss Gary Mehicus.

“Hey Matt, we got a new booking today. Big fish by the looks of it. He’s booked us for the whole month. Insisted on you being the wheelman, said you came highly recommended. You think you can handle it for the entire time?” he asked me.

 “Sure Boss. Just tell me when and where,” I responded.

“Great. Take good care of him Matt. He might just tip you a sack of gold” Gary said laughing. ”Oh, and take Roy out for a spin” he added, before ending the call.

Roy, a custom-ordered Rolls Royce Phantom, is our best car at the rental agency. He is reserved exclusively for our top clients.

Gary and I visited the manufacturers and spent a few of days meticulously selecting every detail for Roy, from Arctic white leather seats to discreet bullet-proofing, wood veneers to upholstery, and every other amenity to achieve the best blend luxury and security.

Gary and I go back a long way. In fact, he was best friends with my dad, and they both used to work for the same rental agency. Gary is also my godfather, and when my dad went missing, he went the extra mile to fill the void in my life.

I developed a rebellious streak in my early teens, angry that dad had abandoned me and mom as a family.

For the first few months after his disappearance, I made it a point to peek at the window every day, sometimes for hours, hoping he would eventually turn up—a habit that never stopped and still continues subconsciously to this day, although I know better now.

However, back then, it eventually turned to anger, and Mom had a difficult time controlling me as a kid.

My grades started falling, I would randomly pick fights with children in school, and I even tried my luck being an errand boy for drug peddlers in my neighborhood. Gary had to intervene and introduced me to his love for baseball and driving.

He took me on long drives once every month for an entire year, and showed me around the countryside. It felt like a soothing balm for the wounded soul.

But my happiest moment came when I was in attendance at the stadium with Gary, and Tino Martinez’s grand slam of '98 unfolded right in front of my eyes. We all went delirious with joy in the stadium, as I found myself hugging and celebrating with random strangers. That experience changed my life and I emerged transformed as a person.

Gary also obtained a signed jersey and cap from the players during his time chauffeuring them on tours, presenting it to me as a birthday gift. It remains my most prized possession.

So when he started his own rental agency, I decided to join him as soon as I was finished with school, and have been working for him ever since.

My own childhood experiences motivated me to be the best dad I could be to my son. Since his mother was no longer with us, I always went the extra mile to ensure he had a supportive and loving environment.

I also tried to inculcate in Luke my love for driving and baseball, but the kid gravitated towards soccer. Fortunately, we still do share a common love for cars, and he always looks forward to long drives on weekends.

My mind got diverted again when I heard my phone beep, Gary had just sent me the details about the next client.

I dropped Luke at home and went to the office garage to take Roy out for a spin.

 A couple of hours later, I arrived at the address I had received on my phone. Situated a little bit on the outskirts of the city, I got there half an hour ahead of time.

I parked my car near a diner and noticed a large man standing by the entrance.

Dressed in a perfectly tailored pinstripe suit, he appeared to be in his early fifties, around 6’4" in height, with broad shoulders and a heavy set build. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, and his beard was neatly trimmed. He casually smoked a cigar while holding a walking stick in his other hand, adorned with a prominent goat-shaped carving at the top.

"Mr. Thomas Devlin?" I inquired as I stepped out of the car. He nodded, extending his hand while clenching the cigar in his mouth.

"And you must be Matt?" he declared, with a booming baritone voice. I could see a couple of gold teeth glint in the dark as he flashed a warm smile.

"Yes Sir. I'm Matt Prichard, your chauffeur for the evening. I hope I haven't kept you waiting?" I inquired, feeling a tinge of embarrassment, despite being ahead of schedule.

“No young man. I usually like to stretch my legs and enjoy a cigar after a fine meal’” he said pointing to the diner behind him. Mr. Devlin looked a peculiar sight in this neighborhood, especially with the diner in the backdrop. 

Everything about him screamed money, so it did make me wonder why someone of his affluence would choose to visit this place, at this hour. But I could also sense an undeniable toughness in him, the kind of man who probably started from the bottom and had to work his way up the ladder.

A few minutes later, Mr. Devlin suggested we hit the road, and I promptly opened the car door, allowing him to ease into the backseat.

When I took my position behind the wheel, he handed me a gold card, which was the size of a normal government ID but much thicker.

It had a Trident symbol embossed on both ends. As I looked at it confused, he told me to simply place it on the GPS screen. I did as I was told, and the navigation system immediately sprang to life, displaying a new set of coordinates.

Mr Devlin realized my lingering confusion as I continued to stare at the card that was stuck to the screen.

