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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/OGWhiz on 2023-06-27 22:53:15+00:00. ***

> > I am an electrician. I was assigned to go out to a remote prison and fixed some downed lines. When I arrived, I had to go into an empty cell block to shut the breakers down. When exiting, I saw a notebook on the floor that caught my attention. It was beat up, but I decided to toss it into my bag. Maybe it could be interesting, maybe not. I wasn't expecting this. I'll be transcribing it as I read through it, and I'll keep you updated. > > >

My last day alive didn't start much different from any other day. But that day, the air held a foreboding stillness, a sense of impending doom lurking in the shadows. It began like any other day, a deceptive façade masking the horrors that awaited me. Oversleeping, I rushed to prepare for my night shift as a Correctional Officer. A jail guard. The weight of unease settling upon my shoulders. Little did I know, this day would defy the boundaries of ordinary existence.

As I stumbled through my pre shift routine, a nagging sense of dread gnawed at my consciousness. The world outside seemed tainted, as if the very fabric of reality had frayed at its edges. I ventured out, seeking solace in a remote coffee shop on my way to the prison. The baristas, their eyes hollow and their smiles insincere, served me a cup of coffee brewed from beans claimed to possess mystical qualities. The uneasy ambiance lingered, intensifying my discomfort.

My name is Richard Byrd, a mortal trapped within the confines of a sinister fate. Our small jail, nestled in the heart of Eastern Canada, housed a motley assortment of individuals. From drug dealers to murderers, rapists to drunk drivers. Their crimes carving deep scars into the painted cement the floors as they paced, watching the clock, doing their time.

My role as a Correctional Officer, at times resembling a hapless puppet dancing upon a wicked stage, demanded a delicate balance of diplomacy and vigilance. The good days brought fleeting relief, while the bad days unleashed an avalanche of torment upon us all. Yet, the true test lay within the dark recesses of Maximum Security—MAX, a domain cloaked in malevolence and the whispers of the departed.

And me, I was always assigned to Max, a purgatory of sorts. I found myself ensnared in a treacherous realm. Full-timers shunned it, and new recruits trembled in fear of its haunted reputation. But as a part-time veteran with just enough experience, I could not escape its clutches. It was a desolate existence, like navigating the twilight realm between the living and the dead.

Why shun Max? The answer hung heavy in the air, unspeakable horrors lurking within its shadowy corridors. The bugs, as the seasoned officers called them, were the vilest of inmates—feral creatures driven to assault staff, their screams an unrelenting chorus of madness. The relentless onslaught of their presence eroded our sanity, an unyielding torment that refused to grant respite.

And then there were the stories—the whispers that echoed through the worn brick walls. Tales of phantoms and restless spirits, condemned souls trapped within the confines of Max. Not that I ever believed in that shit. I chalked it up to the ramblings of troubled minds. But on that fateful night, the line between skepticism and belief blurred, the truth veiled behind a macabre veil.

As my last shift began, a chilling wind swept through the prison, carrying with it an otherworldly aura. The familiar halls, once a bastion of routine, morphed into a labyrinth of terror. The dim lights flickered ominously, casting elongated shadows that danced and writhed like specters yearning for release.

Unbeknownst to me, the final chapter of my existence had begun, its pages etched with the blood-curdling whispers of the damned. My last day alive was a mirror reflecting the darkness that had always lurked within the depths of my prison—a darkness that would soon consume me whole.

And it didn't start much different from any other day.

-------------------------------------

The world outside my apartment was cloaked in an eerie silence, a foreboding sign that sent shivers down my spine. It was a summer evening, the air thick with a sense of unease. As I emerged from the confines of my solitary apartment, I couldn't shake the feeling that something sinister lingered in the shadows.

I embarked on my journey to work, the familiar route weaving through wooded highways. The haunting melodies of Alexisonfire enveloped me, providing a temporary respite from the encroaching dread. But even the music couldn't drown out the impending horrors that awaited me at the hidden facility nestled deep within the heart of the wilderness. So, this is continuous happiness..

This time of year, the facility suffered from a shortage of staff. Vacations, unexplained illnesses conveniently coinciding with fishing trips, and the phenomenon known as "Sook Leave" plagued us. It seemed like petty disagreements among coworkers unleashed a malevolent force, forcing them to take sick leave for the entire summer. The corridors of the facility were filled with a palpable tension, as the weight of the impending chaos hung heavily in the air.

Arriving at the facility around 6 PM, a sense of foreboding washed over me. The building loomed ominously, casting a sinister shadow over the desolate parking lot. Its brick walls, barred windows, and reinforced chain-link fences, crowned with menacing razor wire, exuded an aura of confinement and despair. Reluctantly, I stepped out of my car, clutching my kit bag, and made my way toward the imposing front entrance.

Navigating the multiple layers of security felt like descending into the bowels of a nightmare. Each sally port, each gate, seemed to trap me further within the labyrinthine corridors of the facility. Finally, I entered the lounge—a place where toxicity and negativity thrived, infecting the very air we breathed.

I began my ritual of cleaning my gear. My stab vest, duty belt, and the boots reserved solely for the confines of the facility required meticulous attention. Amidst the banter and snide remarks, the next shift slowly trickled into the lounge, and the grim reality of the day began to take shape. Through the cacophony of voices, the Captain, a formidable figure named Hart, strode into the room. Her presence commanded respect, yet her expression hinted at the troubles that plagued our institution.

Captain Hart began the pre-shift muster, her words laden with a mix of caution and weariness. Graffiti on the staff washroom walls, medication mix-ups, fights over trivial objects, and contraband discoveries were among the litany of issues she addressed. But it was the news of a drone incident that piqued my attention—the device, carrying a significant amount of cocaine to be dropped off in the recreation yard, had crashed into power lines, causing a small fire and leading to a transfer of inmates from MAX. The power had been cut to MAX. The battery backup leaves emergency lights and security cameras on. Nothing more.

Caught in Captain Hart's gaze, I received the chilling revelation that I alone would be assigned to fire watch duty in the now-empty MAX block. The prospect of spending the night alone in the deserted block, rife with whispered tales of supernatural occurrences, both thrilled and terrified me. The dread that had plagued me all day morphed into a twisted sense of anticipation.

As the muster concluded, I retreated into my thoughts, imagining the solitary night that lay ahead. The absence of inmates meant a respite from the usual chaos, an opportunity for uninterrupted solitude. Little did I know that my isolation would unveil the true horrors that lurked within the depths of the haunted MAX block, shattering the line between reality and nightmares.

I grabbed an old Stephen King paperback, my battery powered reading lamp, and I made my way down to MAX.

---------------------------------------------------------

I took over from the dayshift, relieving a guy named Cookie. He handed me the keys, thick Folger Adam keys, which I quickly washed, and Cookie made his escape into the world. And now there I was, alone in the dark and eerie maximum security block.

The silence weighed heavily on my shoulders as I made my first rounds for fire watch. The facility had been hastily evacuated due to the havoc caused by the drone. With the power out and the inmates gone, the atmosphere in the block was chilling.

As I walked through the deserted Max A, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss. The empty cells and scattered debris added to the sense of abandonment and decay. Moving on to Max B, the unease intensified. The darkness seemed to envelop me, amplifying every sound and sending shivers down my spine. I had always felt a negative presence in Max B, but tonight it was stronger than ever. The absence of inmates magnified the ominous atmosphere, leaving me with an overwhelming sense of dread.

Despite my skepticism, I had taken to carrying a piece of obsidian—a supposed absorber of negative energy—to ease my mind during my time at the facility. It provided some comfort, but in this desolate block, its effect felt inadequate. The memories of violence, despair, and death that had stained these walls seemed to seep into my very being. I pushed forward, my heart racing, determined to complete my round.

The dripping water and my echoing footsteps filled the air, punctuating the silence with eerie cadences. As I hurried through Max B, my mind raced with ... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14ksa29/on_the_block_part_1/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Flying_Sorcerer140 on 2023-06-27 22:08:12+00:00. *** I woke up, head throbbing, a sensation making it known that the place I'm in is moving, the interior is almost alien to me.

A singular note lays on the desk next to me, reading the following:

Hello, I see you may be confused but unfortunately I have only a couple of questions.

I only know this, through eavesdropping: there are 500 floors, you are on the 500th floor, unfortunate..

Meet me on the 387th floor, and I will give you a bunch of helpful tips to survive this hellscape, such as the following, there are conductors on each floor, more and more hostile, you'll know immediately when you see them, also, another rule: do not be seen.

DO NOT BE SEEN

Good luck!

I was astonished.. to say the least..

I decided to walk out into the hallway, and the note was correct.

Conductors on my "floor", but with one, giant, pulsating eyeball that took up the entire face like a tumor, a gaze without a blink that haunts dreams.

The interior was metallic, haunting. Passengers walking through the hallway, but one was arguing with the first conductor, didn't end well, to say the least, melted through the floor..

Nobody seemed to care, like it was a regular thing, but I get the conflict.

That guy was probably stuck in there for ages, so bottled anger processed onto the one eyed "beast" as he called it. Very extreme reaction to just melt the poor dude though.

I didn't know what to do, so I followed the other people walking towards their rooms, but I wanted to leave, get to the lower floor, the lowest floor.

"Hey, can I get past?" I asked politely, pissing myself in fear.

The conductor looked at me, a yellow gleam inspecting me, it's head tilted a little bit, by this point, I'm considering heading back to my room. The other passengers looking at the situation with curiosity and a nervous energy.

The eye flickered between green and red for a few seconds, the tension rising.

A singular word was said,

"Yes."

Phew

I walk down the stairs, a new interior welcomed me into the new environment. A singular sign saying the floor number:

499

The aformationed interior was still hostile, a crimson colour filled the room, and my dread was not going to leave anytime soon.

I then remembered the note, I shouldn't be seen from now on. I tried walking into a random room, and started my new life.

Then, a person walked in.

"What the fuck are you doing in here?!"

"Hey, I escaped from the floor above, don't tell anybody about me, keep me hidden from the conductor, please!"

He pondered for a bit, his head tilted, until he accepted to keep me safe.

I woke up, head throbbing, a sensation making it known that the place I'm in is still moving, the interior is still alien but I'm almost getting used to my surroundings.

Another note lay on the table next to me, reading the following:

Congratulations on moving one floor! Now here's the deal. I will keep giving you information, but only if you move one floor a day, then the deal is cut off.

Here's the next tip, possibly your last: some floors are traps, some floors are hallucinations, some warp your mind to project your thoughts in them. DO NOT FALL FOR THESE

Good luck

My new roommate walked in and noticed the note I was reading, he didn't say anything but the atmosphere explained his feelings. A sour feeling lingering.

"Now that you know, you have to join me to escape, I'm trapped in a corner right now and I need your help!"

"So, you have contact from the outside? Fuck you."

"I've been trapped in here FOR YEARS! And you just have a fucking note guiding you around.."

"Okay, I know how this seems, but I didn't choose this, I woke up just yesterday in an unfamiliar environment and I just discovered these notes appear. So if you are going to jump to conclusions, think twice before you fucking say it."

Then, the train finally stops, presumably at a location for the passengers below, the atmosphere lifting a bit.

"Y'know, I've never been outside the train, I was born here you see... Maybe, we could see the world together?"

"Sure!"

He then introduced himself as Sam, and the journey has officially begun.

What a day, what a day indeed.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/SouthParkiscool on 2023-06-27 22:04:58+00:00. *** Part 1

Part 2

I managed to save myself one more day. Here are the rest of the entries.

ENTRY 19

My heart's pounding. I don't know where I am, and I can't say for sure whether I'm safe.

After I set out with my group, we bypassed the guards by tunneling under Heaven until reaching the sewers. I guess the devil thought the sewers would be mostly unguarded, but once we set foot in them, shouting started coming from both directions. Glowing men. My heart dropped. There was nowhere to duck. I shot at the men, relieved to see them combust.

As we trekked through the dimly lit sewers, I took note of how horrible it smelled. It didn't matter so much every time we neared a corner. My adrenaline level skyrocketed. Would there be glowing men waiting for me? Would I live? I resorted to just shooting blindly around the corner. It worked five times.

Eventually, we reached a drain one of my group members claimed was the first one from "the city." She told me to follow behind. Since they could hover, they'd just fly up out of the sewer. Since I couldn't hover, I'd climb. But I'd be guarded in a circular formation. From there, I'd shoot any angel coming overhead.

Easier said than done. I need to stop expecting ease of force from my end.

Once I climbed up to the street, the sonic booms began. A dozen angels flew above the street. I opened fire for my life, taking out each angel as they flew close enough for me to hit. I barely paid attention to what was happening on the ground around me. All I heard were booms, shattering glass, car alarms, and shouting from all directions. At one point, I needed to take cover. I looked around and saw all the chaos. I ran through a shattered shop window and hid behind a table. An angel landed on the ground. I shot at it. It combusted.

As I anticipated the second another angel revealed itself, a deep male voice hit my right ear.

"Hey! 'You from the kingdom of the devil!? Or are you of God??"

I looked to my right and saw an elderly man pointing a double barrel shotgun at my head.

Some shouting echoed in from outside. I looked and saw two angels sprinting towards the shop.

"Are you of God!? Answer the question!"

I jumped out from behind the table. The two angels' eyes widened. They aimed their guns right at me. I grabbed the shotgun wielder by the hips and pulled him in front of me. He combusted into white flames while I jumped behind his desk for cover. I jumped up and fired at both of the angels. Both of them combusted as well.

The war went on for weeks. Those weeks weren't so different from weeks I spent fighting wars in the past. In the middle of week four, I woke up as the sun began shining and noticed how silent the city was. Perhaps all the civilians had evacuated. During my journey through the war torn city, I came across a restaurant with shattered windows. I took a look inside. The tables were all lying on their sides. Food was strewn all over the floor.

As I looked around, a wet screeching noise echoed from the sky. I looked up. A giant ophanim was about to fly overhead. My heart sank. I jumped through a shattered window to hide in the restaurant.

I knew it took several bullets to take out a small Ophanim, but I couldn't imagine what it would take to bring down a giant one. The dreadful sound of the ophanim peaked, but once it began to pass, I took note of a television on the far end of the room. I walked up to it and switched it on, hoping to get some news updates.

I flipped through the channels until I found a broadcast showing a giant Ophanim hovering above a city I couldn't recognize. Many of the skyscrapers in the city were on fire. Then explosions rocked about 10 or 15 of the skyscrapers, taking each of them down. Meanwhile, fires were spreading like crazy across the surrounding forest.

"And with that… Heaven's final option is hammering the city at the center of Hell. The destruction of evil, in the name of God, has begun."

I watched in horror. Heaven's final option? Innocents are dying! People are being tortured!

As I fumed, I heard the sound of somebody stepping on a piece of glass outside. I didn't have time to turn my head before I blacked out. I woke up in someplace dark. Feeling around, I felt a cold hard tiled floor. What room was I in? Who captured me? I felt around some more and found a lamp. I switched it on, revealing the room I was in. Torn up papers, photos, and posters were strewn all over the ground.

ENTRY 20

After writing up the last entry, I looked through the torn up papers. Some of them depicted God, Jesus, and different angels. Others were pages from the Bible. I held one of the torn pages and read half of what was on it. I crumpled it up and threw it at the wall.

The door creaked open. I jumped, hoping it wasn't one of those glowing men. I grabbed my gun and aimed it at the door. I was relieved to see it was a non-glower. She had black hair and looked to be in her mid or late twenties. Her eyes widened.

"No, it's okay," she said. "I'm on your side. Your fellow soldiers are going to be back soon."

I was relieved, but I didn't know who she was. Was she associated with the devil? Or was she someone else entirely? I asked her.

"Eve," she said. "Your fellow soldiers need you."

"I know they do," I said. "We have creatures to eliminate."

"You've already pretty much won the war. Don't let your guard down, though, because the angels avenging God are destroying Hell as we speak. Your soldiers need you to help them bring in a bomb you and them call the Parakuzma, according to them."

The Parakuzma was an atomic bomb we were developing as part of the construction of anti-anomalous weaponry following the accidental death of God. I told her this. But, I also informed her of the fact we hadn't tested it due to our efforts to conceal our war on Yahweh's spirits. We'd only test it in the most dire of times. Times when a war with the west wouldn't sound so threatening.

She told me I was ordered by the words of my commander to help bring the bomb into Heaven. I told her I needed to be shown something official just in case, even though she already knew of the weapons development project at all. She brought me out into a large room with shiny marble walls, a high ceiling with three skylights, and a marble-tiled floor. Several of my comrades were conversing with each other in the corner. Some recognizable from previous missions, and others not. One of the ones I recognized, Dimitry, told me the order was legitimate. Then he told me we needed to get back to the portal.

A pit formed in my stomach.

"Is it still open?" I asked. "How far away is it from here? Where are we?"

"Yes, it's still open," Vladimir said. "The devil has our backs, though. Don't worry. Now get prepared."

My comrades left the room, leaving me alone with Eve. Eve walked over to a gold plated chest that sat a little over to my left. She opened it up, reached into it, and pulled out a stone with words engraved into it. She placed the stone on the floor. In front of her.

"What does it say?" I asked.

"They're the ten commandments," she said. "Well, five of the ten. The other stone is still in the chest. I'll be taking care of that one right after I take care of this one."

She brushed her hair back with her hands. I wasn't sure what she meant when she said she'd be taking care of them. That was until she pulled a jagged rock out of her pocket, bent down towards the stone, and began to scrape the first commandment where it was engraved in the stone, leaving white scratches.

"I don't know if you've read my story, but I was the one who was manipulated into eating an apple," she said. "Adam was responsible for me… ew… and blamed me for him failing to be responsible. Adam was punished. And so was the serpent. But so was I."

She began to scratch out the second commandment.

"All that apple contained was knowledge on how to separate good from evil. That's what God wanted to keep hidden… and he expected us to know any better? The devil wants to set up a new kingdom led by a new leader, and there's been talk of me being the next leader."

She moved on to the third commandment. Scraping it like no tomorrow.

"Job refused the position. He said he just wants his livelihood back, Adam finally realized what he was doing when he blamed me for him not taking responsibility, and the devil told me he doesn't plan on being the next leader… so that leaves me."

"Isn't the devil very powerful too?" I asked.

"Not as powerful as you may think," she said as she began to scrape the fifth commandment. "He's not the exact opposite of God. He just worked for God. At some point, he realized how shitty God was and rebelled against him and his order. He's more of a political influence. But anybody can be God with a specific piece of knowledge."

My comrades entered the room. I walked up to them, determined to get the rest of the fight over with. One I was more familiar with, Dimitry, looked into my eyes.

"You ready, Artem?" he asked.

"Yes. This place is very chaotic. Almost everything here has thrown me off guard… but if I keep up my willingness to fight and defend, I should be able to defend myself against those atrocious creatures."

My comrades all nodded their heads in agreement.

Despi... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14kr2rw/the_soviet_union_is_responsible_for_the_death_of/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ydudemqn on 2023-06-27 21:46:14+00:00. *** Memories of my childhood were fuzzy but the things I did remember were rarely ever pleasant.

I remembered being a human punching bag for my mother. She wasn’t a drunk, she was beautiful and polite to others, but behind closed doors the woman was vile towards me. If I played too loud she would hit me, if I talked to much she would hit me, hell sometimes she would hit me just for taking up space.She was cruel.

I remembered having to create an imaginary friend because she wouldn’t let me go outside and have any real friends, I remember naming him Billy.

Because I rarely got to see what other kids looked like I imagined him to look identical to me but slightly different, if I wore a blue shirt I’d imagine him wearing a red one, I was weak so I imagined him strong, and because I was afraid of my mother I imagined him to be a rebellion that stood up to her,I imagined him to be everything I wanted to be.

My mother was not to fond of my imaginary friend however, mainly because I was stirring up more trouble with him than normal and whenever I was caught I’d tell her “Billy told me to” this infuriated her. She’d give me bruise after bruise for anything me and “Billy” would do and because he didn’t want me to feel alone I remember Billy giving himself bruises to match mines.

One day while playing tag with my imaginary chum I accidentally ran into my mother who had a full glass of red wine in her hand, spilling it all over the white dress she was going to wear to the neighborhood cookout. Her eyes turned cold and she grabbed a frying pan and bashed me over the head with it.

I woke up inside my bed with bandages over my head and my mother standing in the doorway crying, my blood still on her hands. That was the first time I saw her cry, that was the last time I imagined Billy, I didn’t want to get in trouble anymore.

Years later even after all the abuse I endured I managed to graduate high school, go off to college, meet my beautiful wife and have two amazing boys.All with no contact of my mother in 20 years.

One day I got a call from her caretaker saying my mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s for a while now and that her mind was starting to go but she was begging to see her son again. I wanted to decline but my wife begged me to go saying this would be my last chance of getting some form of clarity. I unwillingly accepted.

I flew to my mothers home and her caretaker met me in the doorway with a smile inviting me in. As I walked through the door each step I took became more heavy and more painful as the memories of abuse and neglect began to pierce my brain.

I walked into my mothers doorway and there she was, the once strong and vile woman now a shell of herself hooked up to machines, almost clinging to life.

Our eyes met and she began crying hysterically. I didn’t know how to embrace her, a part of me knew she didn’t deserve it.

I walked over to her and she began rambling.

“Im sorry” she whimpered.

As I got closer I saw she was holding a folded up picture in her hand. I slipped it from her weak hands and opened it.

It was me, her…..and a boy who wore the exact same face as mine.

I looked at her with my eyes drowning in tears as she began to speak again.

“I’m so sorry Billy”

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/cherrycapsule on 2023-06-27 21:21:30+00:00. *** I’m on my third espresso of the night and my eyes hurt from deciphering reams of cramped text for hours on end, so I’m not terribly coherent, but this needs to be shared. You don’t need to know much about me besides the fact that I’m an undergrad studying history at a university in Georgia. This was all kicked off by a simple assignment for one of my classes, “Introduction to Genealogy and Local History”. Over the course of the semester, each student was to research a period of their personal family history, piece together a narrative of events, and give a class presentation relating that narrative to the sociocultural landscape of the time. Might sound boring to some, but for me it was a dream come true: a missive to spend hours delving into archives both personal and public, losing myself in that surreal, just-out-of-reach world of days gone by.

The moment we were assigned the project, I knew I wanted to investigate the story of my great-great grandfather, the cotton millionaire Abel Adair. I can’t stress enough how big of a deal Abel was back in the day, or how large his legacy looms in our family. Growing up in the Deep South, much of my childhood was spent listening to stories that had outlived their progenitors three, four, five times over—some, ah, more questionable than the rest—and practically every story ran back to Abel in one way or another. The man was American royalty. My dad’s a lawyer and my mom used to work for an art gallery, so you can surmise that I enjoyed a pretty damned privileged upbringing, but the way they tell it, we’ve fallen tragically far from the glory of Abel’s reigning days.

I know you read the words cotton millionaire and Deep South and your eyebrows are probably at your hairline right now, as they should be. My interest in Abel was of a critical and academic nature; I never sought out to lionize the man. It’s the reason I couldn’t shake the bad feeling I got when I first stumbled onto the article about Jebediah.

No one in my family had ever mentioned a man by the name of Jebediah before, and we’re the type of people who keep tabs, trust me. Going by the official documentation, Jebediah was less than a footnote in Abel’s life. He was a phantom. It would’ve been easy to miss him altogether, for there’s just a handful of documents that prove he ever existed compared to the veritable ocean on Jebediah. Once I caught on to the phantom’s presence, though, I was hooked. The past month has been a flurry of poring over digitized newspaper archives, interrogating relatives for the slightest of leads, and digging through corners of attics that have gone undisturbed for decades. You don’t want to know how hard it was to restore a certain water-damaged document to a state of readability.

What started out as homework has taken on a life of its own, and at some point I realized this isn’t a story made to be submitted for scrutiny by my professor. I’m a rational person through and through, but now that I’m looking at the bigger picture, I honestly don’t know what to make of it—maybe you can help me out in that regard. All I know is that I’ve unearthed something awfully strange.

I present to you the facts in the case of Jebediah Presley.

---

The Southern Star, August 28th, 1914

CHATHAM COUNTY’S FAVORED SON: ABEL ADAIR & THE RISE OF MAGNOLIA COTTON CO.

It is a proud moment for the residents of Chatham County as one of their own, Abel Adair, owner and managing director of Magnolia Cotton Co., has secured a major deal with national department store Montgomery Ward. The terms negotiated by Mr. Adair are highly favorable to Magnolia Cotton Co., securing its role as Montgomery Ward's sole supplier of the staple textile and as undisputed king of the South's cotton industry.

As the patriarch of the Adair clan, Mr. Adair has steered the family business from the rocky waters of post-Emancipation hardship to dizzying new heights of success. He is a man with a storied past, belonging unmistakably to that league of charmingly coarse, larger-than-life moguls who constitute much of the crème de la crème of Southern society.

Born to Abel Sr., an inept businessman under whose leadership Magnolia Cotton Co.'s earnings plummeted into the red, the young Abel seemed to show a similar disinclination towards business in the days of his youth. Upon coming of age, Adair shucked the responsibilities of the family plantation in favor of joining the Navy. In four years he worked his way up from lowly ensign to lieutenant, and after three more he returned to Georgia to take the helm at a critical moment for the plantation: Abel Sr. was weeks away from declaring bankruptcy, having sold off huge parcels of land to pay his outstanding debts.

In a near-unbelievable turn of events, the young Adair's preternatural business acumen restored Magnolia Cotton Co. to its antebellum glory and beyond. It was this acumen that earned him the moniker "The White Hound" and permitted him to succeed where so many of Magnolia's peers floundered in the aftermath of Emancipation. Indeed, any of Adair's colleagues or rivals would tell you that more than tenacity, grit, or a certain ruthlessness of disposition--all of which Mr. Adair possesses in spades--it is his startling savvy for numbers that has buoyed Magnolia Cotton Co. up from the brink of failure.

Adair’s life is not one unblemished by tragedy, for his wife Margaret passed away shortly before the family’s turnaround in fortune, leaving their three young children without a mother. Yet the future is bright, and the cotton keeps on growing. When not hard at work, Mr. Adair spends much of his time as many a red-blooded American would aspire to: fishing on his custom 20-foot Herreshoff, hunting alongside his purebred griffon, Baxter, and regaling his children with colorful stories of his time in the Navy. The hard work and dedication of Mr. Adair has paid off in spectacular fashion, and we at The Southern Star offer our hearty congratulations.

---

scrap of letter from Abel to an "Anatoli", undated

…and inquire how the missus is doing. Her cooking gotten any better? I hear it tends to go the other way, what with the tongue getting fat and dull like all the rest of it, har har. I’ve got three little tikes running around these days, two boys and a girl. God knows I love them, but sometimes I get to thinking what I wouldn’t give for one more day back on that deck with the crew, just the open water all around and the sun at our necks. We had some good times then. Even Cap’n, that old bag of hot air… yet there I go still calling him captain. Never did get to tell him to stick it where the sun don’t shine, the way I wanted to when he’d get to spittin’ and barkin’ in my face… I could do it now, with all this money behind me. I sure could.

Well, Anatoli, I was thinking I never did thank you properly for telling me the secret. I owe it all to you and there’s not a soul in this world that knows it. If this letter finds you, Anatoli, and it better find you—I’m paying a pretty penny for this here P.I.— I want you to know that if you ever need anything, my door is open, just as long as you remember that door goes both ways…

---

Letter from Charlotte to Abel November 2nd, 1920 // Recovered from envelope without postage; never sent

Dear Father,

I write this letter with not just a heavy heart but a burden of rage formerly unknown to me. Believe me when I say that whatever anger and betrayal you feel towards me is returned in triplicate! I can hardly reconcile your recent actions with the person I once thought you to be—once, but no longer, for this debacle has illuminated clearly the empty void in your chest where most men have beating hearts.

It would have been one thing to reject Jebediah when he asked you for my hand, but to behave toward him as you have is nothing short of primitive. Perhaps when mother passed, the Lord rest her soul, she took your last trace of humanity with her. You and mother hoped that I would marry a gentleman, yet you proved yourself to be the farthest thing from one when you stooped so low as to threaten the man I love.

Jebediah is a simple man, but a good one. Wouldn’t you rather I had a good man than one of those insufferable dandies you have tried time and time again to pair me off with? After all you always told me it wasn’t books or titles that made a man, but character, and I tell you Jeb has got more character in his little finger than you have in your whole body. Why can’t you see that money has never meant a thing to me? I could do without the dresses and diamonds and galas, but never without love. I’m going wherever Jebediah goes and we’ll have a real family.

You say that you would rather see me dead than married to Jebediah—well, father, I’m pleased to say you won’t have to suffer either, as you’ll never see me again. This letter will be our last correspondence.

With deepest convictions, Charlotte Camellia Presley

---

The Southern Star, May 17th, 1932

MYSTERIOUS DEATH AND DISAPPEARANCE IN BLACK ROCK

The rural town of Black Rock, Georgia has been set abuzz by the bizarre death of local farmer Jebediah Presley. Presley, 41, was a smallholder farmer who had been a resident of Black Rock for over ten years. He and his family lived in a two-bedroom farmhouse situated on the banks of the nameless river that feeds into the Okefenokee swamp.

On May 15th, revenue agent Elias Spalding arrived at the farmhous... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14kpy65/the_facts_in_the_case_of_jebediah_presley/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/LK_frustrated on 2023-06-27 21:13:09+00:00. *** I underwent a trial for Neuralink. For anyone wondering why, I received $50,000 for participating in the trial. Additionally, I've always been a fan of technology, buying the new Iphone every year, smart watches, drones, and everything. So imagine my excitement when I first saw the advertisement for getting paid for having Neuralink installed in your brain. I considered myself as becoming superhuman, in addition to the lump sum of money. Among the advertised features of Neuralink was browsing the internet just by thinking. You could just think of a question, such as "what is the capital of Kenya", and you would get a voice in your head saying "Mombasa". If for example you didn't know any fact, instead of Googling it, you could instantly hear the answer in your head, allowing you to win trivia competitions completely effortlessly. You could also play movies and audio files directly into your brain.

The procedure was completely painless. I don't remember it. They just put me to sleep, and the next thing I know it, I'm waking up. The doctor then came into the room and said, "Jake, the procedure is done." I blinked at him, as if not knowing what to say. I literally had no thoughts in my head at that time. The doctor continued, "An immediate side effect of the procedure is short term memory loss. You may not remember some things. Patients usually forget some things that happened before the operation. But your memories will eventually come back to you. It takes some time, but you'll remember everything. Your award will be deposited onto your bank account."

