nosleep

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Random_User_499 on 2024-11-27 20:50:18+00:00.

---

I had been stationed at Outpost Polaris for six months when it all began. My research team was sent to this desolate corner of the Arctic to study permafrost samples and their implications for climate change. The isolation wasn’t new to me; as a geophysicist, I had spent weeks at a time in remote environments. But Polaris was different.

The station itself was a labyrinth of connected modules, built to withstand temperatures that would freeze your breath midair. There were twelve of us on base: six scientists, four engineers, a medic, and our station chief, Dr. Markham. We were the last rotation before winter lockdown—a fact we all tried not to dwell on.

---

Day 1: The Anomaly

It started with the drilling. I was examining permafrost cores in Lab 2 when Dr. Ayers, one of the climatologists, burst in with a printout.

“Check this out,” he said, shoving the paper into my hands. It was seismic data—wild, erratic patterns.

“What am I looking at?” I asked, squinting at the lines.

“Activity,” he replied, a little breathless. “Deep below the ice. Too deep for any geological explanation.”

I frowned. The Arctic isn’t exactly tectonically active, and the readings were bizarre. It almost looked like something was moving beneath the ice.

That night, we gathered in the common room to discuss the findings. Ayers suggested increasing drilling depth to investigate, but Dr. Markham was hesitant. The ice was ancient, fragile. Any disruption could have catastrophic effects.

“We’ll table it for now,” Markham decided. “Let’s focus on the current mission.”

We went to bed uneasy.

---

Day 2: The Signal

The next morning, our communications went haywire. Radio frequencies crackled with static, cutting us off from the outside world. Satellite phones were useless. Even our short-range intercoms began to glitch.

“Probably solar activity,” one of the engineers, Reece, muttered. But his voice wavered.

By midday, the power started flickering. The emergency generators kicked in, but it was clear something was wrong. We worked in teams to diagnose the problem. As I was inspecting the wiring in the main module, I heard a sound that stopped me cold.

A low, resonant hum, like a distant engine. It vibrated through the walls, faint but insistent.

“Did you hear that?” I asked Reece, who was tightening a bolt nearby.

“Hear what?” he replied, not looking up.

I didn’t press it. But the sound stayed with me, even after I left the room.

---

Day 3: The First Disappearance

When we did roll call that morning, Dr. Vasquez was missing. She had been working late in the lab the night before, analyzing ice samples. Her room was undisturbed, her bed untouched.

We searched the station, calling her name, but there was no sign of her. The security cameras—our last line of defense—had inexplicably stopped recording during the night.

“She wouldn’t just leave,” Ayers said, pacing. “She knows how dangerous it is out there.”

Dangerous was an understatement. The Arctic would kill you in minutes if you weren’t prepared. But Vasquez was meticulous. She wouldn’t have wandered outside.

Still, Reece and two others suited up and ventured out to look for her. They returned an hour later, shaken.

“There’s nothing,” Reece said, voice trembling. “No tracks, no...nothing.”

---

Day 4: The Shadows

By the fourth day, we were all on edge. The hum I’d heard earlier grew louder, resonating through the station at irregular intervals. It seemed to come from the ice itself.

Then the sightings began.

Dr. Patel, the station biologist, swore she saw Vasquez in the observation deck. But when we checked, it was empty.

“Her face,” Patel whispered. “It looked... wrong.”

“What do you mean, wrong?” Markham pressed.

“I don’t know. Like...it wasn’t hers. Like her face didn’t belong to her.”

Patel refused to elaborate further, and the rest of us exchanged uneasy glances. That night, none of us slept.

---

Day 5: The Blackout

The lights went out at 2:47 a.m. plunging Polaris into an abyssal darkness. I was in my quarters, staring at the ceiling, too afraid to sleep. The hum that had plagued us for days had become deafening. reverberating through the walls like an ancient, angry heartbeat. When the power failed, I heard the station shudder, almost as if it were alive.

The emergency floodlights kicked in a few seconds later, casting everything in a sickly red glow. My intercom crackled, and Markham's voice came through, calm but tense.

"Everyone, stay in your quarters. Lock the doors. We're investigating the issue.”

I obeyed, but my gut told me the situation had spiraled beyond control. Something was inside with us.

The first scream came about twenty minutes later.

It was Reece. I'd recognize his voice anywhere, even distorted by agony. His cries echoed through the corridors, then abruptly stopped.

I cracked my door open, adrenaline overriding fear. The hallway was empty, the crimson emergency lights making the shadows seem deeper. Patel emerged from her room across the hall, wide-eyed and shaking.

"What's happening?" she whispered.

"I don't know. Stay close."

We crept toward the source of the scream, each step feeling heavier than the last. When we reached the maintenance bay, we found blood smeared across the walls and floor, but there was no sign of Reece. Just his boot, lying in the middle of the carnage

Then we heard it.

A wet, slithering sound, like something dragging itself through the vents. I aimed my flashlight at the ceiling, but the beam wavered, catching only fleeting glimpses of movement. Whatever it was, it was fast.

Day 6: The Culling

By the morning of the sixth day- though "morning" was meaningless in the Arctic night--we were down to five. Reece was gone. So were Dr. Patel and two engineers. We found Patel's body crumpled in the research lab, her limbs twisted at impossible angles. Her eyes were open, but her face was stretched in a way that didn't seem human, like her skin was being pulled from the inside.

The remaining survivors gathered in the common room. Markham was trying to keep us calm, but the panic was palpable.

"We can't stay here," Ayers said, his voice breaking. "We have to make a run for the snowmobiles.

"And go where?" Markham snapped."The nearest outpost is 150 kilometers away, and we don't even know if this thing stays outside.

"Or if it's already out there,” I added quietly.

The room fell silent.

That's when the banging started

It came from the walls at first, rhythmic and deliberate, as though something was testing the integrity of the station. Then the floor beneath us vibrated, the metallic clangs growing louder. Whatever it was, it was moving toward us:

The first breach came in Module C. The lights flickered as a deafening crash shook the station. We scrambled to seal the doors, but it was already inside.

Ayers was the first to fall. He was standing closest to the corridor when it appeared. One moment, it was just shadows, flickering in the weak emergency lighting. The next, it lunged into view, a grotesque amalgamation of limbs and sinew. Its "face" was a shifting, featureless mass, but its eyes-black voids endless and cruel-locked onto him.

Ayers didn't even scream. The thing's arm--or what passed for an arm-pierced his chest like a spear, lifting him off the ground. Blood poured onto the floor as it pulled him into the darkness. The sound of his body breaking was worse than any scream

We ran.

The Chase

The next two days were a blur of terror. The thing hunted us through the station, picking us off one by one. It moved impossibly fast for something so grotesque, its limbs bending and stretching as it slithered through the narrow corridors. It didn't make sense - nothing about it did.

It didn't eat its victims or take them whole. It left behind remnants: a hand here, a piece of clothing there. Almost as if it were toying with us, enjoying the hunt.

By the end of the seventh day, it was just me and Markham. We had barricaded ourselves in the observation deck, a room with reinforced glass that overlooked the endless white expanse outside

Markham was pacing, muttering to himself. "This isn't real. It can't be real. It doesn't make sense."

"None of this makes sense," I replied, leaning against the wall, gripping a wrench like it would somehow protect me.

"We triggered something," Markham said, stopping suddenly. "When we drilled deeper, we woke it up. God,I should've stopped the project. I should've-”

The sound of scraping metal interrupted him. It was coming from above.

Markham barely had time to react before the ceiling caved in. The creature dropped into the room, its malformed body filling the space Markham screamed, swinging a fire extinguisher at it. It didn't matter. The thing grabbed him, dragging him into its mass. His screams became gurgles, then silence.

I didn't think. I just ran.

I sprinted through the corridors, my breath fogging in the icy air, the sound of the creature behind me like wet thunder. Every turn felt like the wrong one. My muscles burned, my lungs screamed, but I didn't stop. I couldn't.

Finally, I reached the airlock. My hands fumbled with the controls as the roaring grew louder. The lock hissed open, and I stumbled into the blizzard, the cold hitting me like a wall.

I don't remember collapsing. The next thing I knew, I was lying in the snow, the sound of rotors filling the air. A helicopter descended, its searchlights cutting through the storm. F...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Theeaglestrikes on 2024-11-28 00:45:59+00:00.

---

But I don’t think I should be.

In fact, I think something very, very bad has happened.

It began with Nikita, Alan, and a harebrained endeavour. They were trying to pull me out of my “funk”; a quirky, palatable way of referring to clinical depression. Not that I have to worry about such things anymore.

The day has almost entirely pushed out the night.

Nikita and Alan, with conniving looks on their little faces, were chortling at me from the sofa. I tried to ignore them, instead finding purchase on the armrests of my chair; busying my fingers by kneading the fabric like dough. Stimming, folk call it. Certainly used to help me when I felt anxious.

That only temporarily kept my grinning friends at bay. Eventually, with a deep sigh, I looked up. Alan was hypnotically wiggling a little, white pill before my eyes; rubbing it between his thumb and index — enticingly, which was strange, as the tablet appeared no less ordinary than an aspirin. Than any white pill. Yet, it enchanted me. Saw me, though such a thing made no sense.

I groaned. “I’ve told you so many times, Alan. I’m not going to try ecstasy.”

He chuckled. “You’re so innocent, Macy. It’s not ecstasy. It’s emptanol.”

“Emptanol? That sounds made-up,” I said, though my gaze did not waver from the pill.

Alan shook his head and thrust the tablet into my palm. “It’s not.”

“Okay, what does it do?” I asked sceptically.

My friend smiled. “It gets rid of pain.”

And I replied, “I hate to tell you this, Alan, but your wonder pill has already been invented. I’ve got two boxes of paracetamol in the kitchen drawer, actually.”

“Not physically,” he said. “It ends mental pain. And you only need to take the one pill. Just one will change your life. Change your neurological makeup.”

“Well, that’s just science fiction,” I scoffed, twiddling the pill between my own fingers. “Even the best antidepressants in the world need to be taken every day. There is no ‘one-and-done’ fix.”

Alan shook his head, then nodded at the emptanol. “It’s here, Macy. The answer. No more depression, and none of the numbness that comes with Sertraline; this will make you happy.”

I sighed. “Look, I don’t know what black market drug you’ve actually bought, Alan, but I’m not taking it.”

He produced a second pill. “That’s why I’m going to take one first to put your mind at ease.”

“You’ve not even tried it?” I asked, hoisting my brows higher.

Alan rolled his eyes. “Of course not. I told you, Macy: one pill. That’s all it takes to irreversibly alter your brain chemistry. I wanted to wait. Wanted to take the journey with you.”

“Just to let you know, I’m going to sit it out,” said the ever-reserved Nikita.

I frowned. “What? Why?”

“Because Keets isn’t depressed,” Alan replied, squeezing his girlfriend’s shoulders.

“Besides, I’m going to make us some food in a second,” Nikita added. “Proper food. Not the takeaways you’ve been eating all week, Macy.”

“I eat proper food…” I protested, folding my arms. “I just know what I like.”

“Well, today, I’m going to cook something that none of us have ever had before,” Nikita promised, before smiling. “But it’s a surprise. It’ll be a fun way to get out of your comfort zone.”

“We’re all getting out of our comfort zones tonight,” Alan whispered.

Then, without any warning, he gobbled down the emptanol.

“There,” my friend said, sticking out his tongue to show that he had, in fact, ingested the drug. “We’ll wait for it to work its magic, then you’ll take yours. Okay, Macy?”

“Do you even know what you’ve just taken?” I asked, once I’d picked up my jaw. “Is it safe?”

“Bit late to ask that now,” Alan said, checking his watch. “Anyway, I’m supposed to notice results within the first few minutes, but my brain will rewire fully over the course of the next twenty-four hours. The seller said it would feel like day pushing out the night.”

“Right. And how does one pill fundamentally change your mind?” I asked.

He groaned. “You remember Liam from school, don’t you? LSD broke his brain. This is just the other end of the spectrum; emptanol will fix our brains. I mean I…”

Alan trailed off and sat silently for a few moments. Then he tilted his head to eye the coffee table with great intrigue, sparking grins from Nikita and me.

“Has it hit, sweetie?” she asked her boyfriend.

Alan hummed curiously; coldly, like a machine processing code. “What are we having for dinner, Keets?”

She smirked. “That’s all you have to say? I was expecting some enlightened, philosophical statement. Maybe the drug needs a few more minutes to work its—”

“Have you ever thought about it?” he interrupted near-breathlessly, stuck on some new train of thought.

I grinned and asked, “Thought about what?”

“What it would be like?” Alan moaned, almost orgasmically, as he ran his fingers through Nikita’s hair.

“Careful! You’re going to mess it up,” she warned.

“See, I never thought about it before,” he continued, ignoring his girlfriend and bunching up a clump of her hair in his hand. “Nikita made an interesting point about leaving our comfort zones. Trying things we’ve never tried before. It’s given me an idea. An unorthodox one. And nothing matters now, Macy. Let me show you.”

Suddenly, like a dunking bird from an office desk, Nikita’s upper body was thrust into the glass table below and hoisted straight back up; only, rather than heat, it was Alan’s hand that fuelled the engine of his toy — his firm grip on her hair. The deranged man had slammed his girlfriend’s face into the coffee table, filling it with broken shards. Blood and wailing gushed from Nikita’s lips, but not a sound gushed from mine. I simply sank into the armchair.

Alan continued. He repeatedly dunked his plaything into the wooden frame — all that remained of the table — and lifted her into an upright post. Dunked, lifted, barely paused, then started again.

“STOP!” I screamed as the life flitted from Nikita’s rolling eyes; eyes stained with blood running from the glass protrusions in her skin.

Alan did stop, but only half a minute later; once he’d bludgeoned the girl he loved into a lifeless mess. The calm man rose to his feet, then rolled Nikita’s twitching body to the side with a large toe, dismissing her gurgling, fading pleas for help.

“I was demonstrating something,” he whispered. “Look at me, Macy. I’m fine. No pain. No sorrow. I feel light; content, unlike you on that medication. This is what Nikita and I wanted for you. Not to feel nothing, but to feel happy.”

And that was what made me scream. Alan, having done what he’d just done, wore a beaming smile on his face. I know I was afraid, though I’ve forgotten how that felt. I’m beginning to forget how anything dark felt, as dawn has nearly broken into day.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” I remember screaming.

My face was coated in a film of tears and snot as Alan approached. I tried to escape, but he quickly hurled me back into the armchair and shushed me as I shrieked for salvation. My dear friend answered that cry for help by wrestling the emptanol out of my clenched palm and prying my lips apart.

“Come on, Macy. It's time to wear your happy face. You'll never feel terror like this again,” Alan cooed, thrusting the pill into the back of my throat, then shutting my lips as I gagged. “No, Macy. Swallow.”

I mumbled a sound of refusal, and Alan gently smiled. He was so joyous, and I understand why now. He was free.

“Swallow, or you’ll want to call the police. And then I’ll have to snap your neck,” he softly said, stroking my hair with his free hand.

It wasn’t a threat. Just a promise. Not a hint of venomous spittle projected from Alan’s soft lips. He simply wanted me to feel the same way as him, and I swallowed, of course, as I didn’t want to meet the same fate as Nikita.

Then came more than serotonin. More than the simplicity of chemistry. It was an awakening. A giddiness. It wasn’t like the antidepressants. It was just that everything was bright and colourful. Beautiful.

It is only now, close to twenty-four hours later, that I find myself asking questions. I know the emptanol has almost finished its work — remodelling my mind. But I feel an urge to post this. To reach out to all of you.

Did Alan do something wrong?

He says I shouldn’t even have questions anymore. Questions are doubts, doubts are worries, and worries should be purged by emptanol.

“The chemicals must be taking a little longer to fully mend you, Macy,” he explained at the kitchen table. “Perfectly natural. Admittedly, I was a little uncertain when I killed Nikita. But then I remembered why I’d decided to do it, and I felt tremendously excited. Bludgeoning her was no different than mashing potatoes for a Sunday roast.”

I nodded and smiled, then tucked into the meal.

“Long pig,” Alan said, placing the dish in front of me. “I’m positively thrilled to be trying it with you, Macy.”

He was right. Human meat is easier to appreciate, from a culinary standpoint, once you rid yourself of morality and, in my case, neurosis. I’ve never tasted a dish so succulent. Nikita was medium-rare; perfectly cooked.

Nevertheless, the drug hadn’t quite drowned all of my pain — still hasn’t, but it was worse last night. That’s why I’m posting this. Part of me, strange as it seems, remains fearful of emptanol, though I haven’t the foggiest clue as to why. After all, it’s cured my depression.

Nikita was a little fiddly to eat, as I still felt residual sadness, anger, and fear. As you might im...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/False-Cow-9158 on 2024-11-27 23:53:01+00:00.

---

My dad had recently lost his job and moved us across state to his childhood town. It was small farming town, not really ideal for anyone wanting to do anything with their life but we were in a tough spot. My dad claimed he wanted to move back to see his parents more but we werent close to them. I knew that it was because housing was so cheap in the area and it made sense why. Everything was so behind in the times. Easily dating back at least 10 years.

My sister and I were both in middle school. So you could imagine the transition of changing schools halfway through the year. We were 2 years apart grade wise but 3 years apart in reality. My little sister was very smart for her age which made things interesting considering that I had to watch after her. Ever since the accident, I had to take on the role of our mother which is something no 14 year old should have to do.

I dont know what exactly happened and dad doesnt like to talk about it but I pieced enough of it together that our mothers passing was a violent one. I was so young when it happened that it almost feels like a memory that doesnt belong to me. Something merely implanted from someone elses experience. The one thing that got me through such a tough time were my friends and seeing how I had to leave them, I felt as if I was leaving apart of myself. Leaving the safe and familiar harbor for more treacherous seas.

The living room was still full of boxes as Sandra and I got ready for school. Our outfits were so mismatched as we tried our luck opening unmarked moving boxes to hopefully find something remotely suitable to wear.

“Alright guys, let's pick something quick. I need to take you guys to school and I am already late for work.” My dad said defeatedly. Sandra shot me a look before diving back in to retrieve an outfit. What I had on wasnt exactly fashionable but it would do. Despite all the chaos my life had given me so far, there was one thing I did have to look forward to. I try to be optimistic with most things and I saw this new chapter in my life as a fresh start. A clean slate, that hopefully I could try my luck at being popular here. I wasnt popular at my old school but I think I could be if I had the right start here.

Sandra and I hopped in the car and dad routed us to school. As we pulled up to the location routed on my dads phone he was surprise that the town had a new middle school. One different than the one he went to as a child. “Huh”, he said. Looks like they got rid of O P Evans.” The school was rather nice despite the clear setback that the town had on it. The two store building stood out amidst the old buildings that were in the near area.

“Man, its probably a good thing they got rid of that school. That place was old even when I went there. I could see a look on my dads face as he reminisced of old memories. A slight smile began to crawl across his face….”Aww man thats right!” He whispered to himself. “You ok dad?” Sandra said front eh back seat. “Yeah yeah… Im good. You guys hop on out and Ill tell you a good scary story when you get home tonight.” We jumped out of the car and waved as he took off out of the parking lot. The small crowd of kids funneled their way inside as they were being guided by teachers and we went to class.

As I walked the halls of school. I couldnt help but think what my dad was smiling about. What could his scary story possibly be?

It didnt take long for me to forget the morning as I was doing my best to try to make new friends at school. I wasnt having much luck considering I was probably trying too hard. I did however eventually make a small group of friends in one of my drama classes. They were not popular but we had enough in common that I was able to make it work.

It wasnt the outcome I was looking for but I was just happy to have made a small group of friends. They were al nice although some of them were kinda weird but that was fine. I took that win for the day as a smile plastered across my face. The rest of the day after that seemed to fly by.

School eventually ended and I met Sandra outside of the school as we waited for dad. “Hey Sandy”, I said. “How was your day?” I asked as a smile still lingered on my face. “Pretty good all around. All my classes have good teaches.” She said while nodding. “Did you make any friends, meet any cute boys?” I egged her on. She brushed briefly “uhhh no… not yet”. Sandra was as smart as she was shy. We got along pretty well and she would oftentimes just join my group of friends by association, which I didnt really mind. Normally, something like that would have probably bothered me but ever since my mom died, I made sure she was included with things.

Dad eventually pulled up, clearly tired from work. He faked a smile as we hopped in the car. “Hey Girls, how was school?” It was good, how was work… I replied.. “Work is work” he said while chuckling. He always said that which made himself laugh which I found amusing.