“Probably a hidden chip embedded in that thing,” he joked from the backseat, his teeth glinting as I looked in the rear view mirror.

I quickly nodded in acknowledgment and began driving.

As we navigated through the city, Mr. Devlin shared that he was based out of Chicago and was currently in the city for a new business venture. He was not much of a conversationalist but instead showed more interest in my life, inquiring about my job and family.

It struck me as somewhat unusual for a businessman of his stature to delve into a chauffeur's experiences. He particularly relished the humorous stories I recounted revolving Luke, often breaking into a smile.

While chauffeurs typically have anecdotes ready on hand for bo...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1h1xnwp/ny_driver_makes_a_strange_deal_with_a_businessman/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BarneyReject123 on 2024-11-28 18:27:38+00:00.

---

Part 1

According to some brief research, the average age a child stops believing in Santa is about eight years old. That would line up pretty nicely with my childhood. For me It didn't happen abruptly, there was never a confrontation or a confession from my parents, after my seventh Christmas I just slowly started finding the idea more and more implausible. Then after summer break, most of my classmates also stopped believing. The few kids in my class who still believed were made fun of.

Once I definitively decided he wasn't real, I was a little sad but also pretty curious about the details. What happened to the Christmas lists that we supposedly sent to the North Pole? Did Mom and Dad buy all the presents that were "from Santa" or were some from relatives? Who came up with the idea in the first place? 

The only reason I didn't raise these questions to my parents was because my friend Mike said that his older sister told him: parents stop trying as hard to get good presents once they know their kid doesn't believe in Santa.

So I pretended. That December, I wrote a list and sent it to the "North Pole", went to the mall and talked to "Santa", and listened attentively on Christmas Eve as Mom told us Santa's location with the "Sleigh Tracker" on her phone.

I figured I would keep pretending for as long as I could. Little did I know I wouldn't need to. The events of that year's Christmas Eve would make me believe again.

As Mom tucked me into bed, I remember thinking that it would be easier to get to sleep, since I no longer thought that Santa was coming, but after just a few minutes it became clear that it wouldn't be. I still tossed and turned and imagined the morning all night. It was irritating, but also reassuring, the magic of Christmas hadn't disappeared.

Mom and Dad came up the stairs and gave me and my brother a final good night.

"And get to sleep!" Dad spoke in a mock serious tone. "Santa's coming."

After I heard the door to my parents room close, I resumed my attempt to lose consciousness. This time I covered my whole body with my blanket and shut my eyes. I reached a point so close to sleep that my train of thought had stopped when suddenly I was wide awake.

I didn't know what it was but something had woken me up! Then I felt it.

Tap

Something was tapping on my shoulder.

Tap

I couldn't move.

"Wake up." It was Luke. I took off my blanket. "I wanna try to see him." He didn't have to tell me who he wanted to see. Not tonight.

I don't know why I went with him, I guess subconsciously I was more upset about losing Santa than I thought. Whatever the reason, I got up and walked with Luke into the hall.

"Do you think he's real?" Luke whispered. "Chuck says he's not real."

"Didn't you hate Chuck?" It wasn't a rhetorical question, I could never keep track of Luke's friends.

"I used to." He said with some annoyance. "He told me that Santa couldn't go to all those houses. He said even military planes couldn't go that fast."

"Chuck's an idiot. Santa's sleigh is magic." I said it to reassure Luke, but part of me wanted to believe it too.

"I guess." Luke was about to say something else but he noticed the bathroom door. In an instant he leapt up and touched the top of the doorway. For whatever reason the bathroom door was just a bit lower than all of the other doors in the house, and Luke had always been tall, so with his most recent growth spurt he became able to reach it.

If I was a better older brother I would have let him have that, but I knew that he was on pace to outgrow me and soon. So I jumped up and touched the ring on the hallway ceiling.

"What's that?" Luke pointed to the ring I had just touched. It was a black circle circle that was attached to the ceiling. It looked like it was made of metal. I had noticed it sometimes, but never really thought about it.

"I don't know. It's been here since we moved in." If the object ever had Luke's attention it lost it very quickly. We crept down the stairs.

Immediately Luke rushed to look at the presents beneath the tree. Then I realized that if Santa really wasn't real, our parents would have already put the presents underneath the tree. I felt guilty for not stopping him from going down stairs in the first place. Why didn't I talk him out of the idea? I was going to ruin Santa for Luke on Christmas.

I thought of a plan.

"Stop!" Luke turned to me. It didn't seem like he'd seen any of the Santa presents.

"What?"

"If Santa sees you looking at your presents before Christmas-" I didn't have to finish, Luke quickly stepped away from the presents. "Where should we hide?"

