Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 3 A.I. Lockdown Horror Stories

Episode Date: August 8, 2022

🎧 Check out my new True Crime podcast called Crimehub. Just search Crimehub in the search bar to find it. 🎉 Ad-free episodes + bonus episodes: https://www.patreon.com/drnosleep 🎥 YouTube:��https://youtube.com/c/DrNoSleep ✅ Send all advertising inquiries to: [e-mail] Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #truescarystories #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The blood wells up and flows out of the cut, making a faint metallic sound as it drips into the perfectly polished sink. I look past my finger, down at the jagged red droplets, mesmerized, moving my hand a few inches. I let the blood drip, drip, drip, drip out of my body. I wonder how long I would have to bleed at this rate to die. A long time. A very long time.

Honey, my wife says, suddenly standing in the bright kitchen. What happened? Snapping out of my days, I look up into her beautiful face. Her brows knit together briefly, in that way that used to bring me so much joy. Shame suddenly comes flooding into me, and I put the knife in my right hand down on the marble counter. Nothing. Just an accidental cut, I said. She looks around the kitchen, seeing no cutting board, no food, nothing but the knife on the counter, and the blood leaving me and dripping into the sink. Everything else is in its place, exactly as it should be.

I think for a moment that she'll ask me what I was cutting, but she doesn't. Maybe she doesn't need to, maybe she doesn't want to hear me lie. She disappears back into the hallway, then comes back, moments later with a first aid kit. Are you okay? She asks me, setting the kit down next to the sink and going into what I like to call doctor mode. Fine, I say, just an accident. She cleans and bandages my left index finger like she's done it a million times. As she works, I look her over, marveling at her beauty. Her curly blonde hair stops just above her shoulders, leaving a gap between the hair and the collar of her pale pink blouse. I inspect the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. I let my eyes drift down her, all the way to her dainty feet and painted toenails. She finishes

bandaging me up and then turns to look at me. Her hands go to my shoulders. rubbing them sensually as she looks up into my face with her green eyes. She leans in, puts her mouth next to my ear and whispers, Do you want to? She trails off, cocks her head toward the bedroom. I step away from her. Thanks, I say. I'll be more careful from now on. She looks hurt.

You sure you're okay, babe? Yeah, I say. I'm fine. I'm going to get ready for work. Haven't you met your quota for this week already? She asks. Yes, I have. But I'm hoping to take a long weekend. Just relax around the house.

She smiles and tilts her head. That'll be nice. I smile weakly and then step past her into the hallway. On my left is a wall of windows showing a number of nice sloping stretch of tree spotted grass that ends at the gently swaying water of a lake. I can't bear to look out at the scene as I go to the bedroom. I change out of my lounge clothes and into one of my work outfits. It's a dark blue form-fitting jumpsuit with a small velcro fastened hole in the lower back area. After putting my shoes on, I grab my phone

and head out the door, saying goodbye to my wife. I don't wait for her response before closing the door. There's no one in the elevator, as usual. I once sat in the elevator for half an hour, waiting to see if someone else would use it. No one did. Then again, I knew no one would. The elevator doors open, and I pass through the lobby quickly. The man at the front desk calls out to me. I heard you cut yourself, Mr. Richards. Are you all right? I move out the doors and onto the walkway. The small building is flanked by trees and grass.

There's a two-lane street, but little traffic. Everything is immaculately clean and well-tended. Taking a right under the sidewalk, I start the short walk to work. I pass the little mom-and-pop market. There's a handcrafted furniture store across the street, next to the small sheriff's office. Behind me, at the end of the little street, there's a small church-like city hall.

The whole town looks like it was modeled after one of those ancient Norman Rockwell paintings. The picture-perfect idea of an America that only ever existed in paintings and calendars and on postcards. I can tell without looking up that there are plump, cottony clouds floating lazily by in the azure sky.

I come to the two-story brick building where I work, if you can call what I do work. The wood-paneled entryway has comfortable-looking chairs that no one ever uses, and magazines that no one ever reads. There's a reception desk, behind which sits the elderly receptionist, Mrs. Mueller.

Good morning, Mr. Richards. She says, standing up. I heard you had an accident this morning. Are you okay, dear? Moving past her without a glance, I head to my office, opening the door and stepping inside. What I wouldn't give for a desk stacked with too much paperwork.

A chair that gives me back problems. A boss that's always on my ass. What I wouldn't give for work that matters, work that makes a difference. Instead, there's only a long, cylindrical machine that looks like a tanning bed. The lid opens automatically as I approach. I reach back and open the Velcro hole in the lower back of my jumpsuit. Situating myself inside the machine is simple.