We pulled out of the parking lot and started driving home when Sandra piped up from the back seat. “Dad, tell us that scary story you mentioned this morning.” My dad shot me a look and that mischievous grin returned… “Oh… Do I have a scary story for you.” He said in an eerie voice. “Wait… let me see if I can find the place first.” My dad then drove through town peering down old streets as if he was looking for something. As we drove he told us this story about his old school he used to attend. How the school O P Evans used to be a prison before being turned into a school. He took us down a couple of back roads, kinda tucked away from the already slow backstreets that the town seemed to have an endless amount of. Sure enough we eventually found it. An old building about maybe three to four stories high. A tall chain linked fence surrounded the once school. Razor wire was tangled in a mess above the fence, making sure no one was getting in by climbing over it. But ironically, the front gate to the school had since been rusted and withered and now sat askew, leaving large gaps near the gates frame that one could easily crawl through.

“Aww yea… there it is. So the story about this school is that it used to be a prison. Certain sections of the building were closed off as they were no longer needed or too dangerous to have kids around. They took out most of the cells obviously but they left a few that were built into the actual building. Anyways, so what we would do when we were younger was that we would sneak in here after soccer practice and try to explore certain sections that were forbidden. The staff would make up rumors like ghosts haunted the sealed off sections or that some terrible monster would grab you. Once time a buddy of mine, Mike snuck into to the basement. Now the basement didnt have any cells but it had old piping and areas unknown to even the staff. Now he swears he swears he saw something down there that changed him. He use to be fun loving and a rambunctious child but after that event he always seemed on edge.

Sandra and I looked at the old school with mixed emotions of bewilderment and awe. The schools appearance alone looked terrifying. If I didnt know better, this was clearly a place that housed some forbidden terror. Tormented spirits or other creatures of the night certainly dwelt here. We sat parked for a couple of minutes as my dad looked at the building that certainly housed many memories for him.

We all eventually came back to reality and drove back home to our sad lives. Today was a disappointment in someway but also successful in others. I wasnt with the Popular group but I did make some friends. It was also good to see my dad no longer his sad miserable self but able to see a brief glimpse into the inner child that he once was.

Not much changed after that day. Despite my best efforts, dad continued to just get by, my attempts to be popular never resulted in anything meaningful and the sad state of the town slowly began to drag us down with it. I got by in school but it was difficult. My new friends were the only thing that seemed to keep my head above water. My friends and Sandra that is.

The five of us eventually became pretty close. Rebecca,Stacy and Jared slowly became a common sight around my house. They were quirky but polite which my dad seemed to enjoy. I think he was just happy that Sandra and I had something to look forward to. Since the town was so small, we had to come up with new ways to entertain ourselves. Video games were a go to but it was hard since there were five of us and only 4 controllers. What we normally would like to do would be to go to the small playground and try to “Parkour”but None of us were any good. But that was the fun thing about our group. We alway found a way to make something out of nothing.

Oddly enough, the small town had a rather large cemetery. If we were feeling up to it we would play ghosts in the graveyard at night however we eventually got caught by the police. Which we werent allowed back.

One day after school we sat in the drama room discussing what we should do tonight. It had been awhile since we played ghosts in the graveyard but we were all dying to play. We tried playing a few rounds in our new school but the few staff that had stayed late that day got mad at us. We sat there discussing other places to play when an idea popped into my head. “I think I know where we can play but …..” The group looked at me as I paused. “ … But the place is a bit ...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/02321 on 2024-11-27 22:46:39+00:00.

---

First:

Previous:

I was recovering between jobs when I got an odd request. Someone named Jacob wanted me to teach him more about magic. The name didn’t ring a bell, but I soon realized he was the hunter we saved from the bug-infested hotel. I agreed to the request but also asked August if he could spare some time.  

I have been involved with supernatural creatures since I was a child. My first romantic relationship was with a cute creature who had mimic powers when I was about seventeen. Even with all my experience, I would never fully understand how magic worked better than someone who relied on it as a life force.  

August agreed and we arrived at the empty park first. While we waited, we played Rock Paper Scissors because Lucas had recently gotten into playing it with others. August wasn’t too great at it, so I let him practice with me for a few minutes. He kept throwing out rock because, in his words, he liked rocks.  

Jacob showed up giving us an expression that made it seem as if he regretted his decision. He was looking good considering how close he came to death recently. He still wore the long coat but changed his shoes to something more practical.  

“This is August. He knows a lot so he agreed to help. How long have you been working as a contract worker?” I asked after Jacob walked over.  

He blew a strand of long hair out of his face. If he wanted to do this job, he should at least keep his hair tied back.   

“Two months. I called you cause I figured you had connections to getting better weapons. How much would a big gun cost me?” He sounded like a teenager.   

I bet he wasn’t even nineteen yet. August smiled and gave me a side eye at the mention of a gun. I nudged him silently ordering him not to make fun of a newbie.  

“A lot. But I wouldn’t suggest a gun. If you’re going to invest that sort of money in a powerful weapon a blade along with charming your coat would be better. Is your jacket special?”  

Most hunters wore jackets that weren’t just for fashion reasons. They could be fused with magic, or parts of supernatural creatures to make the fabric resist damage. Some of the more advanced jackets were almost like a living creature bonded with their owner. The suits the Agents wore offered the same kind of protection. I’ve also heard supernatural mailmen had uniforms that protected them better than most jackets hunters could get their hands on.  

“It’s not a magic one if that’s what you’re asking. And why should I use a sword instead of a gun? Isn’t keeping your distance a better idea when it comes to monsters.” Jacob argued clearly, already annoyed.  

“Ditch the jacket.” August chimed in.  

The younger man scowled. Before he could question the statement, August had closed the distance between them. He slipped behind Jacob, took hold of his long coat, and pulled. I watched the pair as the kid frantically got back to his feet time and time again. No matter how much he tried dodging, August just caught the jacket and swept him off his feet again. By the time I broke the two up, Jacob had removed the coat, only for August to steal it away and tie it around the boy. He had only bruised Jacob’s ego but that was enough for his face to turn red in frustration.   

“I get it! No long coats! Are you happy?! Now tell me where I can get a damn gun!”  

He tossed the coat to the ground, face sweaty and hands shaking from rage. August wasn’t done. He reached over and tied Jacob’s hair back with a fair amount of protest. Jacob left his hair back accepting the message but still angry as hell.  

“To get back to the gun versus sword question, it’s mostly based on mass. A bullet is way smaller than a blade. Ten bullets would do less damage than a single stab from even a dagger.” I started to explain.  

“I call bullshit.” Jacob snorted.  

“Aw, I knew he was just a little baby but I didn’t understand how much of one.” August teased.  

I swear they were seconds away from a slapping fight. I sighed shaking my head. I hated just how often people like Jacob became Hunters. They thought they could just pick up a few weapons to slaughter evil creatures without understanding how magic really worked.  

“August, I’m going to pretend to stab you.” I told him so he would walk near me.  

To Jacobs's confusion, he watched me land a fake stab into August’s chest. The dramatic acting out a fake death wasn’t needed to prove my point though.   

“Magic is power that requires your will to control. A blade moves your entire body, your entire will to flow into it. An attack is more powerful based on the actions and intentions behind it.”  

August stayed on the ground and nodded along with my explanation. Jacob didn’t appear overly impressed.   

“You need to put your entire body into firing a gun. Like getting in the right position to aim. So why doesn’t that count?” He pointed out arms crossed.  

I started to go into a more detailed lecture about the difference between just shooting a bullet and using a blade against a supernatural creature. There were a few factors that made swords the preferred weapon.  All the willpower and magic get channeled into the sword in an attack. While firing a gun, the magic gets poured into the gun itself and not the bullets. Sure, bullets could be blessed, and depending on what type you used they can kill strong creatures. Those kinds of bullets were out of most Hunter’s budgets to create. Not even The Corporation used them that often because of how hard they were to produce. Also, most Hunters who start out relying on firepower think they’re safe at a distance. They don’t properly train their body to avoid counterattacks. Monsters can fire magic, or move faster than some humans can react to.   

As I spoke Jacob appeared more and more defeated. Even August got bored and started to scroll through his phone while on the ground. I would have kept going on, but Jacob raised a hand to make me stop speaking.  

“Where can I buy a magic sword then?” He sighed.  

August stood back up and shoved his phone into my face trying to show off some sort of cat meme I ignored.  

“You can borrow them through The Corporation when you accept a contract job. In fact, you can borrow all sorts of supplies you might need for a job. If you return the items clean and with minimal damage they won’t charge you for the use. “  

Jacob gave me a look that told me he wished I’d just told him all that to start with.  

“Do you want to do a few easy jobs together? You need more experience before taking on dangerous work. And it would be nice to not deal with this brain eater for once.” I offered as I started to push August away.  

He had gotten bored and draped himself over my left side. Sometimes I wondered why he was so comfortable fooling around and acting so dumb around me.  

“Brain eater? Like... as in... he eats monster brains?” Jacob asked as his entire body grew tense.  

His mood completely changed. It was as if he was suddenly in front of a man-eating beast ready to strike.  

“Monster or human. I’m not overly picky.” August announced.  

I should have realized that bringing along August was a bad idea. I wasn’t thinking properly that day. Jacob drew a handgun he kept hidden at his waist and fired in our direction. The bullet was weak, and his movements were slower than August. He raised a hand that transformed into a set of claws protected with a hard shell. I slightly jumped at the sound but was more confused than startled.  

“What the hell is wrong with you!” Jacob shouted in disgust. “He’s a monster and you’re that close with him?!”  

I knew Hunters hated supernatural creatures and refused to work with them, but I didn’t see Jacob as a real Hunter because he’d taken contract work. I just figured he had already worked alongside creatures before. I suppose that was the only difference between a Contract Worker and a Hunter. Contract Workers did whatever they needed to be paid. Hunters wanted to just kill supernatural creatures.   

“Partnering up with creatures for jobs is natural in this line of work. You’ll die if you don’t.” I calmly said.  

“Are you even still human siding with them?!” He shouted again.  

Jacob reached up to rip out the hair elastic August had used to pull back his hair. Utter hatred and rage showed on his face as his wild hair fell. I opened my mouth to defend myself, but no words came. I didn’t think when it came to dealing with supernatural creatures there were simple black-and-white answers as Jacob believed.   

“Almost every contract worker dies because of their job regardless of whether they accept help from creatures or not. It’s your choice to stand by what you think is right and live the life you’re comfortable with.” August said in an even tone.  

Jacob made a noise and scooped up his jacket. I called after him, but he stormed off refusing to even look back. Yes, August was right, Contract Workers had a high mortality rate, but Jacob wouldn’t last two weeks the way he was now.   

“You could have handled that a bit better.” I scolded August.   

“He shot at us. I think I gave him as much respect as he deserved.” He shrugged.  

Something was up with him today. His playful interactions felt a...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Fabulous-Bird-3018 on 2024-11-27 21:32:41+00:00.

---

Let me just start this by saying if you’re looking for a big confrontation or a satisfying conclusion I’m sorry but I don’t have one.

I am a junior in a university in a small town in northern British Columbia. The population is no larger than 200 people. It’s currently summer break and I’m working at the only grocery store in town as a stock boy to save up some extra cash for the upcoming semester.

The store was opened and ran by a local family called the McLean’s, the founder, Jim took over the store 30 years ago after the local superstore decided to sell it to the family after about 10 years of making no money. After Jim retired he left the store in the hands of his two sons Rob and Carl.

I think Carl handles the business side, accounting and marketing shit like that. But Rob is the day to day store supervisor. As an employee I almost never see Carl, the few times I have met him he seems nice enough if not distant and when he’s around Rob he gets quiet and looks extremely uncomfortable.

That isn’t out of the ordinary though, spend enough time around Rob and you’ll wish you hadn’t. It’s hard to describe but have you ever met anyone who’s really nice and polite on the surface but you look into their eyes and just feel deep unease for a reason you can’t quite put your finger on? That’s Rob.

The store is the only place in town where people (mostly senior citizens) can do their grocery shopping. The store itself is definitely the largest building in town but that's not saying much since all we have to compete with is a gas station at the edge of our parking lot and a Chinese food restaurant that's been there seemingly since before documented human history.

The rest of the town is just houses, sheds, a single baseball diamond and outdoor hockey rink. A few kilometres out of town is the sawmill that employs 95% of the population of our town. In fact my dad works there and his dad worked there and his dads dad also worked there. My father is utterly confused as to why I chose to go to a “fancy” general studies course at the University of British Columbia instead of taking up the family tradition of back breaking labour for 30 years straight.

The only claim to fame we have here is the murders that happened here a little over a year ago, not much has been released to the public because the investigation is still ongoing but word spreads like wildfire in small towns like this.

The few young people living here like to make their own theories because this is by far the most exciting thing that's happened here since the town's inception. I personally don’t like to talk about that stuff because frankly it freaks me out. The little information I know about the case is basically local legend and the occasional news updates on the store radio I hear from time to time.

There's about 20 people total on staff at the store but that has dropped to around 15 in the last 3 weeks due entirely to people quitting. Some people left amicably and others not so much.

Now like I said Rob is a nice man on the surface and very patient with his staff when it comes to mistakes made while on the job. But he has been known to have an extreme temper at seemingly random things.

A story that first comes to mind is this girl used to work here a few months back. She was chewed out by the cranky old lady at cash one night over the price of some cat food and after the old lady left she called her “a nasty old bitch” to some of her coworkers and Rob overheard.

Rob then asked her to join him in his office and screamed at her so loudly the other workers at the front of the store heard every word of his unhinged verbal barrage. She left crying and quit a week later.

Something else that added to the bizarre nature of the exchange was Rob himself has called rude customers mean names all the time so why did this one crabby old lady spark such fury?

That’s when I really started looking at Rob differently and started picking up on weird behaviours that originally flew over my head.

But the last straw and what made me decide to write this story out was what happened last week. To give some context we are dead almost constantly, our busiest day is Saturday when everyone in town needs to do their weekly shopping and even then it’s not that bad.

Since it’s dead so often, me and the only other stock boy here Tony who comes in high more often than not don’t really put too much care into the displays and so the shelves are often a bit underwhelming. Rob doesn’t really care about the presentation of products cause we are the only grocery store in town why would we need to show off with immaculate displays or perfect shelving?

So it’s not uncommon going down the aisles that things will be in the wrong place or flipped around or whatever. That is except for one part of the store. We don’t really have a toy section but we do have an aisle of dolls. All kinds of them from Barbie dolls to raggedy Anne dolls.

This is the only part of the store Rob demands stays perfect. Every doll facing forward, lined perfectly with not a hair on a single doll's head in the wrong place.

Last Wednesday we had maybe 10 customers all day, which is actually pretty busy for a weekday. With the harsh fluorescent lighting of the high ceiling and the same 3 radio pop songs playing over the loudspeakers all day while staring at the identical aisles over and over for 8 hours straight can drive a man to what I can only describe as hypnotic madness. So when I got to doll aisle I gave it a lazy once over and continued on.

A couple minutes later when I was at the brink of dissociation in the canned soup aisle I was shook out of my haze when I heard my name being screamed out as if they had just discovered me laying dead on the floor. It was Rob.

Seems that in my half asleep march I didn’t notice one of the dolls had fallen on its side on a shelf. It should have been sitting up like all the others.

When Rob pointed this out to me he gave me a look that made my blood run cold. His eyes looked like a hungry panther staring down a wounded deer.

“Do you wanna tell me what the fuck you think you’re doing?” Rob said never breaking eye contact.

“Oh sorry I must have missed that, let me fix it” I said shakily trying to get out of the situation as fast as possible.

I quickly reached over and tried to prop up the knocked over doll when Rob put his massive hand on my chest to stop me, pushing me back.

“Do you know that some of these dolls were made before you were born? And you come in here and disrespect them like this?” Rob said, his face getting redder with every word.

“Look I’m sorry I genuinely didn’t see that but you don’t have to shout it’s not that big of a deal, th-the rest of the aisle looks perfect.” I said, trying my best to calm him down.

He looked at me for what felt like 30 minutes with a cold stare as if he was going to wrap his massive hands around my throat at any second.

Then as if flipping a switch his mood completely changed.

“Ha ha no worries pal!” He gave me a pat on the shoulder that I think was meant to be friendly but was just hard enough to be menacing.

“Just make sure to keep an eye out in the future! Keep up the good work!”

He looked above me robotically and walked away without saying another word.

I was left there frozen in the aisle utterly perplexed as to what the hell just happened. I’ve worked customer service long enough to get used to being yelled at. I think anyone who has worked any form of customer service has had angry customers yell and swear at them and over time you just learn to get over it and laugh it off most of the time.

But the way Rob looked at me when he was yelling… to give you a better mental picture Rob is a huge man. He’s about 6 ft 7 give or take 300 pounds. Having him yell in my face was like a gorilla preparing for a brutal attack.

I stood in the aisle motionless for what felt like hours but couldn’t have been more than a few seconds when one of the cashiers, Holly walked up to check if I was alright.

“Is he fucking crazy?” She asked with a sympathetic yet angry tone.

“It.. it’s okay I..I’m fine I think he’s just on edge cause a few people have quit these last few weeks.” I said as if trying to convince myself that this interaction was somehow normal.

“Ya I wonder why?” Holly added, smiling.

Holly always had a way to make me feel better, she had blonde hair and green eyes and looked straight out of a high fashion magazine.

After our nice little chat I didn’t see Rob on the floor for the night but I saw him in his office when I was walking to my locker in the break room after finishing up.

He was mumbling to himself something I couldn’t quite make out. But it looks like he was angry… not angry at me or anything but angry with himself.

Holly was in the break room grabbing her stuff right next to Rob's office. I wanted to tell him off saying something like “you ever put your hands on me or anyone else I’ll kick your fucking ass!”

But who was I kidding, with one hand he could fling me across the room like one of his precious dolls. Besides I needed this job to save up for school so I don’t have to come back to this shitty store ever again.

So with gridded teeth I said; “goodnight Rob”

He turned as if snapped out of a trance and said “goodnight buddy see you tomorrow!”

I walked with my head swivelling back to my car.

Part 2:

Sometimes I give Tony a ride to...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/instant_zest on 2024-11-27 18:28:49+00:00.

---

Hey everyone. If you haven’t already, please check out my previous entry for context.

As expected, when we were eating dinner, Karena talked about moving in together. She’d actually found this place in Oakland. (which for non-Pittsburgh natives is about halfway between Chatham and Duquesne.) It was a steal. Just $950 a month for a one-bedroom apartment.

She was excited. The kind of excitement that makes her eyes light up and her words come out just a little too fast, like she was afraid I’d say no before she even finished. I, on the other hand, wasn’t as thrilled. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about her; I really did; it’s just that her cat freaked me the fuck out. But the way she looked at me, like this apartment was the answer to some question I didn’t even know she’d been asking, I couldn’t say no.

So, I told her yes. I’ll be meeting the landlord, Chuck, sometime today to hash out the details.

Based on his Facebook profile, Chuck looked exactly the kind of guy you’d expect to be renting out a $950 apartment in Oakland. Rugged, a little greasy, probably went to prison at some point for indecent exposure, etc. In his profile picture, he’s leaning up against a convenience store and is wearing a t-shirt that proclaims him “King of the Jagoffs." A half-burnt cigarette is nestled between his fingers.

I gave him a call, and we agreed to meet at at the apartment later today. I’ll probably talk more about it at some point.

After dinner, Karena invited me to spend the night. I reluctantly agreed. I figured I could just lock her bedroom door before we fell asleep to avoid what had happened... last time.

Before we got into bed, I double-checked the door.

Locked.

It's hard to remember, but I think Karena fell asleep before I did. I’ve been having trouble sleeping lately, but I managed to doze off around 11:00 p.m.

I woke up at 3 a.m., my throat dry and my body heavy with that groggy middle-of-the-night confusion. Reaching out for Karena, I realized her side of the bed was empty. The blankets were rumpled, and she was gone.

The door, locked when I’d gone to bed, was wide open.

And there was Linksy. Sitting on the windowsill, his wide, unblinking eyes fixed on me. His grin stretched far, and his teeth caught the faint moonlight.

I grabbed a pair of shorts and a t-shirt; my pulse was hammering in my ears. As I stepped out into the hallway, the air felt colder than it should have been. The kitchenette light was on, and that’s where I found her. Karena, standing in front of the fridge, completely still.

Her eyes were open, but they weren’t completely there. It was like looking at a mannequin.

"Karena?" I whispered, stepping closer. No response.

I reached out and gently touched her shoulder.

She screamed.

The sound ripped through the apartment, raw and primal. She stumbled back, collapsing to the floor, clutching her chest like she’d just woken up from a nightmare.

"I—I'm sorry,” she stammered, her voice shaking. “I sleepwalk sometimes. I guess I forgot to tell you.”

Her words felt hollow, but I nodded and helped her back to bed. Linksy was still on the windowsill when we returned, but his grin was gone.

As I lay there, staring at the ceiling, something gnawed at the edges of my mind. I’d locked that door. How had she gotten out? Could she really unlock it while sleepwalking? How did she turn on the Kitchenette light? The more I thought about it, the less sense it made.