"Over here!" Luke walked into the dining room, which was connected to the living room, and crawled under the table, hiding himself around a table leg. I followed, bumping my head once. From beneath the table we had a clear view of the tree.

We sat there for a while. Waiting. Luke, waiting for Santa, and I waiting for Luke to fall asleep. That was my plan; I'd wait for Luke to go to sleep, then I'd wake him up and tell him that he just missed Santa, and Christmas would be saved. Luke was committed to seeing Santa, and he didn't fall asleep for a long time, but not even Santa himself can keep a six year olds attention for very long, eventually he fell asleep.

I decided to wait a minute or two just to make sure he was really asleep,

Then I heard it.

A repeated thumping sound was coming from upstairs. Then after a particularly large thump, everything went quiet. I heard wood creaking. Then the creaking stopped and a strange metallic sound I swore that I'd heard before began. Actually all of the sounds felt familiar in a strange way. I think now that I heard those same sounds in a groggy half asleep state last Christmas Eve.

Then came the footsteps. First they were on metal, then on my house's creaky floorboards. I wasn't afraid, as the footsteps descended the stairs. I only felt relief and happiness as I saw Santa enter my living room.

His coat and hat were about what I expected; red and white with a black belt on the coat, but other than that he was nothing like people described. Firstly he was giant, he was at eye level with the star on our tree. Also his beard was not white but instead varying shades of gray. As he turned to place presents beneath the tree, I noticed his sack of presents. It was a simple brown bag that seemed far too small, but I figured it had to be magic anyways to store all of the presents it would have too. His body blocked my view so I couldn't see the presents as he put them down, but It didn't matter I wouldn't have looked at them anyway. He finished placing the gifts and stood. I couldn't wait to tell all my classmates that they were wrong.

Then he turned towards the kitchen. At that moment I realized that since I didn't think Santa was coming, I hadn't thought about whether Luke's hiding spot would actually keep us hidden. Santa's eyes focused on me and I could tell already that it didn't.

I was afraid. I was afraid that Santa would take the presents back if he knew that I snuck down here. As he approached I noticed that his hat was actually a lighter shade of red than his coat. It only took him a few steps to be standing right in front of the dining room table. So close that all I could see were his legs. He kneeled down so we were at eye level, I wasn't sure if it was just because of the circumstances, but his face didn't seem as warm and merry as people always said it was.

He reached a gloved hand towards me, and patted my head. His spoke in a soft voice:

"Merry Christmas."

With that he was off. I heard his footsteps ascend the stairs, then collided with whatever the metal was (I wondered if maybe it was his sleigh), then the metal sound followed by the creaking of wood, and then it was silent.

I didn't wake Luke up, I didn't know what I could say. Instead I carried him up the stairs and tucked into his bed. That Christmas we would get a lot of gifts, Luke's favorite was a complete giant Voltron figure, mine was a copy of Majora's Mask for my 2DS, both were from Santa and came in brown wrapping paper.

After I got Luke to bed, I walked through the hallway to my room. I remember seeing the black circle on the ceiling and deciding that I would ask my Dad about it the next day, but in all the excitement of Christmas I completely forgot about it.

Sometimes I think that if I had asked him about it, maybe the next year's Christmas would have gone differently.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/djohle on 2024-11-28 04:43:08+00:00.

---

Working night shifts at the biomolecular sciences department has its perks — quiet halls, the gentle breeze from half-opened windows. No one stays late unless their research schedules get out of hand. After hours, it’s usually just the three of us: Dr. Harris, tucked away in his office; Liv in the cell culture room; and me, in the hematology lab.

We rarely interact during shifts, just the occasional nod in the hallway or a quick exchange in the break room. Liv, though, is a bit of a character. Once, I asked her why she was still working so late.

“Because I’m hard,” she replied in the most monotone voice imaginable.

It took me a moment to realize she meant hardworking. Her dry humor and quirky ways made her one of the few people who could make these long shifts bearable.

Last night started like any other, but by the end, everything was different.

It began around 4 p.m. when Dr. Harris dropped off a cooler at my workstation. He looked tense, avoiding eye contact as he hummed nervously.

“It’s from the anatomy department,” he said. “Run a full panel. Let me know if you see anything unusual.”

I opened the cooler, expecting the usual. Instead, I found something deeply unsettling. The blood inside was thick, dark, and almost black — more like syrup than anything biological.

“What’s the story on this?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

“It’s part of a long-term preservation study,” Harris muttered, already heading for the door. “Just run the tests.”

I shrugged, uneasy but curious, and got to work.