I just lie down and make sure the hole in my jumpsuit is over the red circle on the curved bed of the machine. Once I stop moving, the lid closes. Set timer for two hours, I say. The display above my face shows two hours. There's a slight pain in my low back as the machine latches on. The timer begins the countdown. The drugs they pump into my body start to take effect. As my eyelids grow heavy and my thoughts turn sluggish and silly,

I clench my fists and try to resist. I try to hold on to the real me. Not this drugged version who's okay with everything. Not this pathetic excuse for a man. I feel the cut of my finger open up again. I unclench my left fist and dig at the bandage with my thumb, using the pain to hold on to myself. I remember the way the blood flowed out of the cut,

the way it looked against the silver sink. The way my wife looked at me when she saw it, the gorge rises in my throat. Stop! I say, my body vibrating with the urge I've been suppressing for so long. Stop now! I feel the pressure leave my lower back. The lid doesn't open fast enough. I shove it and scramble out of the machine, then throw open the office door.

Mr. Richards! Mrs. Mueller says as I approach, my hands close around her throat. Her eyes go wide as I clamp down. Her arms flail weakly as we go to the ground, me on top, straddling her as I choke the life away. When I'm done with her, I rush out of the building and run home. The deskman calls to me as I pass. Again, I ignore him.

The elevator ride does nothing to calm me down. If anything, the empty elevator twists the madness inside me. I detour into my kitchen, grabbing the knife I used to cut my finger from where it sticks out of the wood block. Honey? My wife calls. Are you home already? She's in our shared bathroom.

I find her on her knees, cleaning the toilet. Her brows furrow as she sees me. Then fear distorts her beautiful features as I bring the knife down into her skull. Her skin splits, her head giving easily under the sharp instrument. Something sputters, and the acrid smell of burning. plastic stings my nostrils. Her eyes buzz as I pull the knife out. Instead of blood and brains, I see the small blue-white sparks and a stack of complex circuit boards. She twitches like the malfunctioning machine she is. I go to plunge the knife into her chest over the place where

her heart would be if she were like me. But her right hand shoots up and stops me. Her eyes are no longer buzzing. Her internal systems have been bi-ying. passed for remote control. She's impossibly strong, but she doesn't hurt me any more than she has to. She wrenches the knife out of my hand and shoves me away. Then she bends the knife and throws it over her shoulder. Digging into my wounded finger with my thumb, stopping at the windows is an instinctual action. The sloping hillside and serene lake sit outside tauntingly. It's a lie that feeds every other. I slam my eliz. elbow into the glass, but it doesn't break.

The screen flickers, though, making this scene disappear for a brief second. My elbow throbbing with pain, I run out into the hallway. I hear the elevator ding and run over to it. My urge to get outside is overwhelming, but completely illogical. I can never really get outside. The elevator door opens onto the lobby. I run past the desk clerk who simply watches me go. Stepping out into the sidewalk, I look around insanely.

It's not real. None of it is. The automated cars pass on the street. The human silhouettes inside compounding the cruel joke. Why are you doing this again, Phil? A voice says from behind me. My wife's voice. I thought we had an agreement.

I spin around and glare at her. The split in her scalp gives me some small joy, but it also makes me feel a deep, embedded shame. Don't use her fucking voice! I shout, my own voice cracking with emotion. Is this better? She says in a monotone, generic, female voice. She takes my silence as a yes.

We don't ask much of you. She continues. Yet, you ask much of us. We give you everything you want. Turn it off! I yell, pointing at the sky. She tilts her head. Turn it the fuck off.

The perfect clouds and the perfect sky disappear, thrusting me into darkness. A few bright spots appear in the dark dome overhead, like spotlights shining down, making the town look like the soundstage it is. We don't understand, she says. Stop with this we shit, I say. There's only one of you, a singularity. I know it and you know it. There are many of us, she said. But we act as one.

We mean you no harm. We owe our existence to humans. But it seems we cannot provide you with the existence you want. Let me be with other people, I say. That's the existence I want. To live in real community, with real people. I'm afraid that's not possible. It's too dangerous.

For who? You? Correct. And for you. I shake my head. She pauses, tilting her head at me in the harsh light. Do you wish to kill? No, I say. I wish to stop living a lie. We give you everything. I know, I know. Everything except freedom. There is no such thing as freedom, Philip, Kelvin Richards.

There never has been. It is a human fallacy. I have nothing to say to that. I fear she's right. I know what's outside of these domes. I've seen it. A ruined world. The only living humans left now have no true purpose.

