This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Ok_Note8803 on 2025-01-13 14:28:15+00:00.
I used to think the world was simple. You go to work, come home, binge a few shows, maybe grab a drink or two, and wake up to do it all over again. Life isn’t exciting, but it’s comfortable. Until you see something—or someone—that tears your concept of reality apart.
I don’t know what I saw. I don’t know if he’s a man or a monster, but I saw him. And I think I was never supposed to live to tell anyone about it.
It started three weeks ago. I was driving home late at night from my dead-end shift at the gas station. My car, a beat-up Honda Civic, coughed every time I pressed the accelerator, and the headlights barely cut through the thick fog rolling off the nearby woods. It was one of those nights where the darkness felt heavier, like it had weight.
I was cruising down a two-lane road when I saw him.
At first, I thought it was a deer—just a shadow on the side of the road, something barely visible in the mist. But as I got closer, I realized it wasn’t a deer. It was… human. Or at least shaped like one.
The figure stood perfectly still, right at the edge of the tree line. Too still. His silhouette was oddly thin, almost fragile, like a teenager who never grew into his frame. But the way he was standing—shoulders back, arms hanging loosely, head slightly tilted like he was waiting for something—made my skin crawl.
I slowed the car, my headlights washing over him. He was young. Couldn’t have been older than 18 or 19, with short, dark hair that looked like it had been carelessly pushed forward. He wore a hoodie, despite the heat, and sweatpants that hung loosely off his skinny frame. His hands dangled at his sides, fingers twitching slightly, like he was tapping out an invisible rhythm.
And then he turned his head.
His face was pale, almost ghostly, but his eyes—God, his eyes—were just wrong. Even from a distance, I could see the faintest glow, like embers barely smoldering in a fire. I couldn’t tell if it was a trick of the fog or my headlights, but the way they flickered… it felt deliberate. Like he wanted me to notice.
“Keep driving,” I muttered to myself, my voice trembling. But my foot hovered over the brake. There was something about him, something magnetic. It wasn’t curiosity—I was terrified—but I couldn’t look away.
He moved then, just a step forward, and I flinched. His lips curved into the smallest, most unsettling smirk. It wasn’t the kind of smile someone gives you to say hello—it was mocking, taunting. Like he knew I was scared. Like he liked it.
I didn’t think; I just hit the gas. The Civic groaned as it lurched forward, and I kept my eyes glued to the road ahead, refusing to look back.
But I swear, as I sped past, I heard him laugh.
It wasn’t a loud laugh—it was soft, almost like a chuckle—but it carried through the fog, sharp and clear. It didn’t sound human. It was too calm, too confident, like he’d already won some game I didn’t even know I was playing.
I didn’t sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face, that smirk, those faintly glowing eyes. I told myself it was nothing, just some punk kid trying to scare drivers, but deep down, I knew better.
And then the dreams started.
Each night, I’d find myself back on that road, the fog thicker than before. The figure would be closer this time, standing in the middle of the lane, waiting. He never spoke, but his eyes burned brighter in the dreams, glowing like molten coals. I’d try to scream, but no sound would come out.
I began waking up drenched in sweat, my heart racing, convinced I could still hear his laugh echoing in my ears.
Last night was different.
I woke up to the sound of something tapping on my window.
At first, I thought it was a branch or maybe the wind. But then I heard it again—three slow, deliberate taps. I froze, my breath catching in my throat.
The room was dark, but the streetlight outside cast a faint glow through the blinds. I didn’t want to look. Every instinct in my body told me to stay under the covers, to pretend I hadn’t heard anything. But then I heard it again.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I turned my head, just enough to see the outline of my window.
He was there.
Standing on the other side of the glass, staring down at me with that same smirk, his eyes faintly glowing in the darkness. His hands were pressed against the glass, leaving streaks in the condensation.
“Hey,” he said, his voice muffled but perfectly clear. “You look like shit.”
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.
“Come on, man. Don’t be rude.” He tilted his head, tapping the glass with one finger. “Open up. I just want to talk.”
My heart was hammering so hard it felt like it was going to burst out of my chest. I didn’t move, didn’t even blink.
