Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 15 Ways to Kill Your Lover | Part 1

Episode Date: November 21, 2025

A Ripper named Jack invites you into the Infernal City for a lover’s rendezvous with Death herself—where devotion is measured in blood, and every method of torture is a love letter. Over 80 exclusive bonus episodes are waiting for you. Unlock them now with a 7-day free trial of Dr. NoSleep Premium. Cancel anytime. No commitment: ⁠⁠⁠⁠patreon.com/drnosleep Author: Jake Bible For more terrifying stories from this author, check out his latest release – All The Monsters: Ten NoSleep Stories, Volume One: ⁠https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FY438TSV⁠ * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Support the show and feed your nightmares. Patreon gets you ad-free episodes, early access, and an entire vault of 80-plus exclusive stories. Link in the description below. You may call me Jack. While I am a Ripper, yes, I am not that, Jack. But, of course, as is the way of my kind, we Rippers all aspire to achieve such greatness.

One day, perhaps. one day. Not that the jack I speak of was the first of our kind. No, no, we have been around since humanity first soiled Eden. Inside every person is a ripper waiting to get out. Lucky for the populace, a true ripper is a rare occurrence, almost, but never quite, a once-in-a-generation thing. Sure, sure, there are these so-called serial killers out there, but they've are not rippers, simply predators with opposable thumbs. Do not get me wrong, many of these killers are quite good at what they do, obsessing over their victims, luring their victims, hunting their victims, killing their victims, dismembering their victims, not necessarily

in that order. Many should be applauded for the pain and anguish and horror they contribute to the world. But to be a true ripper, one must not only be intimate, with forms of brutality and violence only seen in the pits of hell, but one must also be in love with their victims. Yes, you heard me correctly. A Ripper must love who they kill. Even that Jack of Legend loved his victims. Wait, not victims. Partners? No, no, lovers. Yes, not victims or partners, but lovers. For aren't lovers? For aren't lovers? Love and pain only two sides of the same coin. Oh, that Jack loved his ladies.

He most certainly did. Loved each whore to death, you might say. And those were only the ones known to the public, those ladies of the knight whom he adored. There were others, much more prominent others, who succumbed to his charms, and his bloody instruments. Behind locked doors, behind closed curtains,

in the gloom and shadow of well-apportioned sitting rooms, where Jack could take his time and enjoy a fine brandy, possibly a cigar, while dismembering a maiden from one of society's more prominent houses. But those quiet loves of his were never announced. They never made the front pages of the papers. No sensational headlines for those poor dears. Their deaths were swept under the rug, so to speak. explained away as a sudden and destructive illness or an unfortunate accident.

With money and title, there need never be an inconvenient investigation from the police or other interested authorities. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that the families didn't care for the darlings who were taken too soon. No, they cared. They just may have had other, more pressing secrets that they couldn't afford to see the light of day. But that was the past and in a far-away locale. That jack stalked the streets and fire-lit parlors of a much different city than the streets I currently walk. An ocean away, yet in reality its distance is so much greater.

For everything and nothing starts and ends here, in the infernal city. That other place, that other jack, are more of fiction and fancy than anything. of substance. Because once you are inside and a part of the infernal city, it is also inside and a part of you. And believe me when I say that never the twain shall part. There is a connection, a thrumming life or death, depending on your view, that cannot be severed, even by a deft hand wielding a honed and sharpened knife such that I carry. For this is the way of the infernal city, this God-awful. place, this beautiful nightmare, this delicious playground. The infernal city is my breath, my beating heart. It is the blood in my veins and the waist in my viscera. It wraps me in a cold, dead

embrace, whispering sweet nothings and rotten somethings in both ears simultaneously. It could make sleep difficult if it wasn't so calming with its screams and cries and whines and pleas. What wonder Wonderfully horrific music this city makes. It soothes the savage beast, making room for an even more brutal monster waiting just below the surface. Such as tonight. A fine night in the city. A splendid evening where the rain has finally passed and the clock has yet to strike midnight.