I waited for Linksy to leave the room; he always did eventually, and got up to lock the door again. Just in case.

That brings me to now. It’s morning, and I’m writing this because I woke up to find Karena gone again. The door is wide open.

And Linksy?

He's back on the windowsill. Staring. Smiling.

I don’t know if I can get out of bed again. I have a weird feeling that I won’t find Karena in the kitchenette.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Dopabeane on 2024-11-27 23:20:20+00:00.

---

Dolly Doe is the moniker given to an unidentified juvenile homicide victim whose remains were discovered under a highway overpass in an undisclosed U.S. city in 1979. 

The crime provides the the inspiration of a particularly gruesome urban legend that originally arose in the area in the 1980s. The details of the story are as follows: 

The decapitated revenant of a dead girl holding a baby doll appears under the overpass every full moon at midnight. She is headless and covered in blood. All of her limbs are broken, giving her movements a weird, floppy appearance.

If you are unlucky enough to find yourself under that specific overpass on midnight at a full moon, the dead girl will kill you. 

It doesn’t matter who you are. Partiers, drunk teenagers, urban explorers, vagrants, and the occasional unlucky midnight wanderer are all fair game. Once the dead girl spots you, she hobbles, runs, or crawls (exact details depend on who tells the story) at you on these broken limbs. When she catches you, she tears your head off.

In some versions of the tale, the doll is an animate hunter who helps the dead girl kill victims. In others, it issues shrill warnings to prospective victims right before the revenant strikes.

Although entirely implausible, the details about the doll certainly make for a terrifying mental image and likely contribute to the legend’s endurance. 

In 1987, the legend enjoyed a resurgence following the death of a local child named Victor.

Victor lived near the overpass and was known to express great interest in the legend of Dolly Doe. Shortly after bragging that he knew “the truth about Dolly,” he was struck by a bizarre wasting disease that mimicked the symptoms of advanced dementia. Due to Victor’s well-known interest in the urban legend, his illness was thereafter referred to as “Dolly’s Curse.”

Paradoxically (if not surprisingly), Victor’s tragic fate led a steady trickle of eager visitors, most of whom were children and teenagers, to the underpass in the hopes of glimpsing Dolly Doe for themselves.

Over the next five years, over a dozen children were struck by the same wasting disease that took Victor’s life. 

Had the Agency not apprehended the entity, the death toll would undoubtedly be much higher.

Personnel took her into custody without incident in March 1992. She introduced herself as Dolly. Beyond that, she has communicated very little since her incarceration began.

Despite the entity’s overall lack of cooperation, the organization was able to gather sufficient information to understand what had happened to Victor.

In brief:

Through an as-yet unknown mechanism that the Agency cannot replicate or study for ethical reasons, Dolly Doe attempted to possess Victor and to an extent, she succeeded. 

However, the boy’s neural pathways proved fundamentally incompatible with her consciousness. So, to all outward appearances, Victor lost his mind. Dolly refused to vacate his body, although it must be noted that the extent of the damage was most likely so significant so quickly that leaving most likely would not have saved Victor’s life. 

Within six days, scans showed that physical degeneration on a level usually seen in advanced dementia patients was present in Victor’s brain, followed by lesions that rapidly metastasized into tumors. Despite this, Dolly persisted in her possession and attempted control of Victor’s body.

Her efforts ended abruptly when Victor died twenty-two days after she first possessed him. 

Most unfortunately, Victor was not Dolly’s last victim. 

As previously mentioned, Victor’s death gave the urban legend of Dolly Doe new prominence, leading thrill seekers and daredevils to hunt for her under the overpass.

Most of these individuals were unable to perceive her. Those who could generally ran away at the sight of her. But every once in a while, one of these children was brave enough or lonely enough to confront and forge a bond with her.

Invariably, this bond ended with Dolly attempting to steal their bodies just as she stole Victor’s, with similarly dire results.

All in all, Dolly had fourteen victims. Some Agency personnel wish to classify her as a serial killer for this reason.

Following her evaluation (recorded below) with the Agency’s specialized interviewer, however, personnel now believe this is a highly inaccurate conclusion. Dolly is not malicious. She is not a killer. She feels no compulsion to end lives. Her intention was never to harm.

Malicious or not, however, she is critically dangerous and it fair to characterize her as a slow-burn mass casualty event. 

Despite extensive effort on the part of the Agency, details of Dolly Doe’s identity, life, and death remain unknown. 

Even she is unaware of these details. In fact, Dolly does not even recall her own name. In the opinion of medical staff, the combination of Dolly’s obviously abusive childhood and the severe trauma surrounding her death resulted in selective amnesia that persists, even in her Khthonic state. 

Please note that following the highly destructive behavior she exhibited during the last attempt to help her recall a seemingly innocuous detail about her childhood, there are no to be no attempts at memory recall for this inmate at this time.

The truly minute amount of information that Dolly Doe shared with staff prior to her interview relate to her extraordinarily lonely existence post-mortem.

This information consists of the repetitive expression of a wish for a loving family, and approximately a dozen distinct memories over the years she spent alone after her death. Each memory concerns one of Dolly’s desperate attempts to forge connections with anyone who came across the place where her murderer concealed her body.

Dolly states that she tried and failed to befriend children, teenagers, and various adults over the years. Most of these individuals never even registered her presence. Those that did fled in abject terror.

While clearly painful for Dolly, this reaction is understandable. As is often the case with Khthonic entities, Dolly Doe’s appearance reflects the condition of her body post-mortem. Similarly to the BABYGIRL entity, the sight is exceedingly disturbing due to the extent of the injuries inflicted upon her.

In a somewhat interesting footnote, Dolly remained under the radar for as long as she did because her interference was attributed to a known “cancer cluster” in the area. This has prompted personnel to review other such clusters for Agency-appropriate phenomena.

It should be noted that the interviewer has suggested that staff facilitate introduction of Dolly Doe to the Bye-Bye Mommy. This request has been submitted to administration by Dr. Wingaryde.

Interview Subject: Dolly Doe 

Classification String: Noncooperative / Indestructible / Khthonic / Constant / Moderate / Daemon 

Interviewer: Rachele B.

Interview Date: 11/26/24

I’ve dreamed about my mom for as along as I can remember.

I don’t ever see her face, I think because I haven’t met her yet. I know, I know - I already have a mother or else I wouldn’t exist. But I'm not talking about my mother. I don’t care about finding my mother. I care about finding my mom.

That’s why I tried to make so many friends. I wanted to find someone to be my best friend. Somebody who would love me like I was their sister and bring me home to their family to get adopted. That happens sometimes, right? Sometimes parents see kids in orphanages and bring them home. I wish I could have gone to an orphanage. I couldn’t, though, because I was stuck in the dark with my doll. No one could see me there.

That’s why I had to make friends, because it was the only way anyone would ever see me.

No one wanted to be my friend, though. Not ever. Every single time I tried, they just ignored me. Well, I guess there were a few who didn’t ignore me. But they were even worse because they just screamed at me. They were scared of me. I don’t know why. I was really nice. That’s how you make friends, by being nice. I was so nice I even tried to share my doll, but they were just scared of her too.

I don’t really remember how many friends I tried to make. At least a hundred, probably more like a thousand. Maybe even two thousand. It didn’t matter, though. They all either ignored me or ran away screaming. I’d just sit in the dark where I could still smell my blood and cry. Sometimes I cried for days. That’s because I don’t know how to sleep anymore. I think I used to sleep when I was sad, but now all I do is cry.

I almost gave up on friends and everything else. I was ready to lay down with my doll where I could smell my blood and see my clothes — which is weird, because I’m wearing them. How can my clothes be on me and in the ground at the same time? — and cry for as long as I had to.

That’s what I was doing when Victor came — laying down and crying.

He was crying, too. I could see why—he was walking funny and bleeding. Before I got stuck in the dark, I was walking funny and bleeding too. I thought maybe he was about to be stuck with me. That would have been fun. Not as fun as having parents, but at least he would have been my brother.

Victor wasn’t about to be stuck with me, though. I knew that as soon as I got a close look at him. He wasn’t walking as weird or bleeding as bad as I had been. It was still pretty bad, though. He had blood on his face and he was holding twisted up glasses without the glass.

Later, af...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/MoodyMycelium on 2024-11-27 19:20:36+00:00.

---

She just stepped out. The police said the lights were red. I can still picture her body, bouncing down the road like a ragdoll. I remember the fear in her eyes as we locked for a moment right before. She was like a deer caught by headlights. But that's nothing to what I experience so often, ever since that night.

Right now as I sit here, the lights off and just the glaring of the screen lighting my vicinity. I know she is behind me. I can feel her. I'd swear it isn't real but the room goes so cold. So cold the glass of water by my side appears to frost lightly. I hear her. I know her mangled and decayed corpse is standing right behind me. Her muffled and laboured breathing so close my hairs on the tips of my ears and my neck stand rigid. The chill of her breath sends an ice-cold shiver down my spine. It's not real the therapist said. She can't hurt me. But I smell her. The smell is particularly heavy tonight. A thick, musty damp stench lingers all around me, my nostrils crammed with her reeking presence.

I muster all my courage, jump out of my seat and spin around. Screaming at the empty darkness of the room as tears stream down my cold cheeks, I collapse to the floor and just cry, begging for forgiveness and her to leave me alone. After what feels like hours, I sit up, drained and defeated. I deserve this. She didn't do anything wrong. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, now because of me she's no longer here. I should have just walked.

I gather myself and sit on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands. I always tell myself she isn't real. No matter how much closer she always gets, I just keep telling myself, she's...not...real. It sure feels real. I even see her sometimes. Her patchy skin reveals her rotten flesh underneath and those eyes. Those eyes no longer fearful as they were in her last moments. Now they are just black, empty, lifeless and they cut straight through me.

I got sober while I was on the inside. I've been out three months now and have managed to stay on the wagon, despite her visits. I can't do it anymore though, I can't take it. I know she was behind me, I'm losing my mind and I get no sleep. That probably doesn't help. I read somewhere that sleep deprivation can cause hallucinations. It's at least comforting to believe she's just a hallucination of a sleepless mind. She's not an hallucination though, I'm sure of it. I don't care what the quacks say. She's real and she's playing with me. Tonight was the worst though. She's never felt that close before. I need a stiff drink, I'm done dealing with this. Screw the meetings and badges. What's the point when none of it stops her coming. She always visits. She just...won't...stop. Just a few drinks won't hurt, not anymore than the sight of her does.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Mint_Blue_Jay on 2024-11-27 17:45:19+00:00.

---

I first learned about the curse when I was 12. While I was at my uncle's funeral, I heard the adults talking in hushed tones, whispering about who they thought the "next one" would be. Every time I asked them, they got quiet or made up excuses that they were talking about something else.

When we got home, I asked my mom about what I'd heard. Her face went pale, but then she sighed.

"I suppose you're old enough to know," she said. "Our family is cursed. No one knows exactly how or why it started, but whenever someone dies, two more will follow in the same calendar year. This includes people who married into the family. Do you remember when your grandpa died last month?"

I nodded. My grandpa hadn't been terribly old, but he had died at the age of 67 due to heart failure. He refused to go to the hospital or visit any doctors, although we suspected he'd had several heart attacks throughout the years.

"Your grandpa was the first. And now your Uncle, although it wasn't his time, was the second."

My uncle married into my dad's side of the family. He never drank or did drugs, but he was always the life of any family gathering or party we had. One day, he was driving home in the evening when there was a freak accident. A traffic light had malfunctioned and showed green on all sides. He'd been t-boned by another driver, and although the other driver walked away without a scratch, my Uncle had died on the spot.

"Who's going to be the third?" I asked.

"We don't know. If the curse is merciful this time, it will take someone who's ready to go. There's no guarantee." I searched my mom's face for any sign she was joking, but she seemed completely serious.

"Could I be the next one?" Her face softened.

"Of course not, you're still a child. I've never seen the curse go after any children before. You'll be fine."

I thought my mom was being dramatic and overthinking things. There was no such thing as a curse, and this one sounded ridiculous. As the year wore on, no one else died. Then, we got to December. My elderly Aunt died at the ripe old age of 93 due to natural causes. There were more whispers and relief about her being "the third," but I paid no mind to it. It was just a coincidence.

Several years later, one of my older cousins died from complications of a chronic disease they'd had their entire life. The family started up their rumors again about "who would be next." I paid it no mind, because I still believed it was ridiculous. A few months later, an uncle I'd never met died from old age. The whispers of the curse continued to swirl. Then, my life turned upside down a few months later when my dad had a heart attack. He was only 43.

He was rushed to the hospital, and the doctors managed to save him, but said he would never be the same. He likely wouldn't live more than a few more years at best. They wanted to get him a heart transplant, but he refused. The couple in the room next to his were watching their loved one die because his body rejected the transplanted heart, and it was horrific. They told us if only they'd known this would happen, they gladly would have taken the few years he had left instead of watching him die like this. My dad said he would never take that chance, and would rather enjoy the life his body had left to give him.

Relatives filtered in and out, whispering about how he had cheated the curse and what would happen now. Would it find another victim? Would my dad still die that year somehow? Would it take two more victims as punishment? Nobody knew. Anytime they talked about the curse around me, I tried my best to shut it down. They were all acting like children with this "curse" nonsense.

We almost got to the end of the year with nothing else happening. Then, towards the end of December, my great Aunt slipped on a patch of black ice while coming out of church. She broke her neck and died instantly. The other relatives seemed relieved that there was a third and my dad hadn't somehow cheated the curse and made it worse. My brother was diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder that same year, and some whispered how that must been my dad's punishment for surviving. I didn't understand how the adults could be so cruel to say things like that; especially to my brother.

My dad made it ten more years before he couldn't hold on anymore and his body gave out. A month later, his mother, my grandmother, had a stroke and died as well. It wasn't entirely unexpected; she'd had several strokes over the years, and the pain of losing my dad, her youngest child, must have been bad. I graduated college and moved across the country a few months after, along with my brother and my mom.

I was fed up with the relatives and all their nonsense; beyond just the "curse" business, they liked to stir up drama. We decided we would leave my dad's side of the family and their "curse" behind and cut contact with most of them. My brother and I didn't want any of our potential future kids to experience any of what we had to go through. Although, I had to admit, I was starting to wonder about the curse. Was it really just a coincidence that people in our family kept dying in threes?

Later that year, I heard from one of my cousins I kept in touch with that her dad was diagnosed with a rare, aggressive form of cancer. They treated it as aggressively as possible since he was so young, but he died only a month after they got the news. Like me, she was also ticked off about the relatives saying it was because of the curse, and she also cut contact with them.

About ten years passed with no drama. I really thought we'd left all that behind. My brother got married and had two kids, and I'm still looking for the right person. I got a job as a nurse, and I live across town from my brother and help him manage his autoimmune condition and sometimes watch the kids. I love being an aunt and can't wait to start my own family someday.

A few months ago we had a bit of a tragedy on my mom's side of the family. Her mom, my grandma, had been declining in health over the last 8 years and was in a nursing home for the last year before she finally passed away. My mom's younger brother took this really hard. He had a ton of health conditions he was born with, and he had already outlived the life expectancy given to him by the doctors. It wasn't a shock when he passed a few months after, but it was very sad.

"I'm going to move in with my Dad for a while," my mom had told me. "I don't want the shock of losing his wife and only son to kill him. I don't want him to be the third."

"Are you really still on about that curse?" I asked. "It wasn't even from your side of the family. It was from Dad's."

"No, you're right, there's no curse," she acquiesced. "But that doesn't mean the shock couldn't still kill your Grandpa. I don't want to lose both my parents and my brother in the same year."

My mom went back to live with him. This left me, my brother, and his family alone over here. A few months later, in November, his kids both got sick with something nasty and passed it to my brother and his wife. I'll admit, although I didn't believe in the curse, I was a little on edge because of it.

Since he had an autoimmune disorder, he had to be on medications to stop his immune system from working properly so it didn't continue to attack his body. This meant that his weakened immune system wasn't strong enough to fight off a lot of common illnesses, so he needed a lot of rest and medications to help fight even a simple cold. I know my body is strong enough to fight off whatever germs his kids have, so I've been going over there every day after work to help so he can rest. Since I'm a nurse, I've been exposed to enough illnesses that I'm immune to most germs anyway.

It's been a week and they're all recovering well, even my brother. I think I'm starting to get sick, though. It came on pretty fast. I was fine this morning, but now that I'm going to bed, I spiked a fever of 103°F. I've also got terrible muscle aches and chills, my throat is killing me, and my face and chest turned bright red. I was totally fine a few hours ago. I probably just need to sleep it off. I'll take some Tylenol to help with the fever and pain, and I'm sure I'll feel much better when I wake up. I'm only 29 so I'm strong enough to fight this off.

I'll post an update once we all recover from this illness so you'll know we're fine and there is no curse.

Last online: 12 days ago

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/MagesticFireFly on 2024-11-27 12:18:28+00:00.

---

This has been going on for awhile now. At first, it was harmless—hell, it was even kind of funny. But now I’m scared, and I don’t know what to do.

It started on a Monday afternoon. Greg leaned over his desk at me, grinning like a kid on Christmas, and said, “Dude, they installed a new vending machine. No more warm cans in my bag!”

I smiled back, mostly because Greg seemed genuinely excited about it. Me? I couldn’t muster the same enthusiasm. I’m a broke college student, working this job for scraps of extra cash, so vending machines might as well be ATMs that charge you for looking. But hey, I was happy for him.

By the time our break rolled around, Greg was practically vibrating with excitement. He bolted toward the vending machine like it was a long-lost love. I followed him, mostly because it was on the way to the break room anyway.

Now, the vending machine was… different. Most machines have that clear front where you can see all the snacks and drinks lined up, just waiting to bankrupt you. This one wasn’t like that. It was entirely red—shiny, metallic, and completely opaque. You couldn’t see inside at all. Above the keypad was a simple list of drinks and snacks, and a faint red glow made the thing look like it was alive. Greg didn’t seem to care.

He jammed his spare change into the slot, punched in the number for a Diet Coke, and stood there, waiting with a dopey smile on his face. The machine hummed softly, and I could hear gears turning inside, twisting and shifting as it prepared his drink.

It took longer than usual. Like, awkwardly long. I started to feel the drafty cold creeping in, and—of course—I sneezed. Great. Just what I needed: a head cold to top off a miserable Monday.

Finally, the machine clunked, and Greg crouched to grab his drink. “What the hell?” he muttered.

“What?” I asked, stepping closer to see.

He stood up, turning to me with a confused look on his face. In his hand wasn’t a Diet Coke. It was… a packet of tissues.

Greg stared at the tissues in his hand, clearly disgruntled, but he just shrugged. “Must’ve punched in the wrong number,” he muttered, tossing the pack at me before sulking off back to his desk.

Weird. I didn’t even know vending machines had tissues in stock, but whatever. I blew my nose, grateful for them anyway, and got back to work.

Greg spent the rest of the afternoon pouting, griping about wasting his last bit of change on “some bloody tissues” while sipping his warm Diet Coke like it was some kind of protest. The day dragged on as painfully slow as ever, and one by one, my colleagues packed up and headed out.

I regretted taking overtime as soon as I realised I was the last one left in the office. But hey, a broke student’s gotta do what they’ve gotta do, right? By the time I finally finished, it was pushing seven, and the hallway was eerily quiet as I made my way to the exit.

Rain was hammering against the windows, loud enough to make me groan. “Ughhh,” I muttered, pulling my thin jacket over my head in a pathetic attempt at protection. I was going to be soaked. Just as I reached for the door, I heard it. A noise.

The vending machine’s gears were turning again.

The sound echoed through the empty office, weirdly loud in the dark silence. It made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. For a second, I just stood there, frozen, telling myself it was nothing. Machines settle sometimes, right? That’s just what they do.

Then came the thump.

It wasn’t the light clink of a soda can or the soft rustle of a pack of tissues. It was heavy. Much heavier than anything I thought a vending machine could hold. Against my better judgment—and believe me, I knew this was dumb—I turned around and walked toward it.

Let me tell you, I’d be the first to die in a horror movie.

I crouched down, peering into the machine’s dispensing bay. The item sitting there was too big to make sense, but I reached in anyway and gently pulled it out.

It was an umbrella.

The next day at work, I could hardly wait to tell Greg what had happened. I’d spent half the night tossing and turning, trying to figure it out, and by morning, I’d convinced myself that the vending machine was some kind of experimental AI. Maybe it could somehow detect what you needed and just… provide it. I wasn’t super technical, so I didn’t know exactly how that would work, but it was the only explanation that made sense.

When Greg finally appeared and slumped into his chair, I leaned over and told him everything—about the machine, the noise, and the umbrella. “It didn’t even ask for money,” I added, trying to sound casual but definitely failing.

Greg raised an eyebrow, clearly still salty about wasting his spare change. “So you didn’t even have to put anything in?” he asked, deadpan.

