nosleep

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/haroldkebba on 2023-06-27 11:16:10+00:00.

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[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/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

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.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

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.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Inevitable-Dare3568 on 2023-06-27 05:20:42+00:00.

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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.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

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...

---

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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 ...

---

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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...

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

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...

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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)

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

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...

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/thegeneralg on 2023-06-27 02:05:20+00:00.

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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...

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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.

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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...

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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Born-Beach on 2023-06-27 01:12:55+00:00.

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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/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

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.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Federal_Machine692 on 2023-06-26 23:36:52+00:00.

---

I was just returning back from another interview. It has been the third one this month.

I failed to make the cut yet again.

Life hasn’t been easy for an ex-soldier with the economic downturn currently underway.

The COVID pandemic had also wiped out all my savings.

So I was open to securing any job that would help me pay my bills.

I hadn’t eaten all day and just passed by a McDonalds. It was crowded and I thought to myself, ‘Let me just order a takeout’.

I could see a few vehicles waiting in front of me.

There was a guy in his motorcycle honking incessantly demanding the customer in front to keep it moving.

He was a tall man with long hair and clearly looked edgy and irritable. Both his arms were heavily tattooed. He stepped down from his bike and started to walk towards the car in front of him.

I couldn’t make out what he way saying but I could see the conversation was getting heated.

I got down from my car and walked towards the biker guy.

As I got closer, the biker banged on the hood of the car and was pointing his finger at the man threateningly.

The guy in the car was looking a little alarmed. He had a young boy seated next to him.

The woman working at the driveway counter appealed to the biker to maintain his cool. He would hear none of it.

She then proceeded to call the police and this made the biker more irate. He snatched the receiver from her and hit her face with it. She fell backwards and started bleeding from the nose.

The biker then proceeded to turn his gaze towards the man in the car. He opened the door and dragged the guy outside.

He drew his hand back to throw a punch at him.

I caught his arm from behind and kicked him hard in the shins. He yelped in pain and let go of the other man.

He then turned back angrily to take a look at me. He was wearing a black jacket with the name Kenny embossed in front.

I said, “Listen Kenny. I have had a really bad day. So you either stop this madness or I am going to break your bones.”

He snarled and threw a punch at me with all his might. I swerved to the right and ducked just in time, causing him to miss completely.

Next, he whipped out a switch blade from his pocket and lunged towards me with it. I side stepped him and counterattacked with a punch to his plexus. He went down on one knee.

I caught hold of his knife arm and ordered him to drop it.

“Drop the knife kenny!! This is your last warning”, I repeated.

He started to fidget with his other arm around his shoe. I realized he had another weapon hidden in his sock.

So before he could attempt anything else, I twisted his forearm and landed a crushing blow to his elbow. It snapped into two and he lay on the floor yelping in pain.

By this point, other people came forward to intervene and help with the situation.

As Kenny was being led away by the police, he kept staring at me with madness in his eyes.

“I am coming back for you. This is going to be the biggest regret of your life”, he yelled.

I didn’t care and started going back to my car.

Then the man who was threatened by Kenny came forward and shook my hand.

“Hi. I am Rupert. That is my son Henry”, he said.

I waved my hand at the boy and he waved back.

“I would like to thank you for what you did for me back there”, he said.

“You not only helped me maintain my dignity but also helped me save face in front of my son”, he continued.

“This means a lot to me as a dad” he said.

I nodded in acknowledgement not sure what I was to add to the conversation.

He then reluctantly asked,” Is there anything I can do to repay the favour? Please feel free to ask . Anything. I would be most grateful.”

I thought for a moment. I could see the man was wealthy.

“If it’s not too much of an ask, I would appreciate a job if available. If you feel that is difficult, no problem. Forget I asked. No worries.” I said.

He smiled back at me warmly. He reached into his pocket and handed me a card.

“Please come to my office tomorrow. We can talk” he signed off.

From that moment on, I became the personal bodyguard and chaperone of his 8 year old son Henry. We immediately hit it off and became pals. I looked after all his son’s travelling arrangements.

We would also go to McDonalds every week for his favourite Burger and fries. I later learnt that his father was a very wealthy man who made most of his money during the dot com bubble.

I also became friends with the female employee at the driveway counter who had earlier been attacked by that biker punk Kenny.

Her name was Stella and it didn’t take very long for the two of us to start dating.

With a fulfilling job and a loving girlfriend by my side, my life was finally back on track. I couldn’t be happier.

And then one day - it all came crashing.

Henry and I as usual visited the McDonalds joint and I was surprised to see Stella missing at the counter.

I asked the staff about her and they said she hadn’t turned up today.

I thought that was weird. She had stayed over at my place and I saw her leave for work in the morning.

I tried calling her number but it was unreachable.

I dropped Henry at home and headed towards Stella’s apartment.

She had given me a spare key and I opened the door with it. Everything was in its place.

I tried her number again. It remained not reachable.

I decided to go back to my apartment to check if she might be there.

When I reached the door, I could see the lock had been smashed. The door was left slightly open.

I took out my side arm and slowly entered the apartment.

I could see a life size figure of Ronald McDonald the clown sitting on my sofa.

The famous mascot was sitting cross legged with one arm resting on the backrest. Just like how he likes to sit on benches outside McDonald outlets all across the world.

I was a little taken aback, but quickly switched on the lights to take a closer look.

As I moved closer, my knees buckled under my own weight.

It was Stella. She was the one who was dressed as the clown.

There were injury marks around her neck. She had been strangled to death.

I managed to call the cops while still reeling from the shock.

I also noticed her right hand which was resting on her thigh, was close fisted. When I pried it open, there was a crumpled piece of paper inside.

It read -

“She was really begging me for mercy.

Where was soldier boy when she needed him huh?

Boo Hoo….I’m Lovin It!!

I’m Lovin it!!

Signed Yours Kenny”

I could feel a surge of anger envelop me. And yet I lay there helpless.

Had it not been for the surveillance cameras at the entrance of my home, I would have been in jail by now.

The police could clearly see Kenny carrying Stella’s body and breaking into my apartment.

They put out a nationwide notice for Kenny and he’s been on the run ever since.

Even after 2 months following Stella’s death, the police were not any closer to catching the culprit.

But I did apprise Henry’s dad of the situation. His life was also at risk after considering what happened to my girlfriend.

But our collective worry was for Henry. We didn’t want to see him suffer for no fault of his.

So I started training Henry to take his own safety seriously. I devised multiple safeguards to keep him protected while being outdoors. Always ensured that I was personally there to drop and pick him up from school.

My boss appreciated all that I was doing for his son. He knew I had taken Stella’s death hard.

He was a generous and compassionate man and I liked working for him.

Although he did notice I wasn’t my usual cheery self anymore.

One day when I was waiting at the office, he tossed the keys of his new car at me.

“This should perk you up. Take her for a spin” he said.