I walked the streets, my boots quiet as kitten paws. We rippers are impossible to detect when we decide. that stealth is our game for the evening. Otherwise, we can be quite boisterous, the life of the party. But tonight, I am not looking for a party. No, my rendezvous is of a more intimate nature, a one-on-one with a woman of grand reputation, and even grander power. Money is not a motivating factor tonight. Now, as I have said, we rippers are fueled by love. My aim this evening is to add fire to that fuel and see where this flame takes us. Because, and it is something I have feared for a time now, that my love, my dearest heart,

may not be as faithful as I had hoped. There are others seeking her attention. So, tonight, I shall endeavor to make my ways her only focus from here on out by offering her a choice. Well, more like 15 choices to be precise. A smorgasbord of pain, if you'd like. While there are countless ways to dispatch a person, for rippers, there are 15 preferred ways to appropriately kill your lover. As I arrive at the grand house that has seen much, much better days, I study its façade, seeing the house for what it is, a tomb, a mausoleum, a gilded crypt, if you will. The smell of death wafts from every crack and crevice, and I savor the aroma.

Has another ripper already been here? I lift my nose and take in the house's bouquet. Mold, mildew, rat feces, mouse urine, strong black tea, crumbling brick and stone, aged wood heading toward full rot. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to say another of my kind has graced this house with their presence. I am surprised, to be honest. There is an obvious, yet slight hint of cadaverine which is like a clarion called Rippers. Do you not know of cadaverine?

Oh, you poor, ignorant fools. How can you not know of such a wonder of nature? The cologne of corpses. I take another long sniff and smell cadaverine's partner in crime, putrescine, the putrid perfume. The two scents drift in the air like a bake shop, tantalizing passerbyes with the smell of cinnamon and butter. Not wanting to appear unseemly in any way, I shake off my olfactory musings and climb the four stone steps up to the front door.

The knocker is grotesque with one eye, its jaw hanging open, just waiting for an idiot to reach in and try to announce their arrival. I know better, for I am a man of education in training. We rippers must be disciplined in all of our actions, and discipline requires repetition, restraint, repose. I study the knocker, then perform a deep bow before it. My good sir, if you could inform the lady of the house that I have arrived, I would be most grateful. The grotesque, single eye watches me closely,

then blinks slow and lazy, as if I had uttered the most, most boring words ever to spill from a man's lips. The lady is not receiving visitors. The grotesque announces. Begone. Not receiving visitors? I stand straight, confused. That cannot be, kind, sir.

She is expecting me. Then you are not a visitor. Oh, and what am I, if I may ask? An invited guest. The grotesque's mouth turns up in a smirk. It would serve you well to know the difference and announce yourself appropriately. My apologies. Will you please alert the lady of the house that her paramour has arrived?

And punctually, I may add, and delay is on you, good sir, not me. Laying blame on a stone door knocker, are you? The grotesque, tisked and tisked. You must be of... The contrary. I am of a bloodline that has navigated this social... strata for millennia. And yet, you do not know the difference between a visitor and an invited guest.

Navigated and being are of two different things. We lock eyes because we do not have horns to cross like raging bulls. Will you announce my arrival or not good, sir? Or shall I find my own way inside? Is that a threat? Are you threatening to breach these walls without invitation? I shall raise my voice and call for the authorities before you. You can take a step.

Oh, enough of this. I removed the calf skin glove from my right hand. What are you doing? Stop that! The Grotesque's mouth opens wide, ready to shout out its alarm. But the tips of my fingers touch its brow and stills the thing. There we go. Much better. The grotesque becomes instantly still and silent.