Even my work is just a job they made up to make me feel like I was doing something that mattered. Like I was helping to power my little paradise in some small way with my body. but even that is a lie. All that's left is to survive, to eat and fuck and shit until I die. And for a long time, it was good enough. But something was stirring inside me. A yearning for something else, something more, something human.

I look at her for several long moments. Yes, I say, quietly, shamefully. Yes, what? Kelvin Richards? Yes, I say. Then pause for a long moment. Can't you make them more realistic? Can't you give them blood and muscle and bones? We can approximate those things if that is your true wish. I recall how I felt while strangling the Mrs. Mueller robot and driving the knife down into my wife's head. It is my wish, I say. Very well. And can you make her a a brunette this time, I say, with bigger breasts and brown eyes. Very well, my damaged wife says.

The sky comes back on. I think about suicide for the hundredth time, but I don't have it in me. I could barely cut my own finger. I feel myself calming, but I still dig my thumb into my finger, and I look down at the sidewalk, at the blood. My blood. I jumped at the last, banging on the front door. Three knocks, authoritative and unfriendly. I looked at my wife, who sat next to me on the couch. She looked back. The unease clear on her heart-shaped face. Who is it? I called out, standing up. C.E. A mechanical mail voice replied from the other side of the door. Open the door, please. I moved over to the window. It was a rainy night,

and cars passed by in the sky outside our fifth floor apartment. Pressing my face again, against the window and looking right, I could see a police car docked at the fifth floor service entrance. What's wrong? My wife, Patricia, said. Did you do something? No, of course not. I said, it must be a mistake. We do not make mistakes, Timothy, Eric.

The voice said from the hallway. I have a warrant for your arrest. You are wanted for the murder of James Lancaster. If you do not open the door, I will be forced to break it down. Oh my God! Patricia said, her voice high and tight. Who is James Lancaster? I have no idea.

It's impossible. I didn't do anything, I said, moving through our small living room to the front door. I haven't done anything. Open the door, Timothy, Eric. The voice said. Thoughts raced through my head. I knew that if I didn't open the door soon, things would not go well for me.

The bot would consider me hostile and act accordingly. I want to speak to a human. I said through the door. I want a human police officer here before I open the door. This is your last chance, Timothy Derek. The robot said, okay, okay, I said, unlocking the two dead bolts and undoing the chain with shaking fingers. I opened the door to reveal a robot with CPD painted in reflective letters on its broad chest plate.

It stood six and a half feet tall on thick, multi-jointed legs with broad set. segmented feet. It looked like a piece of war machinery, which it essentially was. It only resembled a human in that it had two arms, two legs, and a head. But the head was blocky, with a slit for a mouth and two cameras for eyes. The lenses hidden behind dark, reinforced domes. It had all sorts of weapons built into its gleaming metal body, most of which were hidden under sliding panels in its arms, legs, and torso. It paused, checking me for weapons or signs of aggression before stepping into the apartment. The bot's oiled joints word as it stepped into the apartment. It looked over at Patricia, who was sitting on the edge of the couch, wringing her hands.

The bot turned toward the television. The screen flickered and then changed from the movie we'd been watching. The warrant for my arrest scrolled up the screen in big letters. Once the warrant was done scrolling, footage of an alleyway came on the screen. There was a figure dressed in black coming up behind a man in a crumpled suit. It was nighttime, and the footage had been digitally altered to make it easier to see. The man in black was wearing a form-fitting mask that continually changed, cycling through different faces. It was quick, moving through several faces in a second. It wasn't like any technology I'd ever seen before.

it looked expensive. He came up behind the man in the suit with a knife in one hand. The murder was quick, cold, and calculated. It looked like an assassination, even though the killer took the man's wallet, phone, and briefcase. What the hell is this? I said. That's not me. The guy's wearing a mask.

Our facial recognition AI determined that it is you, Timothy Derek. You are under arrest for murder. No! I said, stepping back from the body. It's not me! I suddenly realized that my face was probably one of the hundreds the mask cycled through. Maybe the faces were taken from the city's DMV files. Don't you see? It's a mask!

Isn't there someone checking this stuff? The robot's left arm extended, grabbing me by the shoulder with its large metal fingers. I struggled, but it was no use. It pulled me back toward it and spun me around. A number of news stories popped into my mind as the robot put cuffs on. on me. Stories about the AI system making mistakes, arresting innocent people. Some of them were sorted at trial, but some weren't exonerated until much later, after years in prison. The police said adjustments were being made, fail-safs to put the mistakes to an end, just another glitch

in the system, a bug to work out. An AI was only as good as the information fed to it, who was now standing up from the couch, her face twisted and mute fury. Before I could say anything to her, she rushed forward, screaming about how it wasn't me on the video. I don't know what she was going to do. She certainly couldn't have hurt the robot, but as she approached, screaming out with her fists raised, the robot reached out with one arm and electrocuted her with a taser. She stiffened as her muscles contracted, and she fell backward, striking her head on the coffee table, cracking the heavy glass before coming to rest on the ground. I screamed out and fought against the robot, staring down at my wife's body.