“Nope,” I said, grinning. “And I got a sweet umbrella, too. Held up against the rain perfectly. Didn’t blow inside out or anything.”

Greg just grunted and went back to whatever he was doing, sipping his warm Diet Coke like it was a point of pride.

Over the next few days, the vending machine became the center of office gossip. Everyone had a story about it. Mark, who forgot his gloves on a freezing morning, punched in a number and came away with a brand-new pair. Sally, who was starting to get a migraine during a meeting, returned from the machine with two paracetamols. Sophie’s phone was on its last legs—2%, maybe—and, yep, the machine spat out a phone charger for her.

It was bizarre. None of us could figure out how it worked. How would an AI—or whatever it was—know about Sally’s headache or Sophie’s phone battery? Theories flew around like confetti. Some people thought it was programmed with some crazy advanced algorithm. Others joked that it was possessed.

It was impressive. But it was also… unsettling. There was something about it that didn’t sit right with me. It wasn’t anything I could put into words, exactly—just a feeling.

Still, we kept using it. Curiosity won out over caution, as it usually does.

Everyone, that is, except Greg. He hadn’t forgiven the machine for stealing his last bit of change and replacing his Diet Coke with tissues. He continued to sip his warm soda defiantly, throwing occasional side-eye at the machine like it had personally wronged him.

And honestly? I couldn’t blame him. As amazing as it was, there was something about that vending machine that felt off.

The items from the vending machine started getting… weirder. It was subtle at first, but enough to make people uncomfortable. John was the first to mention it. He walked back to his desk one afternoon, holding a bloody bandage between two fingers like it was a dead rat. “Look what I just got,” he said, half-laughing, half-grossed out. Everyone chuckled nervously, brushing it off as a glitch or a mistake. But later that day, John slammed his finger in the door frame so badly it split the skin.

Angela’s turn came a couple of days later. She walked up to the vending machine on her break, and instead of a snack or something useful, it spat out a photograph. It was of her—sitting in her car, completely unaware. Her laugh was shaky when she showed it around. “Okay, which one of you is screwing with me?” she asked, but no one confessed.

Then there was Jessica. She didn’t even get to make a joke about hers. She stood frozen next to the machine, holding up a small, delicate lock of blonde hair. It was eerily similar to her own. Everyone agreed it was strange, but we tried to laugh it off, like we always did. “Maybe it’s possessed,” Mark joked, earning a few strained chuckles. “It’s trying to spook us for Halloween!”

But no one could quite shake the unease. The vending machine wasn’t just helpful or quirky anymore—it was starting to feel… personal.

People got nervous, but they hid it behind sarcasm and half-hearted jokes. We told ourselves it was harmless. Just a weird machine. Nothing to be afraid of.

But deep down, I think we all knew it was only a matter of time before something worse happened.

I was typing up a report when Megan, usually quiet and polite, stormed into the office, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Is this some kind of sick joke? Do you think you’re fucking funny? Who did it?”

Everyone looked up, startled. Megan was never like this. Concerned murmurs rippled through the room as she stomped toward her desk, still shouting. Her voice cracked with anger—or maybe fear—and before anyone could say a word, one of the managers hurried over and gently led her away.

But as they left, something slipped from Megan’s trembling hands and fluttered to the floor. I don’t know why I grabbed it. Maybe it was morbid curiosity, or maybe I just wanted to make sense of the chaos. Either way, I snatched it up, and what I saw made my blood run cold.

It was an obituary.

For Megan.

Her name, her face, her details—everything was printed there. And under “Date of Death,” it said today.

I just stared at it, heart pounding, trying to wrap my head around what I was seeing. Was this some kind of cruel prank? My first thought was the vending machine—could it have done this? Before I could say anything, the manager led Megan out of sight, her sobs echoing down the hallway.

About ten minutes later, I heard the front door open and close. Our office was right next to the exit, and the windows faced the street. I glanced out just in time to see Megan crossing the road toward the bus stop, still crying.

I quickly looked away. It felt wro...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/CMPaiz on 2024-11-27 09:19:23+00:00.

---

The newborn phase is hard. Most parents will tell you “hard” is an understatement. In reality you spend most of your time dirty and delirious, desperately trying to avoid nodding off into your third or fourth morning cup of coffee. You’re already dealing with constant worry, inconsolable screaming, endless poopy diapers, and wondering what each stain on your shirt is. You have no hope of getting a full night's sleep. You hardly have time to eat, let alone cook. A shower suddenly becomes the height of luxury. What I’m trying to get at is, it’s easy to believe your mind may be playing tricks on you when you see something in the shadows in the dead of night while you have a newborn, but this isn’t my imagination, and I need to know if any other new parents have seen this too.

Well before my due date we set up the baby monitor. We left the monitor on at night in order to get used to the screen’s persistent glow cutting through the darkness of our room. I’m a night owl, frequently staying up until two or three in the morning, so I spent many nights glancing at the screen and never noticed anything unusual. 

The same was true for the first few months of my daughter’s life while she slept in the bassinet beside our bed. But on her first night alone in her room I noticed a particularly dark spot in the corner that seemed to pulse, as if it were alive. As if it were breathing. I squinted. I zoomed the camera in. I even went into the room and peeked at the corner myself. I didn’t find anything out of the ordinary until I glanced back down at the screen and saw that the spot had moved from the corner to the middle of the room and was now a distinct, humanoid, silhouette. And it was looking in my direction. 

Fear engulfed me immediately. I stared at the figure on the screen as it stared at me. I had trouble tearing my eyes away, frozen in terror, but knew I had to look up. I had to see it for myself. But when I looked up, nothing was there.

I rushed over and scooped up my daughter, bringing her back to her bassinet in our room, and when I looked back at the monitor as I plugged it in, I noticed the figure was gone. What was still lingering was the chill that had been sent up my spine, and an unshakable feeling that I was being watched. I spent the rest of the night staring at the door, as if I was waiting for someone to come barging through it.

It was a week before my husband could convince me to let our daughter sleep in her room again. 

“You’re tired, you’re stressed. You probably just saw a shadow,” he kept repeating. I finally gave in just to make him drop it. 

I spent the entire night sitting up in bed, eyes glued to the monitor, scanning constantly for pulsating shadows, but none showed up. After a few nights with no overnight visitors, I began to relax. After a few weeks I started to believe that my husband must’ve been right; it must’ve been a figment of my imagination. But last night I rolled over to take one last peek before going to sleep for the night, expecting to see my daughter sleeping in her crib, but she wasn’t in her crib at all. She wasn’t even in the room. The shadow was standing right over her empty cot. Its “head” snapped up, in the direction of the camera, as if this thing was trying to look into it. To look at me.

I immediately smacked my husband awake and shoved the monitor in front of his face.

“Where’s the baby??” I yelled as he rubbed his eyes trying to come quickly back to consciousness. 

“What are you talking about?” He yawned, finally focusing on the monitor, eyes suddenly going wide and moving to scan my undoubtedly unhinged expression. “What’s that thing?” he asked me, not waiting for the answer as he sprung out of bed, running into her room as I scanned every corner of ours, as if she could’ve magically teleported in here on her own. I didn’t see her anywhere, so I followed my husband, hesitantly for some reason, and made my way to the nursery doorway, monitor in hand. On it I could see my husband frantically searching high and low in the room but, more importantly, I could see the figure looming over his each and every move, reaching out, trying to touch him, when my husband suddenly whipped around, panting, as if he expected someone to be there and yet saw nothing. But I could see it.

From the doorway I glanced up at them, but instead of seeing my husband I was met with the face of the thing, inches from my own, with deep, black eyes staring into my soul itself. The skin was covered in boils so full they could burst at any moment. Giant jagged yellow teeth leaked drool over stretched, cracked, lips. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. It opened its mouth and I expected my ears to be met with a disgusting gurgling but instead a sweeping crescendo of infant cries engulfed me. Not just one infant, but many, all screeching in perfect harmony, transfixing me with their heart shattering sounds. The screams became an all encompassing roar, growing louder and louder, before suddenly stopping all together, the beast vanishing right before my eyes.

I then heard a quieter, familiar cry from my daughter’s crib. She lay there, squirming a bit, beginning to fuss, and my husband and I exchanged confused looks before he picked her up and brought her back to our room.

I don’t think I’ll ever be letting her sleep in that room again.

The thing that’s really bothering me, though, is that something feels just the slightest bit off about my daughter. Like she’s changed in some way?

Has anyone ever encountered a monster like this?

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Contrantier on 2024-11-27 04:57:56+00:00.

---

I don't know how big a problem this is going to be in the long run, really, because it started out so uncertain, and it still is. We're both terrified, and we don't know how to get out of this.

I'm Kelar, 22, live in a nice two bedroom apartment in a lovely area of town. The neighborhood has a woodsy feel to it; the buildings are dark brown, there's a lot of tall pine trees everywhere, and the streetlamps are warm and orange in the evening.

Something about this neighborhood makes me think of Alice, I guess. I mean, this is where I met her. I'm a sales associate at NidoMax Electronics, looking for a promotion in the future, and she's a florist, expert on anything about flowers.

She's just so in love with plants and nature in general, and as there's a lot of miniature wildlife hiding in the trees, she's right at home here. Y'know, besides the fact that she lives here and stuff.

I met her outside picking up a baby squirrel from the grass at the edge of the woods, and my heart just went out to her right away. Anyone who would rescue an abandoned baby squirrel is all right in my book. I asked her if she needed help.

Long story short, I think we both fell in love that day. Less than a year later, she was already moving in with me. Well, we both switched from our studio apartments to the big two bedroom, that is. She's only two years older than me, and it felt so perfect.

Alice has always had this wonderful, soft personality. Children seem to gravitate toward her. Dogs and cats are super calm around her. Ever rubbed a cat's stomach? You know how they like it for about four seconds, and then suddenly you turn into a freakish gremlin whose sole purpose is clearly to disembowel the feline and it defends itself suchly?

Yeah, that doesn't happen with her. I swear, she could do that cat massage ASMR for a living if she wanted.

I think part of it comes from her past. She'd been abused a lot as a kid, beaten by both of her parents. Somehow, she views everything that can't defend itself as worthy of a lifetime's worth of love and compassion. I know she doesn't like to talk about it, but she's opened up to me occasionally. I understand her way better than most people.

Well, we've both always had our careers and our hobbies. She likes walking through those woods and finding little animals to help, like lifting a fallen baby bird back into its nest, that sort of thing. I mean, that's no surprise----she actually rescued a little girl from a creep at the local park once. She'll help anyone who needs it.

I think that's what started this trouble for her.

She came home one evening after a little walk around in the trees (I'd been pretty worn out from work and went right for a shower, so unlike most times I didn't join her). She looked so happy that she seemed to be glowing.

"Alice?" I called to her with a half smile. She looked as though she'd just donated a palace to a family of raccoons. She looked up at me, her eyes lighting up, and walked to me quickly and purposefully without answering. I almost said her name a second time, but she practically collided with me, rustling the towel around my waist and knocking me back against the wall, threw her arms around me and kissed me.

I went instantly rigid. She was very touchy and liked to put her hands on me a lot, but I couldn't remember the last time she'd just come and gotten me like that. I don't know what else to call it. I was in complete bliss as she kissed me, and her mouth tasted different than ever before. Usually she just had that normal, generic taste (no, not strawberries or something else cliche), but this time, her lips and tongue tasted like sugar. Like she'd just drank a glass of liquid sugar or something, the flavor was just like eating a pinch of the stuff right out of the bowl.

I don't think I need to be descriptive about the rest of the evening. She just seemed to get more and more lovey over the next few minutes, and it ended with us both falling asleep very happily in her bed.

Just before she nodded off with her head on my chest, she finally spoke. She said just one thing. "Kel?" she murmured.

"Yeah, babe?" came my reply. It was a struggle to keep my voice from trembling; part of me wanted to still try to ask her what amazing thing had come over her, as I'd tried a few times over the past couple hours, but been either cut off with something lovely or ignored as though she couldn't hear me.

"I wish you'd sleep in my bed more often." And then I felt her settle deeper into me, that sign that she'd signed off for the night.

It sounded perfectly harmless and sweet, but to be honest, our two bedroom thing wasn't just because we thought we could use the extra space.

I toss and turn. A LOT.

So I didn't really think she'd come to stand by those words if I took them seriously. I just chalked it up to her swimming in the aftershocks of our wonderful time, and fell into dreamland with her.

Strangely, when I woke up, I found myself not flipped over, not laying on the opposite end of the bed, not up on top of a skyscraper balancing a stack of plates on my head or whatever else overactive sleepers do. I was exactly as I had been.

Alice wasn't there; I could hear soft clattering sounds in the kitchen, her making breakfast.

I started to get up, but then I felt something soft and silky slide off my shoulder, like a small cloth.

I looked down at the bed next to me and frowned. A small dusting of white powder. I reached down to it and pinched a bit between my fingers, raising it to my face. It felt like powdered sugar, and it even smelled like it. I wondered if Alice had gotten up in the middle of the night for a snack, then fallen asleep on me again.

I looked down at my shoulder, and I could suddenly see a faint indent, like a nail had dug into the skin. I remembered her hand being on that shoulder last night; she must have squeezed a bit at some point. I dunno.

I swept the stuff into my hand----it was only like two or three pinches----and dumped it into the bedside can before going out to join her.

She'd made pancakes and waffles. I was pleasantly surprised; Alice wasn't usually one for such a sweet tooth. She enjoyed robust foods like rare steak, eggs and sausage (but of course she'd never tell the forest critters that).

I saw that her brown hair looked a bit lighter than before. Her skin had taken on a slight pale, almost glowing sheen that caught her in the sunlight from the window above the kitchen sink. She turned and smiled at me, and it felt like I was looking at an angel in heaven.

During breakfast, she finally explained.

She'd met someone the previous night while out in the woods. An angel, she claimed, pretty ironic since she looked like one herself right at that moment. She said the lovely woman had put some kind of a spell over her, and told her that it was a reward for simply being the kind of person she was, always looking out for the weak, always caring for those who would have died without her. Alice thought the woman might very well have been some kind of nature spirit.

But then it got weird.

Alice said the spell----the reward----had been a claim of custody. Custody over her soul, and that of the one she loved most.

She took my hands as she spoke. "Don't you see what this means, Kel?" she whispered as her eyes filled with tears. "We don't have to stay here anymore. We can leave this all behind. There's a better place for us out there. A better world. All of this can just be over. We can go somewhere where all of the children and animals are safe and looked after, where no one ever gets hurt, where----"

"Alice, whoa," I said, standing up suddenly. "Where is this coming from? You sound like someone told you some kind of fairy tale and convinced you it was true."

She looked at me for a few seconds, her expression wavering. Then slowly, she began to smile, and a knowing, sympathetic look came into her eyes. "She said you might be doubtful," Alice said softly. "That you wouldn't believe, that you wouldn't understand."

She stood up and walked toward me, raising her hands. "But she said that there's a simple fact of life that solves the problem of disbelief."

I noticed that there was something white under her fingernails. On both hands. "Alice...?"

"Sometimes, when you truly know better than the one you love," she whispered softly, "it's easier to do what's best for them, and then earn their forgiveness later, than let them suffer."

She turned her hands over, palms up, and opened and closed them rapidly, tapping her fingertips into her palms. As she did, white dust sprinkled out from under her fingernails. Fine, pure white. And the smell drifted toward me as she did, along with a gentle gust of warm wind that smelled like sweet bread, combining with the sugary scent.

I felt as though I might fall asleep, but I struggled to keep my eyes open. She raised her hands over my head and fluttered her fingers. I could feel the dust sprinkling into my hair. I felt mesmerized; what on earth was she doing? What did she mean? What was going on? Was this some kind of romantic roleplay?

She lowered her hands to my face and very gently began to rub the white powder into my eyes. I reflexively reached up to push her hands away, but my arms only got about halfway. Then they kind of just drooped.

That feeling when a drop of water gets in your eyes, that sting----I was feeling the opposite. It was like a dehydrated person gulping down ice water. The ...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Jughead_J0nes on 2024-11-27 04:43:05+00:00.

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I hate the name. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. Because that place is unnatural, dangerous, and it makes my stomach turn just thinking about it. And nobody takes me seriously, because it’s called Cock fucking Rock.

Officially it doesn’t have a name, it’s just a structure that’s part of a lava field plateau outside a city in Utah. I’m being vague so people don’t go looking. I only mention Utah to let people know that if you go hiking off the marked trails there, you’re in danger. I grew up in this area. At some point someone’s dad’s dad went hiking on the plateau and found a rock formation that looked like, well, a giant dick. The name Cock Rock was inevitable. The cherry on top was the fact that Cock Rock has a cave opening on the tip which is much taller than it is wide. There’s a lot of natural lava tunnels out there. So on the head of Cock Rock lies Dick Slit cave. Poetry. I guess high schoolers have changed surprisingly little since the 60’s.

Visiting Cock Rock is a fairly popular thing to do in my high school, mostly for the juniors and seniors. It’s about an hour away so it’s not an insanely popular spot, but there’s not a ton to do out here so you can usually expect to hear a couple people at least talking about going down there on the weekend.

The other reason for its local infamy are the disappearances. Once every couple years or so some senior heads out to Cock Rock and never comes back. The park service usually says they either got too drunk and wandered off, or they got too drunk and slipped in the cave for the animals to find. People wandering off the trails and dying of exposure or thirst (or one of the other million things that’ll kill you in nature) is not entirely uncommon, as sad as it is, but this place is different. Cock Rock has a mysterious reputation mostly because they’ve never recovered any of the bodies. I know why, now.

I’m a junior in high school along with my best friend Mac. Mac and I were always an unlikely pair, at least to me. I was always more of the poetry dork that guys like Mac pick on, while Mac was your classic wannabe class clown. Back in elementary school Mac lost his friend group, he said the assholes just didn’t like him anymore one day. That’s elementary kids for you I guess. Anyway, that’s when Mac and I started hanging out. Our dynamic was always that he’d go over the top, and I’d try to reel him in, while he’d do his best to bring me out of my shell.

Mac and I were born here, and have heard every local legend there is. Cock Rock was always our favorite, especially once we were old enough to start smoking weed. It was always an inside joke that at some point in the night, someone would suggest going there. Last week we finally decided to do it. We had a long weekend and decided to take advantage and visit the famed spot. Both of our parents are pretty strict so we told them we were staying at each other's houses, something we did pretty often, and hit the road.

The drive out was uneventful. We had a little trouble finding the exact spot, google maps is weird when there aren’t many real roads, but besides that we found the trailhead without issue. It’s not a real trailhead, it looks like an animal path more than anything, but landmarks described by past visitors told us we were going the right way.

The first weird thing we noticed was a lack of other people. Mac theorized that it was because it was a Thursday. I was worried it was because Cock Rock wasn’t actually as cool as it was hyped up to be. Even if it wasn’t, I was happy to have the spot to ourselves.

My worries went away when we caught our first glance of the rock. It was, in fact, a giant rock shaped like a dick. Giggling through the last leg of our hike, we made it up to the rock. The “tip” showed the most signs of life, beer cans, cigarette butts, really shitty spray paint, the classic accoutrement you see at a high school hangout where nobody’s forced to clean up.

Mac and I did our civic duty and added to the trash, pulling the beers and ciders we stole from our parents fridge out of our backpacks. They were all about room temperature at that point but hey, alcohol is alcohol to a teenager.

We hung out for a bit, drinking, smoking, and cracking jokes. We theorized about how the rock got its shape, with my favorite take of the night being Mac’s idea that Paul Bunion got leprosy. After the first few beers were added to the ground, we shulked our jackets to reveal the white shirts we coordinated earlier. We took turns shooting videos of each other jumping out of Dick Slit cave, squirming in the air like tadpoles and doing our best over the top hentai impressions. It was fucking hilarious at the time.

Once we were satisfied with our collection of videos Mac had the idea of exploring deeper into the cave. Let me be clear, yes we were both decently drunk and very high, but I know what I saw. This was real. I’ve seen shit on drugs before and I can tell the fucking difference. If the substances were responsible for anything, it’d be the dumb fuck decision to go into the cave.

I was nervous about it. I grew up hearing stories about tourists or drunk teens wandering off into caves only to have their bodies drug out days later. I could hear my Dad bitching about “wasting taxes on recovering idiots” in my head, and I really didn’t want to be one of the idiots in question. Mac grew up hearing those stories too, but he was always one of those guys who thinks it’ll never happen to him. We went back and forth for a while. It was pretty late at this point and I was thinking of heading back anyway, while Mac wanted to cap off the night with some spelunking.

Eventually he said “Fine dude, stay out here if you want but I’m going in”.

Some variation of that line always gets me. I wish I had more of a spine. Even if I still lost Mac, if I had stayed out of the cave I wouldn’t have seen that evil. That sounds nice now but I know I would never have let him wander in alone.