Nothing like the touch of a ripper to bring calm to a volatile situation. Picture this. It's late at night, you're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button, and just like that, you're done in seconds. That's the power of Shopify. It supports millions of businesses and drives 10% of all e-commerce in the U.S.,

from major brands like Mattel and Gymshark to entrepreneurs just getting started. With Shopify, everything you need is in one place, from customizable store templates to built-in AI tools that help write product descriptions and enhance your images. It also makes marketing easy with integrated email and social campaigns. And if you get stuck, Shopify's award-winning customer support is there for you 24-7. See less carts go abandoned and more sales go with Shopify and their shop pay button. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com. slash dns. Go to Shopify.com slash dns.

That's shopify.com slash dns. The thing's one eye glars at me as I grip its lower jaw and knock loudly. Making sure I put a little extra effort into it as I slam that jaw against the door over and over again. Yes, yes, what is it? The door is yanked open. My love's man servant sees me standing there

then glances at the frozen, grotesque door knocker. He makes no attempt to hide his disapproval. Good evening, Victor. I bow my head politely. I have an appointment with the lady. He ignores my words and cocks his head toward the silent and yet, obviously, enraged knocker. You're doing? I'm afraid we did not see eye to eye. I begin to remove my other glove. None of that, please. Your gloves are to remain on this evening, sir. Oh, well, how uncomfortable. An unfortunate necessity.

The lady has never wanted my hands covered before. It is of my suggesting, sir. He looks at the frozen grotesque once more. A prudent suggestion, it appears. Far from it, Victor. Far from it. I make sure both gloves are firmly in place. than look past Victor.

Am I to be invited in or not? I grow weary of the games, Victor. Please, sir, come in. Victor steps aside as he pulls the door fully open. His head dips in a polite bow. The lady is in the sitting parlor. Fresh tea and biscuits have been provided. But we both know your appetite bends toward other delicacies.

I am a man of exquisite and unique tastes, yes. I remove my hat and cloak, handing them to Victor. I would have given him the gloves as well, but apparently I am being intentionally hobbled this evening. The sitting parlor, you say? It is a rhetorical question, as I am already moving in that direction. I shall announce you, sir. He finishes hanging my cloak and hat on silver wall pegs, shaped like wolfheads.

No need to bother yourself, Victor. I know where I am going, and the lady is expecting me. It is inappropriate to announce oneself, sir. Considering the rudeness with which I have already been subjected, Victor, I believe inappropriate is this evening's theme. He stares at me, his lip rising in a detestable sneer. Very well, sir, as you wish. He bows low, then slinks off through a side door.

I frown. That was too easy. A servant of Victor's caliber never gives up so quickly. I shall have to keep my wits about me this evening, which is never a bad idea when visiting my one truest love. To the sitting parlor I go, marveling at the wealth of art lining the hallway, scenes of wickedness and depravity, the likes of which would set most museums ablaze simply for housing them, Hang proudly next to pastoral works of a much less shocking nature. The dichotomy has always intrigued me, beautiful and beastly, side by side. Of course, which is beautiful and which is beastly is entirely up to the eye of the beholder. Reaching the parlor door, I tap lightly with a gloved knuckle, then open the door.

My love, are you in here? Jack, oh my dearest love, you have a right? The lady leaps up from her high-backed chair, set near the well-apportioned fireplace. She races to me, grabbing her arms around my back, pulling me into her, pressing her body tightly to mine. Her face nestles in the hollow of my neck. Oh, her whisper, her breath is a warm tickle on my cold skin. She suddenly pushes back and frowns up at me. But you are late, which is not like you.

Where have you been, Jack? She shoves away, whipping around as she places a hand to her forehead and her back to me. It is another woman, isn't it? You have found someone new to give your heart to. Oh, my dearest love, do not be silly. I move quickly to her, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her into me so her back rests against my chest. I lean in close, placing my lips to her ear. It only has room for you, my love.