Still sleepy, waiting for the anesthesia to wear off, I was escorted by the medical staff out of the operation room, through two sets of corridors, and into the lobby. I was sitting there in the lobby, still struggling to get a thought out of my sleepy head. Within a few minutes, I had woken up completely. I thought about what the doctor said, about the short term memory loss. I sat there with my eyes closed, and suddenly my memories started flooding in. They told me everything that I needed to know. My name was Jake, and I just underwent the first human trial of Neuralink, becoming a superhuman cyborg. I couldn't wait to try out my new ability.

As advertised, this Neuralink search engine feature was only triggered by the word "Neuralink". So I thought a question, "Neuralink who was the 18th president of the United States?" And I heard a loud, booming, masculine voice saying

Ulysses S. Grant

Ok that's cool. I genuinely didn't know the answer to that question. I thought another question, "Neuralink in what year was Napoleon Bonoparte born?" It answered,

1769

This was so cool, I was superhuman! The doctors told me that I specifically had to think the word "Neuralink" to trigger the device. Otherwise it won't work. It sits passively in the background, scanning your active thoughts, until it hears it's name being called. Then it responds with an audible hallucination. It's just as if you hear someone standing right next to you and saying something in your ear, except that you don't actually hear anything. It's just an audible thought that you receive. It sounds just like someone said it, but in reality you could be sitting in a quiet room. You could ask it to play music, play a podcast, cool stuff.

I couldn't wait to get back home and play with it. And also, I couldn't wait to get to the bank, and collect my reward. I walked out of the hospital lobby, feeling good about myself.

I was suddenly stumped, where do I go? And then I felt my memories flooding back to me all of a sudden. Oh yeah, the parking lot is to the left. I walked around the corner of the hospital, and I saw the parking lot. Funny that I briefly forgot about it. Maybe it has to do with the short term memory loss that the doctor mentioned.

As I was walking into the parking lot, I saw a mental image of my car. Oh yeah, that's my car. It was a white Tesla Model X. I suddenly remember buying it for Christmas three years ago. At first, I had to steer to drive it, but apparently one year ago they upgraded them to be fully self driving.

As I got in the car, I thought about going home again. For a split second I saw the mental image of a small white house in the middle of a field of grass. And then my memory came back to me. I live in an apartment in the city, sharing it with two other guys whom I've known since college. Yes, that's where I live. Why did I think about that house? That's strange. Yeah, it's probably just my imagination.

I strapped my seat belt on, and I told the car via voice activation, "take me home", assuming that the car had already been trained to recognize where "home" was. The front panel lit up with a map displaying me the address of my apartment. From then I just had to relax on the seat, while the car did all the driving.

We drove through as city, and while the roads didn't seem familiar, I figured it was just due to short term memory loss. Sure enough, my memories came flooding to me in a few moments. Of course, I've always taken these streets to go to home before. This is in fact the same route that I took to get to the hospital.

During the drive I spent more time playing with my new gift. I asked, "Neuralink, What is the pharaoh Akehaton known for?" It answered in it's deep, booming voice:

Akhenaten was a pharaoh who made religious reforms, built a new capital at Amarna and sired Tutankhamun, one of the most famous ancient kings.

I then asked it, "Neuralink, why is Tutankhamun one of the most famous ancient kings?"

Tutankhamun is so famous because his tomb was discovered entirely complete, containing fabulous treasures that helped the egyptologists to better understand the process of mummification.

We had an interesting conversation. Before I know it, I'm at my apartment. The car drops me off at the front entrance, while it drives off and parks itself. I go into the apartment, and the short term memory loss again hits me. Seriously, what's my unit number? Where do I live? I had a faint glimmer of a thought, but then I lost it. And then my memories came back. I was presented with a mental image of a door on floor 5, the unit number 55. And then I thought I heard a voice inside my head saying "fifty-five". That kind of stopped me in my tracks, and I looked around, yet no one was there. It was barely even a voice though, more of like a thought. It definitely wasn't from Neuralink, because it didn't have that clear, booming, pronounced quality. And yet it somehow wasn't in the same mental voice as my own thoughts. It was kind of off. I don't know. It was probably just my overactive imagination.

As I got into the elevator, I hit the button for floor 5, and the elevator started to ascend. I felt a gut feeling that I'm not supposed to be here. For some reason, as if you're in a part of the city that you haven't been to yet. Like when you're in a dangerous back alley or somewhere. But I just brushed it off. After all, I had lived here for the past 5 years since college. This was my home.

The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and I came out. My unit was the third one on the left side of the hallway. I came in front of the door, I saw that house again in the middle of the field of grass. And then that thought just dissipated. My hand reached into my pocket, took out the key to my apartment. I unlocked the door and went inside.

I was greeted by a spacious living room with lots of video game consoles strewn across the floor, underneath a big flat screen TV. Two men sat on the sofa, at the opposite side of the room, anticipating me. I looked at the men, and blinked. My memories came flooding back to me. These guys were George and Jim.We went to college together. We were roommates and best friends ever since.

"You got it?" "How did it go?" I answered, "Well, I've been having some short term memory loss. Nothing really horrible though. Just some known side effects. The doctor warned me about them." George said, "Well bro you just gotta take it easy, and wait for the memories to return to you. Don't trust fleeting thoughts."

How did he know that the memories return to you? That's only something that the doctor told me. Did the doctor tell him too? Or did George read up on the procedure online?

They quickly looked at each other. Then they started laughing. "Aw, it's cool man, no worries." "Here Jake, let's play some video games." "You know you want to. You know it's our family tradition." They were smiling, laughing, hugging me, slapping me on the shoulder blades, and in general being very friendly, positive, and energetic. I started laughing too. And then I saw a memory of us playing video games together in the past, multiple times. Apparently it was just a thing that we did, playing video games together.

Something in me, like a gut feeling, made me feel scared and out of place, almost as if I didn't recognize the room for a split second. I don't know, for some reason I frantically looked to the door. As if it's my first time here or something. Like I'm in a house party hosted by random strangers. But that's silly, I live here, and these are my guys, my bros.

By now Jim had already plugged in the cables, the controllers, and started the video game. The slapped my shoulder and belly laughed. We poured some Sprite into small cups made of transparent plastic, and toasted, and drank it. Before I knew it, the whole bottle was emptied out.

We started... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14kpqch/i_participated_in_a_trial_for_neuralink_and_i/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Max-Voynich on 2023-06-27 21:10:01+00:00. *** lateral incisor, upper left side.

When I was a boy we played a game called Toothless.

The rules were very simple.

If you were to lose a tooth, as children do, you would try and hide it where a friend might find it; a pocket, a school bag, a shoe. Once they found the tooth, they would have to track down the original owner of said tooth, and then hold it proudly outstretched on their palm, shimmering and white, and say in a clear voice:

‘I want to play a game called Toothless, and the rules are very simple.’

It was then their job to return the tooth to you, before one of their own teeth fell out. If they failed at that, well. I’m not sure we’re quite there yet.

I was very good at Toothless, because I kept my milk teeth for a long, long time. This meant I had all the time in the world to return an errant tooth, that might find its way into my cup of juice, or my water bottle. That being said, it also gave me a strange smile. My teeth too small for my mouth. Little white squares set in pale unstretched gums.

I was a little scared of the game, if I’m honest. Scared of the way these teeth would appear, and, scared too of something beyond that I could not name. Perhaps the way they felt in my palm, warm and certain, like the first hot day of summer. The kind of day you think will never end, thick with flies, a smoggy evening turning white then grey then growing so close you cannot breathe. And at the end of that, you know, as night falls. A limping figure on a tarmac road. Little desperate knocks at your window.

I digress—

When I was ten, I woke to find a tooth in the centre of my mouth. I spat it onto my pillow, and searched with my tongue to find the guilty party. But they were all still there, innocent. My teeth, that is.

I went downstairs, and told my mother what had happened.

She was silent. My mother’s eyes, I should tell you now, were like that of a horse. They were large and wet and unblinking. She was sat at the kitchen table, still dressed in what she had been wearing the night before. Behind her the dawn light was uncertain, faltering. A cigarette had burnt to the filter between her two long fingers, a grey flaccid pillar of ash that still gently smoked. The ashtray was plastic, I remember that, because it would turn yellow at the edges when my mother got like this, and let her cigarettes burn to the filter.

I told her what had happened again, and she nodded as if she had just heard it.

‘It sounds like,’ she said, ‘you are playing a game called Toothless.’

I nodded enthusiastically. She smiled, so I could see her browning dentures. Her gums had receded, and near the top the dentures had gone almost furry, like unvarnished wood left in water.

She beckoned me close with a single finger, ‘the rules,’ she said, ‘are very simple.’

Outside children were starting to play. A large bird tapped its beak against the window, slowly, rhythmically, as if counting something out. I was late for school. I said ‘goodbye, mother’, and gave her a kiss on each powdered cheek. She tasted of sugar, and brandy.

Whoever gave me that tooth never showed themselves at school. Not that day, or the next, or the next. In fact, I still don’t know, exactly, who gave it to me. Although, if I tried, I could hazard a guess.

The game was banned shortly after, after Tom Shepherd snuck into the headmaster’s office and crouched behind his office door, lips peeled back, baring his teeth like a horse champing at the bit, waiting for Mr. Abbot to swing open the door, hard, before Friday assembly, as he always did.

Mr. Abbot did, of course, swing open the door, hard. Tom Shepherd lost all his teeth at once, and some of the nerve endings in his gums died. He was never quite the same afterwards. He had a sad lisp, and his breath smelt of rotting meat. Which is, as you can imagine, not a fantastic combination for a young man.

second molar, lower left side.

We told girls about the game when we were teenagers. Drunk off cheap cider, holding crumpled plastic bottles, we told them:

‘We used to play a game called Toothless, and the rules are very simple.’

I was never quite sure if they were impressed. But amongst the high summer grass they watched us bicker and argue, and sometimes if the sky was particularly beautiful – you know the kind, open and distant and forgiving – they would let us kiss them.

They smoked cheap cigarettes and you could taste it, acrid, new and exciting, and they would tell us long droll stories about their classes at school, and their father’s girlfriends. We were never much interested.

Of course, that only lasted a summer or two. Summer came to an end for good when Jack Shepherd climbed to the top of the hay bales, drunk, probably, and tried to dance with a cigarette in his mouth. It slipped from between his lips, and nestled between two bales, which went up instantly in flame. The effect was somewhat hypnotic, calming on some profound level. The girls did a lot of screaming, I remember that, and one was even sick on her new buckled shoes.

Jack was identified by his teeth, of course, beautiful pearlescent things, almost soft to the touch, unnaturally rounded at the edges, roots far longer than they should have been, whiter than the porcelain on a new toilet. I heard someone say some were capped with gold, although that may have only been a rumour, you know how boys are.

I managed to find one, pressed into the mud by some clumsy policeman’s foot, a few months later, and sucked it clean, all the walk home.

first premolar, upper left side.

At University, in the clean unflattering light of lecture halls, amongst the warm and crusted sheets of dorm beds, I would tell people in whispers, when we were very drunk, about a game I wanted to play.

‘I want to play a game called Toothless,’ I would say, ‘and the rules are very simple.’

They would always laugh, roll their eyes. Some were even asleep by then, and so instead I would just whisper it in their ears, over and over, until I felt them stir. I liked climbing so I was facing their sleeping face, and getting as close as possible, and saying it until my tongue felt numb.

Then, of course, as is polite, I would stop.

A girl called Charity took me aside, once, at a party. Her eyes were like a horse's, I should make that very clear. Unblinking, and startled. She said, ‘I used to play a similar game.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes,’ she said, nodding, ‘and the rules were very simple.’

We slept together for a few months after that. It was awkward, and clumsy, and we would both practice saying I love you as the sun rose, though we never meant it much. Still, it was thrilling to say, to sound the words out one by one, the wrinkled pink ring of your mouth growing smaller each time, shrinking into itself, drawn closer and closer, like a purse string pulled tight to breaking. Try it now, if you like. Say those words, the way the phrase ends with just enough space to feel the cold air on the inhale, the sudden cool breeze against your teeth.

She would press her tongue against my teeth when they were stained by wine, and we would stay up late together, taking recreational drugs and looking at affordable dental tools on the internet.

We broke up, eventually. I discovered she had been making small crosses in her palms, with a box cutter, and as they bled, pressing her hands hard against my walls. This left little dry brown crosses everywhere, which, as you can imagine, was less than ideal. What she told me was that sometimes, after I had gone to bed, she would awake to see a little tooth slowly blooming from the centre of her palm, tearing the skin, until she would pluck it, and place it in her mouth, where it would dissolve like a sugar cube overnight.

I don’t know about that, really. I don’t think I believe her. I mean, I doubt you would. If we're both being honest here. If we can manage that.

cuspid, upper right side.

When I am twenty four I am very unwell. I do not wish to talk about it any more than that. I take a hammer to my fingers, and crush the fingers of the other hand in an office elevator. This is, of course, so I do not take a hammer to my mouth. I never lost my milk teeth, I am not sure if I made that clear enough to start. I had a very horrid smile and men did not like and women liked it even less.

Anyway, the woman who found me, Miranda, I think, although I cannot be sure, I only know I did not trust her, started crying a great deal. Her face got all red and hot and kind of sweaty. I told her to keep her voice down, and walked out the office, down the soft carpeted corridor, the hammer neatly propped up against the beige walls, my hands two bloody messes. I had put one in each pocket, for safekeeping.

‘But,’ she said, through the tears, ‘you don’t even work here.’

central incisor, lower right side.

I have been finding teeth for a long time now. Waiting, expectant, on an empty seat on the tube. Floating in my cappuccino. Between the pages of a book I get from the library. My mother is long dead. Charity sends me long, rambling emails from time to time, with grainy, distorted pictures of her family. I imagine they will die in a gas leak, or something similar. I imagine their bodies piled one on top of the other with perfect clarity. It is a calming and awe-inspiring image.

I used to play a game, I think. And the rules were very simple.

Sometimes I go to the country and let horses nibble at my useless purpled fingers. I find t... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14kpnet/i_used_to_play_a_game_called_toothless_and_the/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Maleficent_Bag_1062 on 2023-06-27 21:08:59+00:00. *** Have you ever stared at a piece meat with the same enchantment that one might have for a loved one? Have you ever savored the scent of a freshly well prepared meal? These questions cause my skin to literally curl with the beloved anticipation of eating, because I love food and honestly I think it loves me back; let me explain. I am a professional competitive eater, you must be wondering to yourself “what in the world is that”? Well, I get paid to compete against other aggressive eaters, it’s a battle in reality; me indulging into the world of combat with a every bite I consume; my weapon of choice; a fork. I know it sounds it bit funny and perhaps to most this might even sound like a joke but for me it’s life. I get paid handsomely for every competition I win along with the perk of devouring all that delicious food that. Sometimes it’s a hot dog eating contest other times it’s pie; there’s even been exotic foods like camel. My wife tells me that I need to slow down, that I need to take a break from my sport; she want’s me to hang around long enough to see my new born grow, but I can’t; I just love food way too much; well that was until I found a website called “Room4more”.

I received the strangest invitation in the mail; it was to another eating contest, one like no other; the details were secretive and allusive. It didn’t reveal what meal or type of food I would be consuming rather it detailed their delight at having a champion as myself competing against other world elite eaters. The idea of being in a global eating contest caused the hairs on the back of neck to stand but more vividly it caused my stomach to grumble. I read thoroughly through the invitation looking for any clues of to what organization this was, it just stated that they knew who I was and that the grand prize would be one hundred grand.

“I can’t believe it”, I ecstatically said out loud to myself, causing my wife to yell out “what” from the room over.

I ignored her not bothering to respond instead I kept reading every word presented to me in the unusual letter.

“We are glad to have a champion of your caliber but know that the food of choice would be kept secret until the tournament. Once revealed refusal of eating said food would result in immediate disqualification.” the invite stated.

I laughed knowing that their tactic of intimidation would not scare me, rather it excited me. I have eaten all types of meats before and truth be told I even tasted the most vile of creatures; you wouldn’t what to know, just know the show fear factor wouldn’t have dissuaded me one bit.

I was elated at the prospect of winning that amount of money, after all it would come in handy with my new baby girl; but I was more beguiled with the idea of consuming some mystery meat that supposedly would cause most to shutter away. I could feel my mouth become inundated with drool and that grumbling in my stomach intensified; I was hungry. All this talk about eating and winning had me practically giggling from thrill. I headed towards my refrigerator ready to discover a well needed midnight snack, as I opened the door I was showered in the fridges warm light it feeling as if I was descending into heaven and as my eyes soared across the shelves of food we kept my gaze narrowed in on a strawberry glazed cheesecake. I could feel the sides of my face stretch wide resulting in me revealing a euphoric smile. I pulled the cheesecake out and inhaled its essence deeply as if I could taste it without even taking a bite and with no fork I stuffed my entire face into the pie; I started to devour bite by bite and as my face pulled away from the now empty container I looked up to the heavens with wonderment; I almost weap from happiness. That’s when I felt it, sudden sharp pains shot through my left arm.

“No, no” I yelped out; understanding what was happening.

I grabbed at my chested and squeezed tightly as I fell to the floor with a heavy thud. I could hear my wife running towards me screaming as my baby girl cried profusely. I was having a heart attack and the last thing I remember was my wife's angelic face staring down at me asking me to stay with her a bit longer and then nothing, pure darkness.

I woke up in the hospital with tubes protruding from my arm while machines made all sorts of beeps and chimes, in reality I was frightened but I didn’t struggle to move I was too tired as if I haven’t slept in years and with me now being coherent I realized my wife was in the room with me. Before I could say a word I noticed she was already staring at me and ran to me embracing me in her warmth.

The doc said I was lucky, that they were able to perform surgery on me in the nick of time, that my ticker had a few more years left. I was delighted knowing that I would have more time with my family but more importantly I was more jovial at the idea that I had more time for food. That’s when my world tilted upside down, to my horror the doc told me that they had to also perform some gastric procedure.

“You sewed my stomach shut” I angrily asked the doctor.

The doc told me there was no other choice and that my wife as caregiver permitted the procedure. They told me that I had been in an induced coma for two weeks, that I haven’t eaten in two weeks. I grabbed at my stomach it felt smaller; no not smaller but emptier but worse I wasn’t even hungry. I cried to myself that whole night and gave my wife the silent treatment I know she loves me and just wanted to save my life but what about my food; it loves me too.

As the weeks passed I grew into a bit of a depression, I felt nihilistic which most would consider odd since I recently escaped the clutches of death but at what cost. I was no longer able to indulge in my sport, actually to be more specific I was no longer able to desire what I cherished most. Each day my wife would caress my shoulders and tell me that she loved me, usually putting my daughter into my lap; I did my best to pretend I was okay but deep down I was a shell of my former self, passion now alluded me. Then as if a dagger itself was flung into my heart I received that same mysterious invitation I had gotten over a month ago. I stared at the letter with a bit of bewilderment, I had assumed the competition would of been over. As I read through the invitation its ambiguous details were still evident but the only thing that was made clear was they still wanted me to enter.

“Mr. Pulver we haven’t heard from you, we are very disappointed we know of your reputation and this competition wouldn’t be the same without a champion such as yourself. Please reconsider entering, after all you wouldn’t want to miss out on the mystery meat”

My face froze from utter dread knowing that I couldn’t even self indulge for my own pleasure let alone enter a tournament. Though in the moment I felt inspired and with very little effort my body took hold of itself as I stormed towards the fridge; I was determined to get past my limitations and return to my former glorious self. I opened the refrigerator and scoured over the food that was available, most were healthy foods mainly veggies and yogurt but in the far back my sight fixated on what seemed to be a slice of cake.

“How did that get there” I pondered to myself.

I reached my now thin arm through the blockade of health and retrieved my enchanting dessert. I stared at the cake with adulation as I cradled it cautiously in my hand, I then opened my mouth wide and took bite. The sweetness engulfing my taste buds, I felt my eyes become dilated while my blood rushed to my head; I almost felt faint but I stood my ground and smiled.

“I’m back!” I told myself with such blissful glee.

I went for another bite but that’s when I felt the tremble in my stomach, as if my skin was expanding and it stretched from the inside out. I knew that feeling; I was already full.

“No!” I said to my dismay.

I felt my eyes begin to water in disappointment and put down the delicious pastry, I knew it was time to fix the atrocity that had been bestowed upon me. I stormed with heavy haste towards my computer, I then journeyed through the internet for answers and advice of how to regain my appetite, how to fight through the anguish. I must of have searched for hours, because by the time I finally gave up my search I realized always already midnight.

I went to turn off my computer but then I saw a response in the forum I was reading.

“Not your old self, just want to be you again; return to your glorious days and more, visit us at ‘Room4more.com”.

My jaw dropped with astonishment, this surely felt like the answer I was searching for. I clicked the link and I was redirected to a website that bared the same name they advertised. The site was simple not very impressive, just the same words I read mere seconds ago on the forum was on their main page.

“Hmm, odd” I whimpered underneath my breath, feeling a bit befuddled.

I saw a drop down menu that was titled ‘products’; so I clicked with curiosity; wanting to know what services they did offer and to my surprise they sold supplements, actually more like supplement; they only sold one pill. The ‘purple pill’ they called it, but it was guaranteed to restore my appetite, to make me complete again; though the whole site seemed strange I was desperate and I was willing to do anything to return to my love, so I purchased the strange pill.

Days came and went as I grew more anxious waiting on my miracle cure, my wife could sense my uneasine... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14kpmhi/room_for_more/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/AngelmZeal1 on 2023-06-27 20:53:03+00:00. *** Words. It only takes words for them to realize incredible things. They neither use currency nor any form of valuable possessions to call certain things into existence. Words are the currency, they form the passwords. To this day, many remain oblivious to such realities, and for a very long time, my eyes too were shut.

This story is partly about me, Earenn, just a 24 years old young lady working at a library for the time being. One day at work, out of boredom and curiosity, I decided to check on my friend Lisla and chat with her, while keeping an eye out for any interesting titles from the newly acquired books she was placing on shelves. Only one stood out, and I took it from the trolley before reading its very funny title.

"Derashipou and the realm of wis—" I could say before Lisla placed her hand on my lips.

"How many times will I tell you? You don't just say things like that, especially the names, you gotta be care—" Lisla tried speaking.

"Come on Lisla! Please, not now, it's just some children book, I guess. Like really, the hell is that name?" I said, showing her its basic cover representing a standing little boy dressed in all black clothes.

"Look, we not doing it today. I already told you everything about this kind of stuff." She replied, after snatching the book from me.

"Ok, alright, Miss Spiritual. Don't wanna bother you with my ignorance of course not." I said, walking away. "Gotta go hangout with Derashipou! Sure he much more fun." I added.

Hours later, while walking home after the long bus ride, I spotted my cat Spice sleeping next to a dumpster. I checked my apartment bathroom window and realized that I had indeed left it open before rushing for work. After picking Spice up, we both went inside then I suddenly heard a noise in the bathroom. I let Spice down, told her to stay there in the kitchen, and grabbed a knife just in case. I crept to the slightly open door and slowly pushed it while peeking inside, only to see the real Spice in there, turning to me and welcoming me with a meow.

"What the..." I whispered, before slowly turning to the direction I came from. I then crept back to the kitchen, unaware that I was followed by Spice and we both encountered the 'cat' I just let into my house, sitting and looking at us as if it was patiently waiting for us.

As soon as Spice saw it, she just switched into violent mode, hissing and growling at it. The moment the other cat responded with its monstrous growl, the lights went out.

The rising fear brought me down as I fell on the floor. The cat's eyes shone with a faint red while crackling noises of bones resounded in the complete darkness. Paralyzed by what I was witnessing, I heard Spice running away while the entity seemed to have gained height. My eyes adjusted in the dark, allowing me to discern the features of a little boy dressed in dark clothes.

"I have come as you spoke." He said with a deep growling voice, surely referring to the 'hangout joke' I made earlier during the day. "What is your wish?" He questioned.

Lisla, along with all her usual spiritual lessons just happened to pop up in my mind right at that instant, and the words just came out, without any conscious move from my part.

"I wish that— you— leave my house and— my life." I spoke.

A heavy silence followed, troubled only by my panting alone, before the light came ON making the entity disappear on the spot. I remained sitting there for the most part of the night, ignoring Spice when she came back and reflected on how Lisla's careful words were valuable lessons. However, I never told her about my encounter with the entity.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Closeeyoureyes on 2023-06-27 20:41:19+00:00. *** As the title says, does the word Nykur ring a bell?

Well, if you aren’t from Scandinavia, it’s no surprise if you haven’t.

Like all creatures in folklore, it goes under many names. Nuggle, Wihwin and Nuckelavee are just a few of the names this creature goes under, although I believe that Kelpie might be the most famous term.

But to me, it has always been known as Bäckahästen, or the River Horse. For simplicity’s sake though, I’ll just call them Nykur. And yes, I say them because I recently found out that there can be more than one. Or at least, I think so.

Perhaps, you’ve heard one of its many names, but never bothered to look up what kind of creature it might be.

Just like all folklore and myths, the specifics vary depending on where in the world you are, but since I am from Sweden, I’ll stick to the River Horse’s lore mostly.

It is said that the Nykur is a water spirit, or in some cases, a water demon, that takes the form of a horse. As it’s connected to water, it holds its home in nearby lakes or rivers.

Its raw beauty is supposed to lure children to it, and once the child touches the horse, their hand is stuck to its fur. It is now that the spirit returns to its home, dragging the child with it back into the water.

Another version is that the horse bows down to allow the children to ride it, and its back grows longer and longer before it returns home.

The children all meet a watery grave, whether it be via horseback or by getting dragged underneath the surface.

Now that I’ve covered the basics of what Nykur is, I think a bit of background about myself is necessary. As I said before, I am born and raised in Sweden, so I’ve grown up with the stories about the River Horse.

I live in the far north, where the forests are so massive that they can swallow you whole and the lakes run so deep that no one would ever find your body if you drowned.

Now, I’ve always been interested in folklore and the supernatural ever since I was young, so naturally, I believed the stories I was told about Nykur. But as I grew up, I started to see the story about the Nykur as a precautionary tale.

A simple way to keep the curious children away from the dangerous edges of the lakes and rivers.

Now, I’m not a “trouble child” per se, although I had a tendency to sneak out of my room at night to take a midnight stroll and return before anyone realized I was gone. And that worked fantastically. Until my dad decided to install security cameras…

And while he scolded me for my reckless behavior, I never stopped doing it. Because what was the harm? So I simply found a way to avoid detection, even by the cameras.

One day, I was out on one of these midnight walks, following the usual trail. This path is made out of gravel, and it wraps around one of the biggest lakes Sweden has, although I would just turn back around once my excess energy has melted off me.

It was a pretty chilly summer’s night, and a thick fog coated the surface of the lake that was just a couple of feet away.

Just like always, I had my eyes on my phone since my feet moved on autopilot, having been brought up on this very path, with just one AirPod in my ear. Yes, even if the forest feels like home, I’m still a bit paranoid and want to be able to hear my surroundings.

Everything felt normal, until I suddenly felt as if I was being watched. Now, you might say, “Oh but of course, you’re in a forest. You’re probably just feeling the wildlife around you.” And while I understand your thinking, it’s wrong.

I know how it feels to be watched by a deer, a rabbit, a fox, or even a moose. This wasn’t like that.

This, this was something else.

And as my brain tried to scramble for a logical explanation, my eyes jumped to the clock on my phone. Twenty three minutes over one. Who the hell would be out in the middle of a forest at this hour? Well, except me.

To not give my onlooker any hint that I was aware of them, I just kept walking, although I pulled my hoodie a little tighter around myself as my eyes started to scan my surroundings.

A cold shiver ran down my spine as my eyes landed on the edge of the lake, and at the same time, my AirPod started to freak out. You know that disturbing sound that a radio makes when it’s going haywire and can’t get a signal? The static? Well, it sounded like that and only got louder and louder until I was forced to pull the AirPod out if I didn’t want to lose my hearing completely on that ear.

But if I had expected to be greeted with the calming sounds of the forests, I was wrong. Faintly, very faintly, I could hear a quiet melody of a flute being played.

Okay, was I losing my mind?

I was starting to freak out, so I quickened my pace, damn if my onlooker knew that I knew about them, and convulsively clutched my keys in my pocket.

The feeling of being watched only intensified, and I wanted nothing more than to be back home, safe in my room. Something was definitely off, and I could feel how the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

And as I lifted my head, that’s when I saw him.

My feet stopped abruptly, and the gravel crunched underneath my shoes as the horse slowly rose from the water.

He lifted his head from the surface of the water, and a few water drops dripped from his muzzle as he watched me, his hooves still in the shallow water. His long mane reached to his knees, just as white as the rest of him.

I couldn’t deny it, he was an eye catcher, but there was something… off. His pale fur almost seemed translucent, as if I would be able to catch a glimpse of his internal organs if I strained my eyes hard enough.

His eyes, unlike his body, was as black as the night, but they held none of the kindness that I knew horses held. No, these had a never ending darkness in them, like a black hole, they drew me in and I knew, in that moment, that there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I blinked hard, and to my horror, I saw that my feet had moved me closer to the stallion without me even realizing it. He was so close now that if I just stretched out my hand, I would be able to touch him.

It seemed as if the forest held its breath, the trees leaning in closer to watch us and block out the light from the skies above. But the moonlight still shone through, thank the gods for that.

And it was in this light, that I discovered another thing that made me feel uneasy about the stallion. His fur seemed to have a slightly green undertone. As if algae had started to grow on him for being underwater too long.

As I took a shaking breath, a foul odor invaded my nostrils. It was a mixture between wet wood, washed-up seaweed and something old. Something very old.

But even with the warning bells going off like crazy in the back of my head, I wanted nothing more than to touch him. Despite the warning signs I could so clearly see, they didn’t seem to matter.

I wanted nothing more than to let him drag me down into another realm. One where I didn’t have to be myself.

My hand was just inches away from his muscular neck by now. It was as if he had me in a trance, because I wasn’t even aware of my body moving. I think this is what scared me the most. The fact that I was nothing more than a passenger in my own body.

His dark eyes dragged me down even deeper, and I knew, I just knew I would be dead as soon as my skin touched his.

But just as it was about to happen, the moment before my fingertips would feel his fur, something caused me to turn around and face the forest.