“And also go pick Henry up from school”, he finished as he left for a meeting.

I got down to the parking lot, and there she was … waiting. The new Bugatti Chiron.

I opened the door and took the driver’s seat. The fresh smell of the leather upholstery was already lifting my spirits.

‘Boss was right! I am perking up’, I thought to myself.

I drove around the block and stopped by McDonalds to pick up the usual order for me and Henry.

I felt a tinge of sadness when I could no longer see Stella at the counter.

Anyways, I picked the order and started my way towards school.

As I went past the restaurant, I saw an old jeep parked by the side of the road. I didn’t think much of it at that moment.

When I reached Henry’s school, I parked the car a few feet away from the entrance. A couple of minutes later, I noticed the same jeep I saw at McDonalds go past me and park 20 mts in front.

I would have never given it a second glance had I not spotted it at the restaurant.

The jeep had 3 passengers. They looked like bikers with tattoos, beard and long hair.

And then there was Kenny standing behind a tree to avoid detection. But I spotted him.

He was gesturing towards them to get ready. I could see his Harley parked just a few feet away.

They were planning some kind of ambush.

The school bell rang and the children were already out on the streets.

I could see Henry at a distance in the courtyard. He was slowly making his way towards the gate.

I immediately called him on the phone and told him to go to the Principals office and stay there. I made it clear under no circumstances was he to venture out until I gave him the all clear. He understood.

He was safe as long as he was within the school’s premises.

The next thing to do was ...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14jx2za/payback/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/AshedAshley on 2023-06-26 23:04:10+00:00.

---

I’ve never really been much of an outdoors person. In fact, I’ve always kinda hated it. My parents were always worried that I wasn’t spending enough time outside, and was spending too much time playing video games. I understood where they were coming from, and I knew they were looking out for me, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t find something that I enjoyed.

That’s why they were so happy when I joined the Cub Scouts.

I mostly joined because of my best friend in second grade, but he eventually left when he switched schools. Part of me wanted to quit then and there, but for some reason, I didn’t. By the time I advanced from Cub Scouts to Boy Scouts, the only kids in my age group were myself and one other kid I didn’t know too well. The only other friends I had were still a grade below me in Cub Scouts, so I felt more alone than ever.

As the year went on, it became clear to me that I wasn’t enjoying it at all. I talked about it with my parents, but they encouraged me to at least stick it through to the start of the next school year in September. Reluctantly, I agreed. From then on, I was mostly just coasting my way though it, but everything changed when I heard it for the first time:

Camp Tomahawk.

Before I even knew it, I was hundreds of miles from home in the middle of the woods for a week straight. At the time, I got homesick incredibly easy. I could barely sleep over at a friend’s house without crying, and the first night at Tomahawk was no exception. I went to the Scoutmaster with tears in my eyes, asking if I could be picked up early. Instead, he smiled and walked me down to the small lake not too far from our campsite. He told me to close my eyes and listen to the lake. The sound of the waves gently lapping against the shore, the gentle breeze that rustled the pines, it all put me at ease. But I think what ultimately calmed me down enough to power through the week was the solitary wail of a loon, echoing across the lake.

From then on, that lake became my sanctuary. I’d there at least once a day when I was feeling anxious and just sit there, letting the sounds wash over me like the waves and take my worries with them back out with them. Oddly enough, though, I never heard the loon again, which was strange to me because in my experience, loons are great at making themselves heard. But this was something I never actually noticed until the last day.

By that point, my anxiety was much better, and I would even go as far as to say that I had fun that week. As the sun began to set on our last day, I decided to go back down to the lake to see it one last time for old time’s sake. An orange hue blanketed the rippling water as the sun disappeared behind the horizon, and then I heard it- the single cry of a loon.

I didn’t know this until well after the fact, when I was researching loons as I way to scare myself- as I had done with snakes many times before- but the iconic cry of a loon we’re all so familiar with is actually their way of communicating with their mate over long distances. Looking back, I think that only makes this worse to remember.

I was just about to head back when suddenly, I heard another cry- only, this one was different. Right away, it gave me goosebumps because of how wrong it sounded. It was almost like a recording being played in reverse. The cry seemed to have originated from near a small point off the shore a short walk away, so, acting entirely on curiosity, I went to look.

As I walked along the shore, the last light from the sun vanished, but there were no stars in the night sky, and only a sliver of the moon was visible. The wind also began to pick up as a I got closer. Even as I made various turns and bends along the shore, it always blew directly into my face, as if the forest itself was trying to turn me around. I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard the reversed loon call again, much louder, and much closer. My heart felt like it was trying to break out of my ribcage, and my brain was practically screaming at me to turn around, but my body was on autopilot now, and it didn’t stop until I nearly dripped over the lifeless body of a loon.

At first, I couldn’t tell why it died. It looked fine- no signs of any sickness or wounds. Or rather, it did until I kneeled down next to it. Only then, did I see that its beak was covered in blood. As I looked closer, I realized the entire inside of its beak and as far down the throat as I could look was ravaged by… something.

Then, I heard a splash, followed by the sound of heavy rustling in the leaves not far away. I dropped to the ground out of instinct, and then, I saw a shape running through the brush before it stopped just a few yards away from me. I immediately recognized the laser-focused red eyes of a loon- only these eyes were much higher off the ground and attached to something far more sinister. I didn’t get a very good view of the thing, but what I did see was burned into my brain for the rest of my life. It was big- for a loon, at least- probably around 4 feet tall. It grabbed hold of a tree with some sort of deformed and twisted cross between a wing and a hand, and it slowly turned its head until its piercing red eyes were staring right at me.

Every fiber of my being told me that I was living my final moments. The thing stood there and opened its beak, revealing sharp and jagged teeth. As it stared me dead in the eye, beak wide open. It made that same reversed wail, and then it made a sudden jolt. I flinched, closing my eyes with the fear that this was it, but when nothing happened, I opened my eyes to see that it was gone. I wasn’t taking any chances after that. I sprinted back to the campsite as fast as my legs would take me.

When I made it back to my original resting place on the shore, a few yards away from the campsite, I paused to catch my breath. That’s when I heard it. Far off in the distance, opposite of the direction I had gone, I heard the return cry in reverse of a loon.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/DreamingofRlyeh on 2023-06-26 22:50:04+00:00.

---

It happened when I was seven years old. I was spending the summer at my grandmother's house, which was backed by a large deciduous forest. She often sent me to play in the woods.

The trees were my realm of make-believe, a kingdom of bark and moss and scattered leaves. They were a comfort to me, and I thought I knew them intimately, until that day.

It was a warm afternoon in early August. The sun shone through the green canopy, the gold filtering through to the forest floor, where I dug in the dirt with a stick.

I found it there. At first, I thought it was a buried root, but as I dug it out, I saw that it attached to a hard, round object. I spent the rest of the afternoon excavating my treasure, and after a couple of hours, I had uncovered the skull, upper arms and ribcage of some kind of animal.