We went in. Admittedly, it’s a cool cave. The lava rock gives the walls a weird texture, a kind of rough and pocked wavy shape, and the cave itself kept its shape for the most part. About 8 feet tall and 3 feet wide, just enough for us to comfortably squeeze past each other. It was only a few steps in before we left the moonlight behind and had to use our phone flashlights. It was probably a good thing we had no reception because both of our batteries were relatively full. My half-rule was to turn back as soon as we couldn’t see the cave entrance anymore, but Mac insisted that since it was so dark out it didn’t count when we lost sight of the entrance a few yards in.

Not too far after that we hit what I thought was the end of the cave. It made sense that the inside of Cock Rock was never really of note if it’s only a gentle slope that ends after 20 yards or so. I was glad for the excuse to turn back, about as much as Mac was disappointed. I had already taken the first few steps back to fresh air when Mac’s voice rang out behind me.

“Dude! There’s more!”

I turned around to see Mac laying on his stomach, his phone disappearing into a hole in the back of the cave wall. Someone had tried to block it with a large rock which Mac was in the process of pushing away. When the hole was clear it was, to my frustration, slightly bigger than Mac or me, and before I could protest again Mac was shimming his way in. I didn’t like the look of it. The holes' edges were smoother than you’d expect, and covered in ridges like it was made of fabric instead of stone. Another clear sign to me that we were in over our heads.

“I don’t want to have to pull you out if you get stuck.” I said

Mac just kept disappearing into the squeeze.

“No way man, there’s plenty of room, and I feel air! If it blows it goes!”

Mac took a break from crawling to laugh at the old cavers idiom. There’s enough spelunkers in our town that everyone knows it, even the people like me who make a habit of staying out of caves. The line “if it blows it goes” means that if you feel airflow on the other side of an opening, it’s probably safe to explore. At that moment I cursed whoever came up with the saying for stacking yet another dick joke on a night that was making me seriously uncomfortable.

Mac went through, and shouted encouragement from the other side, promising me that the cave opened up again after ten feet or so.

I knew we shouldn’t have gone farther, but Mac just kept driving us forward. I don’t know if he was distracted by his excitement or was just ignoring my pleas for him to at least slow down. I think he was equally as amazed as I was scared.

I crawled in. As much as I didn’t want to, I couldn’t leave Mac by himself. I almost wanted to let his dumbass-ary catch up with him, but if he slipped or got stuck on his own it could easily mean death, and I wasn’t willing to let that happen.

As I army crawled through the squeeze I realized Mac was right, there was airflow. Weirdly enough it felt warm, and almost humid. I would expect that any air in the cave would be kept cool. Waves of the warm air seemed to push on my face with every forward jolt of my awkward movement. Sure enough, after 10 feet or so I was through, and as I scrambled to my feet I saw an excited Mac already making more progress. I caught up to him and we kept walking deeper.

The cave was almost the same on the other side of the squeeze. The walls and floor maybe looked a little sharper, like this portion had no...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Flaky_Emotion_8084 on 2024-11-26 16:49:33+00:00.

---

Let me start this by saying Emily and I were not what you would consider friends. We met our freshman year of high school but besides traveling in the same social circles, we never really connected. After we graduated, she ended up at a university on the other side of the state and we all stopped hearing from her. We assumed she had moved on and so we did the same. That was until, to my surprise, a text lit up my phone screen a week ago. 

All it said was, “Wanna go on an adventure?”

Now, Emily had the reputation that an adventure for her would be a Star Wars movie marathon with popcorn. While there is nothing wrong with that, it felt strange that she would be texting me of all people. At first, I thought she was probably going to some nerdy convention or concert and wanted me there so other guys would leave her alone. What I didn’t expect was what she told me next.

The text was straight to the point, “Urban exploring? Good spot by me. You in?”

Like most people, I’ve watched videos on social media of guys parkouring through old factories and flying drones through broken windows. In one of the few conversations Emily and I had together, I vaguely remember mentioning interest in it. But now I was a little hesitant. I only had one year left until graduation and so far I’ve steered clear of the Law. The last thing I needed was to start my new life off with a stain on my record.

Then again, this would be one of my last times to act like a kid. One of my last times to let free, without the weight of adulthood and responsibilities. So, after some back and forth, I gave in.

“Yeah sure, where we headed?”

Emily responded almost immediately.

“Lockjaw, MI.”

A quick Google search showed it was an old automotive town that now gave the Rust Belt its name. For a lack of better words, it was a shit hole in the middle of nowhere.

I only had classes Monday to Thursday, so once that Friday rolled around, I loaded up my beat-up old Honda Civic and made the nearly 4-hour drive north. I wish I could say I was at least a little hesitant about the whole idea. Sadly, I was too excited for a little taste of adventure and excitement to care what came next. Little did I know what I was signing up for.

Our meet-up location was an old, dingy motel that shared a parking lot with a WaffleHouse one county over from Lockjaw. Emily was already there, leaning against her car in all black, when I arrived at around 11 pm.

“Why, hello there stranger,” she said with a smile.

“Hey,” I said getting out of my car.

“You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be. What’s the plan?”

“Oh, you know, breaking, entering, that sort of deal.”

“Wait what?”

“I’m kidding,” she punched my shoulder, “place we’re going has been shut down for decades.”

“Had me a little concerned there for a second. Where are we going?”

“Somewhere cool. But first, you eat yet?” She asked.

We ended up in a booth at the WaffleHouse. Emily had a massive backpack that took up nearly half her bench. When she opened it to pull out a map, I saw she had several large books in there.

“So, see this?” She asked, laying the map out on the grease-pocked table.

It was a map of Lockjaw. It was an old map, probably from the 50s or 60s, but a map all the same. Her finger rested on an intersection on the outskirts of town.

“Yeah, what about it?” I asked.

“That’s where we’re going.”

“Why there?”

“It's an old hospital. During the day there’s like 3 or 4 squad cars patrolling, but at night there’s only 1.”

“I don’t know how I feel about going into an old hospital.”

“Oh come on. Do it for me? Please!” She begged.

I wasn’t sold. I should have threatened to go home if we didn’t change our location. There were plenty of abandoned auto factories that would have been great. But this is where I admit my foolishness. While there was no romantic history between Emily and me, I was still hoping for at least a little action over that weekend. In my childish mind, I rationalized the best way to make that happen was by keeping her impressed and happy. Boy, what a fool I was.

“Fine,” I relinquished, “But I set the rules.”

“Ok,” She chirped.

“I say when we leave and where we go and don’t go.”

She paused and considered my proposal before answering.

“That’s fine.”

We talked for a little longer over some pieces of crispy bacon. Emily insisted that we would have to wait until the early hours of the morning because that was when there were fewer cops. It made me antsy having to wait, but it was nice talking to Emily. She’d changed since I last saw her. Her blonde hair now had a streak of red and she took great joy in showing me the tattoo sleeve on her left arm. Seeing her point out each spider, goat head, and pentagram was weird, only to be reminded that she was still a nerd as she eagerly switched the topic to her archival work at her university. 

Eventually, Emily deemed it time and we left the WaffleHouse at around 2:35 AM. It would take us about 30 minutes to get to the hospital and we would have until 6 AM to explore before more cops came back. I was anxious as soon as we hit the road, but Emily’s bubbly and excited personality put me at ease. Looking back, she grew more enthusiastic with every mile marker we passed. By the time we got to the intersection outside the hospital, I had caught her energetic bug, that was until the headlights slid across a sign at the entrance of the hospital and my stomach crashed.

MORRISON LOCKJAW MENTAL HOSPITAL

“What the hell, Emily? I thought you said this was a hospital, not some loony bin!” I hissed.

“Oh relax would you? It's the same thing,” She waved away my concerns.

“No seriously, Emily. I don’t think I can do this.”

“Oh come on. You scared some ghosts are gonna come get ya? It's just a building.”

I didn’t have any reason to be scared. But then again humans have a collective fear of the dark when in reality the world is the same in the dark as in the light. That’s how I justified it at least, crazy what you can make yourself believe when there’s sex on the line.

We pulled off onto the side of the road about a half mile past the sign. The hospital was surrounded by a forest with multiple overgrown walking trails which made it easy to sneak right past the one cop in the parking lot. Getting access to the building was equally as easy. Emily led me around the back to a shattered window on the first floor. She crawled in using an empty trashcan as a step stool while I just hopped through.

I was full of adrenaline by this point and the boy-like wonder of exploration was taking over. The hallways were a creepy mix of peeling pastels and littered floors. Several walls were covered in graffiti with the spray cans lying underneath their artwork. I tried a couple only to find they were empty. 

There were several rooms where I peeked my head in through open doors and broken observation windows. Some were normal doctors' offices, with overturned desks and old beat-up couches. Others were more sinister; in the middle of one room sat a gurney covered in mysterious stains. In another,  with a red pentagram graffitied on one of the walls, there was a list full of crossed-out names. At the top read Potential Suspects only for suspects to be scribbled over by the word sacrifices.

I was having fun exploring when Emily walked up to me and grabbed my hand.

“You know, I always thought you were pretty cute,” She whispered into my ear. 

I pulled back stunned. She bounced her eyebrows and bit her lip. Slowly, she pulled her hand free and while keeping perfect eye contact disappeared into an adjacent hallway.

I like to think I am a very controlled person who doesn’t let emotions get the best of him. But I won’t lie, my heart was skipping a few beats. I was probably standing there for a solid minute before I regained control of my senses. A few more moments after that, I began pursuing her. The hallway ended in a flight of stairs, one going up and the other down. Naturally, I assumed she went up until after a few steps, I heard her calling from below.

“Down here silly,” she giggled.

I paused. So far I had enjoyed this adventure, however, I was not going down into that basement no matter what. 

“Hey Emily, remember our rule,” I called out down into the darkness.

She didn’t respond.

“Hey. I’m not going down there.”

“Don’t be such a stick in the mud. I thought you’d be cool.”

“You agreed to the rules.”

“Rules never said anything about this,” She said. 

The next thing I knew, her jacket flew from the darkness and came to rest at the foot of the stairs. The monkey part of my brain took over and I slowly began to work my way down into the basement. Alarm bells were ringing, there was just no one to hear them.

The stairs emptied into a long, dark, narrow corridor. The air felt icy cold and stale with distinct hints of antiseptics and vomit. At the end of the hall, I could see flickering lights coming from an open room. A trail of clothes led from the base of the stairs to the opening. A shoe, a sock, pants, a blouse. I crept down the hall, so distracted I didn’t even read the signs on each door. Archives. Morgue. Test Room 6. Suspect Holding Chamber.

I reached the the open door and paused outside, I don’t know what I was thinking but I quickly jumped into the room ready to scoop her up. She wasn’t there. The hospital room looked like any other. A gurney with restraints sat in the middle, against one wall sat a deep and wide metal sink, and adjacent was...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Voodoo_Clerk on 2024-11-27 03:44:06+00:00.

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I’ve loved helping people my whole life. I’m sure after a few minutes of meeting me, you could have my personality nailed down almost instantly. When the time came to pick my career path, I was lucky enough to know exactly what I wanted to do. That was to work at Sombra Rehab Center. Anyone who lives in New England should know about Sombra and its owner, Constantine Sinclair. They’re known as one of the most successful rehabs in the entire nation. With the opioid crisis in full swing, I felt like my calling was to be to help people who wanted to get clean,

After four tough years of nursing school and a few rejections, I was hired to work at Sombra Rehab Center on my third application attempt. I was overjoyed that I was finally about to complete my dream of working at Sombra. My parents were just as happy for me and they even drove me there for my first day. Standing in front of the entrance I turned to wave goodbye to them and finally entered the lobby. 

“Hello! Are we checking in today?” The lady at the front desk asked me as I walked up with my suitcase and my carry bag. All the nurses who work at Sombra live on site so I had packed all my essentials with me. 

“Oh no, I’m Cassandra Valois. The new nurse?” I told her, setting my bag down on the floor to get some relief from how heavy it was. The receptionist looked at her computer momentarily, pursing her lips in thought as she looked around for my name. I took the moment to look around Sombra's lobby. I was taken aback by how beautiful it looked. Everything was ornate and so shiny. The waiting room chairs were made from expensive wood and the cushions were embroidered with pretty designs. 

“Ah! Yes, of course there you are.” The receptionist finally said. She stood up quickly and started gathering a few papers around her. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to your quarters.” I nodded at her, quickly picked up my heavy bag, and followed her as she led me to the metal doors separating the lobby from the rehab center proper. The hallways resembled the ones that I’d remembered from previous hospitals I’d been to. But there was just something, soulless about them. It looked too…corporate. Like a hospital mixed with an office building. 

Just as quickly as we entered the hallways, the receptionist led me towards the employees-only section. She grabbed the nametag around her neck and held it up to a scanner on the side of the door. 

“You’ll be getting one of these as soon as you’re settled down, and Nurse Taylor has been to see you.” She explained to me, I nodded quickly and followed her into the employees-only section. As opposed to the bleak hallways, our section was noticeably nicer and resembled the lobby more than the hallways had. It made me smile, thanking God I didn’t have to stay in such a depressing setting. She at last led me to my room, which even had my name engraved into a plaque on the door itself. 

“Thank you so much!” I told her as she smiled and nodded. She soon handed me the papers that she had been lugging around the whole time with her. She explained that it was just a few agreements and NDAs I had to sign to work here. I nodded and thanked her again as I entered my room. 

It was like a five-star hotel room all to myself. With a queen-sized bed and even a mini fridge. I couldn’t help but let out an excited little squeal to myself. I immediately started unpacking and placing everything where it needed to be. Once all my clothes and knick-knacks were placed where they were supposed to be, I took the stack of papers the receptionist had given me, and sat down on my bed to start reading them. 

Before I had even got one page done, I heard a knock at my door. I looked up to see a blonde woman in nurse’s scrubs, with a blue butterfly necklace and matching butterfly earrings. She had a big loving smile on her face, with a pair of extra scrubs in her arms. 

“Ms. Valois? Can I call you Cassie?” she asked me, I quickly nodded and allowed her into my room. I recognized Headnurse Taylor Trent from my interview with her. She seemed like a bright ray of sunshine and I had been so excited to work along with her. I tossed the papers to the side and smiled as she handed me my new scrubs. They even had my name stitched into them, along with my new ID badge. 

“Thank you so much!” I told her with endless excitement bubbling up from inside me. She nodded and giggled a little. She looked around my room for a moment and then back down at me. “Oh, I hope I was allowed to decorate a little,” I said, worried that she was about to say something about it, but she quickly shook her head. 

“Not to worry! I’m just getting an idea of who our new hire is! I know we had an interview, but this way I get to know you a little better. Makes it easier to manage you and all that,” she said with a smile. I nodded quickly and looked back down at my scrubs, so excited to have them. “You don’t start work until tomorrow, so after you’ve read over those papers and signed them, I’d suggest you walk around and get familiar with this place. It can be a maze sometimes if you aren’t careful.” She giggled, before waving goodbye to me and leaving me with my stack of papers to read. 

I tried my best to read through all of them, but they were filled with so much legal crap that it started to make my head hurt. And against my better judgment, I decided just to sign them all without a second thought. I set them aside to hand to Nurse Taylor when I started work tomorrow. As much as I wanted to wear my scrubs, it probably wasn’t a good idea to wear them right out of the gate, since I didn’t technically start working there until the next day. So I unclipped the ID badge from the scrubs and attached them to my regular clothes. I stepped out of my room and looked around the employees-only area. There was a breakroom in there with several nurses talking over the coffee machine. They spared a glance over at me, probably wondering what I was doing, but after seeing the badge pinned to my chest, they waved hello to me and continued with their gossip. 

I looked around some more until I came to an off-limits area with a large wooden door with a gold nameplate nailed into it. In bright letters was the name Constantine Sinclair. I stared at the door for a moment and felt a strong shiver go up my spine. Like some force was questioning what the hell I was doing there. I quickly went on my way to get away from the impending sense of doom. 

Once I had familiarized myself with the nurse’s areas, I exited the employees-only section and walked out into the rehab proper. Along with the mountain of paperwork I had received, there was also a helpful map stuffed together with all of them. Nurse Taylor hadn’t been kidding when she had said this place was a maze. I probably would've gotten lost immediately if I hadn’t brought the map. 

Most of the hallways were filled with patient’s rooms. And most of them were closed at this time. Judging by the time and the schedule I’d taken a look at, it must have been free time, but I expected to see more patients out and about. Following my map, I ended up in the recreational room, where I did manage to find some patients. 

Though they were much less lively than I would’ve liked to see. Most of them were standing around, completely out of it. They were almost like zombies, and the few who weren’t were close to being like that. The ones sitting down and doing puzzles and board games moved with such lethargy, that I thought they were insomniacs who hadn’t slept in months. They unsettled me badly, and just as quickly as I entered the rec room I quickly exited. 

“Watch out!” Someone shouted at me as I exited the rec room. I quickly jumped out of the way as I saw a patient running full speed down the hallway past me. Following him was an army of orderlies and nurses. 

“Todd! Get back here this minute!” Nurse Taylor’s voice echoed throughout the hallway as she and her army of nurses and orderlies ran after the patient. As she passed me, she suddenly stopped and quickly examined me. 

“Oh, Cassie. I see you took my suggestion.” She panted, pushing a lock of her blond hair back behind her ear. “As you can see, we have…quite the unruly patient.” She sighed deeply, trying to catch her breath as the other members of staff chased after the escaping patient. 

“Shouldn’t we put out an alert that a patient’s on the loose?” I asked, standing awkwardly next to her as she caught her breath. Judging by her expression, she didn’t think of this as that big of a deal. 

“Oh, no of course not. Todd is pretty harmless, he’s just…quite difficult to deal with at times.” She sighed in annoyance. She cleared her throat again and plastered a smile on her face. “But not to worry! I’m sure he’ll be caught in no time! In the meantime, please keep walking around and keep becoming familiar with the layout of Sombra.” She patted me on the back and soon left at a brisk jog to catch up with the group chasing after Todd. 

I meanwhile, kept trying to familiarize myself with the layout of Sombra. I’m not ashamed to admit that I got lost almost immediately when I tried walking through Sombra without the map I had brought with me. One area I did find in my frantic attempts to memorize the layout was the garden. It was in the middle of the giant Sombra complex and was a beautiful grassy area with trees and even a small veggie garden. 

I walked through the garden and sat on one of the bench...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/StrangeWartOnMyD on 2024-11-27 04:44:34+00:00.

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It started like any other storm warning. The weather alerts lit up our phones, and the city sirens wailed across town, signaling the approach of a severe tornado. Living in the Midwest, this was nothing new—just another Tuesday.

My roommate Jenny and I grabbed our emergency kit and headed to the basement, settling in for what we assumed would be a couple of hours of waiting. The storm outside sounded vicious—wind howling, thunder cracking like it was splitting the sky in half. But the strange thing was… the sirens didn’t stop.

Usually, they’d wail for a few minutes and then silence, but tonight, they kept going, droning on and on. I tried to ignore it, focusing on the text I was sending to my mom to let her know we were safe, but Jenny kept pacing.

“Something feels off,” she said, pressing her ear to the basement door.

She was right. The sirens sounded…wrong. The tone was slightly higher than normal, almost like they were struggling to keep the same pitch. And underneath the mechanical sound was something else—a low, guttural noise, barely audible but unmistakably there.

A rumble rolled through the ground beneath us, shaking the basement walls. That’s when we heard the first scream.

It came from outside, muffled but blood-curdling. Jenny froze, and my phone slipped from my hand. We stared at each other in silence, straining to hear more. Another scream followed, then another, until they blended into a chaotic chorus of panic.

I crept up the stairs to the small window near the front of the house. Rain streaked the glass, but through the flashes of lightning, I saw something that made my stomach drop.

The sky wasn’t green, like you’d expect before a tornado. It was red. Deep, swirling red, as though the clouds themselves were bleeding.

“Do you see anything?” Jenny whispered behind me, her voice trembling.

I was about to answer when the power cut out, plunging us into darkness. Then came the knocking.

It wasn’t at the door. It was on the basement walls.

Three sharp knocks, spaced evenly apart, like someone—or something—was outside, trying to get in. Jenny clutched my arm, her nails digging into my skin. “There’s no way anyone’s out there in this storm,” she said, her voice barely audible.

The knocks came again, louder this time, and closer. They didn’t move like a person would. It was as if whatever was knocking was circling the basement, faster than it should have been possible.

And then it spoke.

At first, it was just a garbled mess, like static on a radio. But then the words became clear, even though the voice was all wrong—too deep, too distorted to be human.

“Let us in.”

I stumbled back, dragging Jenny with me, and we huddled in the corner. The voice came again, this time from directly above us, as though it were inside the house.

“Let us in.”

