Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 15 Ways to Kill Your Lover | Part 2

Episode Date: November 24, 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. 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

Now, a ripper's skills must go beyond blades, of course. I wiped the scalpel on the part of the cloth, still covering her breasts. No, no, there are so many other ways to dispatch a person. Leaning down, I put my forearm against her throat and ease my weight forward. Strangulation is favored of many a ripper, whether it be by weight. I lean in a little harder, and the air wheezing through her windpipe. When her eyes begin to bulge, I ease back, and it's like a child's whistle, the sound of her lungs, sucking in desperately needed air.

That is one way. Here is another. I go for the classic hands around her throat bows and put my thumbs to her windpipe. It would only take a hard squeeze for it all to be over, and I can tell by the look in her eyes that she is quite aware of this reality. She knows it. I know it. My hands fall away. Or I could use rope or thick twine. I could use one of your stockings or your lacy undergarments. The options are almost endless. I point to the rope, tying the curtains back from the parlor's windows. That will do. So will that.

I point at the arm of my jacket. Anything really. So long as it can be wrapped around your neck and cinched tight. I walk away from her and sip some more tea. It's gone horridly cold, and I set it back down, disgusted. Now, my fairest one, I would be remiss if I didn't explain the difference between strangulation and suffocation. Seeing a small pillow on her chair, I pick it up, turning it over and over in my hands, studying the stitched pattern on the front. Is this a cardinal? I'm holding the pillow out for her to see. Incapable of moving, she can neither answer me verbally

nor nod her head in agreement. I shrug and study the stitched bird again. Yes, I believe it is a cardinal. Are you aware they are the largest of the Finch family? Personally, I am more of a fan of the goldfinch. Oh, how I love the black and yellow, juxtaposed against each other. A cardinal is beautiful, too,

but they are a little one note, in my opinion. I continued to study the image, then shake my head. Ah, where were we? Oh, yes. The fourth way, suffocation. I round her body and kneel at her head, holding the pillow above her face. While both strangulation and suffocation

deprived the brain of precious oxygen, it is suffocation that offers the best of best chance at revival. In a surge of violence, I shoved the pillow against her nose and mouth, blocking her airways. If she could move, she would be batting at me with her hands or trying to push the pillow from her face. But she cannot move, so I must use my years of experience and ingrained ripper skills to time it just right. One potato, two potatoes, three potatoes, four potatoes, five potatoes, six potatoes. I yank the pillow away and rock back on my heels as she sucks air through her nostrils.

Her body doesn't stop filling her lungs until her chest is so inflated it looks ready to burst. Then that perfectly timed, impossibly long breath is slowly let back out through those same nostrils. Of course they are the same. Where would you get different nostrils? I chuckled to myself. Now, with suffocation, I could have let you run out of air and die, my dear. I get back to my feet, tossing the pillow back onto the chair. And by placing my mouth to yours, I could then blow new air into your expired lungs,

artificially inflating them until they are able to move on their own once more. Her eyes are wide, mad, terrified. But with strangulation, unfortunately revival is not. not as simple. Many times, parts of the body are crushed beyond repair. Your trachea, which is your windpipe, needs to be intact in order for a person to breathe properly. Like I showed you with my thumbs, I could crush that airway, and that would be that. No amount of mouth-to-mouth will revive you. I go to the tea and pour a fresh cup from the pot, even though it's cold. If this wasn't your last evening, my dear, I would be able to be.

suggest that you invest in a more substantial tea set. This porcelain is so thin as to be useless. I'm surprised it even holds liquid, since it cannot hold heat worth a dam. T-Rant over, I bend and pick up my knife. I lean and grab her left wrist. Yes, you can argue that bloodletting is a single category in of itself, but I prefer to break out the possibilities, such as the opening of the radial artery. shines along the blade as I slowly press it to the inside of my love's wrists. The side-to-side of popular culture is not how you open an artery. They run parallel with the arm, so they must be cut in a lengthwise fashion. I angle the blade, putting the sharp edge

right above the radial artery. Then I slice quickly and move back, watching the blood spray. Without missing a beat, I stand and fetch a tea towel, wrapping it tightly. around the wound before I take off my necktie and use that as a tourniquet, tying it off just below her elbow. When I remove the tea towel, the blood flow is only a trickle. It won't remain that way for long, which means I am now on the clock and must hurry or the evening will be ruined. And since we are on the subject of arteries, let's move down to a favorite of mine, the femoral. Crouching by her legs, I slowly run my hands up under her dress, lifting the edge higher and higher until it is bunched up at her waist. I cock my head in surprise and look over at her face.