Around 4:40, Liv stopped by my lab. She leaned against the doorframe, her sly grin as familiar as it was mischievous.

“Did you see the body they sent to the cold room?” she asked.

“No,” I replied, frowning. “What body?”

“Guess the blood wasn’t enough — they sent the whole donor,” she said, her grin widening. “Want to check it out? It might be missing something... like a leg or something.”

With a sigh, I said. “No thanks, Liv.”

She pouted theatrically, then shrugged. “Suit yourself. But Harris looked really spooked when they brought it in. Just saying.”

Liv had a knack for making even the creepiest things seem oddly funny. I shook my head and turned back to my work.

By 5 p.m, the building had settled into its usual hum. I was in my lab, Harris was locked in his office, and Liv was back in the culture room. That’s when I first heard the noise.

It started as faint tapping, like metal shifting, and quickly grew louder — a slow dragging sound that set my teeth on edge. It seemed to echo from the cold room.

I straightened my lab coat and headed down the hallway. The lights flickered as I approached the cold room, and the temperature dropped noticeably.

The door was ajar.

Inside, the gurney stood empty, the body bag gone. Smears of something dark led away from the gurney, trailing toward the corner of the room. My heart raced as I followed the marks.

That’s when I saw it.

Standing in the corner, its limbs were unnaturally long, its skin taut over dark, pulsing veins. It's head completely steady, its cloudy, corpse-like eyes locked on mine.

I backed away slowly, stepping into the hallway. The lights flickered again, and it moved—a sharp, jerking motion that sent my pulse skyrocketing.

“The body is kinda... standing in the hallway” I said flatly, leaning against Harris office doorframe.

His face went pale, his pen slipping from his hand. “What?”

“It’s moving,” I replied.

Harris stood, muttering under his breath. “This wasn’t supposed to happen...”

Before he could explain, the intercom crackled to life.

“Hello,” Liv’s voice whispered, soft and sing-song.

I grabbed the receiver. “Liv? Where are you?”

Static filled the line before her voice returned, quieter, almost playful. “It’s in the vents.”

The lights flickered violently, plunging the room into darkness.

Harris grabbed my arm. “We need to leave. Now.”

The hallway was a maze of flickering lights and shifting shadows. We headed toward the culture room, the dragging sounds echoing somewhere behind us.

The door to the culture room was ajar, swinging gently. I pushed it open, my stomach in knots.

Liv was standing in the corner. Her shoulders twitched as she muttered something under her breath.

“Liv?” I said cautiously.

She turned slowly, and my heart sank. Her face was pale and, her veins pulsing beneath her skin. Her eyes were glassy, reflecting the dim light, but her crooked smile was still there.

“You came for me,” she said softly, her voice tinged with a mix of joy and sadness.

“Of course I did,” I said. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

She tilted her head, her smile faltering. “I'm something else now.”

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Jealous_Economy_7684 on 2024-11-28 00:12:13+00:00.

---

Do you remember Giga-pets? If the odd sounding name doesn't ring a bell, it's because you're not in the age range to appreciate such a notable entry in the oversized book that is 90's nostalgia. As an adult in his early thirties, I vividly remember being ensnared in that perfect storm of a fad like the rest of my childhood peers.

For those still reading this in a state of "huh', giga-pets were a cultural phenomenon that swept the globe overnight. Placing them in that prestigious club of "Useless bullshit that you have no choice but to buy". A club already populated with such brilliant contributions to humanity like fidget spinners and Pokemon cards.

Keychain friendly and half the size of your standard egg, giga-pets each contained a tiny, pixilated animal of your choosing. While this selection would begin with obvious choices like dogs, cats, and gerbils, the soon to be marketed juggernaut would eventually offer choices like space aliens, Godzilla and Yoda... Yes, as in Yoda, the Muppet from star wars.

Giga-pets would inevitably give way to a horde of alternating brands that would include the fan favorite that would become known as Tamagotchi. While this all might sound confusing, the basic objective would always remain the same. Your goal was to raise this tiny creature into the magical land of adulthood. This would be accomplished through a meticulous regimen of feeding, grooming, and exercise.

Some pets would evolve into completely new forms to show their budding maturity, while others would just show an increase in size. Choosing to opt out of the responsibilities of caretaker would sooner or later translate into a cruel and untimely death for the fake creature.

It was a fad that was damn near impossible to outmaneuver. Living in a third world hellhole would have been the only option that would have spared you from having to see those brightly colored devices dangling from nearly everyone's keychain.