I feel her shudder against me, and that longing stirs inside me, threatening to rise too soon. But I tamp it down, control it, subdue it. Patience is what the evening requires. We have a lot to discuss, my love and I, before we succumb to our baser desires. Of course, for me, my baser desire is also my bloodiest desire, my need for cruel, abhorrent violence. just waiting to be called upon. Not yet, though. Not yet.

Timing is everything for a ripper. Biscuit? My love's sudden announcement startles me as she pushes off of my chest and hurries to the sideboard. We have butter or jam. Which would you prefer? Whichever is upon your lips, my love.

Oh, Jack. She waves a hand dismissively at me. I am already blushing. Do not make it worse. You know how ruddy my complexion gets, how I become a crimson beacon in the night. One of your many endearing qualities, my love. Oh, you, stop. She turns and gives me a serious look.

Which will it be, Jack? Butter biscuit or jemmy biscuit? The way she phrases her question makes me wonder what she was like as a young girl. Did she skip down the hallways of this very house? Or was she more serious? a girl who took careful steps. It's hard to say, knowing her as I do. A complicated woman is my love.

I suspect she was never a girl. No biscuit for me, my sweetheart of hearts. I gesture toward the high-backed chair opposite of hers. May I? Oh, of course, of course. Her enthusiasm borders on maniacal. When seated, I slipped the gloves from my hands and fold them carefully, draping them across the arm of the chair.

Her eyes fall to the gloves, then to my now naked hands, and widen slightly. Then she meets my gaze, and I recognize the look she gives me. Hunger. She wants what only I can give her. She wants it so badly that she's thrown all caution to the wind. I am sure she had a careful conversation with Victor earlier, planning and plotting in order to avoid this very situation and her desires. Her needs.

To have me so close and not be touched by my hands would be a torture even she cannot endure. And she can endure a lot of torture. I'd decide to lean into that hunger of hers. So, my darling dearest, when I arrived tonight, not only was your doorknocker quite rude, But Victor appears to have a specific set of instructions regarding my gloves, or more precisely, my hands, cared to illuminate me on the origins of his request. Moving my hands up and down the arms of the chair, I pressed down firmly, leaving slight trails in the upholstery. Her eyes never leave my hands. My eyes never leave her body.

I watch her chest rise and fall, rise and fall, her desire so apparent that it's almost sad. Her left hand goes to her belly and her right to her throat. She wants me to stand up and touch her cheek, dropping her into a paralyzed yet fully aware state so I can do my bidding and have my way with her. If I were to do that, I could most certainly have her splayed out on the floor, her dress and undergarments tossed aside, while I and my instruments do are nastiest to her soft, supple skin. My dearest love has many scars across her belly and breasts that are proof that my love for her has been real, which is still true. It's only my trust that is in question.

But, before anything can happen, least of all my love for answering my question, The parlor door opens, and Victor wheels in a tray of tea and biscuits, along with a tower of small cakes and candied fruit. He instantly spots my gloves on the chair, and a flash of rage occludes his features briefly, and then is gone as if it never existed. But I know it existed, and it piques my interest. Victor, may I ask you a question? Of course, sir.

As long as Lady Morta proves, He places the cart next to my dearest's chair. My lady, he may ask you a question, Victor. Her voice is slightly dreamy, her attention on my hands and nothing else. Thank you, my darling. I nod to her, then focus on Victor. Are you having carnal relations with my beloved? His brief second of hesitation before he tries to feign offense is all I need to know.

I am out of my chair, my hands around his seat. throat faster than he can track. Such is the way we rippers move when we have decided on a course of action. My dearest, my Lady Mort, gasps as I ease Victor's body to the floor. When I turn to her, she has undone the first few buttons of her dress and is nodding at me enthusiastically. He has poisoned my mind against you, my wonderful Jack. He seduced me and took me, and I cried out for you while he defiled me. jealousy is why he said the things he said to you. She undoes another two buttons, and I walked to her.

So this was all Victor's doing? Your intention was to leave me? Leave you? I could never leave you. She almost leaps into my arms, and I can feel the heat of her passion surging through her clothing. Her arms grab me, grip me, explore me, rubbing up and down all over.