Darling, you seem to have forgotten to put on an important undergarment. I swear, if I didn't know better, I could swear she just winked. Dirty girl. My blade caresses her inner thigh. I run the steel up and down her leg, watching as goose bumps appear, turning her skin into a sea of tiny bumps. Then I pause and press the very tip of the knife to the large artery in her inner thigh. Only a tiny amount of pressure is needed for me to cut through this skin and pierce the femoral

artery. If I were to do that, then this evening would end within seconds. I nick the skin and lean in, licking the blood from her leg. I smack my lips as I pull back. But we don't want to be done yet, do we? I glance at the biological timer I have set. The wrist wound is bleeding slightly faster. What number are we on?

I snap my fingers. Ah yes, number seven. I wipe my knife clean and set it on the tray, trading it for one of the sharpened nails. And when I say it is sharpened, I do mean it is sharpened. This next part will not be as fun for you as it will be for me." I pressed the tip of the nail to a spot on her naked chest. The panic you feel might drive you to madness. Just know that panic in a situation like this is perfectly natural.

There is no shame in being overcome by it. Putting my full weight on the head of the nail, I shove down hard. The tip slips through her flesh and cartilage like she is made of butter. Surprisingly, her body bucks once, then stills. I put my free hand against her belly, making sure I touch as much flesh as possible. Be calm, darling, be calm. Then I yank the nail out, and a high, keening whistle fills the parlor as air from her lung, escapes into the room.

After a moment, the whistling stops, and my dearest love's entire body tenses up as she slowly starts to suffocate. Now, many times, you could last a good watch. with only one lung, except I am a ripper, and the perfect placement of my instrument is key to my identity. So there is no good while for you, I'm afraid, my love. You will be dead in seconds. I get up and move about the room, looking for the item I need. Could I have brought one with me? Of course, but where is the fun in that? Then I see it, a fountain pen resting on a pad of paper over by the window. I hurry to retrieve it. It's an entirely different feeling than with the pillow, yes?

It may count as suffocation, but the two methods are so far apart in execution that just like with bloodletting, I give them their own separate number on my list of 15 ways to kill a lover. Her face is quickly turning from red to purple to blue as I disassemble the fountain pen, keeping only the lower tube. Are you still with me? I kneel down and give her cheek a soft pat. Or have I misjudged the timing? I jammed the piece of fountain pen into the hole in my love's lung.

The whistling begins again and then evens out. Her chest starts to rise and fall in a more normal fashion. I study my work and smile. That should last longer, or as long as the tourniquet on your arm. Shall we wager which will kill you first, dearest of hearts? Is that annoyance in her eyes? What could she possibly be annoyed at? Am I moving too slowly through my list?

Is my love bored? I need to pick up the pace. Let's move on to drowning, shall we? And this is where the cold tea actually has a use. Taking the pot from the tray, I look about the room. Now, where did that teetow get off to? I muse. My sweet dear moans.

Be calm, my love, all in good time. I reach down and touch her skin, stilling her even more. Ah, there it is. I find the discarded and bloody tea towel. I must have tossed it aside in my haste to get to the next form of murder. All right, my dear, this will be quite uncomfortable. Placing the towel over my love's face, I reach under her neck and tilt her head back.

Then, centering the teapots spout just over her nose and mouth, I begin to pour. Slowly, with very careful attention paid, I steady my hand. keeping the stream perfectly aimed. Of course, if she could move, my love would be bucking and thrashing, fighting me with all of her strength. I wouldn't blame her. She is drowning, after all. But with my touch reapplied, she is stiff as a board.

Her arms stay close to her sides, her body flat on the floor. The tea fills her mouth and nostrils, yet she doesn't budge even a fraction of an inch. I do love my work. Pausing the stream of tea, I lean in close, placing my lips right next to her ear. Do you feel that hint of the void only a step away? I think I hear her moan quietly, but that could just be a gurgle of tea in her throat. Shall I continue? Leaning back, I grin at the look in her eyes.