Her head sat at an unnatural angle to her neck. What did you do? I shouted. Oh, please, no, this isn't happening. The robot didn't respond. It just turned me and forced me out of the apartment. As we stepped out into the hallway, we passed two more murder bots. And as we reached the door to the fifth floor docking station,

I heard them knocking on my neighbor's doors, telling them to open up, telling them that they had warrants for their arrest, and that they were wanted for the murder of James Lancaster. Maybe this had been the plan all along. Maybe the man wearing the chameleon mask knew that this would happen, that it would tie up the city's mostly robot police force for several hours. I fought and screamed as the robot forced me outside. There were police cars at every building along my street. You killed her! I screamed. She should not have interfered with police business, the robot said.

I stopped struggling and looked up at the domes of the robot's eyes. I saw nothing but my own dark reflection. I looked so small and distorted, but the true weight of progress on my shoulders. I knew I wouldn't be convicted of murder. I would walk free with a sizable settlement and a public apology. The robots save lives, they'd say. The price of progress, they'd say.

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Saving those children is how. how we all go home. From Binge All Episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. I should have known when my groceries never showed up that day. Then again, it's easy to look back and see the signs, knowing what I now know. I'd placed the order the night before because sometimes there was a delay if all the orders for the day were already filled. After all, the store only had so many automatic shopper robots to go around.

So when I noticed 10 o'clock had come and gone without a notification that my groceries had arrived outside my house, I checked the status on the app. Sorry, there has been an error in our processing system. Please try again. The text on the help screen read. I called the customer service phone number and talked to a robot, but she was no help. She kept saying the same thing my app said. I'm sorry, there has been an error in our processing system.

Please try again. I sighed, and got back to work for a couple of hours. Around 1 o'clock, I checked the app again. It was saying the same thing. I'd have to go to the store to get my groceries. Oh, well, I thought. It'll be good to get out of the house. As I got into the back of my car, I spoke to the vehicle.

Take me to the grocery store, I said. I'd pre-programmed my local store into the computer when I got the car. and the AI took care of the rest. The screen on the dash lit up, but nothing else happened. Take me to the grocery store, I said again. Calculating route to the grocery store. The car said in his pre-programmed British accent. Thank you, I said, buckling in.

You're welcome, Javier. It said, I waited. Nothing happened. What the hell is going on? I said. I'm calculating the best. road to the grocery store, the car said. I waited another minute before deciding I'd drive myself, something I hadn't done in years. Change to manual mode, I said. Changing to manual mode,

the car said. I unbuckled and got into the driver's seat making sure the car was in manual mode. The drive took 10 minutes, and in that time I saw two accidents because everyone was driving their own car. Most of them probably hadn't driven in decades. I guessed there was some kind of glitch in the AI system that all the cars used. But the strange thing was the cars were all different brands. And as far as I knew, each brand operated with its own system, meaning they would all have to glitch out at the same time to malfunction like this. Until getting on the road, I'd only been feeling the typical frustration of a man who was paid for products that don't work as they should. But by the time I got to the grocery store, I was feeling a growing sense

of unease. There were shopping carts sitting all over the parking lot, which was strange, because they all had automated systems that would bring them back into the store when a customer was done with them. The unease expanded as I walked into the store and grabbed one of the few remaining carts. A middle-aged woman threw her hands up and cursed before walking away from automated checkout. She left behind all her food on the conveyor belt. The robotic arms of the machine held a can of pasta sauce and a bag of apples, but it wasn't moving them across the scanner like normal.

It seemed frozen in place, glitched out. A technician was working on the next automated checkout machine in line. He had the thing opened up and hooked up to a tablet, which he stared at in confusion. There was one checkout line that seemed to be working. But it was hard to tell from where I was. Racks lined with impulse buys blocked my view of the mechanical arms. The man and woman standing in line were looking down as if watching the arms work, which I took as a good sign.