Call it fate, instinct, or destiny. Whatever you wish to call it, I’ll call it a miracle, because I still couldn’t hear anything else but the faint music of the flute.

So, call me surprised when my eyes saw another horse.

This one was the complete opposite of the stallion, and she seemed to stand taller somehow. Her fur was as black as the midnight sky, but unlike the stallion’s emotionless eyes, her fur was scattered with silver dapples that seemed to shine like stars in the darkness.

She was the complete opposite to the stallion that stood beside me.

Her eyes were ice blue, as clear as a summer sky and they seemed to hold all the answers to the mysteries of the universe. She seemed… wise. All-knowing.

But there was a hidden fire burning in her eyes as she looked at the white stallion.

Thanks to Yin and Yang, I’ve always associated light with good. Stupid, I know, but I think it’s because of the whole “Light and Darkness”-thing. Neither can exist without the other. An eternal battle always going on between them. A balance, if you may.

Unfortunately, she was too late to be my savior. The stallion seemed to have lost his patience with me and took matters into his own hooves by closing the distance between us.

As soon as I felt his fur underneath my fingertips, a huge wave of regret washed over me. Just like the slightly green hue suggested, his fur wasn’t smooth. It felt slimy, and it was cold, ice cold. Like he had dwelled too long in the depths of the lake.

Those dark eyes seemed to suddenly shine with a sort of malice I’ve never seen the likes of to this day.

And to my great horror, he started to turn around. He did so slowly, without hurry, but there was a certain way about his walk that made it seem as if he held himself back from getting too excited.

Because he knew. He knew I couldn’t get away.

I tried to yank my hand away, but just as the legend told, I was stuck. Stuck to him like a fly in a glue trap. There was nothing I could do. I would be forced to follow him dow... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14kov5d/have_you_ever_heard_of_nykur/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Fungusofgoo on 2023-06-27 20:40:04+00:00. *** Mommy got me the recipe.

My mommy has a secret. She told me not to tell anyone, but sometimes I struggle to keep the secret. She said if I tell anyone, even my friends at school, we would get into trouble. So please don't tell anyone this, ok? But she also said that what she is doing is perfectly normal. I don't understand her sometimes.

Mommy does strange things when she's sad or angry -she said it's her way of coping. She goes for a long drive, and then she comes back with a bag with a sleeping person in it. She's doing it more and more. She says the person is very kind and decided to do something nice for us. And then she makes us a delicious, juicy stew. We all eat it up so fast, it dribbles down our chins, the meat is so soft and tastes like Christmas everyday. I love the juiciness and the flavour.

But one time I caught mommy chopping up Priest Ginsberg in the barn outside. I didn't understand, because he looked like he got in a bad fight, with the type of injuries you can't fix with a band-aid. That didn't look like he wanted to be our lunch. When mommy saw me, she had this crazy look in her eyes. It was like she was from a horror movie!

This morning she asked me to start with the new stew for lunch while she is out. She showed me how to follow the recipe and not burn myself. It's easy- follow one step at a time so you don't forget anything and keep track. First read the ingredients slowly!

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

She told me the priest was bad and sometimes bad people deserve it. I asked if she would ever cook me or my brothers if we were naughty. She said no. Does mommy lie like daddy?

1/4 teaspoon salt

My daddy works far away and he only visits once a year in June. She was really sad when he left to work and get us more money. But he promised me he would stay longer this year. I think he lied, because I haven't seen him yet, and it's July! I have a bad feeling he isn't ever coming back, like grandpa. The thought makes my tummy ache. My brother, Billy, keeps asking where he is, but I don't know what to say. Mommy doesn't like to talk about daddy anymore.

4 cups assorted cut-up fresh vegetables (potatoes, carrots, celery, and onions)

My friend told me when is grandma died, his mom cried a lot. I wondered if she also went for long drives and came back with sleepy people. Maybe that's just how mothers get rid of sadness.

1 can (14 oz each) lower sodium beef broth

I hope I don't do it too one day. I feel sad whenever I see all the missing posters. I miss the priest too. The stew is so good, I can't help but eat it, even when I taste a fingernail or a toe. But I feel so guilty I throw up the stew sometimes on purpose. But somehow I still want it. It scares me.

1 can (8 oz each) Tomato Sauce with Basil, Garlic and Oregano

I wonder if I should keep her secret. Maybe I should tell daddy, so he can come back to make things normal again.

1 pound of Billy , cut into bite-size pieces.

Did I read that right?

1 pound of Billy , cut into bite-size pieces.

1 pound of Billy , cut into bite-size pieces.

1 pound of Billy , cut into bite-size pieces.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Fungusofgoo on 2023-06-27 20:20:23+00:00. *** My mommy has a secret. She told me not to tell anyone, but sometimes I struggle to keep the secret. She said if I tell anyone, even my friends at school, we would get into trouble. So please don't tell anyone this, ok? But she also said that what she is doing is perfectly normal. I don't understand her sometimes.

Mommy does strange things when she's sad or angry -she said it's her way of coping. She goes for a long drive, and then she comes back with a bag with a sleeping person in it. She's doing it more and more. She says the person is very kind and decided to do something nice for us. And then she makes us a delicious, juicy stew. We all eat it up so fast, it dribbles down our chins, the meat is so soft and tastes like Christmas everyday. I love the juiciness and the flavour.

But one time I caught mommy chopping up Priest Ginsberg in the barn outside. I didn't understand, because he looked like he got in a bad fight, with the type of injuries you can't fix with a band-aid. That didn't look like he wanted to be our lunch. When mommy saw me, she had this crazy look in her eyes. It was like she was from a horror movie!

This morning she asked me to start with the new stew for lunch while she is out. She showed me how to follow the recipe and not burn myself. It's easy- follow one step at a time so you don't forget anything and keep track. First read the ingredients slowly!

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

She told me the priest was bad and sometimes bad people deserve it. I asked if she would ever cook me or my brothers if we were naughty. She said no. Does mommy lie like daddy?

1/4 teaspoon salt

My daddy works far away and he only visits once a year in June. She was really sad when he left to work and get us more money. But he promised me he would stay longer this year. I think he lied, because I haven't seen him yet, and it's July! I have a bad feeling he isn't ever coming back, like grandpa. The thought makes my tummy ache. My brother, Billy, keeps asking where he is, but I don't know what to say. Mommy doesn't like to talk about daddy anymore.

4 cups assorted cut-up fresh vegetables (potatoes, carrots, celery, and onions)

My friend told me when is grandma died, his mom cried a lot. I wondered if she also went for long drives and came back with sleepy people. Maybe that's just how mothers get rid of sadness.

1 can (14 oz each) lower sodium beef broth

I hope I don't do it too one day. I feel sad whenever I see all the missing posters. I miss the priest too. The stew is so good, I can't help but eat it, even when I taste a fingernail or a toe. But I feel so guilty I throw up the stew sometimes on purpose. But somehow I still want it. It scares me.

1 can (8 oz each) Tomato Sauce with Basil, Garlic and Oregano

I wonder if I should keep her secret. Maybe I should tell daddy, so he can come back to make things normal again.

1 pound of Billy , cut into bite-size pieces.

Did I read that right?

1 pound of Billy , cut into bite-size pieces.

1 pound of Billy , cut into bite-size pieces.

1 pound of Billy , cut into bite-size pieces.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/zacharye1216 on 2023-06-27 18:39:22+00:00. *** I entered my home, forever…A three-story house baked in a warm yellow color. A house belonging to my family for generations. The first man on my side of the family would live in the house, Completely free of all charge after marriage.

I’ve always thought it was dumb, and besides, I never thought I would get this house anyway. For the first twenty years of my life, I had no hope of finding a girlfriend, but then I met Irene, a woman with a smile warmer than the sun. It didn’t take me long to realize I was meant for her, so I proposed after a year of dating her.

This infuriated my little brother. He’s always wanted the damn house. So much so that it made me wonder what a little creep like him could want with it. He’s a short guy with no sense of manners. He could sneeze directly on someone’s expensive jacket and not even worry about it, or he would laugh it off like it’s a massive joke to him. When I brought Irene home to meet my parents he would make low, growling noises, almost like he wanted to separate us the only way he knew how to. When I took Irene upstairs, he would follow us in, crawling, and panting the whole time. When we locked him out, he went to the room next to us. He was such a creep that he peeked through a hole in the walls. By this point, my family had given up trying to fix the walls because he would poke new holes in.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, he would carry a small camera and record our rooms. He would make such loud breathing noises that you could hear him in the basement. From then on, Irene and I would never hang out at my house because of that little gremlin.

When I told my family about the proposal, he started growling and running on all fours into the right side of the house which I found strange. After all, his room is upstairs, and he was heading towards the basement. I decided to talk to him about my engagement, to console him, or maybe even let him have the house instead. I mean, I’ve always thought the tradition was pointless, and besides that, I wanted to finally get out of the small town in the countryside. I wanted to finally grow apart from my family. But he told me something that shook me to my core.

He said, “If you don’t continue the family tradition “it” will come and find you.” I asked him how he knew about this “thing” and he said, “We don’t share the same father, Micheal.” I think about asking him what he means by this but he just says, “I heard about it while I was in my peephole watching Mom and Dad, they mentioned how they had you in this house but shortly after, wanted to leave because “it” wanted a kid, but your dad refused him.” I said to him, “But that doesn't explain how we have a different father though.”

But he responded by saying, “But it does Micheal, do you think a devil would give up that easily? No, he tracked your parents down, and shortly after I was born.”

Could this all be true? I will admit that I’ve thought of my brother as a massive creep, but I never thought that his dad was the devil. Why didn’t my family tell me this? Were they trying to escape the devil by sacrificing me and Irene? These questions all swirled in my mind over and over for the next few days, but it can’t be real, right? I decided to forget about it and marry Irene.

After we got back to Home. We went to look at our house, the place we have to live in forever, or at least until our kid is dumb enough to get married. At the door, we were welcomed by my brother. With a grin on his face, he said, “Welcome home, brother”

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/deansmy on 2023-06-27 18:16:41+00:00. *** I wasn't always the host of a popular true crime podcast; I started my career as an investigative journalist. Born and bred in New Haven, I've always been hooked on mysteries, a fascination largely driven by my mother's Agatha Christie collection. My knack for asking just the right questions and my endless curiosity naturally guided me toward a career in journalism. I climbed the ladder from being a local reporter, covering humdrum town events, to becoming an investigative journalist for the 'New Haven Chronicle'.

My big break occurred when I blew the lid off a high-profile corruption scandal within our city government. I was tireless, pursuing leads and assembling a puzzle that many didn't even recognize. This endeavor won me more than just accolades; it solidified my reputation as someone unafraid to dive deep into the city's seamy underside. Yet, despite my triumphs, the world of print journalism was on the decline, and digital media was providing a more immediate, visceral connection with the audience.

During this transitional period, I stumbled upon the burgeoning world of podcasts. This new mode of storytelling offered a singular platform to bring my investigative journalism to a wider audience. I launched 'Voices in the Dark', a late-night true crime and mystery podcast, where I could delve into unsolved mysteries and cold cases. It was a roaring success right out of the gate. My listeners were captivated by my calming voice, my thoughtful narration, and the chilling thrill of untangling real-life mysteries. It was akin to letting them into a detective's mind, allowing them to sift through clues and conjectures, challenging assumptions and questioning the unexplained.

Transitioning from journalism to podcasting was a demanding yet gratifying journey. Podcasting was a whole new animal; it required me to not only investigate but also entertain. I became the researcher, the storyteller, and the voice that linked the narrative to the listeners. I took up the task with gusto, continually refining my delivery, pacing, and narrative style. Even though the mediums changed, my objective stayed the same - to unveil the truth. I take pride in lending a voice to victims whose stories are still awaiting closure, serving a virtual congregation of true crime aficionados, and illuminating unsolved mysteries.

Yet, as my audience expanded, so did a creeping sense of dread. I was stirring up forgotten nightmares, pushing them back into the public awareness. Fear of retaliation was always present, but at my core, I remained a journalist. I believed in my work, and this belief was enough to keep me going, even as the voices in the dark drew nearer.

"Tonight, dear listeners, we delve into the chilling, haunting memories of our city. Memories of a time shrouded in fear, when darkness fell not just on our streets but our hearts, as we lived under the menacing shadow of a predator amongst us - the 'Moonlight Sonata' killer," I found myself echoing into the podcast.

The 'Moonlight Sonata' killer surfaced from the city's murky depths, an unidentified entity whose reign of terror lasted two torturous years. From 2018 to 2020, New Haven existed in a constant state of fear as the serial killer claimed one life after another, leaving behind an unnerving signature - an earpiece playing Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata'. What began as an isolated, gruesome murder gradually morphed into a horrific pattern that held the city in its grip. The victims were diverse in age, gender, and socioeconomic status. The only commonality, apart from their untimely demise, was the classical sonata playing in their ears and the full moon that cast its glow on the night of their death.

I vividly recall reporting on the first murder. A 32-year-old schoolteacher, Amanda Clarke, was discovered in her home, an eerie melody streaming from the earpiece fitted snugly in her ear. She was the first but certainly not the last. Over two years, twelve victims succumbed to this faceless murderer. The city was under attack, the police burdened with unprecedented pressure, and the citizens secured their doors once the sun descended, dread accumulating in their hearts as moonlight blanketed New Haven.

"Perhaps the most spine-chilling aspect of these murders was not the macabre scene that greeted the investigators, but the fact that there was no visible struggle. It was as if the victims were entranced, willingly following their killer, mesmerized by the haunting melody of the 'Moonlight Sonata'," I continued, a sharp edge to my voice.

The police were initially hopeful about the case. The killer's signature was unique, the pattern specific. But it soon became clear that these leads were dead ends. There were no fingerprints, no trace of DNA, no surveillance footage, and no witnesses. It was as if the killer were a phantom, vanishing with the moonlight, only to reemerge on the next full moon.

The breakthrough everyone had yearned for never materialized. The murders abruptly ceased in the fall of 2020, the killer disappearing as enigmatically as they had surfaced. The 'Moonlight Sonata' killer was never identified, the case eventually turning cold, leaving a city scarred and a dozen families in mourning.

"And so," my voice dropped to a whisper, "despite all our advancements, our digital surveillance, DNA forensics, and dedicated detectives, the 'Moonlight Sonata' killer remains an enigma. A chilling reminder of our vulnerability and the questions that torment us - Who orchestrated these monstrous acts? Why did they halt? And most crucially, where are they now?"

I paused, the silence broken only by the soft strains of Beethoven's 'Moonlight Sonata' playing in the background.

"Perhaps, some mysteries are fated to remain unresolved, resonating in our memories, like a haunting melody in the dark."

As Beethoven's sonata faded away, I opened the lines for calls. I was met with the typical blend of theories and fears, the communal fascination and apprehension for the night's topic. Just as I was about to close the session, a call rang through.

"Hello, Alex," the caller's voice was serene, composed. A stark contrast to the jittery callers that had preceded him.

"Let's call me John Doe." "Well, hello, John Doe. I'm pleased you called in. What are your thoughts on the 'Moonlight Sonata' killer?" I inquired, captivated by the man's composure.

John's insights were unlike any I had heard before. He elaborated on the killer's selection of Beethoven's sonata, describing it as more than a signature, but an emblem of the killer's sophistication and psychological state. He analyzed how the moon was not merely a timetable, but a symbolic ally for the killer, suggesting a deeper connection with lunar cycles.

John's words dissected the cold case with unusual precision, an intimate understanding that both intrigued and unsettled me. I had hosted many analysts, criminologists, and psychologists on my show, but never had I encountered a caller whose grasp of a serial killer seemed so... engulfing.

The listeners were equally riveted. Messages flooded in, praising John Doe's analysis, seeking more insights. Social media buzzed with speculation about John Doe's identity, some even wildly surmising him to be a retired detective or a criminology professor. By the time the night concluded, #JohnDoe was trending.

This marked the beginning of a captivating yet eerie interaction with John Doe. Each call illuminated more about the elusive 'Moonlight Sonata' killer, his methods, his probable psychology, and even theories about why he might have ceased. Every fresh revelation seemed to peel back a layer, luring the listeners deeper into the chilling maze. I, too, was enthralled. While John Doe's insights occasionally sent a shiver down my spine, my journalistic curiosity was aroused. Each call felt like a riddle, a test to my investigative abilities. Who was John Doe? How did he possess such an intricate understanding of a cold case? Despite my best efforts, I came up empty-handed.

The intrigue around John Doe intensified with each call. The listeners, too, grew obsessed with the enigmatic caller. The podcast's ratings skyrocketed, as did theories around John Doe's identity. Some listeners even speculated about John's uncanny comprehension of the 'Moonlight Sonata' killer, ominously suggesting the possibility of him being the killer.

However, amidst the escalating popularity and speculation, a chilling unease wound its way into my heart. The idea was ludicrous, I told myself, shaking off the unsettling sensation. After all, why would an infamous serial killer dial into a podcast? But as I was about to discover, the world of crime and horror was often stranger than fiction. I was blissfully unaware that my pursuit of truth would lead me down a perilous path, where the voice in the dark would become a precursor of my worst nightmares.

John Doe became a recurring figure on 'Voices in the Dark'. The episodes featuring his calls became the most awaited ones, each call contributing another layer to the mystery. John Doe's insights extended beyond the 'Moonlight Sonata' killer. He shared his thoughts on other cold cases too, his understanding of the criminal mind consistently astounded both me and my audience.

However, as the weeks rolled on, John's insights began to veer towards a darker path. His tone, once analytical, began to carry an unsettling edge. He discussed the ki... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14kl6ej/i_thought_i_was_hunting_a_killer_on_my_true_crime/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Angela_2001 on 2023-06-27 16:19:28+00:00. *** Me and my sister moved to a new house for a fresh start after we fled from our parents mad house, but we never knew the consequences that would come with it

It was the first day when we were unboxing and settling in that we got a strange feeling from the place. We felt like people were watching us constantly. It wasnt concerning since it was still the first day and we don't know the place

The secound day while i was making breakfast my sister was still sleeping and i kept on hearing random voices outside of our door and walking, i thought nothing of it, made the food for her and called her downstairs. We ate in peace tho the night was creepy, we heard whispers and whistling from the street like someone wanted us to get out but luckily we never did

The third day i had to go for a job interview downtown which was a 40 minute drive, i left early in the morning and left my sister alone. The interview went well and i could start in two days but while i was there i had to run some errands, go shopping, look for some furniture etc. So i arrived late at night but when i arrived my sister kept saying that she was seeing lights from the street, inhuman screaming, running and the lights flickering from time to time. I got worried a little bit so i stayed woke all night while she slept next to me

The fourth day my sister had to get out from the house so i let her look for some furniture, make friends and etc while i stayed home. Around 4pm she called to inform me some friends are visiting for dinner, in the meantime while she was out i went to the neighbours to get to know the place. I found a woman my age who looked like she hadn't slept in days, her name was Elise and she had a husband, Raul, who was in the same condition as her. They left me with a list of rules no matter what to follow them

1. Open the blinds every morning at 8am not a minute late or early
2. Never put a 'Welcome' mat at the door
3. All lights be off after 11pm
4. NEVER sleep at night, they are watching
5. Lock the doors and windows after 12pm
6. Make no sound from 4am to 6am
7. Never talk about them, they can hear you Good luck.

Fifth day we kept hearing voices outside and banging at the windows. I left for work and questioned my boss about the rules, he confirmed everything and said 'Im sorry but now you can't leave, you are stuck here.'

Today, the sixth day i found out that they forced another neighbour to kill her own baby because it was still crying at 4:01 am

Im slowly going crazy and i don't know what to do

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/ctmacnamara on 2023-06-27 15:45:00+00:00. *** There is a town at the bottom of our reservoir. If you dive down, as I sometimes do when things go wrong, you will find a crumbling village of blue and green. A valley without grass, bones without meat, the past eroded, and eroding.

A town like any other, but with streets paved by sediment. You can find structures there, proof of life: half-standing apothecaries, jaundiced schools, homes all designed to be the same. Yes, a town like any other.

Yet not…

A bloated church swamps the sand, cracked as a plated crab leg, its bronzed bell the last element withstanding the elements. The chapel will soon collapse. After all, it’s only made of wood and it's fully submerged.

Made of water as we are. I always try to remember, if I stay here too long, I will join them. If indeed I have a soul to risk, it will soon flee this body, and what’s left behind will rot away like something made of timber. My body would be perhaps the twenty-seventh to baptize these cool waters.

Folks are always dying down here, messing with the dead.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. We die in the sun, too. We die plenty while we’re living.

Monday, another classmate passed. My seat-mate in orchestra class. Now the school’s urinals are stained orange. The principal insists it’ll stop the spread, so we take the pills they tell us to and pretend we’re not shattered. Adults must know better, right? —look how great everything’s going on their watch.

Maybe someday every village will be like this one. Desolate and desecrated. Maybe they already are, and we’re just the last to grasp it.

I enter the submerged church through its fissured roof and float down, headfirst. Down to the corpse of a girl no older than I, her body snagged in a snail-infested cross. I don’t know the church’s denomination, nor how she came to rest here. Should I loosen her dress of seaweed and set her free?

Damned if I know, and maybe damned if I do.

The water’s so heavy here, nothing wants to float. All the pressure pushes you down, down, down. Is she jealous of my life? Would she take me if she could, hold me until we're the same temperature? Her body dances with the current.

In this abyss, the other spirts keep to themselves. Many are originals, are now entombed in the same homes they lived in before the town sold out and flooded the valley to provide potable water to the closest city. The old sect couldn’t be bought out, and outright refused to recognize eminent domain. Brave beyond all reason.

They too rest here, and together we steep the city’s drinking water. So, raise a glass, to us…

It’s dark at this depth, almost too dark to see despite the persistent LED of my dive light. My vision focuses solely on Her. My eyes find nothing of interest in the floating pews, the downed chandeliers, the rusted tabernacle preserving the Host.

But what preserves Her? The beach is thickened with the shells of freshwater muscles and fingernail clams. There are crayfish in these waters.

Yet some flesh remains.

My father doesn’t believe any of this. Or rather, he admits there are bodies in the Reservoir, even acknowledges an underwater village, but doubts the existence of a Girl preserved in an underwater church. Mother just shakes her head when I mention it, regrets buying me the scuba equipment, and books me another appointment at Dr. O’Neil’s.

As to the Girl, she’s wearing a tattered picnic dress. Greenish-brown hair floats above her, covering her soft head like a crown of tendrils. If I could speak under water, I would tell her that I’m sorry. She rests on that cross and I wonder what it could mean...

We are the fish that swim, mouths open, gasping. We are the pollen, scattered across the wilting forest. We are the water, dehydrated from our purest purpose.

I should be home. Mother will be worried. She doesn’t like my exploring, sets all kinds of rules she hasn’t the time to enforce. She regrets buying me the scuba gear, but I regret having been born, so I think we’re more than even.

The body before me seems to shake of its own power. As though she's trying to communicate. A skeletal hand seems to reach toward me, the color of sand.

I wonder what her deal was? Her regrets, her loves, the people she lost along the way. Maybe it’s best to go young, before you can do any real damage. I can’t imagine it gets any easier, this shuffling of feet.

What do you say, Zombie Mermaid? Want to trade places, your fins for my legs?

Or should I join you? —it’s so quiet here. My SPG tells me I’m getting low on air, it would be easy to drift away…

I shudder, it strikes me that I shouldn’t be here. I’m not one to trample across graves, so why would it be any different in this tomb of brine?

I’m a voyeur, a tourist, a fool. And yet that hand reaches toward my own, as if it contains within it the knowledge of all worlds.

How clichéd, the death-obsessed teenager. Why are we so terrified of the one thing we’ve all yet to experience? If only we could fall as acorns do, mating gravity with purpose.

I’m not infatuated with death itself, I’m just tired of living.

I wonder who this Girl was, how she came to be so forgotten here. It’s proven hard to research, this reservoir stores so many.

(I am not superstitious. I don’t believe in miracles.)

If only every grave was like this one, a personal church on a floor of sandy bedrock. Snails, not worms. Water, not clay.

My gauge turns red, and the Girl takes my hand...

The carp dance through her ribcage, her body moves with the water, a bit of extra sun sneaks its way to the depths and kisses me like a million summers.

It's time to return to the surface.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Joske-the-great on 2023-06-27 15:13:30+00:00. *** My name is Carl, 28 years old and my wife who I as just married to, Ashley is 27. Prior to our wedding, we had booked a honeymoon trip across the east coast on a cruise ship, all the way from Florida to Bahamas, then to New York and back to Florida.

The view of the ship just as we were about to embark was unbelievably bulk and mesmerizing that it impressed both Ashley and I. Yeah I know cruise ships are big and stuffs, but seeing one in real life really makes you realize how much you would underestimate a rumor until you actually experience it.

Right on the hull of the ship imprinted a huge name that reads ‘Royal Liner’ and beside it was the sign of a star protruding the R word like a spearhead. Below the company logo wrote the ship’s charming name ‘Aurora of the seas’.

As soon as the both of us stepped into the entrance of the ship, we were greeted by a top notch class of hospitality by the staffs. Mr. Schwarz, a security officer asked for our tickets and ID and so we obliged. We went through some final affirmation and security check right before being led to our cabins.

It was late afternoon when we were met with a fabulous scenery inside the ship. It felt like an enormous floating hotel. Each few steps we took, we would pass through countless of hallways and watertight doors. We took the elevator and it brought us to a long hallway.

As we matched one of the doors to our given serial numbers ‘A-314’, I tapped the card against the scanner and the door clicked open, revealing a small yet fancy room with a fairly large window facing the ocean, or much rather the port as we were still yet to depart.

The room induced a claustrophobic feeling within me but it was just enough for Ashley and me. We placed our bags and stuffs on the floor and rested for a moment. Everything felt so freshening and lovely as the smell of the freshly laundered carpets, mattress and curtains breezed against my nose.

Half an hour passed before we heard a bone-chilling horn from the ship; it was departing. The sight of the port we once walked on slowly began to fade out of our view as the background of the vast ocean filled in.

It was evening, and the reflection of the dusk sunlight from the ocean waves pierced through the window. It was then that Ashley shook my arms and gave me a hint that we should start venturing the ship. We were already re-energized by then, so I thought ‘Why not?’.

The first day of the trip was an eye-opening experience. Virtually everything were pleasurable, especially now with the love of my life accompanying me. We went to every place they had to offer, like the theater, casino, museum and the luxury restaurant. The entire trip would take approximately one week, with a day or two to reach Bahamas and the rest to arrive in New York and Florida.

That means I had a week to hang out alone with Ashley, what a moment to live in.

About two days after our ship arrived in the Bahamas seas. The ship stopped near a harbor of an island which I don’t remember the name, but heck, the island was eye-catching. Filled with tropical jungles at the center of the island and sandy beaches along the coast, I couldn’t wait to step on the beautiful isle and interact with the locals.

It was cool, to say the least to enjoy the sea breeze as Ashley and I hung around the island. We bought some souvenirs along the way and chilled at the beaches, drinking Piña Colada while enjoying the sunset.

The ship was scheduled to depart for New York the next day. We ensured everything was not left off before boarding the ship.

As I walked up the bridge that filled the gap between the port and the ship while holding Ashley’s hand, I couldn’t help but notice a shadow gliding below the waters.

I couldn’t tell what it was as it vanished the moment I focused on it. It moved in such a speed that I thought that it was my eyes that were playing with me. The shadow, in such speed, overshot the bridge below us and directly below the ship’s hull. And that was it, gone.

I asked Ashley if she saw that, but she showed a confused face, indicating that she did not even notice the shadow in the first place. She convinced me that I was tired, and needed some rest.

I was unsure, and so I did not think too much of it.

During night time of the same day, we enjoyed some drinks outside the bar at the top deck of the ship, enjoying the view of the night sky. On the deck was full of crowded people, also enjoying the peaceful background. There were people drinking beers, swimming, kids playing around and lively concerts.

Just as Ashley and I were talking about our future, a sense of premonition hit right into my feeling. I couldn’t help myself but getting hit by a wave of deja vu as I looked into Ashley’s face. This was the kind of feeling that has always been associated with me since I was a kid; something bad, really bad was about to happen.

I gestured to Ashley that we should go to somewhere else. She did not hesitate to agree, though she seemed a little disappointed that we had to leave early.

“Why is it honey? You’re not feeling well?”

“Kind of, why not we head to-”

Our conversation was interrupted by a commotion. It came from a crowd that was just gathered around the bar. It was too crowded that it made me unsure of what had just happened. As we approached closer, I asked a guy that stood beside me.

“Excuse me, what is going on?” I asked.

The middle aged man stared at me before answering “I’m not sure, but I’ve been hearing stuffs like dead and blood.”

“Jesus” I muttered.

I felt a push against me in all of a sudden, only to realize that a group of paramedics were rushing in their way. They pushed themselves against the crowd, forming an empty lane towards the emergency scene. That was when I had a clear view of the center of the crowd.

Dead…Blood…The words floating on my mind were finally linked to each other once I saw the decapitated bloke lying next to the chair.

Ashley whined in disgust and was in the verge of puking. I also couldn’t stand the horrid scene and glanced away from him. I grabbed Ashley’s hands and pulled her away from the crowd, dragging her back to our cabin. We’ve had enough for the day.

As we walked through a crowd of people, we couldn’t stop ourselves from imagining the gory graphic scene that we had just envisioned. It devastated me that this had to happen at our honeymoon. The hundreds of thoughts running wild in my mind was cut briefly following muffled but blood-curdling screams from where we came from.

My heartbeat intensified, in which I instinctively pulled Amanda into a hidden corner. We stood against the wall beside a door, as the calamity enfolded behind us.

One elderly man whooshed past us, red mist spraying everywhere over the floor as his exposed arm spurted blood.

The old man then collapsed onto the carpet, not responding to our screams at all, signifying that he was probably unconscious. Ashley looked at me dead in the eyes and suggested that we immediately return to our cabin.

I nodded and we took faster pace towards our destination, which would be our temporary safe haven. I took a look back, before gasping in shock as I saw a monstrous figure devouring a child’s body. Its humanoid figure stood on four overgrown limbs, had entirely pale skin, except for its horrid face which was covered in red blood.

“Run! Don’t look back!” I frantically yelled at Ashley.

We quickly took a corner and was met with an elevator room.

“We’re not gonna make it” I told her, pointing at the spiral staircase at the edge of the room and dashing upwards immediately afterwards. The obnoxious growl of the creature amplified very quickly and I cursed silently.