Then, as if stolen by a thief in the night, the hype and craze simple vanished. Giga-pets were casually discarded and forgotten by the world at large. Over the years you'd randomly find the, once object of some kid's affection at the bottom of some bargain bin at your local Walmart until the day came when even that option was no longer viable. My reintroduction into the world of giga-pet wouldn't take place at a Walmart, no my chance encounter with the aforementioned 90's trigger would end up spiraling into something much more... Sinister. Hindsight is definitely fucking 20/20.

Had I known then what I know now..... I would have sent those pangs of nostalgia back where they fucking came from. Don't be fooled. This story isn't about some grown ass man longing for the gleeful days of yesteryear... There's no glee or fondness in the words that you're about to read. This story has more in common with a nightmare... What fragments of a life that I have left have now become synonymous with absolute dread. When you're done reading this you won't question why I suddenly stopped leaving my house after dark... You. Won't question my ongoing bouts with crippling insomnia... More importantly, you won't question why I just installed new deadbolts on all the doors in my apartment....

This story isn't about Giga-pets... This story is about Mr. Bits...

While It seems like forever ago, there was a time when my entanglements with insomnia were willfully chosen by yours truly. This, now foreign concept would play an important role in my then leisurely sleep patterns. I would stay up for hours browsing Amazon for random things whose purchase I could justify with a new Prime account. The night it all began started like so many others. With a morning shift at work looming, I convinced myself that the time I was currently investing in online shopping was not for my own selfish needs but Zack's....

Zack was the seven-year-old Son of Harper, the woman I had been dating for nearly a year at that point. Zack's birthday was swiftly approaching and I hadn't the slightest fucking clue what to get the kid. What began as a scroll through the various entries in the modern kid playbook, quickly took a more in depth turn once I decided to skip the obvious choices and spring for something a bit more unique.

This online journey would bring me to a private Amazon seller titled Decade-Dumps. This retailer specialized in a treasure-trove of overpriced trinkets spanning back at least four decades, all of them categorized for easy access. I had my sights set on a slightly used Stretch Armstrong when my eyes caught glimpse of a much more promising selection.

HOT 90's rare find Giga-pet kitty cat. Never used, still in the box... You won't find a better deal anywhere else.

This supposed "deal" was listed with a very non-bargain price tag of 79.85. Even with words like a ripoff pushing their way to the front of my thought train, I reverted to my nasty habit of justification. Even if there was a better deal lurking around on the internet, I would have had to invest more time and energy on finding it. With only four hours of sleep to spare before my alarm forced me back up, I hit the checkout button and closed my laptop.

The package had been scheduled to arrive within two business days of the time that I had originally ordered the fucking thing. At the time, I assumed that such a short window would have given me more than enough time to stay ahead of Zack's birthday party, which was to take place at the end of the month, a cluster of days that still seemed a ways out seeing as how there was still three weeks left in the month.

Weeks went by with no sign of Zack's birthday president. I sent dozens of emails to whoever was supposedly in charge of the Decade-dumps... There would be no responses back. After a bit of digging, l found a phone number that I assumed to be for customer service. I dialed the number half a dozen times, the majority of the calls would end with a garbled sound of auditory mayhem that reminded me of one of those dial-up modems from the early days of the internet only much louder and a hell of a lot more distorted. It wouldn't be until the final call that I got a hold of an actual human being.

I couldn't tell if the person on the other end was a man or woman because what few words I could make out were spoken with low, monotone inflections. Already frustrated, I explained the situation regarding my missing Giga-pet. Once I was sure that the problem had been successfully articulated, I sat for what seemed like minutes, impatiently pressing the phone to my ear as I waited for the individual to respond with some kind of solution. A loud disjointed sound caused me to snap up in unexpected shock. As the noise quickly dissipated, I began to hear this low, repetitive hum fluctuating in the background on their end.

I spoke into the receiver to confirm whether or not I was even talking to anyone after hearing such a strange sound over the phone.

"Hello, did I loose you?"

I could make out breathing before the person spoke for the first time since the conversation had started.

"Why would I be lost?"

The response was oddly out of place. So much so that I just sat for a few seconds, basking in my own silence.

"We're sold out of the kitty pet" the person croaked out from their end.

"What are you talking about?" I said louder than I should have. "It was listed on your page as available, I ordered the goddamn thing and I even received a confirmation number"

The voice spoke once more.

"Replacement pet?"