You have to believe me, Jack. You are all I think of. You are what wakes me in the morning and puts me to sleep at night. Without you, I am nothing. A woman of great standing, yes. But we both know there is so much more to life than standing. All of my riches cannot buy what you give me, Jack. I have tried to be faithful.

I have tried with my entire soul. Yet, you were not faithful. I push her back, not unkindly. You have been with another. I look down at Victor and his eyes meet mine. They are filled with pure rage. And while you may not have been a willing participant, you cannot honestly expect me to believe you are wholly innocent.

But I am! I am Jack! Victor has always been in love with me. For as long as I can remember, he would steal glances at me when I was in the same room as him. I even found a peephole in my dressing room so he could watch me bathe. She shivers and I almost laugh. I'm a ripper. Does she think I don't know the difference between a shiver of disgust, a shiver of fear, or the ecstatic shiver of pleasure? I know them all intimately, just as I know

this woman intimately. Ah, so this is all because Victor's obsession has finally revealed itself, and he wants you only for himself? Is that what you are saying? He will stop it, nothing to have me! I smile, and then brush her cheek with a back of my hand. She immediately collapses into my arms and I set her down next to Victor, making sure they are close, but cannot touch. The fear in my love's eyes is almost too much for me to bear, yet bear it I must. I remove my suit jacket and drape it over the back of my chair, taking the gloves from the arm and setting them on top of the jacket. Then I slowly roll up my sleeves as I stand over my two captive's heads. My love watches me as I twist the cotton sleeves

bit by bit until the first one is settled above my elbow. She watches as I do the same with the other sleeve. In Victor's eyes, there is only murder. I applaud his thinking. With my sleeves rolled, I say, you both know what I am. Yes, my name is Jack, but that is what we are all called, isn't it? Jack or Jacqueline, Jacques or Jacqueline, and all the other iterations on the name, Jack. But, as you both also know, my name is only a placeholder for what I truly am. I crouch and brush a strand of hair out of my love's face, tucking it behind her ear. She shudders and breathes heavily through her nose. I am a ripper.

I have been put on this earth to bring pain to those who hold my heart. I turn my attention to Victor. You, my unfortunate friend, do not hold my heart. My knife is out and slashing across his throat before the words have finished tumbling from my mouth. Victor tries to gasp, but he cannot move his mouth. I wiped the blade upon his waistcoat, then set it on my dearest's chest, grinning at how it rises and falls with her bosom as her rate of breathing increases exponentially. Oh dear.

I smile at the mess I have made. Fishing a handkerchief from my own waistcoat, I dab at the spray of Victor's blood that is streaked across my love's face. We can't have you looking unseemly, my love. I clean her thoroughly, making sure not a drop of crimson is left on her face or neck. I even check behind her ears and almost laugh as she vibrates at my touch. There, now we have a clean slate, a fresh palate. I lean over her, and just,

gently kiss her lips. A blank. Standing, I walk to the tray and pour myself a cup of tea. I do take a butter biscuit as well. A little refreshment actually sounds delightful now. I seat myself in the high-backed chair and sip my tea. You should not be alarmed, my love, over this evening's revelations. As a ripper, I have a keen sense of when a relationship is about to end.

I arrived tonight, knowing full well. that you were not as faithful as you proclaimed to be. Over the rim of my cup, I watch her struggle against my power. She wants to tell me otherwise, to plead for my mercy, to beg for my cruelty, to succumb to my blade. Frustration builds in her, and I grin. I set my cup down. You, my darling, have been one of the greatest joys in my life, and I do not say that lightly, as I have had some truly great joys.

And because of your place within my heart, I am going to afford you a choice I never afford the others. Is that anger I see in those eyes? Jealousy. My love is not happy that I have admitted to others before her. No, a lady of her statue wants to be the only one, wants to be the first and the last. How sad for her.

