Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 2 Horrifying Stories | Creepy Sleep Clinic and Abandoned Places

Episode Date: June 11, 2021

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Talk to nicely. Before we start this story, I'd like to thank my new Patreon supporters, Angelica and John. If you'd like to receive exclusive stories, early access, and add free episodes for only $5 a month, the link is in the description below. Now back to the story. When I was in high school in Seattle, ghost hunting was a frequent activity for us.

There was a place north of Seattle called 13 Steps to Hell. The story of a satanic family that once lived in a house where they had a cemetery deep in their backyard. These stones date back at least 100 years. The family built 13 steps into the cemetery with two giant pointed pillars at the top. Supposedly, each step down would give you hallucinations. You would hear things, feel things,

and on the final step, you would see fire. Hell. These steps continue to be bulldozed because the current residents surrounding the area probably do not appreciate late-night visitors. but the steps always seemed to reappear. I've seen them. Our first journey, it took us nearly four hours of driving and walking to find it. There are no clear directions anywhere online, at least at that time. We accidentally stumbled upon a path just as we were about to give up.

It is about a mile hike deep into the woods. Along the overgrown trail, you have a lot of barriers to duck under and over, and there are random things everywhere, such as crashed cars in the middle of the woods, abandoned items as well. After 30, minutes of hiking in the creepy darkness of this overgrown forest. We were going to head back when my friend pointed to me and said, shit, look where you are standing. I looked down, and I was unknowingly standing between the pillars. I was on the first step down to the cemetery. At that point, I was not going to walk down the steps, but I did explore the cemetery. My friends explored further down and started yelling and screaming. They told us stop scaring them, even though we were

at least 200 feet away from them. We left promptly after they were. ran up and insisted we leave, never talked about it again after that. I went back there five more times with friends who had heard about it. I was the only one who knew how to get there, so I gladly took them. But nothing creepy happened on those trips. One year later, some more friends asked me to take them. We went there at midnight one evening and looked around the cemetery. Nothing out of the ordinary. I rubbed dirt off of one of the gravestone so I could read it. It had some satanic symbol engraved in it. We were standing in a circle, debating how much longer we would stay, when all of a sudden, a three-foot log comes flying at us and lands in the middle of the circle.

We all looked around and noticed that no one from the group was missing, so it wasn't any of our friends. Thirty seconds later, a bunch of random debris started flying at us. I looked at them on the way up. Run! We all started running back through the overgrown trail with logs, branches, and rocks being thrown at us. I've never ran so fast in my life. At one point, my friend looked back,

and saw two giant yellow eyes after us, and all we could hear were growling noise is getting closer behind us, ducking under fallen trees, running through sticker bushes, and falling several times. We ran to the car and drove off as fast as possible. None of us said a word to each other

for at least an hour, and I have never been back there since. Biennue at board of Via Rai, embarked and profite, embarked and celebrate, wriggoled, publiced, savoured,

admire, and profite. Via Rae, the voice that we love. I wasn't able to sleep, so I figured I'd try for a nighttime job at the sleep clinic as a security guard. They offered the job, and I accepted straight away,

filled in a couple of forms, and that was that. It seemed perfect. If I was going to be awake anyway, I might as well get paid for it. I got into the swing of things right away. It wasn't difficult. My duties consisted mainly of walking

through the softly carpeted halls every hour or so. that the security doors were locked and helping myself to as many free cups of coffee as I could. There were always two nurses on call in case of a medical emergency, but they mostly slept through their shifts, so I barely saw them. My contact with the patients was limited. There seemed to be perhaps 15 or 20 of them, with some there for extended periods, and others coming and going on an almost daily basis. I only ever saw them when they were asleep. It was strange seeing them like that, robbed of all context. They could have been bankers or beggars for all I knew. In the staff room, watching over the half-drunk remnants of other people's coffee and dog-eared magazines was a bank

of CCTV monitors wired up to the patient's rooms so that the staff could keep an eye on them whenever they needed to. I spent most of my time there when I wasn't patrolling the corridors. It was oddly relaxing to watch all these strangers sleeping peacefully in their beds throughout the night, stirring gently every so often as they dream their unknown dreams. It gave me great comfort to watch them all lying there, dead to the world, with me as their silent custodian. Then there were the sleepwalkers. The clinic had a policy of leaving them to their own devices as much as possible, provided

they weren't in any immediate danger, which they never were. The windows were bolted and made of toughened glass, and all external doors were kept securely locked. I used to come across them often in the halls and corridors, strange lost soil. acting out their own private, intangible dream roles, murmuring to themselves while they performed odd and unintelligible actions. One night I was walking down one of the usual corridors, the faint sounds of snoring, echoing through the air like waves rising and falling on a beach. When I came across one of the usual sleepwalkers, a middle-aged man, swollen and red-faced, wearing powder-blue

pajamas and an incongruous pink dressing gown that flapped open as he walked, he seemed utterly oblivious to the world around him. As I approached, however, he stopped, dead in his tracks, and turned to face the wall, standing as motionless as a statue, with his face only millimeters away from the pastel-shaded brickwork. A dry, papery voice emanated from him as I passed. You're going to do a terrible thing. I stopped myself, and gazed, bemused at the thinning hair on the back of his round head. I'm sorry? You're going to do a terrible thing? He repeated in that same thousand-year-old voice. Are you talking to me?

He replied sternly. There's no one else here. That was true, but usually the sleepwalkers are too wrapped up in their own nocturnal preoccupations to register other people, let alone speak directly to them. This was something of a novelty. My curiosity was piqued.