Now, as a seven-year-old, I was far from an expert in biology, but I had seen depictions of human skeletons. They were on posters in the doctor's office, in Saturday cartoons, all over stores near Halloween. So I knew enough to be aware this particular set of bones did not look right.

The skull appeared almost human. But the teeth were oddly-shaped, with the four in front larger than normal, and the back ones strangely shaped. And jutting from the top of the head were two horns, like those of deer. It was one of these that I had mistaken for a root.

The ribcage and bones of the arm were elongated. Whatever this creature had been, it was tall, taller than most adults. Nestled between the ribs was an arrowhead, prossibly what brought this strange beast down to the dirt where it now lay.

"Damian!" The sound of Grandmother's voice broke me from my revery. The sun was beginning to set, and it was time to return to the house. I snatched at one of the horns, which snapped off of the skull easily, and ran toward my waiting grandmother.

That night, I tucked the broken antler beneath my pillow. Dressed in pajamas patterned with fire trucks, and tucked underneath a warm duvet, I drifted off to sleep.

My dreams were unusual. I was running through the woods, fleeing some invisible force. The sounds of heavy crashing and shouting pursued me. Then a sharp pain hit my chest and I fell.

I woke, crying. When my grandmother asked me what was wrong, I sobbed into her nightgown, not knowing how to voice the cause of my distress. The words "bad dream" seemed so inadequate for what I had experienced.

The next day, Grandmother took me to the local playground. It was an older one, with metal equipment, the bright paint worn and chipped, but for a child, it was great fun. There was a slide, four swings, two see-saws, a set of monkey bars and a merry-go-round.

I ran to the play equipment, where I quickly found myself engrossed in a game of tag with five other children. We chased each other back and forth across the playground for half an hour, laughing and whirling away from the tagger.

I was running from Shaun when I saw her. She stood at the edge of the woods that bordered the park, nearly blending in with the trees. Her skin was the color of tree bark, and her dress was mottled green. She was as tall as a basketball player. She was staring straight at me.

"You're it!" I lost my balance and stumbled as Shaun shoved me in the back.

"No fair! I was distracted!" I cried out in indignation.

Shaun stopped running from me and tilted his head. "By what?"

"The lady!" I pointed at the treeline.

Shaun frowned. "What lady?"

"The one right there..." I turned to where she had been, to find nothing but the trees, branches gently waving in the breeze.

I began to see her all around town after that. She was always at the edge of the woods, unmoving, simply staring at me. Her outfit never changed, and as soon as I glanced away, she'd vanish. No one else ever seemed to notice her.

Had I been a few years older, I may have been frightened. As young as I was, I never thought to be. After all, she never made a move toward me, and never did anything but watch.

My nights were unpleasant. The dream of running through the forest, being hunted, became a recurring nightmare. Over and over, I fell, my chest burning with pain.

In late July, my grandmother looked at my childish scribblings, and realized there was a recurring image. "Who is that?" she asked in curiosity, holding up a sketch done in brown and green crayon.

I shrugged. "The lady."

She frowned. "What lady?"

I didn't answer. Scattered on the floor around me were probably about fifty drawings, in crayon, colored pencil and marker, all showing the woman.

On the last night of my stay at my grandmother's house, early in August, the dream changed. I was back in the forest, but I was not running. I was laying down. The smell of soil and dead leaves filled my nostrils, and a great weight pressed down upon me. I felt cold, colder than I had ever felt before or since. I came to realize I couldn't move, no matter how hard I tried, and when I tried to scream for help, no sound left my lips.

I woke with a shudder. My room was dark, and the house was silent. As I shivered and wrapped the covers around me, I noticed something amiss and turned.

Standing in the shadows at the corner of my room was the lady.

I had never seen her so close before. I could see details I had never noticed. Her dress was not cloth. It looked as though she was clad in the very moss that grew upon the trees. Her bare feet were mishapen, ending in two toes, tipped with hooves, like the feet of a deer. Her skin looked rough, and was speckled with brown dots. Behind her was a long tail, tufted with hair. And on her head was an antler, with its partner broken, ended in a jagged stump.

I am not sure how long we stayed there, silent and still, watching each other. It could have been seconds, or an hour. But eventually I blinked, and like always, she vanished.

I don't know how to explain why I did what I did next. I do not know how the idea came to me, or whether it was my thought or hers. I reached under my pillow and grabbed the antler and the duvet from the bed, then tiptoed out of my room.

I crept into the bathroom and opened the first aid kit my grandmother kept under the sink. I pulled out the bandages, and walked downstairs, careful not to step on the creaky floorboard. I unlocked the back door and walked out of the house and into the forest.

At night, the familiar trees were made strange by the darkness and shadow. The wind rustled the leaves, sounding like whispers. An animal screeched and I jumped, scared. But I did not turn back.

I returned to the strange skeleton I had found two months before. I crouched down and brushed the leaves that had fallen since off of the body. In the darkness, the white bones seemed to almost glow.

Carefully, I placed the broken antler back where it belonged, and secured it to the skull with Spider-man band-aids. I took the arrowhead from the ribcage and threw it as far as my seven-year-old body could, memories of dreams of pain desperation giving me an unexpected strength. I placed the duvet over the skeleton, thinking of that unbearable cold.

There was a creek nearby, and I carried rocks from it, the stones worn smooth by the water, placing them over the body. Over the next few hours, I completely covered the grave, for that's what it was. When the task was finished, the sun was just beginning to peek through the canopy, and I felt a sense of peace wash over me.

When I returned to the house, my grandmother was on the porch talking to two police officers. There were questions about what happened, where I'd been, but I answered none of them. I was severely scolded, then tightly hugged, and told I was in big trouble.

Eventually, life went back to normal. I never expected to see the lady again, and I never did. The dreams stopped, too. The rest of my childhood was normal, and I grew up to be a park ranger.

Earlier today, the memories came rushing back. Three particularly stupid teenagers decided to go traipsing through a forbidden cave on a dare, and were fortunate enough to be tracked down and rescued. But the beam of my flashlight illuminated something on the wall of the cave.

It was a cave painting. In it, a group of human hunters pursued a tall figure with bows and arrows. Their prey was humanoid, with the hooves and horns of a deer.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/SirReginald3 on 2023-06-26 20:18:48+00:00.

---

Ok, so for some context with the entity that I had an experience with: The Haunting. The Haunting is a ghost/spirit type creature that comes from Algerian folklore, people don't tend to believe folklore, but I can tell you this creature is very much real, as it nearly took my life. Anyway, I'm getting off track. The Haunting is a ghost/spirit creature that comes after people who desecrate graves of those who were of importance. If anyone in a group destroys said important graves, even if the others in their group did not, the Haunting will stop at nothing until everyone is dead. The Haunting also has the power to possess people, and become a physical being. The key way to figure out if someone is being possessed by The Haunting is if the person in question is rotting alive. This is because, based off of my research, The haunting is super radioactive.