Unable to make out exactly what was being said, I simply countered with the stupefied reaction that was "huh"

The phone clicked off after that. When I called back I was greeted by a secondary voice, A woman explaining to me in that ever so familiar parlance that the number I had been trying to reach was now disconnected.... As the recording ended, I could feel a cold chill creeping down my spine... Something wasn't sitting well about my odd interaction with the mysterious person I had just spoken to over the phone. Even then, in those moments following the whole interaction, I could instinctively tell that I was turning onto a path in which there would be no turning back.

having no one to direct my anger toward, I compromised by typing up a shitty e-mail before sending the profanity-laced complaint to the good folks at Amazon customer service. I promptly gave up any and all hope of ever seeing that fucking package and defaulted on Zack's Birthday gift... I can't remember exactly what I got him but I'm 90% sure It was some kind of overhyped gaming system that was expensive enough to nab some extra boyfriend points with his mother.

The package in question landed at my doorstep nearly a month later. It took a few moments for me to even remember what the hell it was.

I opened the outer Amazon Prime box only to see a tiny, cardboard box placed perfectly at the center of a flattened layer of packing peanuts.

There were no outer markings on the package to distinguish it as anything worth looking at. The surface of the box was scratched up and the edges were frayed as if someone had decided to play a game of soccer with it beforehand just for shits and giggles. Two items would fall out of the box as I ripped it open. The first would be a folded piece of wrinkled printing paper that appeared to be as fucked up as the box it was packaged within. the uneven lettering was printed in blotchy ...

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Content cut off. Read original on https://old.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1h1j1r6/if_you_come_across_an_electronic_toy_called_mr/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Kelseeriie on 2024-11-28 04:20:30+00:00.

---

This morning I woke up with cold sweats and i was out of breath. It was 3:45am. I had a nightmare. All I remember is a man staring at me through my window. It was too dark to make out a face but he was visibly drenched with water. His skin looked pale and blueish, he opened his mouth really wide and that's when I woke up. I definitely can't go back to sleep after that. I have a good habit of writing down every dream/nightmare I have as soon as I wake up. I feel they sometimes have some sort of meaning. 

I heard my dad getting ready for work and my mom was up making his breakfast. I over heard my dad talking to my mom he said something about 'how everything is going to be okay" & "the hallucinations will go away with time." that kinda made me feel uneasy. Is my mom going through something idk about? Ofc they won't tell their teenage daughter anything of that sort. Im just going to leave it alone for now. Im still in shock about what I just dreamt about. I need to shower my cold sweats away & start my day early since I know I won't fall back asleep & school starts in a couple hours anyway.

*later that day*

Me and my brother just got home from school. "MOM" I yelled as we walked in the house but she didn't answer. Her car is still in the driveway so I know she's home. my brother said she's probably up in her room. I went up to check on her since I like telling her about my day. I got to her room door and it was locked. "Hey mom are you in there?" I put my ear to the door and I heard some mumbling but couldn't make out any words "mom are you okay in there?" "Yes.. I'm fine, i'll be right out" she said in an uneasy tone.

I walked towards my room but as I passed the bathroom I noticed that the floor was flooded. The bath looked like it overflowed. 

"What the f*ck" I whispered. 

I go back towards my moms room and she frantically opens the door and shuts it quick right behind her as if she didn't want me looking in. 

"Mom the bathroom is flooded what happened?" 

"Don't worry, I'm about to clean it. I accidentally fell asleep while taking a bath and had the water running."

I go with her and help clean it up. 

"mom are you okay? I over heard dad this morning say something about you seeing things" 

"I'm fine. Nothings wrong I'm just not sleeping enough" 

"oh yeah I understand, I couldn't fall back asleep this morning I had such a weird nightmare" 

"what was it about?"

"I don't remember much. It was a man at my window. His clothes were soaked. He honestly looked dead. Like if he drowned or something"

She looked mortified. She asked if I can finish cleaning up and she ran to her room and slammed the door shut. I was so confused but I finished cleaning & I went downstairs. I asked my brother who was eating in the dining room 

"Do you think mom is acting a bit strange?"

"No, I haven't noticed" he said 

Of course he hasn't. I go on and tell him about the dream I had and he looked at me shocked, as is he knew what I was referring to.

He said "I also had a strange dream about a man. He was standing at the foot of my bed and he was also soaked but his back was facing me."

There was no way he had a similar dream as me. I was shocked. I couldn't believe it tbh. How could he have had basically the same dream as me.

He said "the dream felt so vivid" 

Mine did too. This has gotten really weird now and I'm overthinking it. This definitely has to have some sort of meaning behind it. My mom came downstairs looking completely out of it. She looks tired, stressed & honestly scared. She said she's running an errand to the hardware store and told us 

"STAY OUT OF MY ROOM!!" in a aggressive tone. 