By the time we reached our floor, which I was thankful that we even made it that far, the creature could be heard dashing downwards with an ungodly speed. I stopped, knowing that it would be useless running straight away from it as it would only guarantee a gruesome death. Not with Ashley.

I stood upright, looking at all directions, trying to figure out a solution to escape the chaos. I was jerked ahead as Ashley that was holding my hand did not stop in time. There was a filthy wooden door at the side of the stairwell. I gestured Ashley to enter the door as I opened it silently, but quickly. I let her enter foremost, followed by myself who closed the door even more stealthily as the monster tumbled down the stairway.

The store room was dimly lit, making us barely seeing anything ahead of us. Ashley tapped me, pointing at a box of crates stacked at the corner. We formed a small space behind the crates and hid under. My arm hugged Ashley’s shoulder as we prayed for the best.

My body shook in horror as the deafening sound of a wooden door blast roared the entire room. I covered Ashley’s mouth, reminding her of the element of silence.

We heard footsteps tapping the deck floor, slowly approaching us at I could sense that thing scanning the room. Just as it was about to reach to us, it stopped. Another series of loud footsteps could be heard, except that now it was dashing away from us. I guess it heard someone else and was distracted from us. Thank fuck.

It took us probably a few minutes, but an eternity from our perspectives to finally exit our hiding spot. I could notice Ashley sobbing from terror. I hugged her gently, confronting and encouraging her to be more patient. We might be lucky this time, but we were still in a very dangerous zone... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14kgelq/we_were_stuck_on_a_cruise_ship_for_days_and_a/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/RehnWriter on 2023-06-27 14:26:34+00:00. *** How do you react to someone calling out to you in the middle of the night? What if it happens in a dark, deserted street?

With a mixture of worry and apprehension?

That’s how I reacted. I jerked around and almost dropped the cigarette I’d lit.

In my mind, I imagined some angry drunk or deranged homeless person coming for me. Then whoever it was spoke up again.

“Excuse me, do you have a moment...?”

I realized now that this voice wasn’t mad or angry. While it was piercing, it was also melodic, and more than a little awkward.

It came from a woman who stood a dozen meters away from me. When I saw her, my worries evaporated. She looked young and wore nothing but a white dress which seemed almost too tight for her slender figure. She shuffled around, her shoes scraping over the concrete of the sidewalk before she started towards me.

“I’m on my way home, but I think someone’s following me,” she said in a sharp whisper. “Do you mind walking with me for a bit? Just to be safe...”

Taken a back and slightly confused about the situation, I nodded and told her it wasn’t a problem.

Earlier that night, I’d been out with friends. We went on a little bar crawl that led us through the alternative district of our city.

As the hours ticked by, we eventually ended up in an old, dirty corner bar. With little thinking, we ordered ourselves a beer and sat down at the bar, not realizing how shady the place was.

It only dawned on us when a man as gigantic as he was drunk stumbled from the bathroom and promptly yelled at us for taking his seat.

Our tries at diffusing the situation fell on deaf ears and only made him angrier. In a motion much too swift for his drunk state, he got a hold of my beer, smashed it in front of my feet, and seemed ready to beat the shit out of me and my friends. By this point, some of the other patrons had gotten up as well, most likely to join in the fun.

Thankfully, the barkeeper stepped in.

He told the guy enough was enough, and if he wouldn’t leave right at this moment, he’d have no problem calling the cops on him. Again. The guy’s eyes rested on me for a few more moments before he stormed off, grumbling and cursing to himself.

After this rather unpleasant experience, and finding ourselves still at the center of attention, we quickly left the bar behind and decided to call it a night.

Once I’d said goodbye to my friends, I went to a nearby tram station, only to realize that I’d missed my tram by almost half an hour.

A quick look at the department schedule told me it was the very last one for the night. Checking my wallet, I also realized I had nowhere near enough money to afford a taxi, given I lived at the other end of the city.

And so, after a copious amount of cursing at myself for not watching the time, I set out on the long, long way home.

That’s when I’d met her.

As we walked on, the fear she’d shown before slowly faded and, before long, she walked next to me, without a care in the world. What a strange woman, I thought.

Yet, every once in a while, her words returned to me, and I couldn’t help but feel watched. Whenever I looked over my shoulder, however, the streets were entirely empty. The only signs of life were other stragglers, and a few rare cars. Apart from that, the entire city was deserted.

The woman, however, didn’t seem to notice anything, and soon started chit-chatting with me, telling me she’d been out dancing with friends, but had gotten lost and missed her tram, just like me.

As she babbled on, however, the strange feeling persisted, became almost feasible.

About twenty minutes after she’d joined me, I stopped to light yet another cigarette. I only saw it for a moment, but there’d clearly been a figure at the end of the street, watching the two of us.

“Whoever the hell you are, fuck off! I swear, I’ll call the cops!”

By now, the situation was unsettling me, and I already had my phone in hand, ready to follow through on my threat. The figure, however, seemed to be gone, and after a few more seconds, I breathed a sigh of relief.

When I began to walk again, I noticed how close the woman had gotten to me, almost pushing her body against mine, smiling at me shyly. A moment later, I felt her hand grabbing onto mine.

“Sorry, I guess I’m still a bit scared,” she said, yet her voice sounded much too happy for that, and almost... seductive.

As I stared at her face, however, into her dark green eyes, I had to admit that she was cute, really damned cute.

What can I say? I was still pretty drunk and before long, I put my arm around her, pulling her even closer. Only a mere five minutes later, we were making out at a dark street corner.

As we did, I thought I heard echoing footsteps nearby again, but my longing for this woman had replaced all my worries, all my fears.

Our lips were sealed onto each other, and my hands slowly wandered down her back when she stopped me and pointed ahead, giving me a coy smile. Just a few blocks away was a small park, and taking my hand, she led me there, half-running and giggling the entire way.

The moment we entered the park, she found a deserted bench, pushed me onto it, and got on top of me.

She was taking the lead now, aggressively though, almost restraining me with her legs. None of her former shy character remained. She pushed her lips onto mine, and her tongue into my mouth as she furiously made out with me.

Then something felt strange. Suddenly my mouth seemed on fire, then my throat before the heat spread through my entire body.

I tried to push her away, tried to free myself, but something was wrong. I felt dizzy, hazy even, and wasn’t in control of my body anymore.

Before long, the hot feeling left, being momentarily replaced by cold before all feeling seemed to leave me. Her lips were still pressed to mine, but I couldn’t feel them anymore. My arms started tingling, then grew numb and slid down the length of her back and came to rest on the bench to either side of me.

Oh god, something was terribly wrong!

I wanted to push her off me, wanted to speak, tell her to get help, to call an ambulance, but wasn’t able to do anything.

Then I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. Nearby, behind some bushes at the edge of the park, a dark figure was watching us. No, I realized a moment later, not watching us but coming for us.

Finally, her lips released mine, her head jerked back, and she giggled before her face warped into a disgustingly wide and hungry smile.

Then I heard the figure call out. Its voice was slurred, barely audible, but I understood enough.

“Found you, you little shit! Thought you’d get lucky tonight, didn’t you? Oh, I’ll make sure you’ll get lucky!”

That voice, I knew it. I’d heard it before. When could finally make out the figure’s face, it clicked. It was the giant drunk from the bar. He’d been following us all this time, or rather... he must’ve been following me!

Before he reached me, however, the woman got off my lap in a single swift motion and pushed herself in front of him.

“The fuck you want, bitch? You want some, too? If not, you better get the fuck...”

His voice trailed off when the woman’s body began to change. I watched her muscles tensed and pushed heavy against the fabric of her dress. Then her entire body contorted. She grew taller, became more elongated, the dress stretching, ever-stretching, but not tearing apart. In this moment I realized it wasn’t a dress, but part of her body. I saw it glisten in the moon light, saw it growing slightly wet, becoming scalier and scalier. Then her head pushed forward, her neck growing longer and longer, watched as her arms seemed to vanish, seemed to retreat into her body. Her legs pushed together before they became a single long... tail?

The guy in front of her was freaking out, screaming obscenities in his terror. I watched as he pulled a hunting knife from his pants, ready to plunge it into the monstrosity, but he was too slow. In an instant, her neck shot forward, coiled around his arm, and a moment later, the knife clattered from his hand.

He began beating against her, trying desperately to get free, but she didn’t even seem to feel it. Then, the rest of her body moved forward, at first pushing itself against him before slowly wrapping around him.

My mind was going haywire. What the fuck was I seeing? How could any of this be real?!

My mouth was open, but no sound escaped it. I couldn’t speak, was still paralyzed. Inside my mind, however, I was screaming, screaming at the impossibility I was seeing in front of me, but also screaming at my body to move. Yet I couldn’t. All I could do was watch.

Ahead of me, the she-snake had entirely wrapped herself around the man, who was still screaming, still trying to get free, to claw his way out. Then her distorted face came to a rest right next to his. I heard the creature giggle again before planting a long, hard kiss on the man’s lips.

When she detached herself from him, his screams had faded, his body had grown limp. At the same time, hers tensed up, and I watched as muscles furiously worked below her scaly, white skin. With each second, her entanglement grew stronger, harder, and finally, the disgusting sound of bone breaking and flesh tearing reached my ears. I watched in stunted horror as blood dripped, then gushed from every orifice in the man’s face. Then her mouth unhinged, and she began devouring her prey.

Right at that moment, I finally felt feeling return to my body. I could move, if only slightly. In pure d... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14kf7vy/woman_in_white/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Carbodex on 2023-06-27 13:59:12+00:00. *** It was supposed to be a simple hike, an escape from the city, and more importantly, an escape from him - Mark, my ex-partner. Mark, who was charming, persuasive, and increasingly obsessive since our split.

I knew the mountain well; it was my sanctuary, a place where I felt invincible. But that morning, as I laced my boots and filled my backpack with supplies, I felt a knot of anxiety twist inside me. My phone pinged; another text from Mark, growing more threatening. I felt a cold shiver run down my spine, his words echoing in my mind. "You can't hide forever."

My friends had urged me to report him to the police, but I was stubborn, I thought I could handle it. That night, as I was double-checking my gear, I heard a soft knock on my front door. Opening it, I saw no one. But down the street, under the fading light, Mark stood ominously. As our eyes met, he turned away, vanishing into the shadows.

The following day, my journey began. As I ascended, the city's distant hum was replaced by the rhythmic crunch of boots against gravel. Soon, the noises of civilization were replaced by the mountain's profound silence. It was just me, the wind, and the echoing chirp of unseen birds.

But as I trekked, I couldn't shake off a creeping sense of dread. My tracks were not alone; another set followed, rougher, bigger. I shrugged it off, pushing forward, convincing myself it was another hiker's. Yet, as I made camp for the evening, my phone buzzed with a chilling message, "Enjoying your hike?" I looked around, the vast expanse of wilderness suddenly felt like an open cage.

That night, sleep eluded me. The peaceful rustle of leaves now sounded like whispers of threat. Soft footsteps prowled around my tent, paired with another terrifying message, "Lonely out there, isn't it?" I tried calling for help, but my signal was gone, swallowed by the mountain.

As dawn broke, I decided to continue, hoping to reach civilization before Mark could reach me. Scaling steep paths, I battled my fear of heights. The drop was dizzying, the cliff-edge, a razor-sharp line between life and death. As I reached the summit, I saw him. He was ascending, his taunts carried to me by the wind. Panic washed over me, my fear of heights now coupled with a fear of what lay below. Despite my terror, I pressed on. My descent was frantic; fear was a fire, driving me forward. Mark's words, the echo of my footfalls, the mountain's silence, all created a symphony of dread. I ran till my lungs burned and my legs ached, but I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky with hues of crimson and orange, my frantic escape continued. I knew the trails, every turn, every stone, each curve. Using my knowledge, I tried to outmaneuver Mark. My heart pounded in my chest as I dared to look back. There he was, a dark silhouette against the dying light, still pursuing me.

His presence seemed to be everywhere; I could almost feel his breath on my neck, hear his footsteps merging with my own. Every rustling leaf, every snapped twig, amplified my terror. It felt like the mountain was closing in on me, echoing Mark's threats.

In my head, a mantra repeated, "Survive. Just survive."

I spotted a lifeline just as the sun disappeared, leaving me in the mountain's cold embrace. Nestled in the next valley was a ranger station, the sight of it sparking a flame of hope inside me. Every exhausted fiber of my being screamed in protest as I pushed myself to run faster, to reach safety. I could almost taste my freedom, but the fear of Mark's proximity, his relentless pursuit, kept the metallic tang of terror in my mouth.

Panting and nearly delirious with fear, I stumbled into the ranger station. Relief washed over me, making my knees buckle. The rangers were alarmed, taking in my appearance, my terrified eyes, the exhaustion etched on my face.

Mark's name tasted bitter in my mouth as I explained my ordeal. They immediately called the police, their assurances of Mark's capture sounding like a lullaby to my frayed nerves. As the reality of my survival sank in, I felt an overwhelming wave of emotions. Exhaustion, relief, fear, they all merged together, leaving me weak.

The mountain was my sanctuary, my escape. But that day, it turned into a nightmarish echo of my real-life horror. The mountain watched in silence as I ran for my life, its echo serving as a chilling reminder of Mark's pursuit.

As I lay on the cot provided by the rangers, listening to the quiet hum of the night outside, I couldn't help but shudder at the thought of what could have happened. My sanctuary had turned into my hunting ground. The mountain, once a source of peace, had echoed my fears, my anxieties, my will to survive.

But in the end, I did survive. Mark was just a man, not a ghost or a mythical creature. He was human, driven by obsession and resentment. His threats and pursuit, while terrifying, were just that—threats. The real horror lay not in the chase but in the fear he instilled in me, fear that made the mountain, my sanctuary, seem like a vast, open grave.

As I closed my eyes, the mountain outside stood tall, an indifferent spectator to my ordeal. But its echo, Mark's echo, would remain with me forever, a terrifying reminder of my horrifying journey.

In the mountain's profound silence, I could still hear it - the echo.

For nights after, the echoes haunted me, each distant sound in the quiet darkness morphing into Mark's whispers. Even with the assurance of his capture, my mind played tricks on me. Every creak in the house, every rustling of leaves, seemed like Mark closing in on me.

The mountains stood still, silent as ever. Yet I heard it differently, every rustling leaf a hushed threat, every gust of wind a chilling whisper. The echoes of my escape etched deep within my soul.

Time moved on, but the echoes did not fade. A part of me was still on that mountain, forever running, forever looking over my shoulder, hearing Mark in every echo. I'd conquered the mountain countless times before, but that day, it conquered me. It wasn't the altitude or the steep trails; it was the fear, a man's relentless pursuit, the echo of his threats that crippled me.

I moved on physically, but mentally, I was trapped in those echoes, my nightmares filled with the mountain's silence, Mark's footsteps, his taunting words. The ordeal had scarred me, the echoes a constant reminder of the horror I'd lived.

The mountain, my sanctuary, had become my prison, Mark's haunting presence locked in with me. The peace it once offered was now replaced with terror, the towering peaks whispering tales of my escape. The echoes were inescapable; they were no longer confined to the mountain. They followed me, their reverberation a constant reminder of my fear, my desperation, my survival.

In the end, I found an uncomfortable solace in those echoes. They were proof that I had survived, that I had faced my fears and lived to tell the tale. The echoes were terrifying, but they were also a testament to my strength, my will to survive.

The mountain's echoes eventually became my own, echoing my resilience, my survival. The echo that once instilled fear, now resonated with my courage. Every subsequent trip to the mountain was a challenge, a confrontation with the echoes of the past. With each visit, the echoes of fear slowly faded, replaced by the echoes of my defiance.

The mountain still stood tall, silent and indifferent. But its echoes had changed. They no longer held Mark's threats, his haunting presence. Instead, they echoed my journey, my survival. Mark was no longer in the echo; it was all me.

It was a terrifying ordeal, a horrifying chase etched into the echoes of the mountain. But I survived. I overcame the physical danger, the psychological horror. The echoes of my fear were now the echoes of my courage, my resilience, my survival. Mark was a man, a terrifying figure from my past. But he was just that, the past.

The mountains, my sanctuary, echoed my story. They were no longer a prison but a testament to my survival. The echo was mine now, a constant reminder not of the horror I lived, but the fear I conquered.

From the echoes of horror to the echoes of courage, my story reverberates in the silent mountains. The echo has changed, and so have I. In the face of fear and danger, I found my strength, my voice. And that, that's what echoes now - my strength, my survival. The mountains now echo my resilience, my defiance, my victory over fear. For in every echo, I hear not Mark's threats, but my triumph over them. In the end, I survived, and that's what truly echoes in the silent mountains.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Necessary_Walrus1703 on 2023-06-27 13:47:38+00:00. *** The clock had turned 9 and I was beginning to get worried. I had not heard from my wife for a while now.

I tried calling her half a dozen times since the afternoon, and the number remained unreachable.

This was very unlike her.

She has always been accessible by phone, even if she was facing delays due to work.

I called her friends and parents enquiring if she had stopped by. They answered in the negative.

My wife Martha works as a real estate agent. She is an enterprising woman and really dedicated towards her job.

So I am not usually surprised when she sometimes loses track of time.

She got excited when she spoke about a new house listing in the market today. And she left quickly to check out the place. And I haven’t heard from her since.

‘Maybe her phone was low on battery and it switched off on its own’, I thought.

I opened her laptop to check her appointments. She is usually a stickler for details. Always jots down the client’s name, time of appointment and the address of the house they were supposed to visit.

I found no new entry on her ledger.

‘This is weird.’ I thought to myself.

For some reason, I just thought I should click on her Facebook profile.

I then clicked on Facebook Marketplace and I could see she had initiated a chat conversation for a house listing in a place that was atleast 30 miles away from ours.

The building of the house listed looked like one of those old traditional bungalows that still managed to withstand the test of time.

Looking at the overgrowth of plants and shrubs on the property, it was clear the place was not very well maintained. It even kind of gave me a spooky vibe.

But the property was massive and that alone must have been worth its weight in gold.

No wonder Martha was so excited all day.

The person on the other end of the chat had provided his phone number and contact address.

I tried calling him on it. It was not reachable. I tried reaching out through the chat option. But there was no response.

So I noted now the address of the listing on a piece of paper.

I waited for another couple of hours. The clock had turned 11 now.

I decided to file a complaint at the police station. I was beginning to fear the worst.

The cops were sympathetic to my situation.

I had brought Martha’s laptop with me to the station. I opened it in front of the Police Superintendent to show the details of the listing.

And it had vanished!!

I couldn’t find the listing anywhere!

‘This is bizzare’, I thought.

I just saw it half an hour ago. The officer was beginning to look at me a little suspiciously.

I then remembered the piece of paper on which I had written the address. I removed it from my pocket and showed it to him.

He decided to go take a look at the property and I requested if I could tag along. He nodded.

I got into back of the police van while the officer sat in the front. There were two other PC’s accompanying us.

All kinds of thoughts were going through my mind as I sat there in the jeep.

Will I be able to find Martha? Is she safe? Has she been kidnapped?

At one point, I began to wonder if she was having an affair behind my back. I immediately felt a little ashamed of myself.

We finally reached the address listed on the paper.

And I could not spot any bungalow in the vicinity!

All I could see was a row of houses which is very common in suburban areas.

You know, the house with a small garden and a white picket fence!

That’s all I could see.

Just rows and rows of these houses signifying the average suburban American family.

We contacted a few people in the neighbourhood to enquire about the bungalow I had seen on the listing and they were all surprised. They denied its existence.

The officer even contacted the local cops in the area and they all said the address was a mistake.

We finally decided to get back to the station. A couple of PC’s were giving me strange looks during the drive back.

They were probably seeing me as a suspect now. I couldn’t even blame them if they did.

The officer decided to drop me in front of my home. He probably wanted to check where I lived.

He got down from his car and told me, “I will come and check up on you tomorrow. I will get a constable to drive your car back to your place. “

“Don’t worry. We will find your wife” he added.

I nodded my head in gratitude.

I opened the door to my apartment and got inside and looked at the clock. It was 4 in the morning.

I felt truly exhausted with all that worrying.

I lied down on the bed and immediately fell asleep.

It was already 9 in the morning when I finally woke up.

I slowly turned to my side to get up from the bed and got the shock of my life!

My wife Martha was sitting on an armchair right next to the bed looking at me!

I immediately got to my feet and rushed towards her.

“Martha where on earth were you all this while? I was really worried about you” I said.

She hugged me tightly and replied back, “ I’ve had quite the day Jimmy”

“Why didn’t you wake me up when you came home?” I asked.

“And what happened to your phone? I tried to call you all day.” I said in an angry tone.

“I am sorry dear. You looked fast asleep and I didn’t want to wake you. I think I lost my phone. I have been looking for it everywhere” she replied back.

I was still mad at her but was relieved to see that she was safe. Everything else could wait I thought.

“Did you eat anything? Come lets go have some breakfast.” I said

She nodded her head and we got into the living room to get to the kitchen.

Just then the doorbell started ringing.

I opened the door and saw the police officer standing outside.

“Good morning officer. Thank you for coming” I said.

“My wife is back home” I added with a warm smile.

She was standing right behind me.

I just move a little bit away from the door so that he could see her properly.

He looked inside and then looked back at me.

“I don’t see anybody there other than you” he replied back.

Martha then walked towards the entrance and introduced herself.

“Hello Sir. I am Martha” she said and offered to shake his hand.

But the man kept staring at me.

“Sir Martha would like to shake your hand” I said to him.

I could see his face swelling with anger.

“Is this some kind of a sick joke” he asked me.

“You know, I gave you the benefit of the doubt yesterday when you came to the station. But now I think you been taking me for a ride” he said.

“I am wondering if you are even married now.”

“ Or if you are doing all this because you feeling starved for attention with nothing better to do” he added.

Both Martha and I looked at each other bewildered to see the officer speak this way.

He then took out his sidearm and pointed it at me.

“Step back!” he said.

I moved back into the living room with my hands raised.

He then started searching one room at a time. He looked at various photos which included those of our wedding. I even showed him our marriage certificate.

Finally he asked me, “Ok Jimmy. I believe you”

I felt a little relieved.

“So what did you do to your wife? Were you bored of your marriage?” he asked.

Both Martha and I began to protest.

He said “Shut up”.

“You are coming with me to the station.”

I got into the back of his police jeep. Martha got in as well and sat next to me. She was looking hopelessly upset. She took my hand and held on to it tightly.

For the first time I began to question my own sanity.

‘Is the person sitting next to me really Martha?’ I asked myself.

‘Is she even real?’

‘Am I looking at some kind of a ghost?’

I was feeling really low and delusional all at once.

As the police officer took control of the wheel, I began to wonder if he had any hidden agenda.

‘Is he jerking me around? What on earth is going on?’ I thought to myself.

When we reached the station, the same pattern repeated. None of the other cops could spot my wife and it didn’t take long for it to turn into an interrogation.

They asked all kinds of details about me and my wife. My professional life. If I was under any sort of medication. The stress was really beginning to build up on me.

Just then, the officer received a call and he answered it.

He spoke on the phone for a few minutes. He kept glancing at me every now and then like he was judging me. That made me feel even the more agitated.

When he finally finished speaking, he said” Come with me”

I again got in to a car with him and was driven out to another location. When we reached the spot, I could see the place abuzz with activity.

It was a secluded part of town but the area had been cordoned off by the police. The press were waiting at a distance. I already began imagining the worst. It looked like a crime scene.

The officer escorted me out of the car and walked me to the scene. Martha was following right behind me.

As I walked closer my heart sank and then reality hit me hard. I could see the mortal remains of my wife. She had been stabbed and bled to death on the floor.

I dropped to my knees and was overcome with grief. Tears started flowing down my face.

And then I saw Martha kneel down in front of her own body.

Realization had finally dawned on her.

She looked at me horror struck.

Suddenly all the events of the past few hours began to make sense to her.

The police office came to me and said, “Jimmy stand up. Turn around with your hands behind your back”.

I did as I was told and one constable came forward to handcuff ... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14ke9ha/missing/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/DerbyOverman on 2023-06-27 13:41:25+00:00. *** My earliest memory of them is when I was five. It was an image, briefly flashing in my head before I fell asleep. A figure sitting in a chair, looking in my direction.

They were bald with mottled skin and groggy features; nothing distinct or unique. Like what a child might create if they were prompted to draw a ‘human’.

When I was in college, I went to a Francis Bacon exhibition and I instantly broke out into cold sweat. The figures in his paintings are eerily reminiscent of the figure in my head. Vague impressions. Shrouded in palpable pressure and noise and darkness.

I saw the figure every night until I turned ten. I thought it was normal to see the figure in the chair before falling asleep. I thought everyone saw them too.

But when I mentioned the figure to my best friend at the time, he just gave me a weird look and told me that he’s never seen this figure before. I realised then, that the figure in the chair only existed for me.

Maybe it’s because of this realisation, but from the age of ten, the figure stopped appearing every night. Whenever I tried to look for them in my head, there would be nothing there but an empty room and an empty chair. Sometimes, I’d glimpse a closet in the corner, cracked open and pitch black within.

Despite the empty room, I always had a distinct, visceral feeling of being watched. Like there was a pair of eyes, boring into my person. I never saw the figure itself. I thought, maybe it’s finally gone. Maybe it was some kind of weird hallucination.

A few years passed without incident. I wrote the figure off as one of the many unexplainable childhood memories and quickly pushed it to the back of my mind.

Then, the accident happened. When I was thirteen, my mother fell asleep at the wheel of the car during a family road trip and drove off the road. The car rolled down the ridge, flipping three times, before landing upside down. I remember blacking out. The world flashing light and dark and light and dark again and the pain in my head as it slammed into the roof of the car with every flip.

I eventually came to, hanging upside down from my seat belt.

There was someone there. A good Samaritan, I think, who crawled into the car through the broken window. They never said anything. Never made a sound. And I couldn’t for the life of my remember their face. But they were skinny, almost emaciated, and their presence was like a deep, dark pressure against the back of my head.

They unclipped my belt and I landed on the roof of the car, dazed. And then I crawled after them, following their vague silhouette until I was free from the wreck. Their body cleared most of the broken glass away, so I was left relatively unscathed.

When I stood up and looked around, I was alone. And the immense relief and adrenaline coursing through my body had nothing to do with the accident.

Everyone escaped major injury but my mother and father were trapped in the front seats. So we waited for the ambulances and fire trucks to arrive.

During the wait, I sat dazed beside the car, sitting in muck; bruised head aching and feeling oddly detached from my own body. Every time I closed my eyes and distanced myself from the world, I could see the room. The dark, grimy room with the sickly green-brown walls. The seat was empty. The window behind it, slightly ajar.

I could see more details. The corner of a table just out of frame, swollen wood with too many whorls that look like faces. A clock on the wall above the vacant chair, incomprehensible symbols in lieu of numbers - the kind a child might scribble before learning their 123s.

And just when the sound of distant sirens entered my periphery, I saw a subtle movement in the window: a dark figure, stooping down to climb inside, and a flash of white sclera.

I quickly opened my eyes, shaking, sweating, chilled to the bone in mid-summer heat.

Chronic mental illness came for me after that. Depression, anxiety, panic attacks, flashbacks, new phobias. The whole carnival of lost innocence and existential dread.

I started coping in unhealthy ways and acquainted myself with the dead hours of the night in my newfound insomnia. It’s a bit of a cycle. You can’t sleep because of rumination, but those long, lonely hours are fertile ground for unwanted thoughts. And very quickly did my rumination turn to visiting the figure in my head.

During this chaotic period, the figure would appear in different places around the room. They would be standing at the window, back turned to me as they ostensibly gazed at the suffocating blackness outside. Other times, they would be sitting at the table, and only their arm and leg could be seen on the edge of the frame. The worst times were when they were sitting in that chair, looking in my direction, because - while before their features were hazy - I was now able to see a faint impression of a face.

It didn’t seem real. It was too cartoonish. Like a caricature of a human face. I didn’t like it. It made my skin crawl and my heart palpitate. I never lingered long whenever they were sitting in the chair.

Another major incident happened when I was seventeen. I was a high school senior, struggling with substance abuse problems and undiagnosed mental illnesses. And it was the first time I attempted suicide.

It was during a study retreat at our local college campus. We were put into vacant dorm rooms built in the ‘70s that were coffin-sized and draughty. The first night, I slept with the couch pushed against the door because it was missing a lock. I was paranoid that night, starting awake every time I fell asleep, and seeing a figure standing in the open doorway or hunched over my bed.

The second night, I was put into another room - this time a four person room I had to myself. But the largeness felt wrong to me. It was cold, empty, and hollow. The penny-thin windows stretched high in an arch, like those in a church, and I could only see the bright sunny sky outside. I skipped the day’s activities and lay in bed instead. Staring at the sky. It looked fake to me. Obnoxious. Insidious.

I decided to kill myself.

I swallowed an entire pack of painkillers and lay down to die. The sky went dark. It disappeared. I felt sleepy and light headed, and I closed my eyes. Without my want or say, I slipped into the room inside my mind.

There was a face inches away from my mind’s eye. They were staring at me in pure, unadulterated hatred, their maddened, bulging eyes locked onto mine, and their rage-contorted features for the first time clear as day. Primal terror shot through my veins like ice water, and the only thought racing through my mind in a terror-stricken loop was theyhavenoeyelidstheyhavenoeyelidstheyhavenoeyelids--

There was an immense pressure within my head and I could feel them screaming. But all I could hear was the frantic pounding of my heart.

I opened my eyes and vomited over the side of the bed. Most of the pills were undigested.

When I calmed down enough to brave a look inside my mind again, the figure was sitting calmly in the chair. Like nothing had happened at all.

I’m scared of the figure living in my head. I do anything and everything to avoid looking inside my own head, but it’s almost impossible not to. I slip. I always slip.

These days, I can see more of the room. The table in its entirety. A door to the right of the room, leading to god knows where. The closet in the corner, blacker than pitch whenever it’s cracked open. An impression of a kitchen - I say impression, because it’s just two boxy counters and a strange amalgamation of cookware and food, as though it were AI generated.

The figure lives there now. They live. They pace across the room with awkward, loping steps. They stand in the faux-kitchen and move their hands, like they’re play-pretend cooking. They rock to and fro before a wall, head slamming into the mottled plaster.