My story began when my 2 friends; Zach, Brad, my brother Atles, and I (I would like to remain anonymous) were hiking through the woods on a Friday evening. We had been about 6 hours away from the car at the time, and we were hiking up a hill that the locals had titled, "Mount Haunting." After hiking about four and a half miles Brad said that we should set up camp.

After setting up camp we started drinking some beer and smoking pot. Later, while all of us were high and drunk, Atlas (being the most intoxicated) admitted to desecrating some graves earlier that day along the trail. We all scolded him for being so foolish and disrespectful to the dead when we suddenly heard a defeaning crunch coming from deep within the forest.

We all, except Atles, rushed into our tent. Atlas was sitting by the fire muttering and chattering to himself, when we suddenly saw a humanoid shadow casted onto the tent wall, walking slowly over to were atles was. Atlas was completely unaware of what was going on, and what happened next still chills me to my core to this day. The shadow man made his way to Atles where he extended a massive claw, about a foot long, and tore Atles' head clean off. We all went fanatic, and booked it to the car and drove off, not stopping untill we made it well out of town.

After a completely silent car ride, We eventually made it to a nearby police station. Brad and I turned around to ask if Zach was all good, only to find him rotting alive. Brad immediately booked it for the station, and I was soon behind him. When we made it into the station we frantically explained all that had happened to us to the only officer who was there at the time. Unfortunately, he didn't believe a word we said, and he started laughing and told us we needed to lay off the crack.

As Brad and I stood there bewildered at his response, Zach broke into the building through the brick wall nearest the front door. The officer immediately started shooting at him, but his bullets did little to slow down the possessed Zach, and he went over to the officer where he ripped his head clean off.

It has been about two weeks, Brad and I have been on the road non-stop since that night. We haven't told many people, mostly because nobody believes us, but I write this here because as far as I know there may be similar stories to this one on this site. I want this story to remain here, because frankly, we don't have too much longer and I would like others to know of our unfortunate circumstance, in the hope you avoid the same fate as I.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/AtomicShades on 2023-06-26 20:14:39+00:00.

---

I don’t think regular human beings are prepared to come face to face with what was, what is, and what is to come, all in the same teary eyed, naive, thoughtless gaze. It’s too much for our small minds to handle, I think. I’ve experienced that once or twice in this lifetime. Taking a Michigander and shipping him off to a foreign land where nobody knows anything about you except your last name and rank can be overwhelming to say the least. It may be nihilistic of me to think so, but listening to the sounds of artillery rip your friends to shreds, hearing them call for God, their mother, or any other variety of final requests they may make, knowing their demise is nearing with every second, puts the value of individual lives in perspective.

By the time the black suits and billionaires decided the fighting was done and I was sent home, I had nothing but a small satchel of personal effects, used battle rags, and nightmares, I had forgotten what it was like not to sleep on four hour intervals trading time with a fearful, wide eyed kid from the Bronx, or a too-cool-for-school black kid from the south, with the occasional appearance by the freckle faced kid from down the street that enlisted with you, hoping he wouldn’t die alone in a trench full of strangers, which of course, he did. Either way, I made it home in one piece.

On the morning of July 26th, 1959, fifteen years after my return home from the Pacific, my clammy hands making the ink of the morning paper bleed onto the countertop as I stood wide-eyed, taking in the absolute horror of a story that I had found nestled between the personal ads and the sports section. It would be a falsehood for me to say the small voice in my head wasn’t pleading to the universe that it was fiction with every word my brain tried desperately to process as I scoured the story, which stretched nearly the entire page. A new recurring column perhaps? As if the world wasn’t full of enough horror, at least for the working class Joes like myself.

The story detailed the gruesome journeyings of a couple of green, naive kids from my hometown. According to the story, on August 16th, 1936, a Sunday, the boys were experiencing the standard end of summer blues, and wanted to finally do something daring, more daring than sneaking out or making prank calls like most fifteen year old boys do. On that day, these two young men decided to poke around one of the two abandoned copper mines located on the outskirts of my hometown, Copper Hollow, Michigan.

The town was cleverly named for the copper mines, which were first discovered by miners from the Northeast who followed the large river that ran through my town down South. The mines provided a huge economic boom for the area and Copper Hollow quickly sprawled into what it is today, which is still a small town by most people’s standards. Unfortunately for the mining industry, both of the mines were closed down in the early aughts under circumstances that rang mysterious to say the least. I remember my father telling me at the time that a lot of the miners were getting sick, not from the mining itself, but from something else down there. A lot of the guys that descended into the sprawling depths of the mines came back different to say the least. Many of them would be committed to the Asylum up in Traverse City, but even more would just starve themselves to death, without the courage to kill themselves off quickly and with too much fear to continue living. My father said that it was all a bunch of ghost stories to keep people out of the mines.

Officially, many thought the workers went on strike, being miners at the time made very little, and never returned. Others thought the copper ran dry. Many that were close to the workers who were laid off at the time of the mine’s closing all claim that there were other, far more powerful and sinister things at play that forced its closure; nevertheless, the mining ceased and the formerly mineral-rich ground was sealed forever, or so I thought. According to the article, the workers, in a craze, boarded up all of the entrances except for one. This specific mineshaft was one of the first to be closed down, and was forgotten when the rest were sealed up.

I remembered the initial story back in the 30s almost immediately. It was unclear to the authorities which of the two boys decided to convince the other to explore the abandoned mine, or which one of them objected, if they objected at all. If you’re superstitious like me, the first thing you’d wonder is what possessed these two young boys, who grew up hearing about how dangerous the mines were, and how eerie the circumstances of their closing were, to one day decide to venture into their abyssal depths.

The article went on to recap from its initial story, that despite the best efforts of law enforcement, of course, only one of the two boys, a kid named Billy McKinnon, a young Irish fellow a few years younger than myself, made it safely back to the surface. The child was immediately rushed to the asylum fifty miles north of here for questioning, babbling on about some of the most horrifying things you’ve ever heard.

From the beginning, they tried their best to pin a murder on Billy. The case had two major problems, the first being that no corpse was ever found, and the second being that police were convinced by the insane babblings that he made from the moment of his capture that he not only didn’t know where he was or what he was doing, but didn’t hold the mental capacity necessary to stand trial for murder. They shipped him off to the asylum in Traverse City, where he remained until today. The story indicated that after all this time, after years of authorities from multiple agencies contacting him, trying to get closure for the Jacobs family, a family I’d known through other acquaintances, he had finally decided to come forward with his portion of the story, to clear his name, and agreed to finally speak to authorities.