Well, there are hundreds of variations, possibly thousands when it comes to killing a lover. There are exactly 15 ways that a ripper goes about it. Shall I list them for you? Of course, she doesn't answer, not with her voice at least. Her eyes tell me to continue. Her eyes tell me she is enjoying this. We'll have to tamp that enjoyment down at Dad.

I stand and walk to the cart, moving the teapot and cups to the side. I remove the silver tray they rest on and set that time. down by my love's head. Then I slowly, carefully begin to empty my pockets. And I do have a lot of pockets, all expertly concealed by the city's foremost tailor. Four scalples, two pairs of small pliers, a hacksaw blade snapped in half for ease of carrying. Oh wait, make that six scalples. I forgot about the two in my waistcoat. Packets of salt, a vial of malt vinegar for chips or torture, depending on my mood. Then there's another vial that certainly does not contain malt vinegar.

Several nails sharpened to the finest points. A rock hammer. And, last but certainly not least, my already bloodied knife that I take from where it rests on her bosom, and I set it next to my other hallowed instruments. My wonderful, horrible knife is a custom weapon that I had made by the city's foremost blade smith. It's as bespoke as my many-pocketed outfit. I line each instrument up on the tray as I crouch close to my love's head. A scalpel seems like a fine way to begin. The few buttons still left undone on my dearest's blouse fall away with only a few flicks of my wrist. Her

corset holds her firmly in its grip. It's all she has between it and her bare skin. With practiced ease, I slide the scalpel under the first row of laces on her corset. The first way for a ripper to kill a lover is to slash their throat. I run my finger across my own throat, laughing as I do it. But for a woman such as you, my dear, that would be too crass. Victor deserved what he got, the basest of deaths. My wrist flicks, and the first row of laces separates from recourse it. I move on to the next.

Flick. The second row succumbs. Flick. The third row loses against the blade. Flick. I set the scalpel back on the tray and reach down, pushing the corset apart. The fabric she wears is flimsy, near seethrew. A smile plays at my lips as I catch the slightest hint of rosy nipples under the thin cotton.

A moan catches in her throat, and I sigh, Be patient, my love. I stroke her forehead with my thumb, back and forth. back and forth. All good things come to those who wait. I stand and walk around her body, studying her form, deciding where to go next.

A wicked grin is what the lesser women get, my love. I bend over when I am near her feet. I grab her ankles and pull them apart further so I can step between her legs and crouch down, my knees, almost resting on the tops of her thighs. The second way to kill a lover is a brutal one. I reach out and grab a fresh scalpel. I set the blade directly over her belly button.

Cutting through the skin and fat and muscle of the abdomen until the blade finds the cavity within. I trace the scalpel over the cotton, just enough to slice through the fabric but not touch the skin. Her eyes try to find mine. But the way her head is tilted, I know all she can see is the tip of her own nose. Oh, how maddening it is. it must be for her. I add just a little more pressure and blood wells under a loose strip of cotton. Another moan is caught in her throat. I slice away the blood-soaked fabric and tuck it into one of my many pockets as a memento to be brought out later when I'm feeling nostalgic.

Clearing away the bits of fabric I have sliced, I smiled down at her scarred belly. Oh, the fun we have had together. Each one of those scars means something to both of us. I trace a thick bit of skin with the scalpel, then slowly, oh so slowly, press the blade under the scar, slicing deep into her flesh. The moan she tries to articulate almost chokes her, so I withdraw the scalpel and watch the blood flow. Like a small stream, it rolls across her abdomen and down her side, lost in the folds of her corset and dress. I know she wants me to undress her fully and take her, but that is not going to happen this evening.

Our times of carnal pleasure are long over. Tonight is about closure, although there won't be much of her that can be considered closed when I finish with her. To hear more stories like this, be sure to hit subscribe and turn notifications on. I'll see you in the next one.