In the last few days, I've noticed one striking detail about the figure -- from their back, their shoulder blades, something like crooked black branches dragging across the floor. I don't see these branches all the time -- they skitter into my view every now and then, and I always come away with my stomach churning and a sour taste in my mouth, like I just saw something I really shouldn't have.

Sometimes the figure hides out of frame and snaps their head into my view before snapping it away again. They do this over and over and over like a fucked up peekaboo. I get the feeling it’s something they’ve seen and copied from humans. Maybe they can see into my world just as I can see into theirs.

Lately, they’ve taken to standing beside the chair, their lips moving slowly, deliberately.

I think the figure is trying to communicate with me.

I don’t want to know what they’re saying. I don’t know why they are living in my head or what they want from me. Maybe they aren’t real. Maybe the figure is a hallucination. An imaginary friend gone too far. But they - and the room they live in - are firmly rooted in my mind and there’s no way of ridding them.

And last night, something happened that I can’t explain.

It was late -- around midnight, and I was in bed drifting off into sleep. As usual, I was pulled into the room in my mind and I saw the figure by the open door, frozen still like a statue, peering into the darkness outside. I wasn’t sure what it was staring at. But the figure did that a lot - stare at nothing and everything for no rhyme or reason, so I didn’t thin... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14ke432/theres_someone_living_inside_my_head/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Justhegirlnextdoor on 2023-06-27 13:26:23+00:00. *** The Lakins home. Upon first glance, it looked like a traditional two story home. In fact, it was very inviting on the outside. The house had a wrap around porch, white picket fence, well established oak trees, cute little flowers dangling in hanging pots. It looked like the normal, suburban, American dream. That’s where the normalcy ended though.

I remember when it first popped up on my radar. It was in the heat of the Summer and that particular day was sweltering. The family that owned it said that it belonged to their deceased grandmother. They didn’t want anything in the house and said that I could sell it with all the furnishings inside. It was rare that I even had clients willing to do this, so obviously I had questions.

“Gretchen, are you sure you don’t want anything from the house?” My words were nothing but sympathetic as I shoved the “FOR SALE” sign into the front yard.

Cool, blue eyes stared up at me before averting to the ground. “I appreciate the concern, but the rest of the family doesn’t want anything to do with this house, and neither do I.”

Curiosity swirled around in my head as I glanced up at her. Swiping the perspiration that began to bead just above my brow, I silently wondered why no one even wanted to step foot inside. Had her grandmother really been that horrible of a person?

“Has anyone come to grab any of her belongings, though? The furniture is fine to leave behind, but what about some of the more personal things?” I questioned.

Crossing her arms, Gretchen sort of shuffled in place before saying, “All of that has already been taken care of. We really just want this house off of our hands, and we heard that you’re pretty good at what you do.”

A small, understanding smile tugged at my lips. I wouldn’t push it any further. I'm sure they had a reason for wanting to get rid of it, and the last thing I was going to do was pry. I was a realtor after all, not a therapist.

“I’ll get it sold.” Reaching out a hand, I shook hers and offered a few words of reassurance before going about my way.

That night when I came home, I kicked my heels off at the front door, tossed my blazer on the couch and listed the Lakins house as I sat down at my kitchen table and ate dinner. The only thing that I knew about the woman that owned the house was that she lived alone for about a year after her husband passed, and that none of her family wanted anything to do with her. For some reason, a part of me felt bad for her.

Looking around my own space, I couldn’t help but contemplate what would happen with all of my things if I passed. I lived alone and my parents were out of state. I visited them a couple of times a year around the holidays, but besides that, I didn’t have a husband or children to pass anything on to. There was a freedom that came to living on your own, but everyone failed to mention that there was an overwhelming amount of loneliness that came with it too. I was successful, sure, but I didn’t have anyone to share it with, and some nights that was an unbearably empty feeling.

Being in my mid twenties, it should have been easy for me to find someone to fill that void, but these days, it was much harder than I’d even anticipated. I’d tried dating sites, but I wasn’t half as good at “listing myself” as I was at listing houses. Cracking open my fridge, I pulled out my favorite cheap wine and poured myself a glass.

As I lay in bed, I couldn’t help but look over at the empty spot next to me. My hand stretched out and brushed over the spot, the fabric cool and smooth against my touch. Sleep didn’t come easy that night, but then again, it didn’t most nights.

When I awoke the next morning, I shoved my feelings aside and got straight to work. Despite the strange circumstances surrounding the Lakins house, I was sure that this would be an easy sell. I wouldn’t have to deal with coordinating with the homeowner to see when they could leave for 30 minutes to an hour so that I could show the house, and from what it looked like on the outside, I didn’t think the house would need any kind of renovations. This sale should have been a piece of cake, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. Hindsight is indeed 20/20.

The second I received the key to the house, I was more than excited to see what the inside looked like. If it appeared as good as the outside, I was really in business with this property! When the key finally twisted and the door unlatched, I stepped inside and was instantly confused. Whipping out my phone, I looked back at the seller’s texts just to make sure I hadn’t misunderstood anything. Sure enough, the proof I’d been searching for was staring back at me on my phone screen.

This place was supposed to be fully furnished. Instead, it was completely empty? Shrugging it off for the moment, I decided to give the house a walk around. Everything was surprisingly up to date and looked to be in good working condition. Whether it really was, would be up to the home inspector though.

The light clicking of my heels on the hardwood reverberated all around the empty rooms as I roamed to and fro between each one. The kitchen was spacious, everything that a young family might be looking for - gorgeous granite countertops, a sizable pantry, double ovens, a large, stainless steel refrigerator and various other appliances. Before I got a chance to really explore the rest of the rooms though, my phone rang. It wasn’t a number I recognized, but then again, I didn’t think much of it. I was a realtor after all, I had new clients reaching out to me every day.

“Hey, this is Eleanor.” Holding the phone up to my ear, I waited to hear a response.

“Hello?” Pulling the phone away from my ear for a second, I glanced at the number and then quickly put it back up to my ear when I heard a crackle of static and then… humming?

Whoever was on the other end of the line was humming some kind of strange little song. I didn’t have time for this. I still had two other houses that needed to be shown, a box of cookies to drop off and some paperwork that had to be signed. Hanging up the phone, I shoved it into my pocket before glancing around the space one last time and leaving.

When the last paper was signed for the day, I reclined back in my office chair and looked at the clock with a breath of relief. Switching on the lamp in the office, I straightened up my desk a little bit and dumped the papers that I didn’t need into the shred box. Glancing out the window, I watched as black, fuzzy moths circled the little lanterns just outside the real estate office, all of them bathing in its warm hazy glow.

Darkness was beginning to envelop the parking lot, and it had been one heck of a busy day. One of the hardest parts of being a realtor was juggling everything. The first thing I wanted to do when I left that night was to grab some Chinese takeout, take a bubble bath and binge watch some American Horror Story.

Grabbing my blazer off of the back of my chair, I snatched my purse and headed out to my car. I was more than pleased that everything ran so smoothly, and that I was able to get everything done. My showings went great and I already had an offer on both of those houses. I was sure those deals would be closed in no time. Both couples were already pre-approved for the loan amount, and the ones that wanted the first house I showed settled on paying the closing costs. It had been a productive day. That was, until I realized that in my hurry to get everything done, I’d taken that call and forgotten to lock up the Lakins home.

The minute my car pulled into the driveway, I threw it in park and raced up to the door with the lockbox in hand. The second my eyes landed on the door though, I stopped dead in my tracks. The lockbox fell from my grasp and my hand rummaged through my purse for my taser. The door was slightly ajar, and the same humming I’d heard from that strange phone call could be heard from within the confines of the house. I really did not have time for this.

Cautiously, I used the pointed toe of my heel to slowly kick the door the rest of the way open. The humming I’d heard from before grew deathly silent. There was a strange sense of tension that seemed to be filling the air, almost like a feeling of dread.

With a quick glance behind me, I surveyed my surroundings for a moment. The sprinkler in the neighbor’s yard was still spitting water, the sound of its spray hitting the sidewalk every time it turned towards the right. The leaves on the oak tree swished and swayed as a slight breeze drifted through them, the sound unnervingly eerie. Right next to me, the little white porch swing screeched on its old rusted hinges, the sound a bit forlorn and sad? The whole atmosphere of this place had shifted since I’d seen it in the daytime. Now, it was unsettling.

When I finally turned and stepped back into the house, I couldn’t help but notice just how much it had changed. It didn’t look like a house at all. It was as if it morphed into something else entirely. My hand fumbled for the door knob, and as I did so, my heart started to race when I realized it wasn’t there. In fact, when I turned around, all evidence of a door was gone. Like it had completely vanished.

Fear began to build deep within me, taking root and spreading throughout my body until it took all I had not to panic. Something about the space was oddly familiar to me. Almost as if I’d seen it before. Except it was different? Diff... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14kdrbx/i_used_to_be_a_real_estate_agent_after_trying_to/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/PageTurner627 on 2023-06-27 12:09:47+00:00. *** Part 1

Part 2

June 19, 2021

The entity's laughter faded as it began to pace around the room, slowly, deliberately, like a wild animal sizing up its territory. It moved with a disjointed grace, limbs twisting and contorting independently. Yet its gaze, filled with a primal and animalistic intelligence, never strayed from us. An eerie sense of foreboding settled over me as I stared into the depths of its eyes.

Becca looked stunned. "It has their voices," she murmured, her voice echoing horror. "How can it have their voices?"

I was too shocked to respond, grappling with the surreal reality of a creature physically before me. It felt like discovering the monster under my bed was real after all. Before eyes was an Ijiraq.

The huskies suddenly lunged forward, their growls escalating into feral snarls in a brave attempt to protect us. Their bravery snapped me out of my shock. The creature jerked its head towards the dogs, its form morphing into a giant wolf, mouth gaping, sharp fangs glistening.

“No!” I yelled out.

Instinctively, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the knife I'd picked up at Katak's home. The blade was cool to the touch, the intricate symbols carved into the handle pressing into my palm.

The room was still for a moment as the entity stared at me. Behind me, I could hear Becca's soft footsteps, her breaths drawn in quiet, controlled patterns. She was inching toward her pack, painstakingly slow to avoid drawing attention. The floorboards creaked under her weight.

My heart pounded in my chest, every thump echoing through my body, a constant reminder of the danger we were in. Regardless, I remained rooted to the spot, my eyes locked on the Ijiraq. Its form continued to shift, solidifying into something more threatening. It resembled a fearsome beast now, more bear than human, the antlers of a caribou replacing the straight black hair. It seemed to be preparing itself for a confrontation.

Becca reached her pack, her movements almost soundless. She rummaged inside for a brief moment before her fingers closed around the stock of her Sako 85, a rugged bolt-action rifle she had packed as protection against polar bears.

The Ijiraq was becoming increasingly agitated. Its form started convulsing, as if it was trying to contain an inner tempest. Its movements became more violent, the antlers slamming against the wooden beams, a gruesome display of power and aggression.

Becca was now on her feet, rifle in hand. She moved swiftly and deftly, her eyes burning with cold determination, as though the dying cries of her colleagues had ignited a fury within her.

As the creature turned towards her, she fired at it point-blank, the sound of the shot ringing through the cabin. The bullet tore through the its nebulous form, ripping a solid chunk of flesh from the transient layer of smoke and ice. A gut-wrenching howl filled the room.

The Ijiraq recoiled, its form flickering wildly between various shapes - human, animal, monster - each more horrifying than the last. Its body was writhing and shifting more wildly than ever.

As it staggered back, a viscous, dark fluid began to ooze from its wound. The smell was overpowering, far worse than the gas. It was a nauseating mixture of sulfur and rot, a stench so potent that it made my eyes water and my stomach churn.

As the creature writhed in pain, its haunting howls transformed into the anguished cries. In its agony, it went into a frenzy, thrashing around the room, its form undulating and changing rapidly.

Becca worked quickly to chamber another round, but the creature's frenzied movements made it difficult to get a clear shot. As she lined up her aim, the creature lunged towards her, its claws outstretched and its eyes fixed on her.

"Becca, watch out!" I shouted. Acting on instinct, I pushed her out of the way. We both tumbled to the ground as the creature’s claws sliced into my parka, narrowly missing my skin. Its momentum carried it into the wall of the cabin. The impact shook the entire cabin, dislodging several wooden planks from the wall. The Ijiraq howled in frustration and pain, shards of wood protruding from its body.

“Go!” I urged Becca. “Get the dogs and get out now!”

She nodded, scrambling towards the dogs who were barking and whining in distress. Becca hurriedly gathered them, leading them toward the door.

I turned back to face the entity. Its form was slowly solidifying, and its blackened eyes were fixed on me. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, I grabbed a portable kerosene heater nearby. It was a hefty device, radiating a comforting warmth that felt out of place in this nightmarish situation. I hoisted it, feeling the fuel sloshing inside.

“Noah! We gotta go now!” Becca shouted from the door.

I waited for a split second, watching as the Ijiraq began to approach. As it charged at me, I hurled the heater with all the force I could muster. The kerosene heater spiraled through the air, colliding with the creature.

The cabin was instantly bathed in the terrifying light of a fireball. The entity let out a horrifying shriek that echoed through the cabin. I bolted towards the sled without a second glance.

As Becca and I made our escape, the fire quickly spread to the nearby wooden structures, turning the village into an inferno.

—

Our sled slid smoothly over the icy terrain, pushed by the hardy dogs, carrying us farther and farther from the village. The roaring wind cut through us, and the snow, stirred into a whirlwind by the storm, reduced visibility to near zero. As we moved further away, the light from the raging fire grew fainter, swallowed by the unrelenting white.

We continued on, in the general direction of Outpost Aurora. Our primary concern was putting distance between us and the creature rather than reaching our destination. With the light fading behind us and the storm intensifying, we knew we needed to find shelter soon. We were in the heart of the tundra, a vast, flat, treeless plain. Seeking refuge in this desolate expanse was no simple task, but we were fortunate enough to stumble upon a formation of ice and snow that provided a modicum of shelter from the piercing winds.

We set to work building an impromptu snow shelter, scooping and packing the snow to form a protective barrier against the wind. Once we'd made a space that was small but secure, we settled in.

Our breath fogged up in the confined space, but it was better than being exposed to the elements.

"We need a fire," Becca said, her teeth chattering as she spoke.

I nodded, fumbling with the waterproof matches we had in our pack. The wood we'd managed to gather was scant and frozen, but soon, a feeble fire was flickering between us, providing some warmth and more importantly, a psychological comfort.

From our shelter, we could see the faint orange glow of the burning village in the distance. It was a haunting sight, the ghostly illumination a grim reminder of what we'd left behind.

We hardly said a word to each other, the weight of our recent encounter hanging in the air. I felt a need to say something, but wasn't ready to discuss the terrifying implications of what we'd faced. Instead, I asked, "Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"

Becca stared into the fire, her gaze distant. "My dad used to take me and my brothers hunting when we were kids. We grew up in Newfoundland. Every season, without fail, we'd load the pickup and head up to the Northern Peninsula."

"What’d you hunt?" I asked.

"Mostly small game, like snowshoe hares and grouse, but also the occasional moose," she said, absentmindedly.

“Wow, sounds like a lot of fun,” I said.

"It was. It was the highlight of my childhood…” Becca said, her voice devoid of joy. “Until my youngest brother Chris got lost."

Her somber blue eyes were lit up by the fire. "I was the oldest. I was supposed to be watching him," Becca confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "And I was. But I got distracted for just a moment. That's all it took."

“Becca…” I began.

"We found him a day later, but... it was too late. He had died of exposure," Becca's voice faltered slightly. The weight of her guilt filled the small space between us.

“I’m so sorry…” I started saying.

She could see how comfortable the conversation was making both of us feel. "Hey, so anyway, that was a hell of a throw back there," Becca complimented me, changing the subject, her demeanor changing as well.

I smiled faintly and shrugged, "I used to play baseball in high school."

"Oh, Really?" She asked, her brows lifting above her frosty eyelashes. “You must have been the MVP.”

"I mostly just kept the bench warm," I confessed, feeling a pang of the old, familiar embarrassment.

"Well, it was their loss," Becca replied, her voice steady, sincere. The compliment warmed me more than the fire.

I just gave her a nod. We were both too tired to talk, and it seemed like a positive note to end on. There was a silence between us, filled only by the soft crackling of the fire and the low growl of the storm outside. We were both lost in our own thoughts, our own memories. Tonight had unearthed ghosts we'd rather leave buried. But we weren't alone in the storm, in the middle of nowhere. We had each other, and for now, that was enough.

... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14kbzs2/im_an_arctic_researcher_we_accidentally_released/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/KingPaimon23 on 2023-06-27 11:38:18+00:00. *** It felt like a dream. A sponsorship to go to Argentina to investigate a famous legend from the region. I've loved camping since I was a kid, and my group of friends is bonded by this common passion. We always spent out of our own pockets to visit new places; so, knowing that we would be paid to camp, film, and get to know a region where few people have ever set foot in all of human history (avoided even by the indigenous people nearby) seemed like the perfect adventure; added to the fact that we would earn money, and even fame depending on the result of the footage.

The documentary was about “The Legend of the Entrance to Hell", which said that, at dusk, screams echoed in the forest, with no apparent source. Moved by the thirst for adventure, we headed into the forest, hundreds of miles away from civilization. We knew about the history of deaths in that place, but we reasoned that "people die climbing Everest too, any inhospitable place has its dangers, they must have died for not taking care of themselves in the forest". We thought that there would be a plausible explanation for the screams that start every night, such as an indigenous tribe, some unknown animal (birds, for example, scream and talk, there is the case of the crow that screamed "help me" from above the trees every time time it saw a human) or even something related to the flora (some hallucinogen exhaled by plants, or simply the way the wind hit certain leaves). Our theories occupied dozens of hours in the dialogues prior to the trip, we even made a bet to see who would guess the source of the inexplicable screams.

A dream in the image formed by our mind, but reality, this word so cruel that most people try to escape, always pulls the rug from our feet. There were several signs that we would enter a surreal and bizarre nightmare, the warnings grew as we approached the destination. But admitting we're wrong? It's never easy, is it? Even with everyone screaming that we should go back.

In the first week, light screams surrounded us. We went out and tried to investigate, but found nothing. The ambient sound was constant but unreachable. The origin remained a mystery no matter how hard we looked. We walked intermittently for five nights, at sunrise the screams disappeared and we went to sleep, disappointed. We didn't find any explanation that could rationalize what happened in that forest.

From the second week, the screams intensified along with the inexplicable, and the horror. One by one, our expedition members slowly went mad. First, Gabriel started talking gibberish. We laughed, thinking he was making fun of us, until, on a walk to get supplies, he threw himself off a hill, all the while smiling and babbling nonsense. He died instantly from the fall, skull split open from hitting a rock. After this event, we decided to go home, so we limited our departures at night, we only left the tent if necessary.

Until Fabio disappeared. We looked for him over the next few days, but not only did we get nothing, more people started disappearing. Antony and Pamela were “swallowed” by the forest. Everyone entered their respective tents at dusk, and when dawn came, the two were no longer there. Our hope that their fate would not be the same as Gabriel's was short-lived. Antony and Pâmela were found three days later on the riverbank, almost unrecognizable, skin chewed by fish.

But worst of all was Marcel. That same night we woke up to screams:

• I CAN SEE! EVERYTHING IS CLEAR NOW! I DON'T NEED THIS ANYMORE!

As we left the tent, Marcel was pushing his fingers into his eyes, trying to pull the eyeballs out. The soft sound of the organs detaching from the face echoed in the silence of the early night, which strangely did not manifest the routine screams, as if the voices were momentarily satisfied. He didn't show pain with the bizarre gesture; instead, he was smiling maniacally, as if he achieved enlightenment and embraced absolute happiness. He threw both eyes to the ground and ran into the complete darkness of the forest, robotic and quick steps.

We didn't go after him; we knew we'd go insane too if we stayed too long in the forest. At sunrise, a few meters from the camp, we found the body, probably dead of hemorrhage from the self- laceration, after bleeding for hours without medical care. The same haunting smile still populated his face; at least he must not have suffered, insanity had taken away the notion of pain and self-preservation.

Of the 7 people who came on the expedition, only Nicole and I were left. We decided to leave, even though one of our friends was still missing. We walked all day, and at night we locked ourselves in the tent, with screams coming from the forest flooding the place. On this night, beyond the sounds, static figures surrounded us, watching silently. I unzipped the tent, there was no one out there. I closed it quickly, that canvas barrier was apparently helping us stay sane.

Lying in the tent, tired from the intense walk carrying weight all day, I tried to fall asleep, but the constant noise made this task difficult. The grotesque images of my dead friends replayed endlessly in my mind, along with the memories of the conversations with the void they had just before they killed themselves. It seems that they made sense of the shouts, as if they were friendly words.

The cacophony of screams and whispers was louder than usual, until, suddenly, the screams stopped and the figures disappeared. The uncharacteristic silence sent a chill down my spine with the fear that something even worse was going to happen.

Before long, we heard footsteps approaching us, and stopping beside the zippered entrance. A calm and friendly voice spoke to us:

• Sara! Nicole! Come here with me, I figured out how to get out of the forest!

• If you found out, tell us, we´ll not lea…

I covered Nicole's mouth, and held up my finger, motioning for silence.

• Hey! I know you two are listening to me, are you really going to ignore me? Good friends, huh... It's cold out here, open that tent.

The figure continued talking to us for minutes, always friendly, trying to convince us to go outside. Nicole relented:

• Go away, if you want to talk, wait for dawn.

I slapped her arm.

• Stop answering! You know Fabio is dead. That's how everyone went crazy, they were talking to the entity, and suddenly they started to hallucinate.

• How can you be sure he's dead? He may have gotten lost and found his way back just now. HEY! HOW DID YOU SURVIVE FOR A WEEK? WHAT HAPPENED?

• I... I lost consciousness for a day, when I recovered I was far from the camp. I fed on fruits and walked here, I finally managed to reach you. I'm starving, don't you have something for me to eat?

She paused, thoughtful. Her expression was strange, not blinking as the irises jumped quickly from side to side.

• We have fruits. I´ll hand it to you.

Nicole got up to unzip the tent, padlock on the inside. I tried to hold her, but she pushed me away and walked outside. She's always had a crush on Fabio, but I didn't think she would be affected that way after everything we've seen these past few weeks. As soon as I got up, I zipped the tent up, not looking out into the dark jungle. I heard her walk and talk to the void, with no response.

-HEY, STOP MESSING AROUND! WHERE DID YOU GO?

After a few minutes, I saw her shadow kneel down. She would pause for a few seconds, as if she was getting answers, but I could only hear her talking to herself.

• Over there?

...

• Like this?

...

• After that I´ll be free?

...

• OK.

I watched as Nicole's shadow broke branches off a tree, then slammed one of them into its own belly, howling in pain. Desperate, I unzipped the tent and went to her, but It was too late. She pulled the branch out of her belly, and her insides flooded the ground. Then she impaled herself a second time, with humanly impossible strength, even more so with the wound she had. This time, though, she didn't scream. Silently, she turned her head in my direction, a smile plastered on her face. The bared teeth were stained red, the blood running down the chin indicated the fatality of the wounds. She moved her mouth: though no sound came out, I could read her lips:

• It's easy, come with me.

I locked myself in the tent again, terrified. There was nothing I could do, I was alone. I heard footsteps around me, and the voices of my departed friends called me in sweet, inviting tones:

• Saraaaa , Saraaaaaaaaa!

My teeth were constantly trembling, I closed my eyes and tried to think of other things, I imagined how good it would be to meet my family again, I went over the plot of some movies in my head; trying to disassociate myself from the situation around me, just "protected" by the wall of the tent.

• Help me, Sara. It hurts. Don't let me die in this place. Please...

Nicole's voice was one of sadness and pain. I didn't answer, I tried to get my mind out of there as much as I could.

• Remember when we were kids, and we were playing together on that playground, and I tripped, turning my foot? You practically carried me in your arms, even though you were super skinny. You said you would always take care of me. Help me Sara, I need you.

This went on for the whole night. I managed to resist, and walked home at dawn: even though I was exhausted, adrenaline is a hell of an injection. In the following dawns, the same scenario repeated:

-Sara, hey, Saraaa! Come here with us, I k... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14kbb2v/there_is_a_legend_about_the_entrance_of_hell_dont/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Green-Fish4742 on 2023-06-27 11:18:19+00:00. *** The scent of stale coffee and worn-out carpet mingled in the cold, fluorescent glow of the call center. There was something oppressive about the place in the middle of the night, a sort of unnatural silence that made the hum of computers and clack of keys seem magnified.

Suddenly, the monotony was interrupted by a bright, flashing 'Unknown' on my screen. A sigh escaped my lips. I reached for my headset.

"Tech Support, how can I assist you?" I asked, my voice slicing through the static-filled silence.

The man's voice that emerged was slow, careful. "Your third workstation from the left, does the 'W' key on the keyboard stick?"

My breath hitched. The workstation he referred to was currently empty. How could he know that? His voice continued, a stream of predictions flowing through the receiver, sending a chill down my spine.

"The server's going to crash tonight. And Sarah, the one with the blue-rimmed glasses, she's going to have a panic attack. Just watch."

Suddenly, the call was dead. I hung up, a cold feeling of dread coiling in my stomach. The office, previously mundane, felt like it was spiraling into an eerie nightmare. And when the server did crash that night, and Sarah did have her panic attack, my fears were confirmed.

From then on, my nights were haunted by the same routine - the call, the predictions, the helpless dread as the events unfolded with disturbing accuracy. Even as my own fear grew, I found myself inexplicably drawn to the uncanny, cryptic prophesies.

One particular evening, as I settled into my cubicle, the familiar dread washed over me as the 'Unknown' number flashed on my screen.

“Let me guess, another disaster waiting to happen?" I muttered into the microphone.

"Third cubicle in the last row, a drawer full of unauthorized company data. Tomorrow, she gets fired.”

My heart pounded. Lisa, the cheery girl who sat there, couldn't possibly be involved in anything like this. But the haunting accuracy of the past predictions left me on edge.

“Who are you?” I finally asked. The line went dead immediately, a chill running down my spine. The uncanny predictions had transformed the once mundane office into a stage for a horrifying drama.

My worst fears were confirmed when Lisa was fired the next day. The implications were terrifying - the mysterious caller seemed to have an omnipresent view of our lives. But I was determined to unravel the mystery, and confided in my friend Mark, a tech whizz.

The number traced back to an old company phone, registered to a guy named Brian. I vaguely remembered stories about Brian - a hard worker who had taken his own life. It was chilling, surreal. The office, once just a workplace, was morphing into something far more sinister.

One late night, my screen lit up again, the 'Unknown' flashing ominously.

“There’s a fire, a big one. Three people won’t make it out.”

The prediction was terrifying. Lives were at stake now. I had to act fast. I convinced Mark to stage a fake bomb threat. The evacuation worked, and the fire did break out. We had saved everyone, but the terror was far from over.

In the aftermath, I connected the pieces. The unknown caller was Brian, trapped in an afterlife of reliving the worst moments of his life, trying to break the cycle.

"Find my note, it’s...hidden..." Brian's voice crackled over the line before it went dead.

With Mark's help, I found a suicide letter in Brian's old cubicle, a grim confession that shed light on the darker aspects of our industry. I shared his story

In the weeks following Brian's last call, our call center started to shape up. We cut back on work hours, brought in counselors, and set up a hotline for anonymous complaints. It felt like we were on the right track, turning this haunted workspace into something healthy. Each new improvement made me proud, and I was optimistic, feeling like we had truly made a difference.

But each night, I couldn't shake the nagging feeling that the 'Unknown' caller might strike again. The ominous predictions had stopped, but in their place was a haunting silence that was almost as unsettling. Then, one night, my screen lit up again with that familiar, eerie 'Unknown' ID. Was Brian back?

My hands were shaking as I picked up. "Thank you," came the voice on the other end, sounding calm, maybe even at peace. "You've changed things. You've broken the cycle." And then the call ended, leaving me alone in the silent office.

After that, the calls completely stopped. The dread that used to keep me on edge was replaced by an uneasy calm. I continued working, relieved but puzzled. We had given Brian some kind of peace, something he hadn't been able to find in life.

Weeks turned into months, and life went on. The office started to feel less like a haunted house and more like a regular workplace. We had gone through a weird crisis together, and now we were working as a team to make our office a better place.

But then, on a cold winter night, just as I was about to head home, my phone lit up. The caller ID read 'Unknown.' My heart started pounding as I answered.

"I'm sorry," said a voice I didn't recognize, filled with fear. "The cycle...it's starting again."

Then the call ended, leaving me alone in the office, the silence echoing around me. Staring at the screen, a terrifying thought hit me. We had stopped one caller, but how many more were out there, desperate to reach out to us?

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/haroldkebba on 2023-06-27 11:16:10+00:00. *** [Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]

This is the last part of Ilya's notes, but it's also the final message from me. People have started disappearing around the village, and we are going to move once more. It's just too dangerous here. I'm filled with fear, terrified of the things that are closing in on us. I've witnessed the eerie shapes in the fog, and I've heard their haunting whispers. This is the last part:

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Sasha's small room was brightly lit. He sat on a stool, holding a half-full bottle of vodka in his hand, grinning foolishly. When I entered the room, he pointed to a glass on the table in front of him.

"There, Illya, there! Drink! Drink! Drink with me!"

"What's wrong, Sasha? Why are you so happy?" I asked.

I wasn't entirely comfortable seeing him like this, but I still felt sick, and my nose hurt.

"So, did Mary find you? I... I think I love her... Ilya... I..."

He sighed, put the bottle to his lips, and took a big swig. When he held the bottle out to me, I hesitated for a moment, but then I gratefully took it and let the strong drink flow down my throat. It burned a little, but at least it numbed my other aches and pains.

"You love her? Are you sure? She doesn't trust God," I remarked.

"Yeeees, yes she does. She assured me she did. Didn’t she... Hehe... Since I've been back, since I've been back... She's always been with me, nurturing me. Such a good soul. You just have to get to know her better. And persistent she is as well, if you know what I mean... What a catch... And such a beauty…"

He hiccupped and smiled even wider.

"Sasha, I had a little disagreement with her, gave her a hard time..."

His expression darkened.

"Don't worry, I didn't hurt her!" I reassured hastily.

"Well, if you say so, I believe you. You're the more God-fearing of the two of us. You wouldn't hurt a fly, would you? Neither would I. Did she hit you back, and that's why you look like that?"

Sasha regained his composure and now laughed at my bloody nose.