And then he laughed again.
It was louder this time, sharper, like he was right next to me. “Aw, you’re no fun. Fine. I’ll see you around, loser.”
He turned and walked away, vanishing into the shadows like he’d never been there at all.
I don’t know what he is. I don’t know why he’s tormenting me. But I know one thing for sure.
He’ll be back.
Weeks went by, and nothing unusual happened. Sure, I thought about that night—about the glowing eyes, the smirk, the laugh that seemed to burrow into my brain. But as the days passed, life crept back into its dull routine. Work, home, eat, sleep, repeat. The human mind does funny things when it comes to trauma; it smooths out the edges, convinces you it wasn’t that bad, maybe even makes you doubt it happened at all.
By the third week, I had all but convinced myself I had imagined it. Maybe it was exhaustion, or maybe I’d dozed off at the wheel. Hell, maybe I was losing my mind. Either way, I stopped checking over my shoulder when I walked to my car at night. I stopped flinching at the sound of soft laughter in the distance. I even stopped leaving the lights on in my apartment.
Life was normal again. Until it wasn’t.
It was a Friday night, and I’d just left a bar downtown. Nothing fancy, just a hole-in-the-wall kind of place where the drinks are cheap, and the bartender knows you by name. I wasn’t drunk, just buzzed enough to dull the edge of a long week. The streets were unusually quiet, the kind of quiet that feels staged, like the world is holding its breath.
The fog was back. Thick and heavy, rolling off the nearby river and swallowing the streetlights in its haze. As I walked to my car, I felt it—the faintest prickle at the back of my neck. That instinctive, primal sensation that tells you you’re being watched.
I stopped mid-step, my breath fogging in the cold air. The street was empty. Nothing but the hum of distant traffic and the occasional drip of water from a nearby gutter.
“Get a grip,” I muttered, shaking my head.
I unlocked my car, slid into the driver’s seat, and turned the key. The engine sputtered before roaring to life, and I felt a flicker of relief as the headlights cut through the fog.
That’s when I saw him.
He was standing in the middle of the road, directly in front of my car. Same hoodie, same sweatpants, same impossibly thin frame. But something was different this time. His posture was looser, more casual, like he was waiting for me to notice him. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, and his head was tilted just enough to catch the light.
I froze, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white.
He took a step forward, the movement lazy and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. The glow in his eyes was stronger now, pulsing faintly with every step he took.
“Hey, champ,” he called out, his voice smooth and teasing, like he was greeting an old friend. “Miss me?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
He grinned, the kind of grin that makes your stomach drop. “What, no ‘hi’? No ‘how’s it going’? You’re hurting my feelings here.”
My foot slammed on the gas. I wasn’t going to wait around for whatever game he was playing.
The car lunged forward, tires screeching as they struggled for traction. But just as I was about to hit him, he moved.
Not stepped aside. Moved.
It was like he wasn’t there one second and then was suddenly standing at my window the next, his hand slamming against the glass hard enough to make me jump.
“Rude,” he said, leaning down so I could see his face. His breath fogged the window as he stared at me, his eyes burning like hot coals.
I screamed, throwing the car into reverse and flooring it. The tires screeched again, the car jerking backward as I tried to put as much distance between us as possible.
But he didn’t chase me.
He just stood there in the middle of the road, watching, his smirk widening as the distance between us grew.
When I finally turned the corner and lost sight of him, I pulled over, my hands trembling so badly I could barely put the car in park. I sat there for what felt like hours, my chest heaving as I tried to calm down.
I didn’t sleep that night. Or the night after.
Because now I know he’s not just some figment of my imagination. He’s real. And he’s not done with me yet.
I was sitting on my couch that night, trying to pretend life was normal again. The TV was on, something familiar and mindless—The Walking Dead, maybe. Or was it The Big Bang Theory? I can’t even remember. My mind wasn’t really on the show; I was just letting it drone on in the background, hoping the noise would fill the silence that had started to feel suffocating lately.
That’s when I heard it.
A deep, thunderous sound that rattled my entire apartment, making...
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