Me and my brother looked at each other and I told her to drive safe. We saw her driving off and I told my brother

"We have to see what's in her room"

My brother agreed and we went to her door and it was of course locked. We didn't know how to pick a lock and we obviously didn't want to break the door open. I suggested we get the ladder from the garage and go through her window and hope its unlocked. we went to the garage and we were so confused that our dads car was parked inside. He was suppose to be at work.

"Wtf is dads car doing here..." I said

We didn't have to much time to think about it. so we grabbed the ladder and went to their bedroom window in the back yard. I climbed up first and luckily the window was unlocked. I jumped in and my brother came in right after. We looked around and their room looked pretty normal until my brother realized that there was a puddle of water coming from under the closet door.

We both looked at each other and we slowly walked over to the closet. I opened the door, and there he was.

Laying on the floor.

Our father.

Soaked.

Pale blue skin.

Mouth wide open.

DEAD.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Glittering_Rapier on 2024-11-28 02:13:24+00:00.

---

I am not a righteous man, I have always had a taste for wickedness I fear. A gambler, a thief, a petty dealer, a con artist; I’m not exactly proud of it but I go by many titles with many different professions. Hell, I’d tell you my name but I’d have to list all of them. I blow from place to place, household to household, and bed to bed as I please. Well, until I HAVE to leave. I take what I want and I survive.

No one truly gets hurt, they might be down a few grand or so but in all fairness they fell for cheap tricks. It’s only fair and they learn a valuable lesson. If it wasn’t by me, it would have been by someone far worse. Human traffickers, gang members, loan sharks; the horrible list goes on and on at nauseam. I’ve been around some truly horrible people. Being the scum of the earth, I know true evil when I see it…

After a deal backfired in Arizona, my life was in severe jeopardy. Nasty, nasty business. So I packed up as quickly as I could and ran, like always. I drove until my piece of shit car left me stranded in some hillbilly mountain town up in the sticks. A simple town of simple people and simple ideas; this was the promised land for men like me or so I thought…

There’s two types of locals from what I’ve observed: those who are sheepish around outsiders and those who are friendly, too friendly for my liking. They were on the complete ends of the spectrum either way, with no in between. You’d be a fool to trust either. I’ve lived a life as a liar amongst liars and a thief amongst thieves; I could smell the rot of this place miles away, beneath all the layers of southern hospitality and simpleminded charm. Speaking from experience, places like this always have a dark underbelly: disappearances, human trafficking, and other dealings.

Now which flavor of sin is this town’s choice is a mystery so far. Maybe that’s why I was stranded here. I don’t know if I would say it was an act of God, if there is one, but there was something here that gave me an itch. An itch I needed to scratch, no matter what.

I managed to land a job as a mechanic at the dingy little auto repair store on the outskirts of the town. The owner, Artie Whalen, had a mouth on him and loved nothing more to gossip. A conspiracy theorist and overall loon, Artie would often go on hour-long rants about disappearances and odd-happenings of the town. For a paranoid conspiracy theorist, Artie was uncharacteristically trusting to hire a man who just blew into town without a dollar to his name almost immediately. He didn’t believe in “background checks,” instead believing he could “gauge a man’s character by a glance.” A fool but an honest one.

Most of what Artie would say was babble, him mistaking a plane for a UFO or claiming to have seen the Tennessee Wildman again. Though, on occasion, he would actually make a little bit of sense.

“This here used to be Baptist country and the churches had full pews every Sunday,” Artie said as he spit a putrid glob of chewing tobacco into the septic tank he called his dip cup. “Until that Hollywood elite celebrity, Lyin’ Lysander blew into town with his fancy car and his Gospel of Aaron all those years ago. Then all them churches dried up and died out in a span of a few weeks. Are you seeing the picture? A drought of honest, holy men in Baptist country? People losing faith in the chapels they’ve come to for generations in mass? That don’t happen naturally if you ask me. If you knew the disappearance statistics…”

“So you think a washed up geriatric rockstar kidnapped all those people,” I responded

“Blind, so very very blind. You aren’t from around here so I can forgive your ignorance. Melvin Schneitman, pastor of Anderson Creek Chapel, did disappear. The pastor of Little Sinai Church, Ben Crawford, died as well. Though listed as a suicide, I’m sure you can connect the dots. But oh there’s more, trust me brother, there’s more. Andy Abernathy, pastor of the Evefall? Gone, without a trace… Danny Melbrose, pastor of Millpoint Ministries, decided to mysteriously skip town; leaving a wife and five kids.”

“I’d skip town too.” Though he ignored that comment, I could tell by the little twitch of his bright red mustache that Artie was not amused.