"No, my father. He was there. We were all confused because..."

I fell silent. Could I tell him? He had already been so affected. But I had to tell him.

"The Popovs have been taken by the... things."

My words hung uncomfortably in the room. Sasha took another swig and slammed the bottle down on the table. Even the vodka couldn't calm him down.

"It just can't be. Why won't they leave us alone? We haven't done anything!"

"Maybe that's why..." I said thoughtfully.

"Yes, maybe that's why. But I don't want to talk about it, not now that I've finally gotten closer to Mary..."

Again, we fell silent. It was uncomfortable for me, especially after what had happened earlier. I didn't want to tell Sasha about that room, nor about the gruesome lump under the window.

"Ilya..." Sasha suddenly said, carefully.

He smiled a little, looked into my eyes, and made sure that I was listening attentively.

"Ilya, I think... I think there's a piece of God around here, close to the village..."

What? What did he just say? A piece of God? What did he mean?

"What do you mean by that?"

"Just a feeling. I've had it for a while, but couldn't place it. Maybe that's why the demons are here, looking for it. Looking for the piece of the Lord that's somewhere here... Looking... for it..."

That was the last thing Sasha said that day before the alcohol sent him into a deep sleep. I didn't stay with him much longer and soon got up, staggering home through the muddy streets. As I fell into my bed, half-drunk, the world swirling around me, I couldn't help but think of the Lord. And of Mary.

Why was she allowed to act on her unholy thoughts? To pretend and subvert our faith? Why didn't she just disappear, move away? She should have gone to the cities. I heard there were many unbelievers there. Or people who worshipped other gods. Human, false gods. Why didn't she leave? Surely, she could go with one of the vans that picked up our grain and took it to the cities? I prayed to the Lord for help, for solace, for guidance.

Now she was Sasha's girlfriend; she would stay here...

Maybe Sasha could convert her. Show her that the Lord was true and great. Surely, she could be saved. I had to believe it, and then it would happen. My faith was strong, after all.

Slowly, I slipped into confused dreams. I ran through the woods, which seemed strange and distant, saw the demons, and was chased by them...

The next morning, there was a knock at the door. It was Sunday, so for once, I didn't have to go to the field or the carpenter's workshop. I could focus on our own garden and mow the grass. I had wanted to work in the garden with Zarina to distract her from things for a while now, but the pounding on our door disrupted those plans.

Outside stood Sasha, cheerful, unusually cheerful, grinning at me.

"Ilya, come on, I know now," he said excitedly.

"What's going on?" called my mother, who had just come out of my parents' bedroom.

"Nothing, Sasha is here," I shouted.

"What do you know... now?" I asked my friend, eager to find out more.

Sasha whispered enthusiastically, ensuring only I could hear him, "I know where the feeling comes from. I know where God is. He is near. Let's go there! Come on, let's find Him!"

A thousand thoughts rushed through my head. Had my prayers been answered? Had the Lord come to us? Was Sasha right? I needed to find out.

The peace in Sasha's eyes fueled my eagerness.

"Let's go!" I exclaimed excitedly.

After bidding a brief farewell to my parents, we sprinted off, Sasha leading the way and me following closely behind. Our path took us through the village, over the dusty road, and finally into the forest. Despite the pain in my side and the branches slapping my face, the fresh scent of nature inspired me. Soon, we pushed through some bushes and arrived at a clearing. Sasha stopped, laughing, and took a deep breath.

At first, I couldn't spot anything unusual. We used to play here often when we were younger. The ground was sandy, and the roots of nearby trees sprawled across the clearing, requiring caution to avoid tripping. Everything appeared as it had before, but then... a sense of unease welled up in my heart. Something was amiss. Something was terribly wrong...

Then, not far from a fallen tree, I saw it—a hole in the ground. There was no doubt that the unsettling feeling emanated from that small patch of darkness before me.

The hole wasn't particularly wide, perhaps about the size of five thumbs in diameter, but after only a few inches, darkness and blackness consumed its interior. It didn't descend into the earth at an angle but dropped steeply downward. I didn't know what to make of it, but it frightened me. Merely gazing at it was challenging, and I didn't dare approach any closer. There it was, nestled in the sand, not far from the roots and the fallen tree, inconspicuous yet captivating once noticed.

The hole seemed to absorb its surroundings and draw one's gaze.

"Come. Come closer, do you see it?" Sasha asked me, his eyes uncomfortably fixed on the hole, accompanied by a smile.

"Isn't it beautiful?"

I was at a loss for words. This wretched hole in the ground was the most unsettling thing I had ever encountered. How could Sasha speak of beauty? How could he refer to this gateway to an eternal abyss, this ghastly entrance, as beautiful? How could he claim that a fragment of the almighty Lord resided there? It felt like blasphemy!

Sasha slowly approached the hole, eventually kneeling before it. An overwhelming fear gripped me, fearing that he would somehow tumble in, even though it was far too small for that. I dreaded that hands and claws would emerge, snatching him away...

"Come, come closer..." Sasha murmured once again, his gaze dreamy.

"I felt... this! Yesterday. This was it. This is the fragment of God I was referring to. It's really here! The Lord is with us, Ilya!"

Could he be right? Had he truly discovered a piece of heaven? It appeared so malevolent, so dark. But perhaps I was mistaken. I could at least take a closer look.

As I cautiously approached, I noticed an indescribable panic growing within me with each step. It was as if my subconscious was pulling me away from this small hole, as if something inside me warned of the horrors lurking deep below. Gasping for air, I broke into a cold sweat—the sweat of fear. Trembling, I couldn't remain standing and sat down, keeping a distance of around three meters.

Was I unworthy? Had my dark thoughts, which persistently surfaced, angered the Lord, and was He keeping me away from His radiant splendor emanating from that black and chilling ground over there? Sasha remained unaffected. On the contrary, he appeared content and joyful, squatting there and gazing downward as though he could behold paradise itself.

"I'm sorry, I'm just... exhausted. Maybe I'm still feeling the effects of the vodka. I sincerely apologize," I explained.

Sasha looked disappointed but understanding.

"Alright. I understand, but it's so wonderful. Perhaps tomorrow...?"

*"Yes, maybe tomorro... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14kaumw/i_think_my_village_was_haunted_by_god_part_4_final/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/BarneyDoesMeth on 2023-06-27 06:47:50+00:00. *** Hello all, my name is Mark. A couple of days ago, I met the one and TRUE god. Why am I writing this now instead of as soon as I got back. Well, his very presence was enough to overload my brain with info.

Now don’t get it twisted, seeing him will fill up the 2.5 petabytes of storage your brain has and for the rest of your life you will be in the late Alzheimer’s stages. I’m currently writing this in the last few moments of my actual consciousness.

How did all of this happen? A few days ago, I was sleeping at night after a long day at the office. The first part of my dream was a vague battle of superhero’s and villains which is perfect for my life of mundanity……until He showed up. He randomly appeared through a portal and interacted with me.

“Hello, you have been selected to meet the Paragon.”

As he is taking to me who is bewildered, the supervillain is question attacked the “Paragon”. During his futile attempt, the Paragon and him came into contact. After that he just disintegrated, and then the surrounding area disintegrated until the whole city we were in was gone.

In my dream I passed out and when I woke up I found myself between Mars and Venus. But suddenly I began to…..fly. I flew out of the solar system, and I kept going. Beyond the galaxies, the universes, the multiverses, the hyper verses, even the outer verses. Eventually I was in a black void for what must have felt like years before I popped out to meet the Paragon in another dimension.

P: “Hello Mark, you are now perceiving the Paragon”

M: “But how are you God if your the Paragon?”

P: “I am the true gods successor”

“Originally I was a human, born of earth, to a civilization that was older than life itself.”

“Since we were the first trace of order in everything that has ever existed, we knew about God”

“Our people worshipped him, and he benefited us with enhanced characteristics.”

“Over time, God told us he was bored. That he hated being God because everything was too easy and weak.”

“So he cut us a deal, anyone who could stand up to the challenge, would inherit the true power of God”

M: “What the fuck?!?!”

P: “So I was the one to become God”

“But at the very last moment, as God bombarded me with his powers and memories. The same meteor the killed what you mortals say are the dinosaurs, hit the Yucatán peninsula and flooded the world with its fiery hellstorm.”

I tried to save us, but I wasn’t used to having THIS much power. So everyone died, including the old god.

“He gave me his memories as stated previously, but he showed me his final memory first”

G:

“Hello inheritor, if your hearing this….I’m dead. After the creation and destruction of everything an infinite amount of times. Existence becomes boring”

“But since in God, I can’t die. So I’m creating the Drip, a sub dimension that will erase my physical and mental state so that I will flow into everything and become history as my perception fades. I trust you to use my power to your own liking.”

M “wait a minute, where are we now?”

P “here’s the bombshell, it’s the notes”

M “what do you mean?”

P “Listen Mark, this isn’t real. You are currently being written in a story. The place we are is the notes app where the Writer is writing other stories.”

“The black water below is all of those stories and infinite amount of times, but it’s also the black background of the notes app”

“The Writer writes his stories roughly in the notes app and then publishes them to the general public”

“To wrap your head around this, imagine every drop of water in this infinite black sea is an infinite amount of stories in an infinite space that happened an infinite amount of times. As well as that every Planck volume the ocean is deep, is an infinite space where these infinite stories in an infinite space that happen for an infinite amount of time are infinitely stacked upon each other. Each of these Planck volume sized spaces to us will infinity transcend the one below it.”

“To put it simply, you and me have transcended all of this and are now above the concept of fiction”

“Meaning that I could reach out of the phone that this is being written on and shoot a laser through the Writers eye”

M: “If you are capable of all of this? I want to see how fast you are, for a god like yourself”

P “Very well Mark, wish granted.”

He quickly fell down into the black water if an infinite everything below and began to swim with each stroke being quicker than the last. I watched as he swam to the horizon and he left my line of sight. I though he was gone until I heard water moving behind me, that’s when I saw the Paragon swimming towards me from the opposite direction.

When he noticed me noticing him, he levitated back to me.

P: “Essentially, what I just did was swim through the infinite ocean of everything so fast that I looped absolute infinity.”

P “One final thing before we begin to wrap this up, I will leave you with one last idea of comprehension of the realm we are”

M: “Okay man.”

P “So imagine that the ocean below is an infinite piece of paper. For every Planck Volume sized piece of that paper, holds an infinite space an infinite amount of times, this infinity by infinity space holds everything that did happen, what should have happened, what didn’t happen, and what shouldn’t have happened and infinite amount of times. These events are constantly changing and looping an infinite amount of times as well. Now imagine that for every piece of an infinite sized piece of paper stacked on top of each other, the one on top infinitely transcend the one below it. Now imagine that these papers are infinitely stacked on top of each other. That’s essentially what this ocean is.”

At this point I was struggling to form thoughts in my head an an existential crisis flooded my body and drove me to insanity.

The Paragon must have seen me go insane before his eyes because he shot me down through a portal back to my point of origin.

The portal ride was no easier as I couldn’t begin to grasp what I saw. I saw unfamiliar shapes move in ways alien to human perception while these shapes were being basted in colors I hadn’t seen before.

Even though I just comprehended the incomprehensible, it was still easier on me than hearing about Gods ego death and how I’m a fictional character.

This is the end of the road for me, I can feel myself beginning to foam at the mouth.

Goodbye.

Wait what’s this? This isn’t Marks perspective yet we are flying back to the same dimension.

Hello reader, I just want to let you know. That somewhere as you’re reading this, a human is being contacted by the one, true god in his dreams and learning that he, you, and everything you knew or thought you knew was all merely…………….fiction.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/SwitchbladeLobotomy on 2023-06-27 05:50:48+00:00. *** 1

It’s been another couple days, now. Things have gotten worse, so I wanted to go ahead and keep a record, just in case.

Some of you mentioned calling for help. I did try, obviously. I tried as soon as the thing got close to my windows, but all I heard on the line was static. Not even a “line busy” tone, static. I can only assume this creature has something to do with this, but I obviously can’t say for certain. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me, though.

I sat in my house, trying as best I could to keep track of the thing as it lazily patrolled. Every once in a while, it would go back to the car and mutilate the bodies of my parents out there.

My mother had been drug back into view by noon of the same day she died, and the creature would occasionally go back to her, beating or slashing at her for a few minutes, before resuming its vigil at my windows.

The day passed without any further incident. I stayed up all night, slamming energy drinks and coffee I didn’t want to take my eyes off of the thing, as much as possible. The feeling seemed to be mutual, since whenever I moved around the house, it would follow me from window to window.

I was shaking, both from fear and caffeine. I knew this wasn’t sustainable, but what else could I do, really?

This cycle went on for a few days. By the time I posted last, it had been three days. Today is the end of the fifth. Today is the day someone finally came.

Around three in the afternoon, I heard footsteps approaching my front door. I got up from my seat at the kitchen table and ran to the door, panicking already. I tried to spot the creature, to no avail. Somehow, it had gotten away from me.

Knock, knock, knock.

Three firm, slow knocks. Then,

“Hi there! It’s Carl Schliff, the mailman? I noticed that your mailbox is pretty stuffed full… just wanted to come deliver today’s and make sure everything was alright!”

I was bewildered. Surely he’d seen the mess out front?

I peeked out the kitchen window and couldn’t believe it. The bodies were gone. The blood was gone. The car was still parked where it had been left, and now there was a postal truck next to it, but somehow this thing had completely rid the driveway of any sign of trouble.

“Uh… Hello? I see lights on, and I see the car in the driveway. Everyone ok in there?”

I shook my head and walked back to the door. “Listen, mister, you need to leave, ok? It’s not safe here.”

A sigh came from opposite me. “I’m calling the police, ma’am. I don’t know what you mean, but I’m not qualified to deal with whatever it is.”

Yeah, no kidding dude.

I heard him start trying to mess with his phone, but he seemed to run into the same problem I did.

“Listen, mister, you need to leave now, I don’t know where the thing went, but-”

“Ma’am, you’re not making any sense. As soon as I can get my phone working, I’m going to-”

About halfway through his sentence, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, coming around the side of the house.

The mailman’s sentence was cut off as I heard a loud THUD from outside. Something heavy hit the door, and I staggered backwards, tripping and landing on my ass. I pushed myself away from the door, as another loud THWACK came through. This one was more wet, sounded like someone smashing a watermelon.

Blood started to pool underneath the front door, slowly. I felt vomit rising in my throat again, and I turned away and threw up facing away from the door.

I stood, shakily, and tried to focus on anything but the slowly expanding crimson pool at my door. I looked out the front window, and saw the creature, impaling the mailman through his back with a spiked appendage.

I retched again as it walked over to the window, holding the body up to the glass. The man’s head was crushed, his face distorted and warped under the force of the blows. Blood soaked his light blue shirt, and a bag of mail hung weakly at his side, next to an arm that had likely tried to shield from a blow, considering how badly broken it was, with bones jutting out at all sorts of jagged angles.

The body gently bumped the glass. Then, again. A third time. The creature dropped it after that, smears of blood staining the window, painting the incoming light scarlet as it broke through.

I slumped against the far wall, feeling the sun beat down on me through the stained window. Temperatures had been in the high 90s all week. Normally, we could pop the windows and be fine. Now, though, that wasn’t an option. If that thing outside didn’t kill me, the heat might.

I don’t know what to do, really. Nobody else knows I’m out here, or that I’m by myself, or that I’m being stalked by this thing. Anyone who comes is just going to get killed by this thing too, and I don’t know if I can have that on my conscience.

I want to be safe. I want everyone else to be safe. But mostly, I just want this to be over.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Inevitable-Dare3568 on 2023-06-27 05:20:42+00:00. *** I've always had trouble sleeping, I tried every remedy and none of them really worked. After consulting my Therapist He recommended a sleep podcast that has done all his ex-patients wonders. He Flashed his Sharply white teeth that nearly illuminated his Black Tuxedo, He said to look up A podcast by the name of "As You Drift" Hosted by a charismatic narrator known by the name of Indy Davids.

Later that Night I went online and found the Podcast and It started Beautifully, I could hear crickets, a pond, and soothing music, a voice started to talk.

It was all the regular Sleep podcast things, "Let yourself feel one with the world" or "breath slowly at your own pace, I thought it was another failed Remedy at my sleepless nights, Until he told me to "let go."

I woke up 9 hours later and just in time for work feeling well rested for the first time in 20 years, It Was a Miracle! I couldn't believe that I drifted off just because of two simple words.

The rest of my day was business as usual, I got home and peeled off my shoes and hopped into bed being excited to go to sleep for the first time in so long.

I loaded up the episode I left it on and I must have slept through a good 3 episodes as I was already on episode 4, The same crickets chirped and the pond splashed with life, I heard Indy speak again..... but something was wrong, there was a voice behind his.

I chalked it up to being my phone Glitching again, $30 phones tend to do that but I can't complain. As I started to drift I heard him say "Get him, Now" And the crickets stopped chirping, The soothing music stopped as well and all I was left with was the creek flowing.

I heard what sounded like footsteps as I scrambled to pause the podcast. "What the fuck?!?" I screamed. Realizing it was very late I quickly shut up and rewound the podcast, There was The creek, The crickets, And the music.

The message that was left to me was Nowhere to be found, I must really be tired, Maybe it was a Nightmare. Whatever it was I had to ignore it, I have a busy day ahead of me.

I wake up as the Same time as yesterday, or at least I thought it was yesterday, because when I checked my phone it was 3 days later and I was starving, my mouth was dry and my neck was so sore. I had a total of 18 missed calls all from my work, threating to fire me if I didn't show up today and talking about how unprofessional this was.

Once I got to my work I tried to explain my story but no one would listen, They all acted like I was crazy and thought I was doing drugs because according to them I was, "Incredibly pale" I was forced to leave work early that day and they kept pushing me to go to a rehab even though I've never done drugs.

I went to bed as soon as I got home, I couldn't stand using my legs and my neck was throbbing, I couldn't breath easily and it felt as If I was buried under quicksand. I started drifting to sleep as my phone turned on, playing a familiar creek, crickets, and music.

I felt powerless to move, I fell asleep and began to experience nightmares, foreboding visions that echoed the fears of my day. I dreamt that thousands of cats were biting my neck with their sharp teeth biting through my veins, I couldn't scream.

I woke up immobilized, and I saw someone in the corner of my room. I was starving and blood was everywhere on my sheets. I ask the pitch black figure how long it's been and he holds up 8 fingers, flashing his bright white teeth, sharp edges emerged from the corners of his mouth, I couldn't tell if it was a smile or his teeth for a moment, until I saw the red wrapped around them.

He closed my blinds slowly and walked out fast enough for me not to notice anything besides his Black Tuxedo which of itself was very had to see. He started speaking to no one saying "make sure its 20 hours from now, I'm still hungry" he walked away as my phone came to life.

I heard the same voice from my phone, wrapped in whispers as it barely screeched out "you will start to feel heavy, your limbs will be stuck and you will feel as if your sinking, you are very tired"

The whispers grew louder, intertwining with the peaceful melodies and haunting my dreams. A growing sense of paranoia consumed mr as i wondered if my sleep was still my own, if this was a nightmare, or if this was really happening.

The line between reality and nightmare blurred, and I, who had once found solace in the sleep podcast now trembled at the mere act of listening. I was able to wake up enough to pause the podcast but can barely move, I'm typing this now with all my strength.

Please, do not let your mind Drift as mine has.

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Carbodex on 2023-06-27 05:19:15+00:00. *** Alright, so picture this. I used to work as a steward on the Titanic. Yeah, that Titanic, the grandest and most unsinkable ship that ever hit an iceberg. Now I'm an old geezer, living in this quiet, too-quiet town, and the Titanic's a century old memory. Except for me. For me, it's a 2:20 AM, every-night nightmare.

And no, before you start going off about haunting spirits and all that hogwash, let me be clear. I don't believe in ghosts. The terror I feel...it's not about that. It's about something far more human and far more real.

It started a month ago. I was lying in bed, right on the brink of sleep, when I heard it. A distant, melancholic melody. Now, you have to understand, I live in a place so remote, the only music I ever hear is the rustle of the wind and the occasional chirping of the crickets. So, hearing that melody, it instantly woke me up. I strained my ears, trying to catch the elusive tune, and my heart started to race, the rhythm familiar yet foreign. Then, it hit me - "Nearer, My God, to Thee". The same hymn the band played as the Titanic started its final descent into the icy abyss.

Every night, since then, at exactly 2:20 AM, I hear it. The spectral tune of the doomed, drifting into my bedroom. Uncanny, isn't it? But here's the thing: it's not just a tune. It's a vivid, gut-wrenching reminder of the events of that fateful night. I see it all, as if I'm back there, standing on the deck of the sinking ship, the icy Atlantic winds whipping my face, the screams of panic, the icy water lapping at my feet, the hollow despair. The melody is an echo of the past, my past.

At first, I thought I was going crazy. Maybe I had finally succumbed to the madness that I'd been keeping at bay. But then, as the nights wore on, something inside me started to change. I realized it wasn't madness. It was a message. A warning. It was the Titanic, reaching out to me from the depths, calling me back. It wanted me to remember, to relive, and I had no choice but to listen. To obey.

Remember when I said I was a steward on the Titanic? Well, that's not entirely true. I mean, yes, I was officially hired as a steward, but I had other...less savory duties. You see, I was a fixer of sorts. I dealt with...problems. Petty thieves, cheats, blackmailers, anyone causing trouble on board. And let me tell you, aboard the Titanic, people brought a lot more than just their luggage. They brought their sins, their vices, their darkness. And me? I was there to ensure that darkness stayed out of sight, out of mind. No matter what it took. The things I did, the horrors I inflicted, all in the name of maintaining the grandeur of the Titanic...it makes my blood run cold.

So now, when I hear the tune, it's not just the sinking ship I remember. It's the things I did. The faces of the men I hurt, the pleas for mercy I ignored. The terror in their eyes, reflecting my own monstrous form. It's a symphony of guilt and regret, and each note cuts into me, ripping open old wounds. It's like the universe is forcing me to pay for my sins, demanding justice for the lives I ruined.

That's the horror I live with. Not the supernatural, but the all too human sins of my past. Each night, the melody grows louder, more insistent. It's like it's drawing me in, towards something, something that I dread, yet cannot resist. I know it's leading me to a reckoning, and I'm powerless to stop it.

...A few nights ago, something new happened. As I was lying in bed, drenched in cold sweat, the melody was at its most potent yet. The haunting strains of "Nearer, My God, to Thee" filled the room, chilling me to the bone. I closed my eyes, waiting for the music to unleash the familiar surge of horrific memories, but this time...this time, I heard something else. Something even more horrifying.

Whispers.

Now, I swear to you, I'm not making this up. They were faint at first, barely audible over the music, but they gradually grew louder, more distinct. They were the voices of men. The men I'd wronged. Their whispers were filled with pain, anger, and a thirst for vengeance. It was as if they were right there in the room with me, surrounding me, their spectral breaths chilling the air around me.

In that moment, I could see them. Not really, not with my eyes, but in my mind. I could see their faces, twisted in agony and rage. They were reaching out for me, their ghostly hands grasping, clawing, desperate for retribution. The room was filled with their anger, their sorrow. It was so powerful, so palpable, I could barely breathe.

It's as if they're trapped in that moment, just like I am. Forever reliving the horrors of our shared past, bound by the atrocities I committed. Their spectral presence, their anguished whispers, it's all an echo of the sins I can never wash away.

And the worst part is, I know they're not finished with me. Not yet. I can feel it, a palpable dread that fills the air, tightening around my throat like a noose. Each night, the melody grows louder, the voices more urgent, their spectral forms more tangible. They're growing stronger, feeding off my fear, my guilt. They're closing in, waiting, watching, whispering.

I don't know what they want. Or maybe I do, but I'm too terrified to admit it. Maybe they're here for revenge. Maybe they're here to exact the justice I've evaded for all these years. Or maybe they're here to drag me down with them, to ensure I pay for my sins in the same icy depths where they met their end.

Either way, I'm terrified. Terrified of the night, of the melody that haunts my dreams, of the whispers that echo in the darkness, of the spectral hands that reach out for me. Terrified of the retribution that I know is coming, the horrifying climax that the melody is inexorably leading me towards.

And the worst part? The part that keeps me awake, trembling in the darkness? I deserve it. Every note, every whisper, every cold spectral touch. I deserve it all. The guilt, the fear, the horror...it's all mine. My punishment for the sins I committed, for the lives I ruined, for the darkness I let loose aboard the Titanic.

And so, every night, I wait. Wait for the melody to start, for the whispers to rise, for the spectral hands to reach out. Wait for my past to consume me, for my sins to come home. Wait for the retribution I know I can't escape.

And every night, as I'm drawn deeper into the darkness, one horrifying thought keeps echoing in my mind.

This is just the beginning.

...For the past few nights, the whispers have grown into wails. Desperate, furious cries, drowning out the once solemn melody of "Nearer, My God, to Thee." Their words are clear now. They call my name.

Over and over, they scream it into the stillness of the night, their voices a harsh reminder of the lives I've destroyed. They demand justice. They demand retribution. The spectral hands that once clawed at the edges of my vision are now pressing against my skin, a cold, icy pressure that never leaves, even when the wailing subsides.

Last night, the voices were louder than they've ever been. Their cries filled the room, bouncing off the walls and piercing my very soul. I could feel their anger, their pain, their desperation. It was like a living thing, a monstrous entity that gripped my heart and squeezed.

And then, amid the cacophony of their anger, I heard something new. A single word, spoken not in anger, but in...pity? The word was clear, cutting through the wails like a knife. "Jump." The voice was softer than the others, almost tender. Yet, it was laced with a terrible finality that made my blood run cold.

"Jump."

The word echoed in my mind, resonating with a terrifying clarity. It was a command. A chilling solution to end this nightmare. It was my past catching up to me, a reckoning that I had been trying to avoid. But now, there was no escaping it. The ghosts of the men I wronged had delivered their verdict.

I felt a pull then, an almost irresistible urge. The notion of "jumping," of ending this torment once and for all, held a terrifying allure. I was being called back to the Titanic, beckoned by the spectral hands and the chorus of wails to surrender myself to the icy depths, just as they had all those years ago.

But I couldn't. I was a monster, yes. But I was also a coward. A coward who chose to inflict horrors instead of facing them. And now, even as my past demanded its pound of flesh, I couldn't muster the courage to pay my dues. So, I sat there, trembling, as the wails grew louder, the spectral hands more insistent.

And as dawn approached, the voices faded, leaving behind a silence that was almost as unbearable. But their word, their command, lingered. "Jump." It reverberated in my mind, a haunting refrain that offered no respite.

I sit here now, the setting sun casting long shadows in my room. The calm before the storm. As the clock ticks closer to 2:20 AM, I feel a cold dread settle in my bones. I'm teetering on the edge, caught between the horrors of my past and the chilling demand of the spectral voices.

And as the first strains of "Nearer, My God, to Thee" drift into the room, I can't help but shiver. I'm no longer just a listener. I'm a participant in this horrific symphony, a lead player in a performance that will end only when I take my final bow.

I'm scared. Terrified, even. But as I sit here, waiting for the wails to begin, one thing is clear. There's no escaping my past. No escaping the horrors I've inflicted. And as the... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14k4aww/the_last_thing_i_heard_before_jumping_off_the/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/melfromheck on 2023-06-27 04:56:37+00:00. *** In the most literal sense, Heaven is everything you ever imagined it to be.

If you imagined Heaven as Brooklyn rather than big, pearly white gates and houses made of clouds you’ll get a 400-square-foot studio apartment surrounded by skyscrapers covered in graffiti instead. In fact, you probably crossed a semi-normal-looking bridge to get here. Instead of the big white one made with the most fluffy and prestigious clouds sprinkled with that gold sparkly shit. With shiny, white round pearls on the tops of the cylinder columns that hold the thing together.

Unfortunately, I did imagine Heaven as a place with a big fluffy bridge, big pearly white gates, and more clouds than I ever needed to see in a millennium. So many God damned clouds. You’d be surprised by how nauseating all-white everything gets after days upon days of being blinded by all the sterile gleam.

Regarding the notion of the afterlife being literally exactly how you imagined it. This applies to God as well. Growing up, my mother told me God and Jesus were white men with long beards, dressed in togas. When I got here and met the man himself, that’s what he looked like. Except for Jesus, yes to me he did resemble a white man with a beard who sometimes wore a toga to formal events, but mostly he just looked like a straight-up hipster.

If I wanted to get into specifics. I’d say Jesus is a hipster who spends too much of his time drinking New England India Pale Ale as he pretends to come off as enlightened. The word Jesus described himself as is “woke.” However, I would like to call him a drunk sociopath with daddy issues and far too much free time on his hands. Hell, he even seemed to glorify New York as a romantic idea just like many of the hipsters who seemed to flock to the gentrified Williamsburg as if the place itself would turn them into some sort of new-aged James Dean type.

I would imagine that if you’re someone who envisioned Heaven as Brooklyn perhaps God would also appear as some sort of hipster or some other kind of New York stereotype. The types of folk who fill the coffee houses that have unfinished brick and jazz music lightly bouncing from wall to wall.

However, when it comes to my man Jesus, I honestly think a hipster who consumes too much IPA and falsifies enlightenment is who he really is at his core. He would exist as that no matter how you imagined Heaven to be. Except for me, he is all of that dressed occasionally in a toga for formal events. Usually neglecting to wear underwear.

As I said previously, for me, almost every god-damn thing is a cloud. The ground, my home, parts of the building where I go for work every day. Parts of God’s mansion and even parts of Jesus’s mansion. As well as a few of the bars on Main Street. Every single thing. The bright side is, we are encouraged to look on the bright side, I can walk everywhere with absolutely no shoes on and I would say that is more comfortable than wearing the silly sandals they distribute. So, I would imagine that if you are someone who imagined Heaven as Brooklyn you probably would not be so comfortable going shoeless, would you? But you probably would be going to an office that might resemble something other than a cloud-like Pantheon. And not everything would be a blindingly pearly white, at least you have that going for you.

My mother was your average strong Italian American woman who instilled into me her Catholic beliefs. As I said we were average, we went to church every Sunday, we would confess our sins when we felt the guilt suddenly strike our guts. We drove a minivan and my father left my mother for his assistant.

My mother then had a slew of boyfriends that she proceeded to parade through my childhood home. When my mother was drowning in men and collecting bricks of resentment toward my father is when we stopped going to Church. See, as I said, just your average American family with normal problems.