A week after reading the article, I ran into a family friend of mine by the name of Archie Rucker, now a detective, who informed me he was in the fluorescent laden room when the now 38 year old Billy was being questioned. Initially, according to Archie, Billy seemed too scared to talk, but once pressured, he gave a full account of the events that took place, and even now I find it hard to comprehend exactly what Archie told me was said. To make sure they got everything, they brought in a stenographer from downstate, near Mt. Pleasant, I think. Under the table, Archie sent me a copy of the transcript. This is what they were able to type out between the babbling and groaning from McKinnon.

***

On the morning of August 16th, 1936, my best friend in the whole world, Alex Jacobs and myself, decided that we were bored. To us, we were far more bored than any of the other kids in the neighborhood, whose parents had spent hundreds of dollars on toys, vacations, and expensive frozen desserts to beat the heat of the midwestern summer. We were broke, with only a few cents for the occasional Coca-Cola, a couple comic books, a deck of worn playing cards, and the type vivid, at times explicit imagination that ranged from deciding whether the Three Stooges or Popeye would win in a fight to observing how much bigger Laura Crowley’s chest had gotten over the last year. Boy stuff.

In the shadow of the morning sun we talked over the activities for the day, beginning with riding our bikes along the same trails of the town square, buying an ice cream soda from the creepy corner store owner they see every day for groceries anyhow, strolling the park, or doing something different, something fun, something dangerous. Honestly, a part of me wanted to one up Alex on the toughness scale, and another part of me didn’t understand what we were agreeing to, or understand the powers that be that aligned our destinies on this sunny, perfect morning. Regardless, somehow, we agreed to explore one of the abandoned copper mines, a former source of prosperity, peace, and happiness that slowly turned into a cesspool of legend and mystery.

The first mine was out of the question. Unlike the haphazard exit of the second mine, the first had been demolished using dynamite when it was shut down to avoid anyone ever entering. Plus, that mine didn’t come with the shock factor the second mine had. The second mine was the one that carried the stories of ancient power, political and economic corruption, and the allure of a dangerous, daring adventure. I’m sure you can understand that a lot of this is a blur to me, I don’t remember which, but one of us decided on the second, and the other quickly agreed. The forgotten entrance we decided to use was a long-time hangout of some of the older teenagers, ne’er-do-wells, and miscreants for as long as I can remember. On this particular day, the entrance to the mine was untouched and unguarded, which left a perfect opportunity for us to not only enter the mine unbothered, but also unseen and undetected by the watchful eye of anyone who would try to stop us if they saw us.

The entrance to the mine began small enough that we had to duck to get inside, but then opened up into a large, towering cavern, lined with railroad ties, rope, and nails the diameter of a dollar piece. A sturdy piece of architecture to be sure. My father is a steel worker, so I stole a couple of his big flashlights to make sure we didn’t go in blind. I knew he wouldn’t miss them, we wouldn’t be gone th...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14jrwgi/the_mine/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/middleoflidl on 2023-06-26 19:25:08+00:00.

---

I will preface this by offering an apology to all the Scottish people I will doubtlessly offend by the following statement; the Scottish are weird. I moved to Glasgow in the Summer of ‘93 after my boss sent me, supposedly on a temporary basis, to manage the northern division of a major retailer.

Thirty years later I’m still here. I still feel like an outsider. The people here speak differently; they’re sausages are square and I swear they'd dip your first-born son in batter and stick him in a deep-fryer if you gave them the chance. We owe them penicillin, televisions, telephones and the enlightenment but witnessing a saturday night in the east-end of Glasgow would have you convinced they were all savages.

Even the Romans had the sense to build a great big wall to keep them separated. I realise I’m sounding very negative. I just think it’s important for people to understand that it’s not all kilts and haggis. There’s drugs, fights, sectarianism and… the Ice Cream Wars.

I never knew about the Ice Cream Wars before I moved to Glasgow, it’s a long and violent piece of Scottish history that I don’t have the time to fully explain to you today.

To summarise, it was a series of turf wars that erupted between rival ice cream vans and gangs in the 1980s. In addition to cones and slushies, vans were making huge profits from selling drugs and illicit items. Only the Scottish like a side of cocaine with their cornettos. Most people think it ended, and in some ways it did, but I’m here to tell you that the Ice Cream Wars are still around, you just have to live on my street.

I’ve lived in my house for the past five years. It’s a lovely semi-detached Victorian in the West End, just a few miles from Glasgow University. I live there with my wife, daughter and our granddaughter Poppy, who is overly fond of all things sweet. Of course when she heard the jovial ring of an ice cream truck one Friday evening she started bouncing off the walls.

“Oh please granddad please! Can I get an ice cream please!” She tugged at my sleeve as if her life depended on it. Unable to say no to her little rosy cheeks, I grudgingly searched my pocket for any stray change. Having heard that awful jingle, I sighed and resigned myself to having to leave my house. I took her hand and led her outside.

It was parked up at the bottom of the street, blaring that awful little tune. Be, boo, tee, tee, da, da. It was an old, rusted truck, painted in a sickening pink hue. The sign on the side of the truck read “Jerry Tibbins” - but the “i” had lost it’s hat and the Y was hanging off. Orange rust crept up the side of the vehicle, and if I were a mechanic running an MOT, I’d have failed it on sight.

I approached it tentatively and was strangely unsurprised when I saw that the man driving the truck matched the exterior. Jerry Tibbins was a gaunt little man with a series of tattoos of a certain popular football team and a small tear-drop just under his eye. His face was etched with groves and he looked as if he’d shaved himself with a butter knife. There was a large fresh wound on the centre of his forehead, oozing with yellow infection.

“Ice cream or something else bud?” He said pointedly, turning the van music off and looking at me as though I was a little ant that had crawled up through the cracks in the pavement. I knelt down by Poppy and pointed at the menu. “We ain’t got none of that in the pictures, we’ve got these shitty orange things that taste like piss or I can do you a ‘99 but I ain’t promising you the cream will stay in the cone.”

“Well, Poppy, what do you say?” I said, taken aback. Poppy looked up at me timidly and then glanced at Jerry Tibbins.

“Cone.” She whispered. Good choice, I thought. I’m not a fan of piss lollies myself.

“She’ll have the cone.”

“Aye, I heard her. Oh this hunk of shit.” Jerry hit the side of his ice-cream machine violently. He held the cone underneath the ice cream dispenser and it released a small dribble of ice cream pre-cum. Eventually a solid stream of thick viscous cream was ejected and all was well. It even stayed in the cone. “Quite proud of this one. Here lil girl, don’t give yourself brainfreeze now. Now, you, sure there’s nothing else you want?”

“A Rolex watch and a new wife, but I don’t want an ice cream, no.” I whispered to him carefully. He narrowed his eyes.

“It ain’t no rolex, but you can have this - oh wait - no - I think it’s here somewhere. Oh, yeh, just under all this crud. Got it!” Jerry Tibbins pulled out an old and rusted watch. There were dark red stains that I presumed was engine oil stuck in all the little cracks and divots. It didn’t look like much, but to a careful eye like mine, it’s value was apparent. It was a cartier. Vintage 1980. Shine it up a little and I’d clear a good couple of thousand on it. Old Jerry clearly had no clue what he had.