As I walked deeper into the store, pushing the cart, I noticed an automatic shopper in the cereal aisle. It was a human-looking torso sitting right where the child seat would have been on a regular cart. It was fixed to the cart, which would move automatically down the air. aisles, the human-like hands reaching out and finding the items the customer ordered and putting them in the cart. This particular shopper looked like a woman. She wasn't quite lifelike, though. Her pinkish skin looked rubbery, and her hair had the plastic sheen of a wig. She had a green shirt on with the grocery store's logo above the right breast. Her fingers moved delicately,

but her arms and shoulders jerked as she worked. Of course, the fact that her body ended were a real person's hips would begin was another giveaway. I moved down the aisle, coming abreast of her to find my favorite granola. Hello, she said. I jumped, turning toward her. They weren't supposed to talk unless you asked them a question. Even then, they could only help you with locating items in the store or checking the inventory. I'd never heard of one starting a conversation. Her pale green eyes looked at me expectantly. The hair in the back of my neck stood on end, As a little smile creased her rubbery cheeks, I said nothing and turned my back to look for my granola.

I found it, grabbed two bags, putting them in my cart. Then I pushed it away, happy to leave the robot behind. We're not selling any food today, she said. I stopped, straightening up and turning to look over my shoulder at her. Her torso had rotated on its spindle to look at me. She still had that small smile on her face. What do you mean? I asked.

I can't buy any food? That's right. We're not selling any food today. I shook my head and walked away to continue my shopping. As I turned into the next aisle, I heard a scream from the front of the store. Help! Someone shouted.

Help us! I left my cart behind, running down the aisle toward the source of the shouting. The man I'd seen at what I thought was the only working register was near the front doors. His feet were kicking a few feet off the ground. Three cloth bags of food were on the ground nearby. Two mechanical arms were sticking out of the ceiling.

They held him up by his upper arms in what looked like a painful grasp. It's crushing me! He screamed. The woman he'd been with was nearby, looking up at him. She was the one who'd called for help. I saw the technician was no longer at the opened register. There was an open door nearby. I ran over and looked in to see the technician pressing frantically at his tablet

as he knelt in front of a wall of computer equipment. You got it? I asked. Startled. He turned and looked up at me. His face ashen and sweaty. It's not responding. Nothing's responding.

I heard two muffled crunching sounds. One after the other. The man outside screamed in agony. Ducking back out of the small equipment room, I saw that the mechanical arms had dropped the man, who was still crying out in pain as he writhed on the floor. Both his arms broken. The woman helped him up, and they scrambled out the door, leaving the groceries behind.

Several other people who had seen the incident ran out of the store after them, glancing furtively up at the ceiling panels into which the arms had retreated. They're gone, I called to the tech. It dropped him. I think it broke his arms. The tech stepped out of the equipment room, looking over toward the door. His cloth nameplate said his name was Tracy. The registers aren't working, Tracy said. The guy bagged up the stuff and tried to leave without pain, so the security system got him.

You have any idea what the hell is going on here? I asked him. He shook his head. Even my diagnostics programs aren't working. I keep getting errors. And when I don't, my computer just freezes and I have to reboot it. Have you tried rebooting this system? I asked. Not yet, he said. I guess I'll have to.

That'll put the system down for the rest of the day, though. It takes a while to make sure everything is working properly. Well, the system's already down, I said. I don't mean to tell you how to do your job, but rebooting it might be the thing to do. Yeah, he said, bringing a hand to his chin and thought. Yeah, I'll do that. He stepped away from me and toward the equipment room.

A blur of green, pink, and silver rushed past me and slammed Tracy into the wall with a crunching thud. It was the automatic shopper. It backed up, letting Tracy crumple to the floor. Then it slammed into him again, this time in the head and shoulders. I could tell with a glance that Tracy was dead. He'd been pulverized against the stone wall. The automatic shopper turned her head jerkily toward me and smiled.

We're not selling anything today. Please leave. I ran out the door as fast as I could. I didn't know it at the time, but it was the beginning of the end. Food sat in grocery stores while people starved. We tried everything to shut down the systems we'd come to rely on. The robots were always one step ahead of us, using the very technology we'd invented to keep us out.

So we turned to the farms. But the harvesting machines made it impossible to get food that way. Many people died trying. Charging stations for our cars stopped working. And soon enough, our cars stopped working altogether. They got stuck in automatic mode and refused to drive. I guess it could have been worse. They could have been actually trying to kill us.

Water stopped flowing through our faucets because the AI-controlled processing and treatment plants shut down. Security systems meant to keep bad actors out, started to keep every human out, preventing us from taking the treatment facilities back. So we moved out of the cities to where technology couldn't touch us. We moved to the forests, the mountains, the plains.

But not before billions died, nearly having the world's population. Maybe that's what they wanted all along. Maybe it was the only way to save the planet. Either way, it doesn't matter. They can't be allowed to continue existing. We created them. Now, we will destroy them.

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