When I reached the age where I was moving away from childhood trauma and graduating into adulthood traumas, I moved out and attended a decent four-year University. Afterward, I got a regular job as an insurance agent. A job that I was, at best, mediocre in my performance. A job that also had nothing to do with my college degree. A problem most college graduates have after they make their way across that stage to collect their degree.

I am still convinced that dreams die when you sign that dotted line and agree to an interest rate of 15% on a student loan that just covers one measly semester. And you will say yes and sign again and again every single semester, thinking it will better your life. But in truth, you are giving your life away on the simple promise of spending now and possibly excelling later…after your expensive degree.

My job consisted mostly of sales. And when you have a job selling something. Working almost solely on commission and you are also below average at the selling part. It turns out, you tend to make a mediocre wage. I was not vexed or even remotely perplexed by my average-sized salary.

I lived an ordinary semi-crap life, so I was at peace with my almost middle-of-the-road wage. But when I eventually got married to my long-time girlfriend, that is when my contentment regarding my wage came to a halt. We were trying to live the “American dream,” or at least Melissa wanted the inflated American dream.

The dream that most Americans have, a dream that consists of producing children and moving out of our run-of-the-mill condo and into a home that was far better than ordinary. A home that is also suitable for our future above-average children. My wage, unfortunately, seemed to be a factor that was preventing my wife’s American dream from coming to fruition.

In turn, my wife also started to collect bricks of resentment for me, just as my mother did to my father when I was young.

My “mommy issues” started to bubble to the surface during this time. I proceeded to follow in my father’s footsteps. I took on a lover, of sorts. I, however, was not advanced enough in my career to have an assistant. I settled on our company's young 20-something secretary. As all stories of adultery go, my wife did find the texts between Janet and me. Of course, she left me. Took her invisible house of resentment with her.

Like my mom, who was too resentful to ever forgive my father. My wife, subsequently, never forgave me, and she married a yoga instructor, of all things. But Frank, her new husband, owned many businesses. Thus, his wage was far better than the standard.

Before I died, from what I saw on InnerSociety, they have a house and three very athletic children (two of the children are from Frank’s previous marriage, from what I gather but still.). Which I suppose was for the best. After all, given my exes’ vanity and my protruding waistline and receding hairline, we would have had, at best, cute chubby children who had the pleasure of anticipating hair loss in their mid-twenties. Which, I’m sure, would have been something that Melissa could have used to fuel her unyielding indifference toward me.

Going back to my mother, I grew up moderately religious. After my father left, that was during the same time when it seemed to be going out of style to go to church every Sunday. Attending Sunday Mass was a trend that was dying in our community. My Mother’s friends never questioned why we were not attending Mass anymore because their children were growing older as well. There was no time for Church, we can all praise the Lord before bed every night in the comfort of our own homes. Or at least those are the things we told my mom’s friends, and what my mom’s friends regurgitated back to us.

When we did regularly attend church, we never participated in any anti-gay-rights dogma or any preachings that were remotely bigotry. My mother and her friends, along with all their children attending church was almost like a trend from the 80s that needed to run its course into the 90s. Attending Sunday mass was something our grandparents did with our parents, thus tradition followed me into my childhood. Until, like most trends and traditions, this one died out as well. Sure, we said we were religious. And my mom still posted status updates on InnerSociety about God, but we never attended church regularly again.

Perhaps we were not true believers, I never had the bible drilled into me. I did not, and I still don’t know all the bible stories unless it’s something in the vein of Noah’s Ark. If there was a book that was called the classics of the bible, that is essentially the only holy stories I was taught.

I was a child when we still attended Sunday mass regularly, but it was when my grandfather died that my mom explained to me exactly who God was to her. And of course, what Heaven was, what she believed it to look like, and why Grandpa had to go there after his heart stopped beating.

In my eyes, God was just a friend who kept my grandpa safe in Heaven, who I could speak to only in the form of prayer. I was encouraged to pray every night, but like most, I tended to only pray to God when I was in peril and felt like I was in dire need of divine assistance.

God or Heaven was never something I questioned per se. I blindly believed my mom when she said Heaven was a utopia consisting mostly of clouds, famous dead people, my grandpa, and God. And God was like an old friend whose sole fashion sense consisted of draping white togas, accessorized with ... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14k3v7k/i_died_and_went_to_heaven_it_isnt_what_it_seems/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/moishepesach on 2023-06-27 04:21:52+00:00. *** The seven sisters were wan, hangry, distraught and growing increasingly impatient. It was like a homecoming.

...

The Brooklyn sky was gray and threating to storm. My new office was a renovated one bedroom that looked out on the corner of 12th street and 6th avenue. It faced a busy corner that led to the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and Hugh Carey tunnel to lower Manhattan.

Business had been slow as of late. By slow, I meant my net worth was threatening to crawl under a duck. I had finally had enough as an IT consultant after the social policy non profit I was consulting for turned out to be rather anti-social, as in murder. But that's another story for another day.

I had busted my meager 401K and was now determined to make a go of it as a Psychic Investigator. And here I was; shingle and all, "Gary S. Kraft - Psychic Investigations & Guy Friday". I had a large green tea latte and some plain donuts and I was busy swiping through Tinder and trying not to think of destitution before the caffeine and sugar could take effect.

And that's when I realized I was a moron.

"Are you really Psychic?" a very gorgeous 52 year old brunette named, "Countess" quizzed me.

I had listed my occupation on my profile but it had never even occurred to me to market online. And me a full stack dev?!? See? A moron. But as they saying goes, God looks out for morons and drunks. Or was it fools and babies? Unemployed stoners & empathic loners?

Down on the corner Willy and the Poor Boys were nowhere to be found but I couldn't miss someone laying hard into their horn punctuated by an angry male voice dropping F-bombs like it might be the last day of Pompeii.

"It's widely acknowledged," I replied to the Countess.

A little red heart suddenly appeared next to my message. This certainly beat 13 channels of shit on the TV to choose from, choose from, from... But, I digress.

Then another message, "I need a man who isn't afraid of danger."

I replied, "Secret Agent Man" with a music emoji. I had issues. Weed and emojis might be two of them. But I try to not to dwell on that when it is apparently Bad Bitch O'clock. More hearts appeared on my screen.

"Where are you located?" I asked.

"Georgia," was the reply.

Fuck, I thought as the unmistakable whistle of El Pito by the Joe Cuba Sextet filled my room. I am psychic! Now the last time I was in Georgia I almost got my head split by a cop for stepping off the curb to try to flag a taxi.

When I tried to explain that's how you do it in New York it was like dropping a nuke in Mt. Saint Helens. And thus, not unlike Joe Cuba and his loyal sextet, I had taken an oath I would never go back to Georgia.

Then, another message.

"Your smile looks very sincere. We can pay you $10,000 for one night's work no questions asked!"

The music changed. It was Ray.

Georgia

A song of you (a song of you)

Comes as sweet and clear

As moonlight through the pines

"I will need a real phone number," I typed out.

One appeared as if by magic. And then, as if by magic, it was the next afternoon as I was deplaning at Sandusky County Regional Airport with only a knapsack for luggage and a down payment of $3500.00 US greenbacks in my checking account. Although the I had missed the sunset things were looking up. I whistled blue skies and made my way to the exit. I was about to text the Countess when, again, as if by magic, a finger tapped me from behind on my right shoulder.

I turned and there she was. Just like her photos.

"Countess," I said.

"Thank you Mr. Kraft for arriving on time. I have a car waiting outside for us. She then took me by the hand. It was cold. But she was hot. It was actually quite warm outside at 9:45pm and there was a white minivan waiting with it's hazards on.

Behind the wheel was another brunette who bore a striking resemblance to the Countess.

"This is the Duchess," the Countess said.

"Happy to know you, Duchess," I said glad not to be tapping on a phone for a change.

And then I noticed something. Five more brunettes who all bore a striking resemblance to the Countess. And they all bore royal titles for names. Except I hadn't noticed them when I first skooched into the van.

"Mr. Kraft. We will now drive for half an hour. On the way to our destination we will explain what it is you are to do."

"So what type of psychic stuff are we talking about here?" I asked the Countess.

She looked at me out of the corner of her dark eyes and made what looked like the beginning of a smile. It didn't last long.

"You said, '... and Guy Friday.'"

So I did.

"So you don't need a psychic?"

"No. We need a runner in the night."

"Tell me more," I said. And she did.

...

I said Georgia

Oh Georgia, no peace I find (no peace I find)

The full moon caressed the tree tops. I didn't really know what kind of trees they were but it was much darker than Brooklyn. And then we came to a stop.

"It's been too long," Duchess hissed.

"Okay, Mr. Kraft. It is time to earn your money."

I let some royalty strap their contraption around my chest. Velcro straps in place the Countess offered me a cigarette.

Her eyes seemed red.

"I quit smoking 16 years ago. Want to know how I did it?" I asked.

"No," she replied. And then she slid the minivan door exposing me to the Georgia woods.

"Follow the trail. At ten minutes in you will see a clearing and the light. Simply stop there and wait until exactly midnight to remove your coat so we may record."

"Pretty weird camera," I remarked.

"Do your job," she hissed.

So I did.

...

I wasn't supposed to use a flashlight. Just follow the trail in the moonlight. I looked up at the moon. It was so full and pink that I could reach up and touch it. I saw a black bird make a silhouette as it crossed the moon's path. My path was more on terra firma.

And then, I saw the light. And the clearing. I could hear voices. A lot of them. Someone was making a speech. And there were torches. I felt my brow furrow. Couldn't turn on the device till the stroke of midnight. I looked at my 90th anniversary Mickey Mouse watch, back when he went by the sobriquet, "Steamboat Willy." I didn't see steam. I saw....

FIRE

I then saw something else. Everybody was dressed the same. Like it was Halloween. I thought of my bank account and keeping my word. I thought about Joe Cuba and how maybe he had been right all along. I removed my windbreaker, tied it around my waist and exposed the device. Mickey Mouse who kept perfect time showed me two hands pointing at the full moon.

SHOWTIME

I pushed the red button in the center of my chest and hoped I wouldn't be blown to smithereens. I wasn't. Instead I heard Etta loud enough to hurt my eardrums.

All I want you to do is to make your bread

Just to make sure that you're well fed

I don't want you sad and blue

And I just wanna make love to you

Love to you, ooohooo

Love to you, oooh

...

I felt two hundred squinty eyes bid me unwelcome. I un-velcroed myself from Etta's serenade and proceeded to run through what was left of the still of the night. I was shocked how fast my feet fled. I felt like a mattress getting chased by sheets. And then I saw the red light.... And I ran towards it. Like my life and my bank balance depended upon it.

They were gaining on me. I could feel their angry footsteps. A branch hit my cheek and I saw red in my left eye.

A voice that sounded like a bad beer commercial yelled, "I got him!" and I felt fingers on my shoulder. I thought of the last time I had sex and wondered if that was the last time I would ever have sex.

My foot stumbled and I felt my ankle twist. And then another greasy hand on me. And the heat of a hundred torches. And then, as if by magic, I was up in the air.

I heard a voice say, "Whut the fuck?!?!?!?!" as it doppler effected into the background. A voice that sounded like the Countess said, "Stay here, Mr. Kraft. You have done your job."

...

A sea of red. A royal feast. Seven hungry sisters. Flying. Feeding. And the Countess in the lead. Torches dropping. Bodies running as I had just moments ago. Now the sisters were just blurs beneath the moonlight's pink hue.

And then, as if by magic, I heard Big Joe Turner through the pines...

I Said Shake Rattle And Roll;

You Never Do Nothin'

To Save Your Doggone Soul.

...

Ten minutes later I was back on terra firma and in the minivan.

"Check your balance," a somewhat contented, if even more disheveled Countess remarked.

I did. I was bucks up. And then I was wheels up. And then, as if by magic, I was back in Brooklyn.

I looked at Mickey for the time.

It was apparently Bad Bitch O'Clock and I think I was alright with that.

And then, as if by magic, there was a tap tap tapping on my window. And there sat a raven. And it quoth, "Speak of this, nevermore, Mr. Kraft."

And then my speaker suddenly played, "It don't mean a thing."

I said, it don't mean a thing, and all you gotta do is sing like

Nah, it makes no difference if it's sweet or hot

Just give that rhythm everything you got

Don't mean a thing, boy, if it ain't got that a swing ahhhhhh..... Take it Countess...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Daniel_Eaves on 2023-06-27 03:58:54+00:00. *** Part 1 Here

It disturbed me that Carly’s car was a Volkswagen Polo from the nineties. Sure I noted many differences from the car featured in my dream. The Polo was a small hatchback, whereas the dream car had the feel of an estate—quite possibly a Volvo. Carly’s ride was a dull maroon, but my car had been tomato red. And this time round Carly drove, while here I sat tense in the passenger seat. But how many Polos had survived from the nineties? It scarcely counted as a sturdy classic. It still felt spooky that we rode in a car out of the same era, while rolling over that familiar bleak landscape of our night terrors.

Carly interrupted my thoughts.

‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how did Malena die?’

I very much minded. Still, I understood her reasons—I too may have enquired if I was heading to the land of the dead with someone who meant to confront their dead spouse. I told her: ‘Malena had a rare blood illness. It was painful and protracted. The doctors gave her eight months. She got three-and-a-half years in the end. Before...’

No way I could finish that sentence.

‘It’s okay. You needn’t say more.’ She paused, before adding, ‘I’m convinced Beth’s dead, zero doubt in my heart, but I have no idea how she died. I’m not sure which is worse: knowing or not.’

I said, ‘neither’s worse. They’re just different,’ In truth, my situation was direr. I’d give anything for an inch of uncertainty over how Malena died. But how could Carly understand? She was hellbent on learning Beth’s fate and it would go badly for her when she did. The thing about not knowing, though, is there always exists the possibility, however tiny, that the person’s not gone. Such hope will drive you mad. And for this reason we root out the truth—to kill hope dead once and for all. Carly was too far along the path to her own destruction for me to make any difference now. And I found myself too far down my own path.

Carly pulled the car to a stop on the verge. ‘That’s the turn-off for the Coalhouse.’ She pointed to a patch of moor. If you strained you could just make out the double ruts, majorly overgrown, wending off over the hills. ‘It’s getting late,’ she said. ‘I booked us into a place for the evening and we can set out properly tomorrow. I hope you don’t mind, I got us a twin room. The only place for miles is pricey and I haven’t been in work for a good while.’

‘I’ll chip in.’

I imagined us both in the same hole when it came to finances.

Carly set off again. It was only when we hit the village and everything started to look familiar that it dawned on me. ‘Where did you say you’d booked us again?’

I glanced at her and she glanced at me. Then she got what I was driving at and her face dropped. ‘Oh no! I didn’t think. Is it going to be the same place?’

‘It is. Of course it is. Like you said, there’s nowhere else to stay in these parts.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

Two minutes later we pulled up at the retreat where Malena died.

‘It’s okay, we’re here now. It’s just a hotel.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Let’s just get in.’

The receptionist processing our reservation gave me a double-take and started acting awkwardly with us.

‘What was that about?’ Carly asked me as we went towards the lift.

‘Oh you know. I reckon I’d treat someone like that if their wife had died in a room, then I’d jumped to the wild conclusion they were back at the same hotel for a romantic break with another woman.’

‘But don’t I look, obviously…?’

‘I’d say so. Never underestimate people’s blindness to detail though.’

Not long after, we lay in our separate single beds, both admittedly wearing more pyjamas than we were used to. I tried my damnedest to block out that familiar flowery pattern now wrapped around me in sheet form, and to avoid thoughts of a certain fateful room located somewhere on the floor above us.

‘Do we have a plan,’ I asked Carly before we turned the lamp off. ‘In case we encounter anything?’

She sighed. ‘I’d genuinely just regarded this as a doomed voyage of discovery. I suffer these phantoms in the daytime now anyway; I’ve never thought to overcome one. Also Beth was full of schemes and they don’t seem to have helped. She had this crazy idea about slaying the Bull God, even got some kind of sacrificial dagger from somewhere. You should have seen it—impressive thing, gold handle, curvaceous. How do you kill a god though? What?’

She’d seen my features change as she described the knife.

‘Oh. Well. I think I actually have seen that dagger. In my dreams.’

‘Alright. Tell me every detail.’

‘Remember I said I saw the words “Angwynne, left hand of the Bull God” written? That knife carved them. It was stabbed into the floor where it was carved.’

‘But you know what that means? Beth might be sending us a message!’ She sounded frayed but on the edge of excitement.

‘Wait. Hold it. There’s more. There was blood everywhere, Carly. All over the floor. The knife was smeared in it too.’

She took a moment, then the corners of her mouth started to spasm. Seconds later she was sobbing with her head in her hands.

‘It was just a dream,’ I managed.

‘None of them are just dreams,’ she replied, red face peering up through waterlogged eyes. True. It felt crazy we might take such nightmares as evidence of someone’s death; on the other hand I couldn’t deny there was some sense in Carly doing so, at least in this instance.

After that it took me a while to sleep. I witnessed Carly setting out on fitful unconsciousness beneath her duvet before eventually an aching type of weariness dragged me under.

I snapped to. The air was heavy and damp to breathe. It was cold. I struggled to remember where I was in the dark. Oh yes, the retreat… but hold on. The bed was hard underneath me, a block of wood with no cushion. My eiderdown had been swapped out for scratching sack-cloth. I could make out no features of the room; it was dread black.

‘Carly? Carly are you there?’

I turned on my side and came up against a wall where before there had been none.

‘Carly!’

I tipped myself off the other side of the bed and was astounded to pace only once and hit another wall.

Where the fuck was I?

I groped frantically along the perimeter of the poky cell until I came to a door. I yanked and rattled at the handle but it wouldn’t give.

‘Oi!’ came a cry from the far side. I froze. The door sprang open and a man confronted me, raising a paraffin lamp in one hand. ‘What’s this? Thought we’d have a little lie in, did we duchess? Give me good reason why I shouldn’t pummel you well.’

I considered explaining he had the wrong person. However, I clocked the snake whip he was busy kneading in his other hand, while flexing the muscles of his forearm, and the words failed me. He caught my expression looking down, and laughed. ‘The whip’s for the ponies, ye great jessie. It’s my fists for you. Get down the cellars before I give them exercise.’

I tried to slip past him into the corridor and obey without a clue where the cellars might be. He grabbed me by the shoulder. ‘Your lamp hey?’ He motioned to the foot of the bed where a lamp similar to his sat. ‘I should suppose you want me to light it for you as well?’ I nodded mutely and retrieved the thing, not having the faintest idea how to get it going. He tutted, took out a small length of rag and opened the window in his lamp to set it alight. Then he lit the wick in my lamp and twisted a brass knob on the side to set the flame’s brightness. ‘Get going.’ Again I went to comply but this time he grabbed me by the throat. He pushed me up against the doorframe and squeezed hard, a mean and triumphant look about him. ‘I’m docking a day. Don’t be late again.’ Then he scoffed and let me free. I stumbled away up the passage, clutching at my neck, hoping to whichever god would listen that I had gone the right way. I turned a corner and it was close to déjà vu. The long, rotted hallway with the tumbledown ceiling stretched out before me. I had been here before; at least this time the lamp hung in my hand rather than on a hook in the distance. I picked my way barefoot along the floorboards until at last I came to the stairs at the end, where I descended.

No Malena guarded the iron doors this time. They whined as I heaved them open. Inside was a shaft dominated by a rude wooden lift, with a hand-crank mechanism built into its wall for operation. The thing was the living example of rickety. But it would probably lead to the cellars, though I had forgotten why I wanted to go there. What was I doing?

It dawned on me I had temporarily lost my mind. That grotesque slave-driver character had filled me with such terror that I had slipped into a type of stupor, forgotten who I was. Had he been sent to scare me out of my wits, to make me comply? I searched for a handhold of lucidity and grabbed on once more.

I had been at the retreat, now I was here.

‘Carly,’ I whispered.

Perhaps the powers of this place were leading me by the nose to my own demise. It could well be they wanted me to go down. And why the hell not? What else had I come for?

I stepped onto the beams of the lift and cranked the wheel. With horrendous creaking and clacking the elevator dropped. My lantern swung wildly with the motion, casting a merry-go-round of shadows. I kept cranking. The air rising from below reeked with smoky coal dust. Inch-thick cracks in the floor slats revealed nothing beyond blackness b... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14k2qhp/theres_a_building_on_the_moors_called_the/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/MegaDarmon on 2023-06-27 02:35:55+00:00. *** Every Sunday I usually take a walk outside my city alone for a bit and took something to it. After eating I had to to throw the paper thing that they give you to not get your hands dirty on the food in the trash bin and when I opened it, it was empty except for this paper in the bottom that had a scary black and white image picture and a text in the bottom saying "I am onaram"

written in Italian, which is also where I'm from. Then "text me" and a phone number starting with +1 which is unusual since in Italy they start with +39. I took the paper and brought it home and tried to message the person on WhatsApp. The person had the same black and white picture that I found on the paper in the trash bin. I said hi to him in English and it answered me in a weird language: আপুনি এতিয়াই ওনাৰামক মেছেজ কৰি আছে। মই আপোনাক \\\* ৰ জৰিয়তে লগ কৰিব বিচাৰো

The person told me to meet up in a street pretty close to my house, I told him in english why would I want to meet up with a stranger ওনাৰাম আৰু তুমি লগ হৈ খেল খেলিব, মই তোমাক এই পৃথিৱী এৰি যাবলৈ বাধ্য কৰাম। This are the copy paste messages he sent me on WhatsApp and he basically told me the same thing again. To meet up. Since he didn't answer to my question and repeated the same thing again i assumed it was just a scary bot and blocked the person.

I wake up in the middle of the night with thousands of calls from +1 numbers on WhatsApp typing with their language and they all sent me a qr code after. All of them had the same scary picture of this smiling man in black and white. I blocked all of them and when I used my pc weird files showed up on mine and my moms pc, just random letters and numbers that took only kb of storage. After that my pc and my moms pc all has this thing where we get ads everywhere on Google and then a website named thegoodcaster opened automatically showing an heart message and the photo of that guy. My mom didn't know what was going on and I was s

So afraid that I went to the kitchen and cried near my parents showing them the picture of that guy with his phone number below. My mom said that we will call pc technicians to fix this. Then the absolute worst part happened; the pc flashed images of with a red hue showing gorey photos with organs and blood of me and my parents. Those photos were posted on Facebook and they edited them into that and showed them in both mine and my mother's pc.

The weird numbers kept messaging me and thats when we called the local authorities. Then we resetted the pcs and so far nothing happened on the pcs but I still receive daily messages from this person in his weird language telling me to meet up.photo

(<https://postimg.cc/2VHQ64tt>)

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/bread_ley on 2023-06-27 02:05:35+00:00. *** After seeing the story recently posted on this subreddit titled "The Haunting", I have decided to share my own encounter with it.

My encounter began a few months ago, three or four, I cant remember exactly. I had decided to take a few buddies along with me to the Algerian Mountains (Djebel Chélia specifically.) I will not disclose their actual names out of respect for their privacy, so I will call them John, Mike, and Dave.

We had parked not too far away from the site, and began our hike. A couple hours later, night began to fall, so Dave suggested we set up a tent. Fires are not permitted at Djebel Chélia, so we had to settle with a few chairs by lamp-light. What was permitted however, was alcohol.

Loaded up on vodka, me and my buddies began to tell stories to each other. Mike started with a load of nonsense about an ancient Greek myth he claimed to have seen just a few days ago. Everyone found it hilarious.

Until, John opened up about some graves he vandalized a bit down the trail.

We had passed an old dilapidated cemetery a few hundred feet back, and apparently he had stayed behind a few minutes and spray painted profanity on several of the tombstones.

Despite our blatant drunkenness, we all bashed on him for being so disrespectful. We never would have thought our buddy John would do something so vile. Eventually, he got fed up with us, and headed into the tent, where he presumably laid to rest.

Just minutes later, we heard branches cracking from behind the tent, and a chill passed through me.

John let loose a blood curdling scream as the tent shook from his desperate attempt to free himself from The Haunting. Me and the others looked at each other in sheer terror as we heard a multitude of squelching noises emerge from the tent, and the shaking stopped.

As we argued whether to book it to the car or check out if John was still alive, the majority won and we began to head to the car.

Finally, after what felt like weeks, we sat inside my car, a wave of relief washed over us. I turned the key as I announced that we are going to the Mosque, the only source of help I could think of at the time.

After about an hour, I cant recall but it sure felt like it, we arrived.

I asked if the guys were alright, considering the possible loss of our dear friend John, and turned to find Mike in the passenger seat, rotting alive. His skin was decaying in seconds, his mouth hanging open as he struggled to speak. I stared in horror, fighting the urge to vomit, as he turned his head towards me, his teeth slowly falling loose as he struggled to move his jaw to form words.

The Haunting got to him.

Dave and I pushed open our doors and ran inside the Mosque, looking for help.

Upon entering, we were greeted by the muezzin. He desperately tried to calm us down, as tears streamed from Dave's eyes. We told him of the encounter, and he chalked it up to a sort of demon, though I believe him to be incorrect. Dave, (fluent in Arabic,) translated what I was saying to him.

Just as he beckoned for us to sit down and fetch us some tea, Mike's rotting corpse burst through the front doors of the mosque, crumbling them to pieces. He then pounced on top of the muezzin, tearing flesh off of his face. I couldn't tell if it was The Haunting satisfying it's bloodlust, or Mike trying to replace the rapidly falling skin that was decaying from him. Dave and I bolted out the destroyed entrance and to our vehicle, and I slammed the gas to the floor.

It has been a little over a month now, and we have returned to our respective homes, and we hope to never see The Haunting again.

Though every now and then despite my desperate attempts to forget, I see what looks like a shadowy figure in the corner of my eye...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/thegeneralg on 2023-06-27 02:05:20+00:00. ***

I’m the kind of person who starts counting down to Halloween on November 1. Always have been. I could never get enough of the holiday when I was younger, and that’s stayed with me as I’ve gotten older. So you better believe every October, I make it a point to have that house on the block. The one that you can barely see the lawn from how many Halloween decorations there are. Once the leaves start turning, that’s my cue to put out the decorations. And considering how people are always stopping by to take pictures or drive past my house, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Although the one thing I can’t put out until shortly before Halloween itself are the Jack-o’-Lanterns.

Of course, that moment is always a bit bittersweet for me. Because on one hand, carving the pumpkins means Halloween is almost here. But on the other hand, before we know it, Halloween will be over.

But I recently got an idea. Why don’t I carve some pumpkins early? It could be a fun little quirky tradition. Christmas in July is a thing, so why not Jack-o’-Lanterns when summer is in full swing? I saw no reason to not try it, so I went off to get some pumpkins. Finding them in the summer isn’t as easy as other times in the year, but in the modern era, finding stuff out of season has never been easier. So once I was able to find some pumpkins, it was just a question of how many I wanted.

I decided on five. Then I paid for the pumpkins, bought some candles to go with them, and brought the stuff home. All that was left was to decide when to carve them and then get down to work. I decided to do it that weekend because we were due for a nasty storm.

Sure enough, the weekend came, and the storm arrived right on schedule, and it was intense. This was no quick summer downpour that lasts 10 minutes and then it’s over. It rained all day, and it didn’t take long for there to be flooding in the area. The sky was an overcast grey, and I didn’t feel like going anywhere, so that was my cue to start carving pumpkins.

By now I’ve done it a million times, so I’m well practiced at it. Which means it wasn’t long before I had hollowed out the first one and was working on etching a face into the pumpkin’s surface. This part was definitely way harder than hollowing out a pumpkin, but I’ve practiced this enough as well to the point where I’m not horrible at carving a face, but I’m still nowhere near the amazing artist that some people are at this. That’s the one Halloween thing I haven’t mastered. Yet.

So my first one turned into a generic spooky face with a twisted grin. It’s simple, but a classic. So then I got started on the second one. This one I turned into a happy face with a genuine smile. The other three I tried different things with, but they just ended up being variations of the first two. But that didn’t bother me a bit. I always enjoyed the process, and they all truly become something special once you light the candles.

Which is exactly what I did after that. Then I placed them inside the pumpkins, turned off the light in my kitchen, and stood back to admire the effect. It made me smile. As it always does. So now all that was left was for me to take them outside one by one and arrange them.

My house is a small two-story building, but it comes with a comfortable front porch. That’s where I put some of the pumpkins once I’ve turned them into Jack-o’-Lanterns, along with on the three stone steps leading up to my porch. So I arranged them and stood back to admire my handiwork as the rain thudded on the roof and filled the streets. It was a nice effect, because the pumpkins and the candles within them stood out starkly amongst the grey, wet atmosphere. And thanks to my porch roof, which extended all the way to the first stone step, it kept me dry, and gave me a great view of the entire street.

With that done, I went inside to enjoy the rest of my evening. I had some ravioli with tomato sauce and salad for dinner and treated myself to some red velvet cake for dessert. Then I watched a movie on TV. Just before I went to bed, I stepped back outside to blow out the candles inside the pumpkins. The clouds in the sky made it seem extra dark outside, and after the intense rain, the air was muggy and humid. As a result, the candles in the Jack-o’-Lanterns seemed to shimmer in the intense humidity, and the orange glow seemed incredibly pronounced. For just a moment, I was briefly transported to a crisp October night.

But just as I was about to extinguish the candles, I noticed something. My porch light and the candles revealed what looked like footprints leading to and away from my front door. The heavy rain and the water it left standing everywhere meant that if you went walking tonight, you’d be leaving wet footprints everywhere, and thanks to the intense humidity, those footprints wouldn’t immediately dry.

So there I was, staring at a set of footprints that arrived at my door, then went away. I just shrugged it off and chuckled. No doubt someone wanted to come for a closer look at my Jack-o’-Lanterns. Probably to take a picture or two. Well they got a look just in time because I extinguished the candles, went back inside, and headed to bed without a moment’s hesitation.

I got up the next morning, had some breakfast, then went about my day. After spending time with my family, I came home, put away the leftovers from our meal together, and read a book on the couch. After a while, I had a snack and since it was dark enough out, I went out on my front porch and lit the candles in the Jack-o’-Lanterns. Then I stood back to admire the sight for a moment until I went back inside and returned to my book. The intense humidity had lessened a bit, but was still high, so I stayed indoors to read instead of sitting on the porch like I often did.