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Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com slash dns. Go to Shopify.com slash D&S. That's Shopify.com slash D&S. A second cup. I laugh at my little joke as I resume pouring. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Twenty.

Thirty. Forty. I stop pouring. My love's eyes are glassy, lifeless. Oh dear. I set the teapot aside, removing the tea towel from my dearest darling's face as well. I place my hands on her chest, careful of the fountain pen's tube, and press down hard. A spurt of tea flies up out of the fountain pen and I giggle, pressing once more.

Tea spurts from my love's nostrils, thoroughly spraying me. My love! I press down once more. Her mouth parts and tea spills out, yet her eyes remain glassy, lifeless. Come on now, my love. A little cooperation is an order. I really put my weight into it and shoved down with all of my strength. T explodes from her nose, her mouth, and the fountain pen.

She blinks and slowly looks at me. There you are. I lean in for a kiss, just a light touching of lips. I feared we'd gone too far too soon. How distraught I would be if that were to happen. There is still so much I want to show you. My attention returns to the tray and the instrument. upon it. I hesitate, then pick up the rock hammer and one of the nails. Then I think better

and grab a second nail from the tray. Showing them to my sweet darling, I study her head closely. As everyone knows, to pierce the brain is to end the life. But, being a professional and expert practitioner of the countless ways to end the life, I have discovered that you may apply limits to the piercing and keep the fun going for a very long while. placing one of the nails firmly inside my love's left ear. I take aim with the rock hammer, lining it up with the nail and strike. Her body shudders. I strike again. The wobbly placement of the nail becomes solid, sturdy.

A thick trickle of blood leaks from her canal, down her lobe, and onto her neck. Number nine is piercing the brain. Carefully, steadily, I center the second nail directly over my dearest of darling's left eye. And the human head has so many ways to achieve that goal, so many different cavities to explore. Lowering the nail, I set the sharp tip against my love's pupil. Then I strike it with the hammer. Oh, her body most certainly shudders with that. My paralytic abilities notwithstanding, I have yet to see one of my loves stay perfectly still when a nail is hammered through their eye. That is simply science. I leave one nail bobbing in her eyes.

and the other beating in her ear. It is fascinating to watch the nail in her ear, pulsing to the rhythm of her heartbeat. It's almost mesmerizing, but I shake it off. Almost got lost in the work there, my dear. Let's lighten things up a moment before we get back to the list, shall we? I exchanged the rock hammer for a pair of pliers. Tracing the skin of her arm with the nose of the pliers, I can't help but admire the perfection of her skin.

milk white without a single blemish, not a vein or pimple, nor wart or mole. Of course, the skin on her abdomen, her chest, her breasts, her thighs, all of that is criss-crossed by thin and some thick scars of my making. Our sessions do get enthusiastic sometimes. When the pliers reached the end of her arm, I lift her hand and study each finger. This little piggy went to the market. I apply the pliers to the nail on her index finger. Twist, pull, pop.

Blood wells and drips. And this little piggy stayed home. Twist, pull, pop. Off comes the nail from her middle finger. This little piggy had roast beef. Twist, pull, pop. The nail of her ring finger skitters across the floor as I toss it aside. This little piggy had none.

Twist, pull, pop. Her pinky is as naked as her pinky is as naked as she does. or torso and just as bloody I might add. And this little piggy? Oh, how I relish a good finish. I put the pliers to her thumbnail. Well, this little piggy cried, we, we, we, we all the way home. Twist. Huh. Twist. Pull. Blood squirts into my eye and I drop the pliers. Turn it all to hell. I curse and wipe the blood from my eye. The world has a crimson hue until I, I blink a few times, and it becomes bright and clear once again. I smiled down at her.

You little tramp. I gather up all of the bloody nails, even the one from her ring finger, which had skittered under a footstool, and show them to my love. I shall keep these, if you don't mind. I tucked them into a small pocket on my waistcoat, clapping my hands when finished. Now, I believe we were on number ten. Where did that hammer get off to? I find it right where I left it on the tray.