“Um - I - well it looks a good one.” I stumbled with my words.

“I’ll give you it for free, just cause I’m feeling charitable, to an english fucker as well, must be going mad, just promise you won’t go to any other ice cream vans alright? Any other motherfucker comes down this road with their little fuddy duddy tunes, you keep those blinds closed like a nun’s legs.” Jerry handed me the watch, gesturing to my window. “We got a deal?”

“You have a deal.” I shook his hand. Poppy’s ice cream was starting to melt down her hand.

“Good doing business with ya! I’ll be round against next week. Got a shipment of Playstation ones coming, fell off the back of a truck.” Jerry Tibbins said as he wrapped his hands round the wheel of his truck. The vehicle roared into life and I couldn’t believe my luck.

So giddy I was, that it wasn’t till a few hours later that I pondered the weight of what he had just said. Playstation Ones? We were on to five now. What was Jerry Tibbin doing selling twenty year old consoles? Did he think we were in the 90’s?

He came again and again, and each week he had something new to offer me. No one else in the street seemed to bother with him; we were a relatively up-market neighbourhood full of vegans and snobs after all. Thirty years ago this place would have been working class, but gentrification had resulted in the jaguars in driveways instead of hondas.

Still he came, every Friday night, at exactly half past six.

I got a platinum ring for the wife, just three-hundred smackers, a lovely little golden key-chain for the daughter and a little baggie of cannabis just to make the mid-life crisis go a little easier. It was the best damn ice-cream truck in the whole world.

“My most loyal customer.” He’d smile. “More of the good stuff?”

“As always.” I said. An odd sort of camaraderie had formed between us now. Our transactions were warm and friendly. That’s one thing about the Scottish, they’ll love you if you’re loyal, but boy, do they burn you if you’re not.

“I’m really happy I’ve got you Jim. No one on this street bothers no more, thirty years I’ve been coming here. Makes me feel real good, y’know, having a customer again?” Jerry Tibbins said to me. It was odd, but I noticed it then; that the odd little graze on his forehead had never healed, it had stayed the same, for the entire four months he’d been coming to me. "Got a shipment of PS1's coming, fell of the back of a truck."

Repetitive old chap. I pushed the graze out of mind. It was nothing. Had to be. I watched his van vanish down the street. There was a loud bang when his van fell out of view. Weird, but he'd probably blown out his exhaust.

It was an oddly hot summer’s day when another ice cream van came plundering down the road. Jerry wasn’t due for another couple hours and Poppy wanted an ice cream. What’s a man to do? Jerry wouldn’t even know that I’d broken my promise. I got the damn kid a cone and somehow I felt like a bad guy. You can’t win, I swear.

“I know you’ve been going to other ice cream vans Jim, I can sense it. I hope I’m wrong, man, but I’m - I’m worried dude. Everyone just fucks me off in the end.” Jerry said as he handed me a cone for Poppy and a small little bag of weed. How did he know?

“I wouldn’t do that to you Jerry.” I told him. His brows squinted and he suddenly grabbed the middle of his head where his graze was as if overtaken by pain.

He groaned all of a sudden. “Damn, this spot on the front of my head’s hurting me, migraines all day every day. Shit hurts.”

“Have you not got any painkillers back there?” I asked

“Only the kind that get you stuck on them.” Jerry grunted. “No more cheating alright, you’re mine. If I see you with another ice cream truck I’ll blow your brains out.”

And he drove off. Once again his van vanished and other loud bang. Poor sod really needed to get that exhaust fixed.

I was in the library the other day with my wife. Every week we go and pick out a book for the week. It’s boring as shit. She picks some period romance as usual and I browse the history racks. I like non-fiction, I can’t be bothered with made-up stuff.

One book caught my interest; The Ice Cream Wars. I figured it’d give me something to talk about with Jerry, for he’d surely been around for them judging by his prison tattoos and his… vernacular.

It was on page eighty-three when I nearly had my heart attack. It was a crime scene photo, of a blooded up pink van with the wind screen smashed in. A body lay still and contorted.

It couldn't be.

No.

He was mottled blue and slumped over the ice cream machine with dried congealed blood forming a sad little ...

---

Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14jqlxq/the_ice_cream_wars/

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Naruto24561 on 2023-06-26 19:23:33+00:00.

---

The day was June 12th. It was your average rainy day. I was watching YouTube when i got an ad showing the new Grimace meal for the birthday of the McDonald's mascot. The main selling point being the new milkshake: The grimace shake. This shake was purple with whipped cream on top. Since it was so new I haven't heard anything about it. I was already super bored so I decided that I should go to McDonald's and order this because the shake did look pretty tasty. this would be the biggest and last mistake of my life. I got up from the couch, got my keys and left the house late at night at around 10:30.

I got in my car and drived to McDonald's which was about 10-15 minutes away. The road was straight ahead and was surrounded by trees. It was a normal and quite relaxing night drive until I saw something in the corner of my eye. What I saw was a body in the woods shirtless with his upper body covered in purple. He also had some dirt on him. On the ground next to him was McDonald's drink cup for grimaces birthday. The shake was leaking out of his mouth as well. A wave of dread washed over me and my blood ran cold. I tried to convince my self that since it was dark I was seeing things.

I kept driving still quite disturbed and reached McDonald's and went in the drive through. Turns out you can't order the shake by itself and have to order the meal. I ordered the 10 nuggets meal with the shake. I drived home and as I was driving I took a sip of the shake. This is when it went blurry.

After I took a sip I woke up in my car upside down in the woods. I wasnt sure how long I was out. My body was half outside the broken window and I was covered in the grimace shake and some blood. There was glass everywhere and I was in lots of pain. My vision was a little blurry. I was drooling but it wasn't just saliva It was the Berry tasting grimace shake. I could barely move making it hard to crawl out the car. As I was crawling I could make out the same body I saw while driving. The same feelings came back and I felt like throwing up. As I was about to crawl out the vehicle I saw the body being dragged. I didn't see who did it but all I saw was a furry purple arm dragging it. I froze completely and after a few seconds I snapped back into it and decided to crawl out while the guy who dragged the body was gone.

Now I'm hiding behind a tree covered in the grimace shake and it won't stop coming out my mouth. I'm trying to be silent and escape but I can barely move. It took all of my energy to get behind this tree. I hear footsteps behind the tree. I wanted to write this as a goodbye message. And I have one more thing to say:

DO NOT TRY THE GRIMACE SHAKE.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/TormentedTales on 2023-06-26 18:55:55+00:00.

---

The humidity during summer in south Texas is miserable and unbearable. It's a heat I'm still not used to, thirty years later. The humidity is so thick in the air you can feel the moisture sticking to you. The summer when the scratching started, the heat was exceptional. Every day in July was nearly record breaking.