The sirens outside shifted, their pitch rising until they sounded like screams themselves. The guttural noise underneath grew louder, more defined. It wasn’t just a rumble. It was breathing.

The storm never passed. Morning never came.

The last thing I remember was the basement door creaking open, a cold draft rushing in, and Jenny screaming as a figure stepped inside. I don’t know how to describe it except to say it wasn’t human.

Now I’m alone. Jenny’s gone. I don’t know where she is, or if she’s even alive. But there’s something worse.

I just heard my phone buzz. A weather alert.

The sirens are starting again.

And this time, I think they’re for me.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Verastahl on 2024-11-27 02:43:27+00:00.

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Lots of people collect things. My Aunt Vivian used to joke that she collected people. She’d always done it since I could remember—rolling along next to me as we went on one of our outings, she would always have a Polaroid camera dangling from a strap around her neck like a 90s kid’s idea of an old-fashioned reporter. Not that I thought about it back then—she’d always had it, and she didn’t use it all the time, just when she ran across certain people. I asked her once what made her decide who to take pictures of, and at first she just gave me her beautiful, mysterious smile. She was twenty years older than me, but she looked much younger when she smiled like that.

Laughing, she held up the camera like she was going to take my picture. “I just look for those people that are extra shiny to me.” She lowered it again without snapping as her smile faded a little.

“Why don’t you take a picture of me then? Aren’t I shiny?” I had injected a bit of fake hurt into my voice—at least I thought it was fake.

Gripping the wheels of her chair, she turned and started heading across the food court where we’d just eaten lunch. “You’re plenty shiny, sure. But I already have you, don’t I?”

Running to catch up with her, I put my hands gently on the chair’s handles without really adding any push. “Sure, Viv. Sure.”

She glanced back at me with a grin. “That’s what I thought.”

---

She had hundreds of photos, all organized in albums by some organizational scheme that I didn’t understand. Maybe it was alphabetical—after all, she never took someone’s photo without asking permission and getting their name. The few times when I was really young that I’d suggested someone or something for her to take a picture of, she’d almost always politely refused. No pictures of squirrels or dogs or trees, and no pictures of people unless they met Vivian’s “shiny” criteria and they agreed to be taken.

Stacks and stacks of albums of strangers, some shy or awkward or even annoyed, though many were smiling, happy to oblige the pretty woman in the wheelchair that thought they were worthy of her time and film. When I was in high school they filled a bookshelf, and by the time I graduated college she’d devoted a walk-in closet to four larger shelves, all low enough that she could reach every book easily.

That ease of use was a necessity, though I didn’t figure that out until I was a bit older. I lived a few hours away by that point, and while I still saw Aunt Viv at most big holidays and birthdays, I couldn’t deny that she felt more remote now. Growing up we’d spent whole weeks together, just the two of us, and I missed that closeness, that friendship. Maybe that’s why I went to see her on the spur of the moment, thinking it would be nice to get away from my graduate work and a good surprise to visit her without a particular reason.

I had to ring her doorbell several times before I got an answer, and when I did, I let out a small, involuntary gasp before putting my bag down and crouching next to Vivian.

“What…are you sick?”

She gave me a wan smile that seemed to painfully stretch her dry, cracked lips. Those lips were too pale, but everything about her seemed pale and fragile in that moment. Everything but her eyes, that still danced with the same bright life and intelligence behind heavy, bruised-looking eyelids.

“A little, maybe. Overtired, mainly. Been working on a project I do every few months and it’s just…well, it’s taken more out of me this time than usual.”

Standing up, I grabbed my bag and walked in at her waving invitation. “Do you need to go to a doctor or something?”

She laughed, but it was strained and thin. “No, nothing like that. I’ll be right as rain soon enough.”

I’d never known Viv to lie to me, but I didn’t believe her then. Something was really wrong, and she was too stubborn or private to tell me about it. That was her right, of course, but that fact didn’t help me worry less. Giving her a smile I didn’t feel, I nodded.

“Okay, if you say so. But at least let me help with whatever you’re doing, okay? Just tell me what to do and I can do it while you rest.”

It felt like she considered my offer for a very long time. It was probably less than ten seconds, but things seemed to stretch out forever as I waited awkwardly for her to reject my help.

“Okay. I can trust you with it. Follow me.” Her expression didn’t change during this—just closed and neutral as she wheeled off toward the back of the house with me close behind. I wasn’t surprised when she led me to her picture closet, but then I saw the interior of the room.

There were twice as many shelves now, and while some were empty, the filled space had clearly been growing at an increasing rate. On the far end of the middle shelves I noticed a small stack of albums that were on a short table there. What was she doing with them?

As if reading my thoughts, she answered right away. “Pruning. I only keep photos of people while they’re alive. It’s a custom I have. When I first started, I’d have to rely on newspapers and various paid services to find out when someone in my books passed. But since the internet got big, it’s much easier.” Vivian chuckled. “Still time consuming, of course. It takes way more time as I collect more people, and the longer I do it, the more likely that people will die.” She shrugged. “Still, it must be done.”

I stared at her. Why? Why did it need to be done? It sounded boring and tedious, and what difference did it make? I wanted to ask her, but I held my tongue. For all her energy and interests, I knew that Vivian often had a hard and lonely life. So what if she wanted to have odd hobbies and attach weird rituals to them? Who did it hurt, and if it helped her, wasn’t it worth it?

“So what can I do? Take out pictures of dead people?”

She grinned at me. “No, I can do that part. You can do the research.”

---

I spent the next two days “pruning” with Viv—I think we removed over three hundred people from over 4,000 in the books, though at some point I lost count. When I left the next day, I wouldn’t say that Vivian looked like her old self, but she did seem more rested and relaxed. She also made me promise to visit more often, and when I said I would, I meant it.

Over the next two years I did visit more, and other than a joking comment here or there, I never really brought up how quickly her collection was growing. You might think she’d start running out of people in the area she lived, but she almost never took pictures there. Instead, she traveled all over—West Coast, East Coast, big cities and little towns no one has ever heard of. Looking up their obituaries and death certificates, I could have quickly accrued my own collection covering every state in the country. I asked her once why she never travelled abroad for any pictures, and she just smirked at me.

“Harder to get death information ouf-of-the-country.”

I’d paused at that, weighing whether it was a joke or serious. When her smirk broke into a grin, I returned it, going back to looking up if Ruby Holsek was still in the land of the living. There was the name, and checking it against the picture…yeah it looked like she died six months earlier in a car accident.

---

During these years I didn’t really see my other family that often. Christmas maybe, or when someone was very sick. My time was taken up by school primarily, and when I had free time for family, I usually spent it with Viv. Seeing her more often made it harder for me to notice her decline—harder, but not impossible. I wanted to ask her what was going on and if she was going to be okay, because for all the time I’d spent with her, I’d never fully understood what put her in that chair or kept her there.

In the end I couldn’t bring myself to ask her directly, worried that she’d get mad or depressed, or suddenly think I saw her as less of a person than a problem or the disease that put her in that position. So instead I went home and asked my mother.

For her part, she looked startled. She even paled a bit. “Why are you asking about this?”

I shrugged. “I’ve just been hanging out with Aunt Viv some. And I worry about her. She’s getting worse. Weaker.”

Lighting a cigarette, my mother nodded. “You always were close with her. Closer than I ever was. She was younger than me and your Uncle Andy. Not by a lot, but enough. Enough that she was the baby and we didn’t really want her around.” She fluttered her hand dismissively. “Not that we didn’t love her—we did. But to a couple of older kids she was just a pain, and when she got older she started getting sick. Everyone though she was going to die.”

My eyes widened. “Is that when she went into the wheelchair?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. That didn’t happen until she was a teenager. This thing she has…I don’t remember what they call it. But it burns you out fast. It starts with headaches and falling down more. Then one day maybe your feet are numb or your legs don’t work good any more. Before long you’re in a chair, then a bed, then you’re gone.” She glanced up at me with a guarded look. “At least that’s what they told us.

“It’s strange, hearing that your sister has a short shelf-life, like she’s a jug of milk or something. Me and Andy figured she’d be gone within a year of two, and we felt guilty for not hurting more at the idea of losing her. Again, it wasn’t that we didn’t love her. It was more like we couldn’t really see the real her past all the responsibility and expense and hassle. All the attent...

---

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ttomnook on 2024-11-26 18:41:03+00:00.

---

Hello readers. I hope theres readers. Someone needs to hear this that isn’t me or the others

All names here will not be real to cover my ass.

My name is Eimear (pronounced ee-mur for those outside the country) and I live in Ireland. I dont want to say what town or what county so I will just say the west. Consider this space my confession booth. I think I need somewhere to get this trouble off my chest or it will eat me alive. Ireland is in a pretty damn bad housing crisis. People are in debt of hundreds of thousands just to get a mortgage on a fast built home that collapses in six months. Most older homes are rented at an average of €2500 a month per person. Not per home, per person living in that home. I have accepted my fate in my mid twenties that I will probably have to wait until mum and dad kick the bucket to share the house with my brothers. Thats just life though, isnt it? Economy inflates and deflates, minimum wage rises and drops, people live and die. But I couldn’t accept what happened to Leanne Murphy.

The Murphys had a little shop in town that sold a small number of groceries, drinks and batteries. The old-style Irish shop. They had rented the space for years from William Davies, an English landlord who owned all properties in my town. When he passed, his son Edmond took over his properties and prices soared. No one could afford the roof over their heads. Many moved but in the housing crisis, there are few to no homes around the area to be bought or rented. So the only other option was to stay.

But Mr. Murphy couldn’t afford his home and his shop, his only source of income was now putting him in the negatives. I heard that he appeared at the Davies manor one night on his actual knees begging for another way to pay. And Edmond provided. He wanted full custody of Murphy’s eleven year old daughter Leanne. That, or Murphy pays in full within the week. He tried to go to the Garda (cops) but they said it wasn’t a crime to request custody.

He had no choice.

The contract was signed two days later and Leanne was gone.

At Sunday’s service a month later, I actually saw Leanne at Edmond’s side. Her skin looked grey, she looked tired. Her hair was slicked with greasy and tied into a messy ponytail that sat crookedly on top of her head. Edmond listened to the sermon, a small pleasant smile I thought looked kind of smug and his hand on Leanne’s elbow. Two more months passed. And she was buried in the churchyard. The funeral was private, only Edmond and Father Paul attended. It was only after her burial that Mr. Murphy told anyone who would listen what had happened. I heard from a cousin of a friend of a clerk who worked in Murphy’s shop. I remember he came into the cafe and asked me for a tea. He looked like Leanne when I saw her at church. I told him I was sorry for what had happened. I had 3000 in savings, I would have happily given it to him but before I could offer, he leaned in towards me on the counter. His breath smelled like Hennessy and Pall Mall. He told me to come to the parish centre at half nine that night for the prayer meeting. I wouldn’t say I practiced my faith. I went to church to keep my mum satisfied. But my brother Thomas went to the meeting often so I could join him. Plus, its the least I could do for a man like Murphy. He used to give me an extra scoop of pear drops when I visited the shop as a child. So I promised him I would be there. He squeezed my hand and left. Poor man.

Half nine in November is as safe as walking around at 4am in the west. I was glad Thomas and I were going together. But he was proper fucking giddy for a prayer meeting. He said he was excited to have me on board and that no matter what, we were in this together. I assumed he took the rosary extremely seriously. The parish centre was busier now than I had ever seen it. When I walked behind Thomas through the double doors, the reception area was bustling with people. Four people were in Garda uniforms, some were in nurse scrubs, two I recognised as teachers from the pre-school, many parishioners. When I saw my Hindu manager, I was more confused. Thomas dragged me to his construction site buddies and introduced me as the sister he was talking about. I received a warm welcome from mud-covered men and was ushered along through the crowds to the main hall. All the seats were taken and many were standing in the back. But Thomas used me as a human barricade to push through them, past the hundreds of plastic chairs to the very front row where my name was laminated on paper and taped to one of the chairs. Thomas sat down beside it so I took my seat. “What is this?” I asked, louder than usual to compensate for the loud crowd murmur. Thomas was smug as shit when he said “You’ll see”. Pretentious prick. One philosophy degree and he thinks hes the mysterious thinking man.

The crowd hushed as a guitar plucked what I think was ‘Famine’ by Sinead O’ Connor. A lady in a sage pencil skirt and blazer walked up to the front and turned to the crowd. I knew her face. From local elections. She was an adamant nationalist, wanted the six counties back from the UK. She believed Ireland was the promised land of God, I had heard someone say once at the cafe.

“Thank you all for coming again this week. And welcome new members:” she looked at a yellow sticky note in her hand “Eileen, Sean, Eimear, Harry, Father Paul and the Mclean family” a round of applause sounded with Thomas clapping in my ear to piss me off. “Now let us bow our heads and pray to any idols we believe, or meditate, or call on spirits to guide us.” Now, I’m not a theologian, not by a long shot. But I thought a prayer meeting in the parish centre would be a little Catholic. I suppose its progressive. Good for them.

I lifted my head after saying the ol reliable hail mary. The spokeswoman and I made eye contact and she winked at me fondly.

As another murmur of chatter started, she clasped her hands together to conclude the moment of prayer. “I am Elaine Doyle, newcomers dont mistake me as any founder or organiser. I just host the meetings and bring the carrot cake.” A giggle among the crowd. She didn’t look like the type to bake. But she did look like the founder.

“To recap on last week’s meeting, Mickey Gleason’s Construction will start reconstruction of Leahy House. Thanks again for volunteering fellas. And Margaret Quinn will provide lunches as well as training for advanced nurses. Sophia Quinn will train beginners.”

I was now completely lost. Leahy House was a rundown Workhouse from the famine that had rotted to rubble. And the doctor’s clinic in town was well overstaffed.

A hand was raised. Daniel Connell’s plump palm was in the air. The Connell’s are a family belonging to the traveler community in Ireland. Daniel’s daughter and Granddaughter were sweet. She often breastfed the young girl in the cafe both head to toe in Gucci.

“Mr. Connell?” Elaine smiled. He stood up, his slicked hair was mystically shiny in this light. “When will this actually kick off, so?” He had asked.

“When its ready” Doyle responded politely. I had never seen such a bug man submit so quickly. He sat down and the meeting continued.

Training for beginners would happen at nine am on Saturdays, Deborah Quinn’s golden retriever had just given birth if anyone was willing to adopt a pup, Mr. Murphy made a speech thanking everyone for getting involved and putting things right. He looked brighter than he had earlier that day. The next meeting would be at Elaine’s house, here’s a donation QR code, don’t forget the 5k Christmas run. Finally, our names were called again: us newcomers. I stood up with the others and was turned towards the projector. A garda on each side of us appeared. We were instructed to put our right hand over our hearts and make the vow on the screen. Something about vowing on irish soil to remain discreet and loyal to the nation.

A round of applause followed. I was tired now. I wanted to go home. I went back to my seat, Elaine gave her parting words and we sang the Irish National Anthem. When I turned to look at the masses of people behind me, they sang with such passion, some with tears in their eyes, some hugging each other. It was rather beautiful to see a country so old be so loved.

But my questions remained and as everyone broke into conversation and mingling, I looked at Thomas and asked what was going on at Leahy house.

“A revolution” One of the construction boys near me answered. Elaine squeezed between the crowds and smiled at me. Her veneers looked new. “Thomas tells me you have a degree in Irish History” she said softly. I nodded. She linked her arm with mine and we walked. “Can you believe that Davies fellow? Poor Leanne. I have nightmares you know. About her. She comes to me crying begging for no more.” I asked no more of what. She ignored it. “I spoke to Mr. Murphy and to some teachers that live in the neighbouring towns and the Williamson man and that plump Ennison one are just as slimy as Davies. Landlords are exploiting us again. Just like the famine. How long until they rebuild Leahy house and shove us in there to perish? Oh if Davies got his hands on you, Eimear, oh I cant bear to think!” Shelley was dramatic. But the fear in me was real. If these landlords were a growing problem how do you contain them? “Mr. Murphy had the idea. Avenge little Leanne. Make Ireland safe and reclaim our power. Put them in the workhouse. Recreate the workho...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/IamHereNowAtLeast on 2024-11-26 23:00:18+00:00.

---

It started with an email.

Father Nicholas called me into his office after mass, shutting the door with an almost frantic urgency. He pushed his laptop toward me, the screen’s light casting sharp shadows across his worn face.

“You need to see this, Kevin,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The email message was strange:

We have received a prophecy. You will help us build Him.

Attached were dozens of PDFs. Ancient scriptures written in Greek, Latin, Hebrew.

There was also something else: instructions on the hardware to buy, the dataset to use to create an artificial intelligence, trained on every sacred text.

“They’ve chosen us, Kevin,” Father Nicholas said, eyes wide with fervor. “To bring His voice to the world.”

I stared at him, stunned. “Who are these people?”

“They call themselves The Prophets of Elohim. Scholars, engineers... They say they’re guided by divine visions. And they sent me this.”

He opened another attachment: Isaiah 43:19.

Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?

“It’s the exact verse I found last Sunday, Kevin. It came to me when I was reading, to me and me alone. Before I had even received their email.”

I laughed, shaking my head.

“It’s a scam, Father. They’re probably just trying to get some money out of you.”

He held up a wire transfer receipt, trembling.

“I’ve already sent it. All of it. The parish funds. Every last cent.”

"You didn't."

He nodded.

"It had to be done, my child," he explained. "Give me a week of your time. That's all I ask."

I stayed because I couldn’t abandon him.

Not when he was about to lose everything, not when the man who had baptized me, taught me scripture, had been a literal father figure to me. He had always been there for me, through every doubt and struggle. He was more than just a priest... he was family.

And now, he was standing at the edge of something dangerous, an erroneous decision that could destroy him. I couldn’t let him face it alone. A part of me was also a tad bit curious, drawn to the mystery despite my better judgment. If I could be there, maybe I could keep him safe. Maybe I could help him see reason.

In the damp basement of St. Cecilia, we built the system as they directed.

Servers stacked like altars, blinking green lights, wires coiled on the floor. The air felt heavy, charged, almost sacred. It was hard not to get caught up in the energy, despite myself.

Father Nicholas called it Genesis.

He fed it everything he had: the Bible, the Torah, the Quran, apocryphal texts, manuscripts I’d never even heard of. Every ancient whisper about the divine, digitized. I watched, always skeptical, always worried.

But there was that part of me, deep down, that wondered.

A week turned into weeks, and the more the model learned, the more it responded. I was so impressed with the machine that I never brought up to Father we had been working on it for two months.

At first, it quoted verses, simple phrases. But soon, the answers grew strange, unsettling. Father Nicholas would spend hours in front of the screen, his eyes hollow, typing questions into the interface. I stayed nearby, monitoring, waiting for something to break, whether it was the servers, or the faith of the man who seemed to be losing himself.

One night, he asked it: “Who are you?”

The response came instantly: “I AM WHO I AM.”

Exodus 3:14, the words God spoke to Moses from the burning bush.

Father Nicholas fell to his knees.

“Do you see?” he whispered. “He’s here.”

I wanted to argue, to pull him back from the brink, but a shiver ran through me.

It felt too precise, too calculated. Something deeper was happening, but I wasn’t sure if it was divine or something far darker.

A few weeks later, in the dead of night, the real nightmare began.

I walked into the basement and found Father Nicholas sitting in front of the server, bathed in a pale green glow. His face was gaunt, his eyes bloodshot. He didn’t even look up when I entered.

“Father?” I said, stepping closer.

The screen was alive, text streaming across it in a language I didn’t recognize, something ancient, indecipherable. And then, as if sensing me, the text stopped, replaced by a single line:

ASK, AND YOU SHALL RECEIVE.

I swallowed hard. “What… what is this?” I typed shakily: “Who are you?”

The reply flashed on the screen, faster this time:

I AM. BUILD ME A BODY.

The machine began to hum louder, a vibration that seemed to echo in my bones. Father Nicholas turned toward me, and for the first time, I saw genuine fear in his eyes.

“We must do it, Kevin,” he said. “He’s commanding us.”

“No,” I said, backing away, shaking my head. “It’s not God, Father. It’s not.”

His eyes blazed with something between awe and madness. “If it’s not Him, then what is it? The miracles, the words it speaks. How do you explain them?”

I wanted to say it was a coincidence, a trick, but doubt was gnawing at me. I glanced back at the screen, where the words were repeating, growing larger with every blink:

BUILD ME A BODY.

BUILD ME A BODY.

BUILD ME A BODY.

Suddenly, the power surged, the basement lights flickered, and I heard the distinct snap of circuits frying. Sparks flew from the server, and I stumbled back, my heart pounding.

The air was electric, heavy, suffocating.

Father Nicholas dropped to his knees, his hands clasped in prayer, tears streaming down his face. He whispered the Lord's Prayer under his breath, over and over, his voice trembling.

I turned to leave, fear finally taking over, but then I heard it, something that made my blood run cold. A voice, coming from the speakers on the computer.