When it was time for me to head to bed, I went back out to extinguish the candles. The sight of candles inside the Jack-o’-Lanterns flickering away against the thick night sky was striking. I took it in for a moment before one by one, the candles were out, and all that was left was a tiny wave of smoke billowing from each one.

I was just about to turn around and go back inside when I looked down the street and saw someone. Despite all the bright streetlamps positioned at every interval, I couldn’t see quite as clearly as usual, as the person was standing far away, and the humidity still lingered in the air and gave everything a haze. But even from that distance, I could’ve sworn that whoever was there was watching me. And I couldn’t be sure, but I thought the person was wearing some kind of costume.

But then a car drove down the street, and when the car passed the spot where the person had been standing, there was no one there. So I went back in the house, turned off the lights, and went to sleep. The next day went by without incident, and I arrived home from work at my usual time. It was a bright sunny day, but not quite as humid as it was, so that was nice.

After I lit all the candles in the Jack-o’-Lanterns, I ordered some pizza for dinner. Then I watched some TV until it arrived. Right on schedule, my doorbell rang.

My pizza had been delivered by a guy in his mid-20s. When he told me the price, I handed him the money with a nice tip, told him to keep the change, and he gave me my pizza.

“Love the Jack-o’-Lanterns by the way,” he told me just as I was about to close the door.

“Thanks.”

“And I don’t think I’m the only one who likes them. I saw a few people running by just as I was about to pull up. They were in costume too, so I think you started a trend.”

I laughed. “Maybe. We’ll see if it lasts. Thanks again for the pizza.”

“Sure. You have a good night.”

Then I went inside, put on a movie, and had my pizza and some ice cream for dessert. I didn’t feel tired, but at some point, I nodded off and woke up to the sound of knocking at my front door. I quickly checked my phone, and saw it was 10:15. Then I headed to my front door.

Whoever was at my door knocked again just as I was about to answer it. But just before I did, I looked through the peephole and saw someone dressed as a vampire standing on the other side of the door.

The sight made me chuckle.

I was still chuckling when I unlocked the door and opened it. I have a screen door that also locks, so it provided another barrier between me and the guy in a vampire costume. Now I could see it was a guy in his early 20s. And his costume looked more elaborate than the typical one you get in a bag at the costume store, and his makeup looked carefully done. And he was holding a candy bag in front of him.

“Trick or Treat!” He called out enthusiastically a moment after I opened the door.

I didn’t answer at first, but I laughed.

“I love it!” I said as I took in the sight of the costume. I had to laugh at the initiative. If I could carve pumpkins and put them outside this time of year, I couldn’t help but admire someone doing this.

The guy in the vampire costume hadn’t said anything else, but he looked at me expectantly, the bag held out in front of him.

“Please give me one minute, I’ll be right back. I promise.” I said sincerely before I closed the main door and went to the kitchen. I always had plenty of candy, so it wasn’t hard for me to get some miniature chocolate bars, some individually wrapped mints, and some peanut butter chocolates and get back to the door in a minute.

When I opened the door again, the guy in the vampire costume ha... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14k0eed/never_carve_pumpkins_before_halloween/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/LucifersWitness on 2023-06-27 01:28:41+00:00.

Original Title: I'm the owner of a small diner in the middle of nowhere, and I like to give travellers who come in a discount provided they tell me a story about their lives. Over the last decade I've heard some really terrifying things. *** Hey there strangers, my name is Allie-Mae. I’m the owner of a small diner tucked away in a town somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. The diner doesn’t really get much action aside from townsfolk and the occasional out of towner passing through and looking for a hot meal. And when those folk happen to come by I like to introduce myself, bring them their food, and then sit down with them and explain a little game I like to play to pass the time out here.

For some context, I inherited this diner from my parents, and have spent practically my whole life in this town aside from the rare trips to nearby events (markets, state fairs, etc) but those are really only reserved for special occasions. And I don’t mind that. I enjoy the peace and quiet that comes with my lifestyle and I can’t deny that as far as lives go, I happen to have myself a pretty good one. I have wonderful friends, the sweetest husband, and a beautiful baby girl named Kate. But as nice as my life is to me, I can’t deny that it’s also real slow. Not many big things have happened to me, if y’all understand what I’m saying.

And so whenever an unknown face walks into my diner, I ask them if they have any stories to tell me. And if they do I’m always more than happy to give them a discount on their meal. I’ve been doing this since I was twenty-two, so about ten years now.

Okay, I’m going to admit something a bit embarrassing to y’all. The reason I had when I first started to do this was that I had recently found out about the notion of cryptids and I thought the concept was pretty damn cool. More specifically I thought people viewing me as a cryptid would be pretty damn cool. You know, some girl in some diner in the middle of nowhere that you end up spilling your darkest secrets to and then never see again. Wouldn’t that be a kind of neat way to be perceived? Well, my spooky little young adult self thought so and that’s where it all began.

Normally people are quite hesitant to talk at first. However they tend to warm up to the idea after I remind them not only will we likely never cross paths again, but I don’t care about what kind of story they tell me. Whatever they feel like talking about I’ll listen to, I just want a break from the monotony of small town life. And boy, have I heard it all.

Love affairs. Childhood traumas. Batshit deathbed confessions heard by nurses. The story of a very intoxicating and very hush-hush two month relationship a customer had with another woman in college before she tragically passed in an accident that she’s never told a soul about since. (Especially not her very Catholic now-husband.) But besides all that jazz, there’s one type of story I keep being told. Horror.

Now I get why this is. Ghost stories, supernatural shit, whatever you want to call it, that’s the kind of thing people are hesitant to talk about. And in my opinion, half of it is because that’s the kind of thing people are hesitant to believe. But who cares if you tell it to me? You’re not going to see me again, so what’s the harm in finally telling someone? It even wouldn’t matter if I didn’t believe them, they’d still get the discount.

But I do believe the stories people tell me. It’s something in their eyes, I think. When I look into them I can see they’re being haunted by something awful. And I think it helps them to talk about it. To leave here with the knowledge they’re not carrying that burden alone. And carrying it with them is something I’m thankful I get to do. I listen to their stories, bring them sweet tea and dessert to cheer them up afterwards, I’ll hold their hands if they’ll let me, just generally try to help them. It’s one small way I can make an impact on some people who are really hurting, being the kind stranger they can confide in knowing that they’ll be believed.

But anyways, I’ve told my husband some of these stories over the years, and he recently started browsing this subreddit and mentioned to me that I should think about sharing some of them with y’all. And so here I am, sitting in my comfy chair after my baby girl finally fell asleep with my laptop and my absolutely darling cat Cinnamon. I really do hope you guys enjoy the story I decided to share today, and I’ll probably post some more soon. :)

It was about five years ago now, I think this happened sometime in early July so it was just after my twenty-seventh birthday. A young woman stumbled into the diner, I’d guess she was maybe a few years younger than I was? Twenty-three maybe? Well, the poor thing looked like she hadn’t properly slept in weeks, with eyebags so dark I had to take a moment to figure out if they were actually black eyes. She sat down at a booth and I came over to pour her some coffee, which she gratefully accepted. I took her order (waffles with powdered sugar and a side of mixed fruit) and moved to sit down across from her.

Instead of asking if she had stories to tell I decided to ask her if she was alright, as the way her eyes shifted around the room and the way her hands trembled so violently as she tried to use the cutlery made me nervous that she was in some sort of danger. She looked at me and her eyes began to water, and in the softest voice you could ever imagine she just told me that I wouldn’t believe her.

It was here where I explained some of the parts of my game, focusing on the fact that there’s really no harm from talking about it if she wanted to; our paths would probably never cross again. I remember the way she looked down at the table, as her hands moved to scratch quite violently at the skin on her arms which were just covered in long red marks already. My heart absolutely ached at the sight but I decided not to say anything for the time being, though it took everything in me not to reach over and take her hands away and hold them myself.

Finally she sighed and met my gaze as she nodded ever so slightly at me. She told me she had a stalker, and not one she thought was human. The first time she saw him was a few months prior, when she was walking to her dorm alone one night back when she lived right by the Appalachian mountains. She had gone out with some friends and didn’t realise how late it had gotten, and by the time she had started to make her way home it was nearly two in the morning. The fastest way to get home meant she had to use a small path that cut through the woods, and she told me she was too worried about the big test she had to get home to study for to really think about the dangers of walking through there at night.

As she walked she said she got that awful feeling that she was being watched, and out of nowhere she was hit with this horrific wave of anxiety; that her heart began to race like a scampering jackrabbit and she broke into a cold sweat. And then she noticed it watching her through the treeline.

It was tall and vaguely man-shaped, although she said she would hesitate to call it that. And by tall she meant inhumanly tall, roughly seven or so feet by her guess. Its skin was a sickly pale and its eyes were bloodshot, accompanied by an impossibly wide grin that revealed way too many horribly stained teeth. From what she could see the thing was completely hairless, and was dressed in camouflage type clothing; the kind that hunters and the military wear. She said that she froze up when she saw it, staring at the thing in absolute horror. And it just stayed there, smiling at her. Eventually she snapped out of it and bolted, yet the thing made no move to follow her. All it did was turn to face her and continued to smile as she ran off.

She told me that when she got back to her dorm just got this sudden urge that she was going to be sick. And this was super weird, since the girl had only thrown up twice in her life; once when she got a really bad case of the flu when she was ten and once when she got a little too drunk at a party in high school. Yet she had spent the next ten minutes throwing up everything in her stomach and the next twenty dry heaving over the toilet. Her roommate had rushed in to find her covered in sweat and violently sobbing as she puked her guts out for no apparent reason.

She had tried to tell her about the thing that she saw in the woods but her roommate had told her that she was probably just sick with something and her mind was playing tricks on her. She said that night she had supposedly had these beyond horrible nightmares and her roommate told her the next morning she had woken up screaming four separate times. That was her first encounter with the thing, but it certainly wasn’t the last.

At this point she had begun hyperventilating, tears ran down her cheeks and a strangled cry wretched itself from her throat. I quickly ran over to the counter to get her some napkins and a glass of water, before I finally gave in and grasped her shaking hands and held them tightly. I had asked her if she wanted to stop but she just shook her head, and so I held her hands and waited for her to continue with her story.

She said she realised pretty quickly that whatever it was came with the night. At first she genuinely had just believed she had come down with some kind of awful virus, but when she woke up the next morning s... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14jzlvm/im_the_owner_of_a_small_diner_in_the_middle_of/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Born-Beach on 2023-06-27 01:12:55+00:00. *** My father passed away last week.

He was an eccentric man. Quiet. A writer by trade, he had a particular aversion to all things radio. Any time we were in the car, the only music he trusted came from the tape deck or, later, our CD drive. When I’d asked him about it, he’d shrug the question off. “There’s never anything good on the radio,” he’d tell me. “Damn thing’s filled with ads.”

It made sense at the time. It made sense all the way up until the day he died.

I was the one who found him. I think I was the only one who kept in contact with him anymore, at least since my mom died. She’d gone five years previous. She drove her Toyota off a bridge six miles outside city limits. No note. Nothing.

Just gone.

My dad, though? I found him lying on his kitchen floor after two days of missed calls. His fingernails were cracked and bloodied. Beside him, an old radio was screaming static. The whole scene was gruesome. Awful. But what made it worse was the words he’d scratched into the linoleum floor– I HEAR IT, over and over.

After that, I couldn’t bear to keep the house. I sold it. While I was clearing out his belongings, I stumbled across an old journal of his– one buried in a box in his basement. Having so little of a relationship with my father, I couldn’t help my curiosity. I wanted to know him better. What had he gone through? Why was he so distant?

So I opened the journal, and I read.

It appeared to be written in his early twenties. Most entries included his insights on women, music, or his next writing projects. But it barely sounded like him. He sounded so cavalier, so… carefree? The father I knew was severe. Reserved. As I read on, I stumbled across his final entry– one made the night after my mother told him she was pregnant.

It chilled me.

After reading it, I’m beginning to question my father’s death– my mother’s too. I’m beginning to wonder if I might be next, and I need somebody to reassure me that this is all in my head. That I’m overreacting.

Please?

I’ve transcribed the entry below.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\_

The road stretches a million miles.

It’s just me, the black top, the dead of night and the Nevada desert as far as the eye can see. I’ve been driving for hours and I haven’t caught so much as a glimpse of headlights. And really, that’s just the way I like it.

Over the radio, Kansas is singing about dust in the wind. They’re serenading me, keeping me company while I stare at the asphalt and fight my subconscious to the death. My thoughts are eating at me. Memories. Regrets.

I figure this is just par for the course on long drives. If you spend enough time alone, then sooner or later, you’ll go looking for problems. That’s life. It’s human. And right now, I’m tearing myself to pieces over leaving. Was it right? Should I have stayed?

Things to think about.

The radio crackles, and for a second, the music becomes a fractured mess. The lyrics stutter. The guitar strings are all over the map. I think maybe it’s just that I’ve been driving so long, so far, that I’m starting to lose the station’s signal. I give the radio a smack, and Kansas comes back.

All we do

Crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see

I hum along, my arm hanging out the window, thumping the door. The wind’s in my face, my hair. It tastes like freedom. It tastes like a new beginning, an escape from all the mistakes of my past.

And all your money won't another minute buy—

The radio fuzzes. Steve Walsh's voice enters freefall, lost in the static as it becomes something churning.

Dust …n the… wind

All …. we … Dust… the wind

I give the radio a smack. Then another.

It’s the only trick I’ve got.

DUST

The speakers blare. I shoot for the volume controls, but they’re useless. Feedback screams through the radio like a banshee. It’s loud enough, sharp enough that I feel pressure building in my skull. Time for a new station. I twist the dial, but each frequency is met by a fresh stampede of distortion.

“Piece of junk!” I shout, tearing the dial clean off the faceplate.

The radio shuts up.

No more static. No more distortion.

Silence.

I take a breath. I glance down at the radio, check and see what station I’ve condemned myself to for the rest of the drive. But the needle isn’t steady. It’s moving back and forth like a pendulum, drifting across the entire spectrum.

“Useless,” I mutter.

The speakers crackle.

Ar…

Lis…Ng

An electronic warble fills the car, buzzing until it becomes a voice.

Are… Are you listening?

It’s a woman. She sounds nervous, maybe even… afraid? Guess I'm catching a signal after all.

... Is anybody there? Can you hear me?

I frown. This sounds like one of those radio shows– a War of the Worlds sorta thing. It’s not classic rock, but it’ll do.

The woman sniffles. I… I don’t know how long I’ve got. Time is… strange out here.

Outside, cacti fly by my window at the speed of sound. I think I see a tumbleweed rolling in the distance, but it’s tough to say. The moon is gone. Vanished behind clouds, and it’s just me and the car’s headlights shining the way. I narrow my eyes. Focus on the road.

Hello? Please, I need you to answer me.

Her voice is sending a chill down my spine. It’s hard to explain but there’s something about the way that she’s speaking… It feels genuine. Too genuine for some third-rate radio play. I glance at the watch on my wrist, and it’s telling me that it's 3 o'clock in the morning. For talk radio, that’s the witching hour. I figure this is probably some paranoid calling in to offload their delusions onto the DJ.

… But where was the DJ? Shouldn’t they have answered her by now?

Technical difficulties, I think. “It’s gotta be,” I mutter.

There you are… the woman breathes. Were you… ignoring me?

It’s an uncomfortable coincidence, but that’s all it is. The woman isn’t talking to me. She can’t be. That isn’t how car radios work. Just to be certain, my eyes flick up to my rearview mirror, check my backseat to make sure it’s still just old food wrappers and lotto tickets. No psychopaths. No ghosts.

Just the way I like it.

It’s okay to be scared, the woman says, and her voice is trembling. It sounds like she’s on the verge of breaking down, like she’s choking back a sob with every word. I’m scared too… The world is a scary place.

I’m tired, I tell myself. I’m exhausted and I’m stressed and now I’m starting to hear things because I’m falling asleep at the wheel. That’s all this is. Highway hypnosis. I’ve read about it.

I give my cheek a couple slaps, shake my head and flex my jaw. Gotta wake up. The air whistles as my foot presses down on the gas. A little wind in my face should do the trick.

He’s out there tonight… You need to be careful.

Don’t engage.

He’s looking for you…

This is my mind playing tricks on itself.

If he finds you… Can you give him a message for me?

I swallow. My heart is punching my ribs and my mouth is drier than the desert sand. “Who?” I think, and I don’t mean to say the words aloud but I do.

Him, she replies, and she’s hyperventilating. Her breathing is getting fast. Ragged. They call him the—

Headlights blind my vision. The blare of a horn erupts in my ears alongside the woman’s anguished screams. In a fraction of a second, everything goes to shit.

I hear tires squeal.

The wind in my face becomes a hurricane, and something massive narrowly misses my sedan, clipping the backend and throwing me into a tailspin. My seat belt digs into my waist and I grip my steering wheel for dear life. The car twists like a carousel and it turns my dinner into bile into vomit all over the dashboard.

I’m shouting. Praying.

The car comes to an unscheduled stop. It crashes against the side of a cactus, my body slamming against the driver door. Smoke drifts up from the hood.

“Fuck…” I groan, looking around in a daze. Slowly, the scene comes into focus. The road is half a football field away, and I can’t see any sign of what hit me– wait, what’s that? Just to my right. It’s a faint shadow in the dark, but it’s there. A semi tractor laying on its side. It must have flipped itself trying to swerve out of the way.

My hand finds the door handle and it opens with a kerchunk. I step out onto the desert dirt. I’m still not sure if this was my fault. Did I nod off for a second? Did I fall asleep and drift into the oncoming lane?

“Hello?” I call out to the semi truck. Two of its wheels are still spinning soundlessly in the night. “Are you okay?”

My leg is throbbing. I figure I must have smashed it pretty hard when I wiped out, but that can wait. I limp toward the truck, and the nearer I get, the less quiet the night becomes. There’s a buzz in the air. It’s the electronic sizzle of the truck’s radio, and it’s playing what sounds like a news broadcast.

Dreadful evening for accidents, a woman’s voice says. We’ve just received a report that a semi-truck has flipped along Route 50. No word yet on the driver’s condition.

Absolutely appalling, Jess, a man responds. Our thoughts go out to the family at this time.

I tell myself to ignore the radio. I tell myself that I’m in the middle of nowhere, that there’s no news vehicles around, that I haven’t seen headlights in miles and all of this is just in my head. A bad dream.

Wake up.

Wake up.

“Sir?” I say, approaching the cab of the truck. The driver is hang... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14jz9ec/blackstaticfm/

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/softmothgoff on 2023-06-27 01:01:35+00:00. *** I'm a fat influencer.

I figured it was best to say it up front, so you'd get it out of your system. Yesterday, if someone told me I'd be posting on Reddit--you know, the former home of subreddits with names like "fatpeoplesuk"--I would have told them about the time a fellow influencer had her wedding photos reposted there. She's not on Instagram anymore because of that, but I know what happened to her isn't what happened to Devon.

I think. Oh god, I should probably call her.

Anyway, I heard from a friend of a friend that, fatphobic reputation notwithstanding, this was the place to post about...weird experiences. And this was definitely weird.

...I'm really struggling to anonymize this. I mean, what's the point if you don't know enough to avoid it? But at the same time, I don't want you chuckleheads being able to find ME. Maybe some of you are still mad about your other favorite subreddit being shut down.

But Reddit, much as I hate to admit it, still has a bigger reach than any TikTok video I've ever made. And, weird as it may seem, I still feel responsible to my community. And when I say "my community," I don't just mean the influencers. I mean other fat people. And I know some of you have to be fat... or really, any of you could become so, considering the constantly moving target of "fat" vs "thin" in our culture. Any of you might be desperate enough to do this.

Like I said, I'm a fat influencer. I do clothing hauls of alternative fashion and tell people how well they fit fat bodies. It's a more difficult task than you think--a lot of places claim they have "extended sizes", when in reality they're actually a size 12, not a 1 or 2x. And while a lot has changed in the past decade--there are now brands that carry only plus sizes that aren't Dress Barn or Torrid--for a truly plus sized person, we usually still can’t go into most clothing stores and buy underwear that fits. Not underwear that is ugly, or underwear that is slightly too big or too small–underwear that will go over our thighs and asses. Or bras that can fit up to a 40” breast band, and G cup breasts. It can be soul-crushing to go into an entire store and realize none of it will fit--

Do you care about any of that? Probably not. But that’s probably why I stuck with it, even when I've never been able to quit my day job. I felt like I was giving back to the fat online community, the one place I went where people respected me and my opinions. Where people taught me how to talk to doctors, how to stand up for myself... and stop wearing long sleeve tops in the summer.

I feel so stupid writing that out now. Like I genuinely thought of myself as some kind of fat Captain America figure, bringing clothing justice to the survivors of the 90s war on weight. It seems like such an incredibly small thing now, freeing people to wear shorts in summer and coats that fit in winter, but at the time that’s all I wanted from life.

That’s probably also why he found me. When I met him, I was at the level of online influencer where I still had a day job and it was 50/50 as to whether I was going to give up or go into fat people porn, and I wasn’t ready for the second one. So of course when I got a generic email inviting me to the opening of a new “Instagram destination” in my city, of course I went.

I can’t think of a good name that won’t eventually hint back at him, so I’m going to call him John, which is the most boring name possible. When you imagine him, think of the biggest person you follow online… or whoever you think the hottest member of BTS is. Or Sephiroth.

I know, I know. But there’s a reason why I’m a Millennial doing alternative fashion, okay? I showed up at this event, and an incredibly beautiful man with waist-length hair told me his name was John the Super Mega Influencer, and he took my hand like we were in an episode of Bridgerton and I giggled. I fucking giggled.

Of course, Devon was there too. I think, if I remember correctly, Devon was actually standing next to me the first time I met John, looking polite but wary. Just the week before, Devon had told me that he was at a point in his life where he didn’t trust thin people, that he never wanted a thin friend, and that went double for thin white people. And thin white people was exactly what John was.

He didn’t shake John’s hand–or did he? I don’t remember! But maybe that’s not how it’s spread? Did he eat something I didn’t that night, or was it after? I just cant believe Devon would do something like this voluntarily…but if I’ve learned anything over the past year, it’s that I don’t really know much about anybody's motives.

Here’s the thing I know none of you will believe about Devon: he was beautiful too. He was just as symmetrical as a thin person, and he had a gorgeous bone structure. He did some kind of magical 12 step skin program, so he was always glowing–when I started seeing people say “Lizzo’s face card never declines”, it made me think of Devon.

His fashion sense was also worlds better than mine was. Devon did suits, primarily, and he somehow managed to “bring forward the colors of the diaspora while satirizing menswear’s colonialist roots,” which is a real line from a podcast he was on once. He was the kind of man who could wear rings on every finger without it looking cheap, had an emerald green silk suit, and taught me how to properly tie a scarf when I was wearing pearls. He was also probably 400 pounds, so I knew better than most people how hard he had to work to find those clothes and how much effort he put into his accompanying tea reviews in order to make up for the fact that there just aren’t that many men’s suiting companies willing to make items in his size.

What a fucking eulogy. How is it that the only things I can think to say about Devon are that he was good at tea and that he had a good bone structure?! The fucking things you say about people when they’re dead… I should be saying that Devon was a great friend, that I knew all his secrets, but I can’t say that because I spent the past year getting further and further away from him.

Anyway, I don’t even know if it started at that particular event. All I know is that I was expecting the typical Instagram destination things–flower walls, old time phone booths painted pink, etc.–and instead I saw mountains of cake. Imagine a ballroom with a black-and-white checked floor, and then fill it with every kind of cake imaginable--multi-tier wedding cakes, birthday cakes, those Japanese strawberry cakes, Costco sheet cakes--all of them stacked wildly on top of each other and their icing splattering and pooling onto the floor in a runny rainbow chaos. Devon leaned over and whispered to me, "Is this fatphobic?" and I honestly couldn't tell.

The cake was a lie, of course. It was all made of sponge and sculpted caulk. At one point, when I was asking John if the cupcakes on the plate next to him had edible jewels, he turned the whole thing upside down, showing how they were affixed to the plate itself. Both of us laughed, awkwardly, and I wondered if I’d somehow messed up everything.

You know, when I set out to write this down, I thought "Sugarland" was some kind of weird “gotcha”--the influencer wasn’t eating, just making it LOOK like he was eating! But then I remember this event was, ostensibly, for taking pictures of yourself and people don’t like photos of half-eaten food on plates.

Does it make it better or worse if John didn't plan it, any of it? He did make an effort to make sure I was seated next to him for the dinner portion of the evening, and yet both of us struggled to make conversation until finally, out of desperation, I started talking about high school. John replied that he’d once been busted for playing D&D during the height of the Satanic Panic in his hometown, and then the ice was broken and we ended up talking all night.

With the benefit of hindsight, I think that anecdote says more about John than anything: inside, he was as big a dork as the rest of us. Sometimes, people give you respect just based on how you look, and you either accept it as your due or you’re unable to accept it and are constantly asking yourself why no one notices your essential nerdiness. Or rather, why your essential nerdiness is no longer an issue when you look a certain way…

I have to stop thinking of John like that, though. It doesn’t excuse what he did.

But what did John do, at the end of it? Or rather, what did I see him do? In stories like this, there’s usually a bit where you find a box of photos in the attic, or I’d get a string of text messages from Devon where it doesn’t sound like him, and I’d make connections. Neither of those things happened, exactly.

This is what I do know:

First: even after all the nights I spent at John’s apartment, I only once saw a member of his family. He was wrapping up a Facetime call with an older woman when I came in the door. He smiled at me, said “Bye, Mom!” and hung up. But to me, as much as I could see in the screen anyway, the woman looked very, very fat: a completely different body type than her son’s.

Second: I never fully understood exactly what John sold as part of his lifestyle programs. In part, that’s because a lot of influencers don’t actually make anything that they’re selling. Even makeup influencers don’t sell their own makeup, they just buy pre-mixed stuff and put their faces on it. So there’s a chance that John maybe didn’t actually know... *** Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14jz0f9/i_know_why_your_favorite_influencer_stopped/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Ok_Apartment_7347 on 2023-06-27 00:31:28+00:00. *** Just in case I don’t make it away from this thing, I’ll leave this for explanation.

I am, as my father was before me, a man whose collar could compete with the sky’s hue. my calloused hands a testament to that. With a stature that could rival some ball players and a lack of aptitude for education, I was a football coaches star child. Though, unfortunately, my NFL dreams are far behind me.

Taking advantage of what god gave me, soon after high school I worked construction, where from dusk to dawn I slaved till my back begged for a reprieve. Nevertheless, I wasn’t taught to complain, and I never did. Somebody had to lay down supports and the job didn’t get finished quicker by whining.

After a quarter of my life passed, I soon realized that as much as my wanted to hold true to my fathers ideals, my body was ready to call it quits. Hearing about an opening in a trucking company from a friend, I seized the opportunity without even a second thought.

I’ll never forget the feeling I got from stepping high into that seat and watching how the beast came alive. The rumbling under my feet from the cabs humongous engine slowly began to be my comfort as I passed from province to province.

Aside from my dog of course. I found him as a mangy lab whose skin practically stretched over its ribs. The animal was uniquely dark, could probably disappear when night falls and it’s eyes matched it’s striking appearance. They seemed to always look for something to explore.

Seeing the state it was in, I’d be heartless not to give it a place to eat. Since then, it’d been my support throughout most of my hardships. Id grown accustomed to running my hands through its fur instead of pouring my sorrows into a liquor cup.

And without change, here that same dog was accompanying me on another outing.

Making sure I had everything I needed in the cab, food water and the such, I turned to the dog curled up in seat. As I gave him a soft pat the truck came to life and so we began the trip. As usual, the drive didn’t come with much entertainment. I watched tirelessly as car upon car passed by on the sun beaten pavement.

My one break in the noise was the sunset spreading out colours of red, purples, and yellows. Even so, that was quickly replaced by stars laid across the night. I leaned back in the leather seat and laid my hands behind my head. Before I knew I was sleeping I woke up.

To my shock, flat grassland had been replaced by trees that seemed to block out the moon, and between them no light escaped. The vast warped branches spanned out almost touching the asphalt of the road. The only thing I could clearly see was the path in front of me. Still half awake, I quickly took notice of my dogs whines, pulling over on the side of the road and letting the animal out to go do it’s business.

As I viewed from the agape door, the dog made its way from the rocks deep into the cover of the tree line. I turned my head away and began scrolling on my phone. Worry began to settle after fifteen minutes ticked past.

I let out a whistle, “Here boy… lets get out of here.”

For a few moments the only thing that greeted me was the impasse of bark and foliage cloaking whatever may hide behind the surface.

Then, as if on schedule, my dog clambered out of a break in the tree line.

“Where have you been buddy?,” I chucked softly, “I was worried sick”

The second it’s ears perked up to the sound of my voice the animal became rigid. His body turned to me like he was attached to a spinning rod. A dead stare that went right through me matched my gaze.

It sent a shock down my spine, it was out of character for the thing to move so strict.

My dog held the same unwavering stare and with every second passing I could feel my heart pound harder in my chest.

Then, he opened his mouth and began to let out this guttural moan. It was deep, quiet, and alien.

Ignoring the primal voice screaming to get out of there and quick, I gave a look to the animal standing more still than the deep pine beside it, illuminated only by the light of the truck cab.

“it was a howl,” I rationalized, “dogs do that”

For the first time in god knows how long I took my eyes away from the tree line, and onto the clock I kept on my dash.

Before I could even make out the numbers on the clock, I saw in my peripherals something that sent fear down to the core of my heart.

I slowly turned my head and as if to confirm the feelings of horror my whole body turned to ice.

Upright on my two legs, and without breaking the leer it gave me, it again began to vocalize.

“W…WHERE,” it let out in the same jarring tone, “H…A…V….E”

It spoke with long pauses between the letters, and it stretched out the vowels

In that moment no matter how big I was, or the size of the truck, a primal feeling of being some animal’s prey struck every bone in my body. I slammed my door shut as it sounded out the word “you”.

As though he clocked in on my escape plan, it began making its way towards with its two back legs.

Not once taking those eyes off me, it leaned back and forth as it stepped, increasingly upping the speed.

I finally took heed of the voice screaming at me to run, and pressed the monstrous car to the highest speed it could go.

And though I expected it, dread still wormed it’s way through me as I saw the animal in pursuit in my rear view. Albeit slow enough to give me enough time to stop at a motel and collect my thoughts.

That’s where I’m at now, writing this. I’m watching and waiting in case that thing figures out how to open doors.