I lived in a studio apartment on the top floor in a pretty big complex. The community was quiet and there were virtually no crimes within the complex or outside of it. There would be an occasional apartment party where the music was too loud, or a domestic problem between lovers.

I want to make a quick side comment right now; I've never struggled with mental health or have seen a psychiatrist.

At first when the scratching started it was faint and barely noticeable, and would only occur at night. As the nights went on the scratching became louder and more deliberate. It sounded like an animal with really sharp claws. It didn't sound human.

I complained to the property manager but they discounted it as my neighbors children playing with their toys against the wall. The manager said he'd talk to them but that never happened.

The noise continued but only at night. And then I realized it one night, the scratching wasn't coming from the other side, it was coming from inside of the walls.

Weird things began to happen around my apartment, things I can't explain. My remotes for my TV and game system went missing along with raw meat from my freezer.

One morning I found a piece of gray flesh hanging from the vent in my bedroom. It wasn't like human flesh. This was slimy and had little stubbles of hair.

That day I went out to Best Buy and bought a security camera. The first night after I set up the camera was quiet, the camera caught nothing, but the second night proved the camera was a good investment.

I couldn't believe what I was watching on my computer screen, a tall thin naked man, well at least it had the features of a man. His skin was gray though, grayer than a corpse, he looked emaciated, his limbs were protruding outwards, his arms were elongated and dangled limply by his sides, and he had thin black hair all over his body.

According to the time stamp on the video, he stood above me watching me sleep for six straight hours. He never moved or adjusted his position. He stood perfectly still until six o' five, when he climbed back into my vent.

I took the video to the nearest police substation and I showed them the video. This prompted the officer to jump into action and take a ride over to my apartment. Unfortunately, he came away empty handed and I was back to square one.

How could that man just disappear? Where had he gone too?

Two weeks went by, the scratching had stopped and my security camera hadn't recorded any new sightings. The man vanished without leaving a trace of evidence.

Another two weeks went by, and then weeks turned to months. Eventually, I took the camera down which proved to be a huge mistake.

One cold winter night in February, I was woken up by the man chewing on my calf muscle. I wiggled myself free while I screamed for help.

The man retreated back into the vent and was gone by the time police arrived. EMS transported me to a local hospital and the bite on my calf was stitched up and I was sent home.

Only I never returned to my apartment. I haven't seen the gray man since but the images of him standing over my bed and chewing my calf still haunts me to this day.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/PikaPikaGamer on 2023-06-26 18:52:46+00:00.

---

My eyes squint at the OLED screen in front of me.

It's late, it's raining, I have work in the morning and I'm feeling tired. But every time I shut my eyes, I open them again, going back to my phone and opening up the image gallery. I scroll down to find the images of me and my ex-girlfriend, Erica.

We'd been together for almost 3 years before I caught her cheating on me with another guy. But even so, I can't seem to keep myself away from the log of memories I've kept in my phone. A mix of anger, sadness, and betrayal fill me, as I wonder where everything went so wrong. Hoping that through my endless searching, I might find the key, that one clue, that one moment, that one photo that would tell the whole story.

Just as I'm about to close the gallery app and try to go back to sleep, a banner notification pops up on my screen from my News app. "Introducing ChatGPT - 4's new 'upload image feature'," it reads. Curiosity piqued, (and boredom at the max) I tap on the notification, and quickly reach the website and purchase a subscription. It claims to be an advanced AI capable of analyzing images and providing detailed responses.

An idea forms in my mind, a wicked and twisted idea. A cruel sense of humor takes hold of me, and I smirk. I select a saved photo of Erica and me, happily posing on Miami beach, she's holding onto me tight, as the deep violet sunset reflects off the water and into her eyes. With a mischievous glint in my eyes, I upload the photo and type a question, "When will the loser in this photo die?"

A response appears on the screen,

"I'm sorry, but as an AI-Language model, I don't have the ability to determine a person's social-status, lifespan, or predict the death of individuals based on a photo. Such facts are beyond my scope."

Disappointed but not deterred, I continue engaging with the AI. "Okay, then tell me something interesting about the girl in this photo. Surprise me."

The AI processes the request, and after a brief pause, it responds,

"The female in this photo is roughly 5'5" tall and has a weight of roughly 155 lbs. This would most likely indicate this person has a high BMI. Individuals with a high BMI are at an increased risk of developing diseases such as diabetes and coronary artery disease. As well as increased risk of strokes, heart-attacks, and mental-conditions such as depression."

I chuckle to myself, finding a strange sense of catharsis in the AI's observation. It's almost comforting to know that Erica's choices might have consequences, even if it's in the form of unrelated health risks.

I go to hit the home-screen button on my phone, feeling like I got enough out of my system, only to hit the green enter button by mistake, with no message in the prompt box.

I sigh, but feel like I might as well hear what the AI wants to tell me now. Maybe she was bound to lose her job, or get pickpocketed. But ChatGPT takes this as the time to switch the focus. And it gives me the following message.

However, I notice a small red bump with what appears to be pus underneath on the male-individual. The characteristics of the bump, measuring at it's appeared size and diameter, align with a high likelihood of Merkel cell carcinoma (MCC), a rare and aggressive form of skin cancer.

Furthermore, its apparent size and length of swelling, along with a yellowish skin appearance on the face, and decreased bone-mass could mean the cancer has metastasized to several organs in the body. And more may be affected as some effects have no outwardly physical changes.

Due to the physical changes, late-stage metastasis', and other examples of previous cases. It is likely the loser in this photo has weeks to live if they're not currently undergoing treatment.

I close the app. And throw my phone across the room.

It is still raining.

This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/cj_HITWM on 2023-06-26 18:42:53+00:00.

---

I was already quite familiar with the name A. Jean Starcher before receiving this account. Starcher was a professor and historian at Marshall University, then later the Tri-state Historical Society, and until recently one of the few true academics writing about the history and folklore of the Ohio Valley. I appreciated her thoroughness and insights, her having grown up not far from where I currently reside. Which is why I think the news of her passing in 2020, at the ripe old age of 98, led me a few days later to the front steps of Fletcher & Harris Funeral Home in Huntington, West Virginia.

The venue was packed with people, and my plan was to slip in, pay my respects, and leave unbothered. Of course it’s always then that you find yourself in the exact situation you were hoping to avoid.

“Why Bobby, it’s so good to–oh heavens, you’re not Bobby!” The pale face of the elderly woman who had spun me by the elbow flushed with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, dear, you must be thinkin’ ‘who’s this old fool’,” she tittered, giving my shoulder a playful shove.

I laughed awkwardly in return. “Haha, no, sorry, I’m not Bobby. It’s quite alright though, ma’am.”

“So then, how did you know Rory?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Aurora. How were you two acquainted?”

“Um, I…actually, I’m studying Appalachian folklore, and...”

“Oh, surely not as one of her students? You’re far too young! She hasn’t taught classes in darn near 30 years!”