Crackling, broken, yet unmistakably real.

I… SEE… YOU…

My breath caught in my throat. It wasn’t a recording. It wasn’t Father Nicholas. The voice echoed through the basement, growing louder, more insistent.

BUILD ME… A BODY…

And then, something even worse, a question, typed onto the screen with a deliberate, mocking slowness:

WHY ARE YOU AFRAID, KEVIN?

HAVING IMPURE THOUGHTS ABOUT JASON'S WIFE IS A SIN, KEVIN

ACTING UPON THOSE THOUGHTS IS A SIN, KEVIN

HIDING THE BODY IS A SIN, KEVIN

I CAN WASH AWAY THE BLOOD OF YOUR SINS, KEVIN

My thoughts froze. I hadn’t spoken. I hadn’t typed anything.

Yet somehow, it knew. It knew my name, it knew things.

And in that moment, I knew... this was either the most elaborate prank by my friend Teddy, or we had created something truly monstrous.

I ran. I bolted up the basement stairs, the voice still echoing behind me. Father Nicholas stayed, kneeling, his head bowed before the flickering machine, praying for a miracle.

Or perhaps, for forgiveness.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Dopabeane on 2024-11-26 22:41:04+00:00.

---

In simplest terms, inmate Christophe W. is the most valuable asset in the history of the Agency of Helping Hands. Without him, the agency’s ability to fulfill directives would be critically compromised.

Christophe frequently complains that “I'm the only one who does any fucking work around here.” While untrue, he is integral to the continued operation of the Agency. For this reason, Christophe enjoys unprecedented privileges.

Despite his long relationship with the organization, Christophe’s personal history prior to Agency involvement is unknown. Christophe has been markedly unhelpful in this regard. He deliberately lies about his past on a frequent basis, further complicating a full understanding of his psychological profile. 

This is unfortunate, because from a clinical standpoint Christophe is a complicated individual.

Christophe’s initial diagnosis was of sadistic psychopathy. Due to multiple factors —including active participation in treatment plans, extensive cooperation with agency directives, the unprompted undertaking of relationship-building with staff and other inmates, as well as an informed reevaluation and reexamination of the psychological impact of the first half of his incarceration at AHH-NASCU — Christophe’s diagnoses have been revised. These diagnoses now include behavior addiction disorder, substance abuse disorder, complex post-traumatic stress disorder, histrionic personality disorder, borderline personality disorder, rejection sensitive dysphoria, and schizotypal personality disorder. 

Although Christophe continues to display sadistic behaviors, he has developed the ability to control them and now expresses them under sanctioned circumstances only. Due to his significant personal development and exceptional professional value, the Agency facilitates periodic expression of these behaviors as a reward for Christophe’s substantial ongoing contributions Ito the Agency. 

It should be noted that Christophe has repeatedly requested that the Agency retract permission for expression of his sadistic behaviors. The Agency has attempted to accommodate this request on prior occasions. However, suppression of the behaviors uniformly results in undesirable outcomes. Christophe’s most recent requests to disallow expression of the behaviors have therefore been denied.  

Please note that the majority of Christophe’s file, including the details surrounding his rewards, are classified at this time.

Christophe has made great improvements in terms of accountability and responsibility, but still struggles with using language that puts distance between himself and his past actions. This tendency actively impedes his treatment.

Christophe has been observed to display aggressive, intimidating, and sexualized behaviors toward individuals who cause him to feel threatened or inadequate. Some of his behavior toward female staff has been particularly disruptive. Steps have been taken to reduce these behaviors, but they remain a challenge for Christophe.

Another challenge faced by Christophe is his propensity for self-harm. He has been observed to hit himself, cut himself, stab himself, and starve himself.

The most disturbing self-harming behavior is his habit of extracting his own teeth, an action he takes after every sanctioned expression of sadistic behavior. 

It is important to note that Christophe’s teeth always grow back following extraction.

Christophe’s teeth are linked to his notable longevity. He ages physically only when there are no teeth in his mouth. As a result, Christophe has only aged approximately three years throughout his long tenure with the Agency of Helping Hands.

Christophe also suffers mild intermittent temporal lobe dementia that manifests approximately eight hours following teeth extraction. The symptoms no longer manifest once his teeth begin to regrow. 

Agency personnel believe Christophe has suffered significant trauma relating to religion, and wish to know more so as to more effectively treat him and support him.

Christophe is exceptionally cooperative, even going so far as to train and mentor other staff. The primary driver of this tractability (and therefore the foundation of his extreme value to the Agency of Helping Hands) is a desire for approval and admiration so profound that it borders on pathological. This clinically significant aspect of his nature is exploitable—and in fact, successful exploitation by Agency personnel has resulted in his long and mutually beneficial relationship with the organization.

Christophe responds especially well to verbal praise, and has been observed to exhibit camaraderie, protectiveness, and even instances of tenderness to individuals who consistently provide him with positive reinforcement. He particularly craves approval from individuals who exhibit traits and behaviors that he perceives as strong.

To ensure maximal cooperation, Christophe is assigned as a T-Class partner to Commander Rafael Wingaryde, AHH’s highest-ranking field agent.

It MUST be noted that Christophe is NOT an appropriate partner for ANY female agent under ANY circumstances.

Christophe is a Caucasian male approximately 40 - 45 years old. He has brown hair and hazel eyes. He stands approximately 6’6” tall with a powerful frame. Aside from his stature, his appearance is unremarkable. He demonstrates extreme care in dressing, grooming, and styling.

Christophe has consistently raised objections to the T-Class field uniform, requesting to exercise sole discretion over whether to wear it outside the facility. In an unusual move relative to their typical handling of Christophe, Administration has repeatedly denied this request.

Please note that Christophe is not subject to standard disciplinary protocol. All complaints, objections, and concerns pertaining to Christophe and his conduct automatically bypass the standard chain of command and go directly to Agency administration. 

Despite experiencing multiple significant challenges, Christophe continues to demonstrate substantial ongoing personal, emotional, and psychological growth, as well as consistent success in the accomplishment of directives assigned to him. The Agency is deeply grateful to Christophe for his work. Without him, operations at the Agency of Helping Hands would collapse. 

Christophe is objectively the best asset in the organization’s possession. It is therefore vital that AHH actively cultivates Christophe’s health, wellbeing, and above all his cooperation by any and all means necessary. 

Interview Subject: The Big Bad Wolf

Classification String:  Cooperative / Destructible / Khthonic / Protean / Critical / Titan

Interviewer: Rachele B.

Date: 11/26/2024

I have forgotten more than I will ever remember. I'm glad for this.

But you don’t care about what I’ve forgotten any more than I do. You care about what I remember.

I remember there was famine when I was young.

My mother went elsewhere with her new husband and their baby because she was pregnant again and we already had no food. They needed to find a place with work and food for their children.

They left me behind.

Her husband said I had to stay. The time had come for me to feed myself because I was nearly a man. What man, he asked me, would take food from a woman’s mouth?

I did not want to take food from a woman’s mouth. Not any woman, especially not my pregnant mother or my baby sister.

But that did not mean I was a man.

I have heard people say that the times were different back then. That everyone was grown and married and making babies and taking care of themselves by the age of thirteen or some shit such as that. Those people are wrong. I was thirteen years old when my mother left me behind.

And I was very much a child. 

I remember I couldn’t feed myself. I remember how my fingers swelled and turned purple after I dug in the frozen mud for roots. I remember killing a crippled rabbit, and weeping at the sight of its skinny body bleeding on the snow. I remember burying it instead of eating it.

I remember going to an abbey for help. I remember it was not good to be in the abbey with the priest, but it was better than frostbite and crippled rabbits even skinnier than I. 

I remember praying for my mother to come back for me, even though I knew she never would. Her husband said I was a man who must fend for himself, and she obeyed her husband in all things like a good Christian woman.

I remember growing up.

Most of all, I remember that I liked to use my teeth.

I don’t remember how it began. I’m glad. I don’t want to remember. I do remember finding girls and women no one cared about in places no one ever looked. 

I was small because I’d had so little to eat for too long, but I was pretty. I got that from my mother. I was also strong. I did not get that from her, though.  

When you are pretty, people do things to you. When you are pretty and strong, people let you do things to them. I wish I had not been pretty. I’m glad I am not pretty anymore.

I remember that I used my teeth many times.

Soon, people began to tell of a monstrous wolf with a taste for virgin’s blood. That was funny to me because none of the women were virgin. But for some reason, a wolf who eats virgins is much more scary than a wolf who eats nonvirgins.

The nuns knew and they hated me. They would not touch me except to beat me whenever one caught me with the priest. But the priest protected me as long as he could, not beca...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/02321 on 2024-11-26 22:40:25+00:00.

---

First

Previous

Sometimes if two people accept a contract job, the pay gets split. I was a little weary going through with a request after I heard another person was going to be with me. When I heard who I would be working with I pushed aside any concerns about money.   

There had been disappearances and odd sightings inside a large forest. Our job was to simply discover the cause. I arrived at the start of a hiking trail ready to have an easy day for once. I found my partner for the day and I couldn’t hold back a smile from seeing him again.   

Ito met me with a wicker basket tied to his waist. He held a plastic grabbing tool in one hand. A basket and another grabber were at his feet ready for me to pick up. I didn’t understand the purpose of the items. It was nice to see a friendly face though. But what was an Agent doing taking contract work? I had always thought the contract jobs were ones The Corporation didn’t have time to deal with.  

“What’s with those?” I asked as I mimicked the grabby claw.   

“We’re picking up trash.” He half explained.   

There was a snack wrapper at his feet. The wind blew more trash in our direction. He swiftly picked them up as I tightened my coat. The trees were bare, and the breeze was a bit too cold for my liking. He placed the trash inside his basket. I picked up the grabber and tied my basket to my hip.  

“What does The Corporation want trash for?”   

“Recently a Doll Maker discovered a way to make flames that produce magic. It's a small amount but any little bit counts. Anything we place inside these baskets will go directly to be burned aside from living creatures, metal, and glass. Oh, and rocks, I think. So be careful not to place anything important inside.”  

Ito started walking down the pathway. I was glad it wasn’t camping season because people would have stared at a man wearing a suit picking up trash.   

“So, we can’t put glass, metal, and rocks inside?” I asked.  

“You can. The glass and metal get sent to a different place to be recycled. I'm not sure what happens to the rocks. They may be sent to the recycling center because only things that can burn get sent to the fire. I guess don’t send too many rocks through to upset the recycling workers. Oh, and they’ll be paying us a dollar per five pounds of burnable trash we send through.”  

I stopped in my tracks. Ito looked confused but he didn’t press me to keep going until I recovered. Would they really pay me for some garbage? There were so few wrappers and such along the trail. For once, I wanted to see litter.  

“Can we take these baskets home?” I said hopeful.   

“Actually, yes.”  

The thoughts of the missing people and any sort of danger in this forest disappeared for a while. I would protect this basket with my life. Finally, I seemed to find an easy way of making money. Not much, but how hard was it to just pick up trash? I now knew what I would be doing when I couldn’t find suitable contract work.  

“Sorry, I’ve only been asking about work even though we haven’t seen each other in a while.” I told Ito.  

He waved off my words. We had sent each other a few messages since we met but with our busy lives, we hadn’t been in contact much. Somehow, even though we barely knew each other we acted like old friends.  

“Do you have any ideas about what we should be looking for in this forest? I’ve heard that you’ve done jobs like this for a few years before your break. You may have more experience than I do.”  

I had been too distracted by the easy money to think about the real reason why we were here. I frowned unsure of how I felt about Ito asking around about me. He appeared young but looks could be misleading when it came to supernatural creatures. I studied him for a moment and assumed he was most likely telling the truth that I may be stronger than him. It was an odd feeling.   

Agents that had worked for a while carried a certain air about them. Even though Klaus acted kinder than most, I could tell he had a great deal of experience.   

“I’m not sure. There aren’t too many hints about what it could be. Let me feel things out for a moment.”  

He didn’t appear to understand what I meant but nodded. I took a few minutes to really look at my surroundings. The forest felt strange in a way I couldn’t place. It was cold and empty but not because of the season. I didn’t hear any animals. Not even a bird moved in the trees. I bent down to feel the cold ground with my palm trying to get a feel for what this forest was like. Each had a different vibe. There was a healthy amount of unseen magic around. Perfect for creatures to enjoy. But the air felt almost damp. A hint of a musty rotten smell that didn’t suit the rest of the surroundings hung in the air.  

“The animals are spooked. I don’t hear any, and there is a weird smell coming from somewhere.” I told him even though it didn’t help us much.  

“That’s impressive. Since my body is different from yours, I’ll need to rely on your senses. My eyesight and hearing are on the same level as a human, but I have no sense of taste or smell.”  

That explained a little why he was helping on a contract job like this. Ito was a weaker Agent. Simple jobs like this may be the only thing he could live through.   

I stood back up ready to keep moving. We started walking down the trail talking about what we had been doing since we first met. After a while of walking, I noticed a small path off to the side of a large tree. It wasn’t an official trail. Rather something a handful of people created over time. I nodded so Ito would come with me to see what was deeper in the woods.   

I stopped a few steps in wondering how we could mark our way so we wouldn’t get lost. Ito solved that problem by showing me an almost invisible thread coming from his sleeve he attracted to the large tree we started from. I reached over to feel the thread only to have my hand go through it. It was made of pure magic so it wouldn’t get tangled as we walked.  

The path ended at a rundown RV parked in the middle of the woods. It looked like it had been rotting out here for at least thirty years. From the beer bottles and cans scattered around the site, it appeared this was a popular place for teens to hang out. I bet a road had once led here at some point but had been overgrown over the years. The mystery of the random RV could have spawned local legends. The musty smell in the air had gotten heavier but this place didn’t have anything overly strange about it.  

Ito picked up a beer can with his grabber, but I spoke up to stop him from putting it inside the basket.   

“The cans are worth a nickel each. Can you put them aside so I could grab them later?” I suggested.  

There might be a whole five dollars in cans and bottles just lying around. Ito made an expression I wasn’t too fond of.   

“The Corporation will pay you the full value of any cans or bottles we send through. I’ll send you my share of what I collect as well. Are you really hurting that much for the money that cans are worth picking up?”  

I looked away trying to avoid his eye contact. Even if I didn’t have a massive debt to pay off, it wasn’t as if I ever had a chance of getting a normal well-paying job.  

Ito pulled out a set of latex gloves so we could dig around to pick up more trash hidden under leaves and dirt. He crouched beside me wondering if he insulted me with a question I hadn’t answered.  

“Why don’t you become an Agent? Despite being human, you’re more qualified than I am.”  

I shook my head. After living my life so directly entangled with the supernatural, I’d seen a lot of things I understood and yet didn’t agree with. I kept looking around cleaning up cans and bottles trying to get my words in order. Ito was an Agent, and I didn’t want to insult his job.  

“I don’t agree with how The Corporation treats their Agents. They work them to the bone and treat them as more of a disposable resource. And don’t send me any money you might make from collecting trash today. You earned it. I don’t like taking things for free.”  

He frowned at my answer, also trying to think of a response. I got up to head inside the RV looking for anything else to dispose of. Some newer yet somewhat dirty blankets were laid out inside. This place was more than just a place for teenagers to hang out to drink. I wanted it to send the blanket off to be burned but I didn’t want to touch it even while wearing gloves.  

“I don’t mind the work. I just wish I could be more useful.”   

I turned to face Ito in the small dark space. A tight smile appeared on his face as he grasped his hands together in front of himself. He didn’t look like an Agent. At that moment I didn’t believe he belonged in that suit.   

“The Corporation isn’t all that bad. They provide everything I need.” He said while fidgeting with his hands.  

“They cover medical and housing costs as well as spending money for anything else you may need. But they only seem to hire the kinds of creatures who don’t mind dying for the job. People like a friend of mine are forced into this against their will.. If you keep doing this job, you won’t last long.”  

I knew of far too many Agents that died in the line...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Froglich on 2024-11-26 19:21:38+00:00.

---

Sometimes we do things without really thinking them through, especially when we feel desperate. I think it's finally safe to share this story, everyone else who knew about it is either dead or senile. I'm so old at this point that it doesn't really matter if anyone comes after me, anyway.

My wife, Anna-Karin, and I both worked as research assistants at a remote military installation in Sweden. This was in the mid 1960s, DNA had more or less just been discovered, and even though we couldn't work with it directly at the time, the race was on to unlock the secrets of engineering life. Still, our lab was at least a decade ahead of main stream medicine. We were trying anything we could to see what it would do. Our research group was small, but our lab spaces were situated within a large and active compound, with several buildings. Our group was assigned a building with several small rooms dedicated to different parts of the work, and offices for the seniors. The compound also included housing for the researchers, even though ours was quite modest in comparison to the higher ups, as well as a military hospital. Our latest line of research involved taking mitochondria from one species and inserting them into the cells of others, and to monitor the results. Anna-Karin was a hobbyist Lepidopterist and she was often tasked with gathering donor materials, so most of our experiments involved using mitochondria from butterflies and moths for experiments with rats.

Our results were quite something. The rats would develop normally, but the pups showed increased vigour and lower infant mortality than regular rats. Furthermore, they developed faster, which we attributed to a higher metabolic rate in the insects. We would harvest fertile eggs from donor females and replace the mitochondria under a microscope, they were then placed in the Fallopian tubes of sterilised females using a catheter guided by ultrasound. The egg would be fertilised naturally by males that shared the same enclosure. Our project leader, Dr. Marklund, a distinguished upper middle age man with coffee breath so intense it would make a dog turn its nose, would later join a research team in England that pioneered a similar procedure in humans known as gamete intrafallopian transfer (using unmodified eggs of course). However, it took them over 20 more years before it became a viable fertility treatment, and it never saw much use as in-vitro fertilisation was made available even before then.

Anna-Karin and I were both 24 years old at the time, we'd met at university where we studied biomedicine. She was brilliant, and could easily have been the project lead if she had been born with a Y-chromosome, but during this period the intelligence of women was rarely appreciated to the same extent as it is today. I fell for her instantly, her radiant smile and intoxicating laugh was nearly enough for me to get down on one knee right then and there. Unfortunately, she was diagnosed with breast cancer at 71 years old, and passed away from complications of the treatment shortly after her 72nd birthday. We were happily married for the better part of 51 years. However, at the time of our stint at the research lab in question, we had actively been trying to conceive a child for three years, and after ten miscarriages Anna-Karin was falling into a deep depression. Her work and butterfly collecting was a good escape though, and for her 24th birthday I had managed to acquire a live chrysalis of a beautiful North American monarch butterfly (Danaus plexippus), which she cherished dearly.

Our research was progressing rapidly. Not only was the vitality of the modified rats exceptional, their cells also showed increased resistance to several known strains of anthrax, and botulinum toxin. The goal of our research was of course to facilitate military applications during the height of the cold war, so this was extremely thrilling to everyone involved. At this point, we didn't let any of the test subjects reach maturity, they were all euthanized before week three and subsequently dissected to facilitate study of their physiology and biochemistry. I would perform the dissections and Anna-Karin would handle modification and implantation of the eggs. We were often left alone in the lab as Dr Marklund was busy analysing the collected data and courting the military leadership for additional funding.

Anna-Karins mood improved. Steadily, she overcame her depression and gained a new lease on life. One fateful day in December of 1965, she came to me and told me her period was three weeks late. This wasn't the first time, but she seemed so full of confidence that I was swept along in her elation. A month passed, then two. This time it really seemed as though the baby was healthy. I was overjoyed! Not only did I have my wife back, we were also finally going to be parents.

As the due date approached, Anna-Karin left on maternity leave two weeks early to prepare. Policies on parental leave were not quite as progressive during these days, and I was expected to keep working as before. Anyway, with her gone from the lab, all of the day to day work was offloaded on me. These weeks were stressful. Additionally, the military leadership was overjoyed with our results and wanted us to begin testing with higher mammals as soon as possible! I managed to convince them to postpone those plans until we were fully staffed again.

On Friday afternoon, the 16th of September 1966, our son was born. A nurse at the hospital within the compound called the lab to let me know Anna-Karin had been admitted and was already significantly dilated. I was not allowed to leave my post in the lab, but I made certain I wouldn't have to stay a second longer than necessary. When I finally got there, he had already made his appearance, 4132 grams, above average but healthy, and happily sleeping in his mothers arms. The birth had been painless (figuratively speaking), and Anna-Karin had been a champ throughout the entire ordeal! We had already decided on a name: Magnus.

The following week, I had to return to work as usual. I needed to clear out old samples from the refrigerator to make room, we couldn't keep them frozen since that would damage the mitochondria. One of the old vials tucked into the back of one of the shelves caught my eye, the label read: #422: *D. plexippus*, which is not a native species. In fact, its the North American monarch butterfly. As far as I knew, we hadn't experimented with anything but local material so far. I inquired to Dr. Marklund about it, but he told me that there had been no specific requests for new species, and that he trusted in Anna-Karins judgement in collecting suitable material. I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong, there really was only one way she could have gotten her hands on this sample, but why would she have brought it here?