“List goes on and on and on. It feels like me and my buddy Emerson, you’ve met Emerson remember, are the only ones seeing the dots!” I have never met Emerson in my life but I let him continue his rant.

“Those who oppose this Hollywood agenda are dealt with by the Bull’s Horns, oh I just know he’s pulling the strings. That’s why every church in this area is either empty or dying out, while that giant church keeps gaining new members. Satan worship probably, not completely sure though. My cousin Rutherford lives kinda close to that hell church and he tells me all sorts of stories.” When Artie rants, he gets a certain twinkle in his eye.

“Like what,” I laughed, half-expecting him to shrug his shoulders.

“Chanting and the like. Strange services held all through the night. From the earliest in the morning till the latest at night, oh sure they have the clean cookie-cutter services at reasonable hours. I tell you if they try to mess with me, they have another thing coming.” Artie snarled as he put a hand on the oversized, camo-pattered handgun always at his hip. Artie was like a human cigarette, pale and thin, but I don’t doubt if shit hits the fan he could use it.

“You think this little town could have a Waco-situation?” I chuckled, just to split hairs and rile him up.

“No, buddy, Waco was big government picking on the little guy. I know, pretty much for certain, that this Sinclair fella is probably backed by the government. They’ll prey on our core values from the shadows. His name might as well be Rothschild, Clinton, or Bush. And another thing, sure, he looks like a recovering junkie but way younger than he ought to be… Adrenochrome… Look up Adrenochrome…” If I had to listen to another Adrenochrome rant, I’d do Lysander’s work for him and strangle Artie.

Though I despised everyone in this nowhere town, I have grown to like Artie. He’s good people, just the hero of his own little story that he made up in his mind. He might be onto something though. A big church that’s unreasonably secluded, led by a “former” drug addict, has memberships to attend certain services, and goes off a religion that splintered off from Christianity; the whole thing is just a blinking sign that screams “CULT” in the biggest capital letters you’ve ever seen.

And just like a divine intervention, a bright purple 1976 Cadillac Coupe de Ville accented in a lavish gold, sped up to our lot for an oil change. The driver, a tall handsome youth no older than 20, had a smug sneer and eyes looking for a fight. Standing around 6’4 and built like a linebacker, the man would have been imposing if not for his long pretty curls and a thin mustache. No doubt every girl’s dream, I doubt that he’d want that chiseled face of his banged up.

“Don’t scratch the paint…” he grimaced impudently, gesturing to a small borderline nonexistent line on its paint job. “The last mechanic did this travesty, see that you’re careful with it. This ain’t no schmuck’s banged up car, its the pastor’s.”

“I’d expect a little bit more humility from a pastor, is he a pimp as well?” I calmly smirked, eyeing up the gaudy car.

“Calling himself a pastor is humbler than you’ll ever know, grease monkey.” His gold rings glinted in the sun as his hands curled into a fist

“Just speaking my mind, friend. It’s a free country. Judging by that fancy car, you’d think he could afford a toupee with that combover of his.” I can usually hold my tongue, but I know his type. Reckless, vicious, and violent for no good reason but will cave when things don’t go their way. People like him are easy to provoke, whether he can actually back up this vitriol is a different story.

“I’d watch what we say, friend.”

“And why’s that, I’d prefer not to be talked down to by a pastor’s escort.”

“You have a sharp tongue, friend. I can show you something sharper.” the youth cooed in the sweetest venom, flashing the knife in his pocket. Of course, its handle was gold and pearl.

“I’d consider heading on son. No need for this.” Artie butted in, hand on his pistol.

The frenzy in the boy’s eyes never quite left but he obviously knew he met his match. Getting back in the car with an exaggerated sigh.

“All a misunderstanding. I know the pastor would love to see y’all in a sermon though. We have a special service at midnight tonight for members. You should stop by as my guests, it might enlighten the darkness in your life. Have a nice day, gentlemen” the escort called, every syllable dripping with pettiness and hatred, as he slowly drove off into the distance.

“That’s Lane Vandross, Micah’s boy.” Artie said solemnly, his voice missing the usual gumption. “Former football star, could have gone pro. A specimen through and through. Well, until the substance abuse ruined it all. He was put through the ringer; Lysander stuck his hooks in what was left. He’s Lysander’s creature now, the youth pastor at that damned church actually.” Artie continued; I almost thought he was about to cry.

“A has-been football player and a has-been rockstar, they’re perfect for each other.” I joked, but I could see that jab broke straight through Artie’s heart.

“It’s not funny. His father was a good man and he was just a troubled boy. That pastor surrounds himself...

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