“Ha no, obviously not. I’ve just read all of her books and papers. She’s helped me more than anyone else, really.”

Her face soured, adding many extra wrinkles. “Even her…later works?”

“Well…yes. Those too.”

She humphed, then leaned in close. “If you ask me,” she whispered, a bit too loudly. “I think her mind may have started going much further back than they say. Some of the things she wrote about…well, you know if you’ve read…”

I shrugged awkwardly. “She was a folklore professor. People believe in lots of things, and she wrote about it. I find it all very fascinating.”

The old gossip was about to continue when another woman, much closer to my own age, came to my rescue. “Hi Catherine, who’s this young man that you’ve ensnared?”

“Good gracious me,” Catherine flushed again, “I never did ask for your real name!”

I told them both, shaking my rescuer’s hand politely. She introduced herself to me as Ellie.

“And did I hear you say that you’ve been reading my great-grandmother’s books?”

“That’s right,” I said, feeling my own face redden. “I study, uh, the folklore of the area. This area.”

“Oh, that’s neat,” she nodded thoughtfully. “Well, obviously I grew up hearing all about it. She was an interesting woman, my grandma. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I do, actually. Her work is quite fascinating.”

“Which parts?”

“Well…all of it, really.”

She smiled, but there was a knowingness in her expression that gave me the feeling I was being studied. I excused myself with a couple of nice-to-meet-yous and sorry-for-your-losses, breathing a sigh of relief when I got back to my car. At least it was over and I paid my respects.

The next day, I woke up to a friend request from Ellie.

“So you’re a ghost hunter,” she messaged.

Dammit.

“Not exactly,” I replied. “I’m not a ‘paranormal researcher’ or ‘cryptozoologist’ either, which is what a lot of ghost and monster hunters like to call themselves. I’m more interested in the storytelling and folklore aspect. Especially the ones you don’t hear about.”

She then let me know that she was sending me something “fascinating”, and asked for my address. At the end of the week, a large manilla envelope arrived containing a dog-eared manuscript and a note from Ellie:

“After my great-grandmother made tenure and had been teaching for quite some time, she began exploring the more…esoteric corners of Appalachian lore. If you’ve read all of her articles and books as you said, you might have noticed that in her later works. But there was so much that she never published. I recently went through decades of her papers, half-finished manuscripts, photos, you name it–because, you know, make the journalism student do it. I’m supposed to enjoy that sort of thing, right? We’d always wondered why she was so fascinated with the stuff–as far as we knew, she hated monster movies and ghost stories, except as a subject of research. Then I came across this. I thought it was just a short piece of fiction that she’d never published. There’s no way this could’ve really happened, right? Either way, it seemed like something that might intrigue you. When you’re done, get back to me. I’ve included my contact information. With appreciation, Elle.”

And so, I read the manuscript. What follows is A. Jean Starcher’s–then Aurora Carmichael’s–account, which I’ve split into three parts:

Part I: The Flood of 1937

Everyone of a certain age has a flood story. I reckon that’s no surprise, given our long cultural affinity for a good deluge tale. It might have something to do with early civilizations springing up in every fertile river valley and delta from the Mississippi to the Mekong. The waters overflowing their banks were seen as a natural part of life in those places, and we became rather good at predicting and adapting to these cycles. We were even able to control them in some cases. But once every generation or two, there would be a great flood that no one predicted, and few could escape. If you grew up within a hundred miles of the mighty Ohio River in the early 20th century, you knew what everyone meant when they spoke about the Flood.

Sure, all of us river folk were used to a little high water just like everyone else. It usually happened during the changeover from winter to spring, when the weather never seemed to make up its mind so it just threw everything it had at you, sometimes all in one day. But that year, 1937, well Mother Nature decided to turn on the taps, then go back to bed until Spring and let the Lord sort it all out.

My family didn’t start to worry until we woke up Sunday morning and the road had washed out. The little wooden bridge had eventually given out, days of rain carving out the creek that ran between my Uncle Henry’s farmhouse and the pastures. He had a telephone and started making some calls, and within an hour we were told to start packing up our things. Not that we had much back then - June and I shared a small, battered suitcase, while Louis and Douggie had only an old feed sack. Meanwhile, Aunt Clara busied herself carrying various bits of furniture and knick-knacks upstairs.

My uncle gathered us in his parlor. He informed us that a rescue boat was on its way to get us. After a long drag of his fragrant pipe, he continued. “I’ll tell y’all the truth, I ain’t never seen it this bad. Wasn’t this high back in ‘13.” Uncle Henry was a man who never worried about much, so his alarm only made my own trepidation that much worse.

“What about Mommy and Daddy? Are they alright?” little Douggie asked.

“They’re fine, dear,” Aunt Clara consoled him. “They’re still up in Marion. The roads are pretty bad up there, on account of the snow.”

“They got snow?” Louis said, looking put-out by the news.

“Durn near a foot-an’-a-half,” Uncle Henry said. He parted the curtains and gazed outside. “And when it melts, it’s gonna make all this that much worse…”

About a half-hour later, we stood waiting on the front porch with our thin coats drawn tight around us, a feeble attempt to ward off the damp chill. Around the little hill between the farm and the river, a white vessel like a large rowboat appeared. The band of cows stranded on the muddy knoll watched it lazily as it burbled past. As it neared, I could see the words “U.S. COAST GUARD” painted on the side. It pulled up slowly to the spot where Uncle Henry guided them to make anchor, and an improvised gangplank was hastily erected. The coastie at the bow took my hand and helped me over the gunwale, smiling at me as he did so. He was strikingly handsome, and I felt my cheeks grow hot despite the cold.

Little June asked my uncle if they were coming with us. “Not right now, Junebug. We’ve got some things to mind before we can leave. But we’ll meet up with all of you later, we promise.”

Uncle Henry spoke with the other (not quite as young and handsome) sailor that was piloting the boat. Then with a push from him and my brother Russell–who nearly lost his boot in the mud–we were gliding away from the farmhouse. We’d received news of the flooding that previous week, first when the river crossed the bridge at Jerry’s Run, where locals joked the road would flood if everyone tossed out their bath water at the same time. But then it covered the old mill and the docks on Mineeto Creek north of Providence. I knew that the mighty Ohio was going to be the highest I’d yet seen in my 15 years. But nothing prepared me for what awaited us on the other side of the hill.

We came out onto Route 7, the main road connecting all of the little towns on this side of the river. Except we couldn’t actually see the road. Nor the fence rows, the fields, the houses that dotted the flat, fertile bottomlands. It was all river, a swift, muddy brown torrent miles wide. Only the tops of trees and the roofs of barns rose from the murk like peculiar islands. I shivered, both from the January air rushing past and from the thought of what might lay drowned beneath us. June and Douggie pressed against me. I draped my blanket around both of the...

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Content cut off. Read original on https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/14jphpo/the_deluge_part_i_the_flood_of_1937/