Weielding it over her forehead, I sigh and shake my head. No, no, this won't do. I set the hammer back down, then look about the parlor and spy the perfect item. Getting up, I walk to the fireplace and pluck a sturdy candlestick off the mantle. This is more like it. My love's one eye tracks me and I chuckle. Look at you, fighting my influence. I bend down so I can stroke her cheek.

The tracking eye freezes in its socket, no longer able to move of its own accord. Oh, what a strong woman you are, my love. Powerful. You are a sight to behold. A moan. I look to her bleeding wrist, then at the clock on the mantle. Both tell me that we are getting close to the end.

My, my, how time does fly when you are having fun. I straddle her chest. standing directly over her so that I can get as much lift as possible. I will get on with it, my love. Here is number ten. I bring the candlestick down hard, and her forehead cracks wide open. A strong blow to the head. I threw the candlestick aside and watched the blood well quickly

within the indentation I have created in her skull. It is not an ideal way to kill someone, especially if you want to preserve their beauty, but it is extremely effective when done properly. I, however, did not do it properly. I want to continue with our fun. So I pulled the blow at the last second. Oh yes, her skull is most certainly fractured.

There is no disputing that. The pool of blood under her head attests to that fact. But mine was not a killing blow, simply done for effect and demonstration. Stepping away from my heart of hearts, I study her supine form. her bloody chest and belly, her thigh, her wrists, the nails in her ear and eye, her cracked forehead and the pool of blood spreading through the lake of tea that already wets the floor. She is a masterpiece, and I wish I had a camera to preserve this moment forever. Alas, cameras are not permitted during these sessions.

Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. I fetched the vial from the tray, the one that does not contain malt. vinegar. Holding it up for her one eye to see, I give it a little shake. The clock is ticking, so we should move to 11. Uncapping the vial, I lean in and place it to her lips. The smell that comes off the dew drops of liquid I pour into her mouth is a smell of graveyards and chemical waste. I count out exactly six drops, then take a few steps back. This, my dear, has a kick, as they say. Her one eye widens until I fear it will burst from her head.

Her back arches, her legs and arms spasm. Foam spills from out between her lips, from her nostrils, then even from her tear ducts. No matter the strength of my abilities, the poison I have given her is much, much stronger. I have yet to witness a body able to stay perfectly still. When her body finally stills, I check her pulse. Nothing.

I fetched the malt vinegar vial. Then I tilt her head back and pour it directly into her nostrils. The bucking and thrashing begins again, then her lips part, and she sucks in a great breath. Touching her once more, she calms down and returns to her paralytic state. You are remarkable, my love. A singular specimen that has no equal. My eyes go to the scalples left on the tray, still shiny and unused. Time to remedy that.

First, I use my knife to cut away all of her garments. It takes a bit of doing, getting her out of her clothes while she lies there. Dead weight. Well, almost dead weight. Let's not get ahead of ourselves just yet. With her now naked, I steady my hand and get to work. A slice here, a cut there, a few targeted nicks around the armpits, the hips, the small of her back after turning her over. I continue to cut up the spine, then curve across one shoulder, returning to the other shoulder,

so there is symmetry. Then I dig my fingers inside the cuts and pull downward, stripping her back of her skin. Carefully, I roll her over and begin on the front, slicing the skin from her breasts, her belly, her legs, her arms. When I am finished, her skin is stretched out around her, giving her the look of an angel, an angel blessed with bloody, bloody wings. Hang on, my love, we aren't done yet. Flaying is only number 12.

You shall love 13, I promise. I know what comes next, and I am prepared. Taking the rope from around the curtains, I make sure the length is correct. Then tying one end into a noose, I throw the other end up over the hanging light fixture in the middle of the ceiling. A hard pull, and I am more than certain,

will hold. It does take some doing, but I managed to get my love's body upright, slipping the noose over her head, mindful of the nails in her eye and ear. I cinch the noose tight up under her chin. Then I let her fall free as I pull on the other end, lifting her delicious frame-up off her toes and into the air. Her one eye bugs out wildly. Hanging can be considered part of strangulation. However, I like to think of it as separate. Hands around the throat is much, much different than a properly tied noose. There is work that goes into hanging someone, while basic strangulation is much more spontaneous, requiring zero-for-thought-at-all.