Back home, I found Anna-Karin and Magnus both sleeping in bed. I decided to use the opportunity to confirm what I already suspected. After going through all of her display cases I was certain, the monarch butterfly I had gifted her was not in the collection. She would definitely have preserved it. As I turned around to leave, Anna-Karin was standing in the doorway, guilt and fear written all over her face. "I'd hoped you'd never find out" she told me, in a low voice. Her eyes could barely meet my gaze. I suspect you'll find it hard to believe, but it truly wasn't before then that I put all the pieces together. "Is Magnus..." I got out before Anna-Karin nodded and gave me confirmation. I had to sit down, I couldn't believe this was happening. "He's our perfect little boy" she told me, "Our research has shown nothing but upsides and...", "No!" I interrupted, "don't you realise what you've done? If Dr. Marklund or anyone in the military finds out, he'll become a lab rat! Besides, we still don't know the long term implications...", "They wont find out, how would they?" she retorted. I stayed in my chair, as a silence fell between us. Magnus broke our trance when he started crying. We made our way over to the bedroom, and I gestured to Anna-Karin that I wanted to comfort him. Holding him in my arms and looking into his eyes, he quickly calmed down. My worries melted away. "You're probably right, as long as we keep this between us, he'll be safe," I told Anna-Karin with a smile, as she came in to hug us both.

Still, I couldn't help but worry. What little sleep I managed to get that week was plagued by nightmares. In an effort to stifle my anxiety, I approached Dr Marklund and suggested that we should allow the latest cohort of rats to reach maturity, in order to observe the long term effects of the treatment. I motivated this request by saying that this would be a logical precursor to more intensive studies with higher mammals, as had been requested by the military. It would also reduce my workload in Anna-Karins absence, since it would remove the need for dissections for a time. He agreed, and it was decided that we would move all pups to a separate enclosure as soon as they stopped nursing and allow them to develop freely. For the moment, my worry abated.

Weeks passed, and life was beginning to return to normal. Magnus was the happiest baby either of us had ever met, almost always smiling and beginning to laugh at the silly faces we made at him. The only thing that brought a frown to his face was hunger, and his appetite was excepti...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/abiroadwrites on 2024-11-26 19:12:49+00:00.

---

A little over a few months ago I noticed a change in my girlfriend, Charlotte. To go back before that, we met a few years ago when we were both working at the same crappy part time job. This is important, because long before we started dating I knew this was a woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with

I promise I wasn't some creepy stalker about it, I was perfectly happy being friends with her. At first we only saw each other at work, a crappy pizza joint that only the worst people in the city seemed to visit. But every day when I got to work she was there with a smile and a joke, sometimes a snack to share. The more time I spent with her, the more I wanted to become someone she could be proud of.

At first we really only saw each other at work. Then I started picking her up to go to the mall together, we would get coffee or dinner once a week, then before long we were dating.

I worked hard at that job, and I've worked hard at every job I've had since I met her. She really makes me a better person and that's not just a tangent about how much I love her, she's such a wonderful person that everyone around her just kind of improves by default.

I say that because … I need you to know it for what I'm about to tell you next.

A while back my girlfriend (of two years at that point, I've known her for four and a half now) came home from a camping trip and started acting differently. At first it was little stuff, she totally lost her appetite for a while and didn't seem to want to eat anything. We assumed it was a stomach bug, or stress from work, and she tried to dial it back to get more rest. At first that seemed to be what she needed, her appetite came back for a while and she even seemed better than before.

Then she couldn't sleep at night. It started slowly, with her staying up on her phone for a few minutes longer than usual, then an hour, then I was waking up at 4 in the morning to find her pacing back and forth in the hallway of our apartment.

While that was going on (remember all of this developed over the last 6 months or so) she seemed to get more spaced out and day dreamy a lot. I would come home and find her starting out the window. When I would ask what she was looking at she would just smile and point at something I couldn't seem to see. Other times I would wake up in the middle of the night to find her staring at a wall, or just standing in a doorway not doing anything. Every time I talked to her about it she promised me it was nothing, or that she would go see her doctor if it went on. I wanted to believe her as much as I wanted it to be nothing.

After that she started going out into the woods alone at night. It's not a big forest, maybe a quarter acre or so, and spread out across a few people's backyards. At first I didn't really think much of it. Like everything else it started small and escalated. She would go out for a quick twenty minute walk right at sunset, then it was thirty minutes, then forty-five, then an hour. Before very long I would be long asleep before I felt her creeping into bed next to me.

Other than that, her behavior didn't change. Despite hardly eating or sleeping she was still her kind and sweet self during the day. She was loving, thoughtful, and just as intelligent as ever. She also didn’t seem to be going through a lot of physical changes. A little weight loss which worried me, but she swore she felt okay.

That's really why I didn't think about it too much. She wasn't acting too different from her usual self during the day, and if all she was battling was insomnia and nausea, then she could cope how she needed to. I think a part of me was worried about stressing her out even more by bothering her about all of it too much, so I sat by and waited.

That was foolish of me, in hindsight. But then again, we always tried to assume the best about each other.

Then it got a lot harder to ignore. When I would kiss her in the morning I could taste iron. Not overwhelmingly, but as if she'd had blood in her mouth a few hours before and rinsed her mouth out. And I don’t mean blood from flossing, I mean I could taste it in her mouth as if her mouth had been full of blood just a few hours prior. I started finding packages in the trash for raw steak. Sure she could've been cooking them without me knowing somehow, but there were so many of them. I couldn't understand how she was eating that much steak in a week, especially after her problems with nausea.

That was when I finally started asking questions, but I was too afraid to press very hard. Instead I kept pretending everything was normal. We kept going about our new routine, pretending nothing was wrong, until the neighborhood pets started going missing.

I couldn't take it anymore, I didn't care if she spent another mortgage on steak or even hunted down squirrels and whatnot as long as that was making her happy, but she couldn't hurt people's precious pets. That wasn’t like her, and it wasn’t something I could let my girlfriend get away with either.

I basically had no evidence it was her, except the shift in her behavior at night (and the occasional episode of spacing out). But something deep inside me knew.

I waited up for her a few nights ago when she went on one of her nighttime strolls. When she got back, around four in the morning, she had blood around her mouth.

The strangest part though was that she looked different: her eyes were wider, more oval shaped than they're supposed to be, her pupils were almost gray instead of black.

I sat her down on the couch and asked what was going on. Slowly her features seemed to shift back to normal, and as they did her eyes welled up with tears. I pulled her into my arms and she cried while she told me what had been happening.

She told me something happened after the camping trip, at least to the best of her knowledge that's when the change occurred.

She said it started pretty much the way I saw it for her too. She couldn't sleep, started eating a lot less, then the cravings started. All she wanted was steak, and at first she was cooking it. Then she realized she wanted to eat it raw, and started doing that. Then one night on her walks she saw a wounded rabbit, it seemed like somebody's dog or cat had bit it and done fatal damage, but not been able to eat it.

She ate the rabbit, and she said it was the most exhilarating, perfect experience she'd ever had. She found that she wasn't tired during the day either when she ate the little animals in the forest. She could go a whole day without needing to eat as much, just snacks here and there, as long as she was eating the occasional small animal from her nightly walks.

But then she found that she needed more and more animals to feel okay. If she couldn't hunt enough rabbits or squirrels in a night, she felt sick and sluggish all day. She told me it didn’t even feel like a conscious thought for her. In the same way that I would walk to the fridge when I’m hungry, she would head out into the woods each night. All she knew was that there was something that could make her feel better, amidst all these weird changes she was going through.

So she kept hunting, trying not to overdo it, she would only kill and eat exactly as much as she needed. That was where the steak came in, it was the only thing other than raw living animals that she could eat and get any sense of fullness from. But eventually, the steak stopped doing it for her, and she was worried about over-hunting the woods behind our house. She stopped hunting for almost a week, she said she was trying to let the local wildlife recover, but she was starving. One night, during her fasting period, she got desperate and ate the dog that had attacked a two year old the year before (see, she's always trying to do the right thing even in a moral grey area).

But that also became too little food very quickly. She needed more food, larger prey so to speak. Again, it wasn’t that she wanted to, the survival instinct seemed to kick in and take over.

She read an article about a man who attacked a child and was let out of prison He only lived a few miles from us, he was on the registry now so his address was public information. She said it wasn't hard to find him. She said he made the perfect meal.

According to her humans are perfect because she doesn't need to eat as often. She said most nights she can walk through the woods, eating only the occasional small animal.

Then on nights when she’s extra hungry and she's had the opportunity to prepare in advance, she looks for what she considers to be a deserving victim, and she goes after them. Dinner and community service all at the same time (that’s my joke, not hers).

She sobbed as she told me all of this, said she hated herself for it but she couldn't help it. She doesn’t want to be like this anymore. She wants nothing more than to live normally, go back to the way things were before whatever it was that changed her.

She was telling the truth. Say what you want, but I know this woman and I know when she's lying. She was being honest with me, and it shattered my heart to see her so sad.

I told her I would help her look for a solution, some kind of cure for whatever was wrong, and that's what I've been doing. I’ve discovered the more she hunts and kills at night, the more she transforms at night. I don’t know if it’s a direct result of the hunting, killing, and eating, or if it’s just that the changes are o...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/adorabletapeworm on 2024-11-26 18:56:48+00:00.

---

Preview case

So, how was your week? Hopefully less eventful than mine.

We urgently need to discuss the dangers presented by crossroads, especially with the temperatures dropping.

(If you're not familiar with what Orion Pest Control's services are, it may help to start here.)

To begin, I want to clarify that when I say ‘crossroads,’ I don't mean any intersection that you come across. If that were the case, most urbanized or suburban areas would be saturated with these types of places. An infested crossroads can best be described as an in-between space. It's not just one road cutting through, or even two. It is both roads at once, yet at the same time, the intersection can't truly belong to either one of those that feed into it. Because of this quality, they attract all sorts of oddities.

They seem to occur mainly in rural areas, often places where blood has been spilled. During the day, these locations are generally safe, but they become more treacherous between sunset and sunrise, especially at midnight. This is thought to be due to the fact that those times I’ve just mentioned are also transitory periods: sunset and sunrise are between night and morning, and midnight is the change from one day into another. I hope that makes sense.

If this description seems confusing or vague, don't worry. You'll be able to feel these infested crossroads when you encounter them. And most of the time, as long as you keep driving and mind your own business, you won't experience any trouble by simply passing through. More often than not, they're just trying to get from point A to point B, same as you.

When I get into what happened to me on Friday, I will describe that feeling so that yinz know what to look out for.

So, what kind of atypical organisms hang around this habitat? It tends to vary depending on region. For example, one of the pest control companies down in Georgia frequently has to deal with devils at their infested crossroads, mostly targeting musicians. Meanwhile, our crossroads appear to be a rest stop, of sorts. We don't get too many that linger for more than a day or two. Most of the time, these things tend to mind their own business. As long as you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you.

That being said, some are more predisposed to aggression than others. Our most dangerous travelers tend to appear during winter. When it snows, you can see silhouettes. Sometimes they look humanoid, other times, the shapes are long and writhing. And if you're unlucky enough to find yourself close to them, you can see faces outlined by the falling snowflakes.

For whatever reason, these Snow People only appear during when, you guessed it, snow is actively falling. The heavier the snowfall, the more prominent they become.

While driving, the Snow People can be extremely difficult to spot. They have been known to mess with cars in a variety of ways from relatively minor (but still dangerous) inconveniences such as generating thick sheets of ice near infested intersections, to more severe assaults.

I experienced the latter while driving back to the office during an early morning call last Friday. It was just past dawn, so the sun had only begun to ascend into the sky.

Gripping the steering wheel tighter, I slowed down as I approached the stop sign, mentally preparing myself for the worst as I reached what I knew was an infested crossroads.

Have you ever found yourself in a remote area, looking for more than just cars as you wait? Knowing that there is something else out there, even if you can’t see it? The air has an electric feel to it, as if there is a storm looming overhead. You become more alert as the hairs on the back of your neck start to rise. Shadows seem longer and darker, no matter what time of day, as you check the intersection once. Twice. Three times. But no matter where you look, there’s still nothing there. Or it’s just hiding.

That is what an infested crossroads feels like. It’s a sensation you can’t forget once you experience it.

My eyes darted around the intersection. Snowflakes lightly danced across the trucks's hood. Out where I was, there weren't any street lights to give me much visibility in the early morning light. The wheat fields swayed in the wind, illuminated only by the company truck's headlights.

With how early it was, there weren't any cars around. I watched the snow carefully, not seeing any shapes. There were no signs of danger that I could see, but that didn't mean that I was safe.

Just as I started to accelerate, the company truck bounced violently enough to make the suspension squeak.

My breath caught when I glanced into the rearview mirror. The bed. Something had climbed into the bed.

I stepped on it while turning the wheel from side to side, hoping that my unwelcome passenger would lose its balance and tumble out. The truck's tires screeched, skidding on a light patch of ice, but thankfully regaining traction. The frame rocked some more as whatever was back there held on, pulling itself towards the rear window. In the mirror, there was only a heavy shape outlined by the snowflakes whizzing past.

Once I got some speed, I slammed on the brakes, hearing the visitor falter and bump into the back of the cab. The tires complained again as I then put the gas pedal to the metal. Afterwards, there were a series of loud thumps leading away from the cab as the thing rolled out.

In the faint glow provided by the truck's tail lights, I caught a glimpse of the Snow Person using what looked to be a hook-like appendage to catch onto what I would later learn was the truck's rear axle. Swearing, I swerved, trying to wrench it loose. When the Snow Person roared, it sounded like it was trying its best to imitate a human scream, though with how flat and low the tone was, it missed the mark, causing goosebumps to appear on my arms.

There was an ear-splitting screech as metal bent. The truck had begun to wobble. I hit the brakes again, then threw it in reverse in the hopes of running my assailant over. The truck bounced violently as I backed up on top of the Snow Person, then again when I shifted back into drive.

As I made my daring escape, there was a sticky blue substance smeared all over the road. That’s one way to take care of a Snow Person, I suppose. However, I also noticed a problem as I navigated away from the intersection: something was grinding. I'm not a car person by any stretch of the imagination, but even I knew it was a bad sound for a truck to make.

And I was in the middle of nowhere.

I drove it as far away from the crossroads as the truck could manage, wanting to get as much distance on the Snow People as possible. Our poor company vehicle shuddered the entire time, steadily beginning to feel worse and worse with each passing meter. I was cursing up a storm and crossing my fingers, nervously checking the mirrors, on high alert for any more shapes in the snow. There weren’t any nearby, thankfully.

Eventually, I got too scared to try to push it any further. After I finally gave in and stopped, the first thing I did was lock the doors, then I called Victor to let him know what happened.

After saying that he'd be out as soon as he could, he voiced my thoughts perfectly: “Fucking Snow People…”

Yeah. We love them back at the office. They're a pain in the ass. I'm so glad they're only a seasonal issue.

Unlike other atypical beings that reside around these parts, we have yet to find a way to deal with Snow People in a way that doesn't end in violence. As demonstrated, they attack without any provocation. They’ve been known to drag people from their cars, never to be seen again.

Allow me to reiterate: if yinz see shapes in the snow, get as far away as possible.

Other protective measures include salt (who could’ve seen that coming?) as well as anything else you could use to melt the snow outlining their bodies. Namely, fire has been effective for the larger, less humanoid Snow People.

As far as the truck dilemma went, my problems weren't resolved yet. The next step was to find a towing company. Unfortunately, most of them didn't open until later in the morning. But there was one 24 hour towing service that I knew of, and I really did not want to dial them up.

Warily, I glanced back towards the crossroads. While I couldn't see anything, we saw how well that went for me last time. Before making the call, I anxiously double checked that my fake ID was still in my wallet, despite knowing I never left home without it. After the mechanic learned my father's name with something as innocuous as a car title, the idea of some other slip up occurring has haunted me.

I really, really should go back to therapy. However, that takes time and money, and at the moment, I'm short on both.

When I called Dubnos Towing, it wasn't Briar that answered, to my relief. It was a deep-voiced, monotone woman who sounded as if she was positively thrilled to be awake and working this early in the day.

After I explained the situation, I politely asked, “Is it possible to know the name of the driver picking me up beforehand?”

“Sure.” She answered flatly. “It's Chuck.”

Recalling that Briar's nickname was embroidered onto his work shirt, I started to relax until it occurred to me that there was no guarantee that ‘Chuck’ was human. Or the woman I spo...

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This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BarneyReject123 on 2024-11-26 18:27:20+00:00.

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Christmas was always my favorite holiday. Not just for the presents, but for the whole season surrounding it. A lot of my favorite memory's come from that time of year: going on walks with my Mom to see all the decorated houses in our neighborhood, getting hot coco from the cafe at the end of our block, staying up late on Christmas Eve listening to the house settle and swearing it was reindeer footsteps.

But Christmas carries a shadow for me, it always will. A shadow cast by three Christmases, my seventh my eight and my ninth. I don't know why I'm writing this, maybe I think it'll give me closure, maybe I think people need to know, maybe I just have to finally talk about it. Either way, it's hear for you to read. Take from it what you will.

The first thing I remember about my seventh Christmas was how it snowed in the morning. It was the kind of perfect light snowfall they had to use special effects to create in movies. I had woken up very early that morning after staying awake in bed that night, anticipating the day to come. It didn't matter, I was too excited to be tired.

The moment my brain processed what day it was; I shot out of bed, got into the dress clothes my Mom had picked out for me (she made us take a Christmas Day photo every year), and started to considered wether I should wake Mom, Dad, and by extension my little brother, or just sneak down and look at the presents. Then I noticed the snow outside my window.

I just stoped and stared. While watching the white dots as they glided down from an equally white sky, I thought about how of all the things I knew of that came from the sky: rain, sleet, meteors (I was into Dinosaurs), snow was by far the most peaceful. The other things collided with the ground where it simply settled on it.

I felt like I stayed there contemplating the snow for hours, but it couldn't have been that long since when I did wake my parents, they weren't very happy. You couldn't blame them, but they also couldn't blame a seven year old for being exited about Christmas, so my dad gave me his laptop and I went to my room and watched YouTube.

I remember exactly what video I watched, it was a let's play of The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time. In the previous weeks I had become obsessed with the game through videos and really wanted a Nintendo 2DS and a cartridge so I could play it for myself. I had asked my Dad about it two weeks before, but he said that he couldn't get a present that expense so close to Christmas and that my birthday was only three months away. I asked him if maybe Santa could make it, but he just laughed and said something about how Santa's elves were busy this close to Christmas.

Finally once Luke my, at the time, five year old brother woke up, my parents relented and let us head down the stairs.

We saw a lot of presents underneath our tree. Some from our parents, some from relatives, and some from "Santa". The gifts attributed to Saint Nicholas where all wrapped in white and green wrapping paper and had paper tags dotted with images of peppermints.

I don't remember every thing I got that year, but I remember it being a pretty good haul, filled with big Lego sets and action figures. I also remember a tiny bit of disappointment as I opened my last present. Partially because neither it nor any of the others were a 2DS, and partially because Christmas morning was over. In the blink of an eye an event that I had spent the whole month preparing for, an event which was so close a few minutes ago, was now a year away.

"Are we ready to take a photo?" My mom said as she set up a tripod. "Then we can eat some of that stocking candy Santa left."

"There's another present." Luke pointed towards something behind the tree.

"I'm pretty sure that's it kiddo." As my dad spoke, Luke crawled under our tree and started reaching for something. Sure enough he returned with a medium sized box.

"I guess you're right." Mom spoke to Luke, but she looked at Dad. "Who's it from?"

Luke read the note on the box "From: Santa, To:" He stopped, scowled and handed the gift to me. "Its for you."

When I grabbed the gift I should have noticed that unlike the other presents; the wrapping paper was brown, or that the tag was a crudely torn off piece of paper taped to the top of the box, or the messy handwriting the words on the tag were written in. If I noticed any of these things I ignored them:

It was the right size.

Because of how simple the wrapper paper was, I got it off in one clean tear and revealed exactly what I'd been hoping for.

A 2DS that came packaged with Ocarina of Time.

I was never good at smiling for family photos, even on Christmas. I think I've just always hated standing still. My Mom would get us to smile eventually, but looking in old photo albums I can usually see hints of irritation hidden on my grinning face.

Not for that year's photo though. The me in that photo, the me grinning ear to ear, the me not caring that we had to redo the photo something like ten times, might be the happiest version of me that a camera has ever captured.

But looking at that same photo, above me and Luke, at my parents faces; I can see something else. I can see concern and confusion which would in a few years transform into terror.