What do you mean? I asked. You're going to do a terrible, terrible thing, and there will be no one to blame but yourself. Well, that's cheery. you should probably go back to bed. The man gave a little chuckle. It sounded flemy and unpleasant, like dark bubbles popping in tar. What do you think you're doing here? He asked. It was my turn to laugh. I work here, looking after you guys. You really think you can just walk into a job like that off the street, in a medical facility, of all places? There was no way he could have known about that.

The back of his head was as implacable as ever. He continued, it's not very plausible. It's not very plausible, Is it? In fact, when you think about it, nothing about this place really adds up. You haven't really thought this through. I just stood there staring, with the nameless musack simpering on in the background. Perhaps I was hallucinating again. I have to go, I mumbled, unsure of what else to do. My palms pricked with sweat. I walked down the corridor, breathing an inward sigh of relief. Strange. The sleepwalkers were usually placid and uncommunicative, locked in their own private little worlds. This man had been downright confrontational. I walked down to the staff room. My head filled with a fog of speculation and confusion. I was surprised to see one of the

nurses seated at the table, a fresh cup of mud-brown coffee steaming in front of her. She had her back to me. The patients are lively tonight, I said. You can't hide from things forever, she replied. It was that same exact voice echoing through the softly furnished room. She continued. Sooner or later, you'll have to face reality. And the longer you leave it, the worse it will be. It felt as though an electric shock had jangled through my body. I ran around the table to face her, but when I did, I found that her eyes were closed,

and she wore the sanguine expression of someone lost in a deep and dreamless sleep. Just then, the bank of TV screens on the wall behind me fizzed and crackled, lighting up the cramped little room with a brief flare like a flash of lightning from behind a dark cloud. I turned to face them and found only stabs. bleeding into the room from each and every screen. Then one by one, a picture flicked into life on each of the monitors, each showing a different scene in grainy black and white.

It took me a moment to resolve the overexposed images into recognizable shapes and figures. In each screen, the camera gave a first-person perspective of someone moving jerkily through an unidentifiable scene, sometimes a hallway or corridor, and sometimes a busy city street. All at once, every screen exploded into action, flurry of manic movement, lurching drunkenly this way in that. In this chaos of motion, I could see people wide-eyed and panic-stricken, their mouths open and silent screams,

staring into the camera with horror in their eyes, and fleeing an abject terror. Here and there, a hand could be seen on screen, the hand of the faceless protagonist, and on each screen, the unmistakable flash of a large knife cut through the hazy images. My stomach lurched as my Eyes flicked from screen to screen, finding one scene of random carnage after another. The blade swung and stabbed and slashed, biting into flesh with sickening regularity. Black gouts of blood welled from every wound as the unknown assailant plowed his way through victim after victim. Somehow the graining low-resolution images lent a further reality to these green and brutal vignettes, and I felt each and every thrust of the knife with a visceral twist in my own guts.

My eyes settled for a second on one particular screen, a confusing tumult of grays and blacks that resolved into a stark scene of bloody violence in a dingy hallway as I fixed my attention on it. As I watched, the camera lurched past a battered door with a grimy stained glass window set into it. For an instant, a reflected blur of the protagonist was caught in that window, and the camera froze and then panned in on the image. It was a face, the reflection of a face. I looked to another monitor, a street scene, streaked with blood in the gutters and body strewn about the sidewalk. The chrome of a parked car threw an image back at the camera, which instantly halted and zoomed in on it. The same face, stark and washed out by the low-quality

film. My eyes darted from one screen to another, and in each the same thing happened. The movement ceased, and the monitor filled with a single image taken from the same small reflection in a puddle or a pane of glass. Soon every bank of monitors was displaying the same thing from a multitude of different angles, a single face. The features all but erased in a blurry white mass, but still recognizably and irrevocably mine. As soon as I came to this realization, the screens all instantly snapped to black. The nameless musak tinkled on in the background as I struggled to take in what I had seen. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. The sleep clinic had been my own private cocoon, like a warm and comfortable womb which had taken me in

and shielded me from the storms of insomnia. But now, even the walls around me, and the soft carpet under my feet seemed as unreal and intangible as a dream. I had never felt more lost, adrift in a sea of doubt, uncertainty, and overwhelming confusion. The sun was starting to rise. My shift would soon be over, and it would be time to leave, to venture out into the real world again. As if in a trance, I moved over to the area of the staff room that served as a makeshift kitchen for preparing snacks and ready meals. I opened a drawer and found what I was looking for, sharp kitchen knife, shiny and barely used. It felt reassuringly cool in my hand, solid and substantial, a silver slash of reality that could cut through the fog of insubstantiality that

surrounded me. It fitted snugly into my pocket, and without another thought, I slipped out into the dawn of a brand new day. Now I'm back in the sleep clinic again. It's hard to imagine ever leaving. I still don't sleep, but that's okay. I get the feeling that there are some terrible nightmares awaiting me on the other side of sleep, on the other side of these welcoming walls. So I'm happy to stay here and just wait them out. I pad silently down the softly furnished corridors throughout the long hours of the night, that tuneless musac, tinkling away in the background like a babbling brook, safeguarding the slumbering patience from whatever terrors their dreams may hold for them.

The voice comes back every now and again, but it's easier for me to ignore it now. After all, I know what's real and what's not. And it's getting easier for me to hold on to that now. Easier by the hour. Lazzangue surgelley, Pucance medium for 15 minutes. We're like

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