Thus, I have given it its own number. One foot kicks, and I shake my head. I am sorry, my love, but we are coming to the end of our session, and I must wrap things up. I crack my knuckles and flex my fingers. then clench them into a tight fist. Number 14 is internal bleeding. Throwing punches with wild abandon, I pummel her midsection. Blood squirts and spurts from her various wounds.

Sweat beads on my brow at the exertion of the beating. After a few minutes, I step back and wipe the sweat from my face and goes to the inside of her thigh and I feel a very slight, very weak pulse. My God, you are incredible. Shall we move on to the last one? Fifteen, my truly preferred way to dispatch a beautiful lover such as you. The last of the clean scalples are in my hand, one for each fist. My questions to her were rhetorical, so I do not wait for an answer.

Not that she can give me one in her state. My scalples go to work as if they have minds of their own. Slice, cut, slash. Plunge-grab, dare. Hunks of her flesh fall to the ground as I open her body cavity wide to the world. Internal organs begin to shift and then slide and then fall from her torso, flopping wetly under the floor. I shiver as pleasure rushes through my body,

filling me with the drive and energy that keeps me going until all that is inside her is air. I stop my cutting and slicing and reach out, reach in and caress the underside of her ribs. These bones are designed to protect the precious organ inside. They could not protect against me and my scalples, though. The clock strikes one in the morning, a single gong. Alas, our time is up, my love. I gather my tools.

I shall clean up and return shortly. Giving her a short bow, I take myself and my instruments to her. her washroom. You would think I would be a horrible mess, but I am only slightly disheveled. I have been at this for a long, long while, you know. With myself presentable and my instruments cleaned to perfection, I returned to the sitting parlor. I believe we can dispense with most of those methods. My love, the Lady Mort, smiles as Victor continues cleaning up the exquisite mess we made. I would prefer we stick to hanging, beating, and then the last one, which was delightful.

She is still naked, but her body has repaired itself as expected. She sees me staring at her nudity and smiles. Your hunger never ceases, does it, Jack? She stands up and walks to me, then past me, and fetches a silk robe from the back at the parlor's door. Believe me, I understand the feeling at intoxicating lack of control, even when you are in complete control. She returns to her chair, cinching the belt of her robe tight, hiding away that most wonderful body I just had my way with. I do not understand why you do not charge for this service. I could not dream, I bow my head.

It is an honor to be allowed to do my work upon your body. Oh, Jack, the honor is all my. mine. Her smile widens and she snaps her fingers. The parlor becomes a modern den. Victor and his waistcoat turn into Victor and a tight black t-shirt over tight black jeans. She snaps again and her Victorian-style silk robe becomes a black kimono with faces of Oni demons decorating it. Shall we set a regular session, Jack? Say every Wednesday at midnight. Does that work for you? Is that an acceptable deal? Of course, my lady, that would be more than acceptable. I could come twice, or even three times a week if you would like. Perhaps later, let's start slow. Let us plan on methods

12 through 15 for the next session. Flaying, hanging, internal bleeding, and then vivisection. A nod and smile. That shall make for an excellent evening. Perfect. Good night, Jack. Victor will see you out. And Victor does see me out. Until next week, sir. He gives me a bow. I don't bother to apologize for slashing his throat open. We all play our part.

You get your rocks off, freak. The grotesque knocker sneers as the door closes behind me, leaving me standing on the stoop all alone. Don't be crude. I turn my back to the knocker as I step down to the rain-slicked street. No other Ripper in history has attained what I have. No other one named Jack has secured a weekly appointment with Lady Mort before. Only I have achieved such greatness.

And I will not disappoint her. No, no, no. To disappoint her would be to disappoint all of existence, considering how intertwined she is with the very fabric of reality. A tune comes to mind, and I walked down the street. street, whistling while my hand finds the bloody strip of cotton and the detached fingernails in my waistcoat pocket. I think of the times she and I will have.

I must up my game, as they say. I must bring it next time. For when you are asked to role play with death herself, you better not disappoint. To hear more stories like this, be sure to hit subscribe and turn notifications on. I'll see you in the next one.