Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 3 Halloween Horror Stories (2022 - Vol. 2)

Episode Date: October 19, 2022

🎧 Check out The SCP Experience podcast here: https://spoti.fi/3juM1og 🎉 Ad-free bonus stories + exclusive uncensored animations: https://www.patreon.com/drnosleep 🎥 YouTube: https://youtube.com/c/DrNoSleep ✅ Send all advertising inquiries to: [e-mail] 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

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Hey guys, I want to give a shout out to Lauren, Shane, Jeremy and Chelsea for recently becoming Dr. No Sleep patrons. You guys now have full access to my ad-free podcast episodes along with all

bonus episodes I've posted over the past year. If you'd like to receive access as well, go on over to my Patreon page at patreon.com slash DR No Sleep to sign up. That's patreon.com slash DR No Sleep. Now time for the story. Most people have fond memories of Halloween. Not me. I couldn't enjoy it after I saw the boy wearing the Power Ranger mask. I can remember a few years when I was little and enjoyed it. My parents would walk hand in hand with me through the neighborhood. My eyes darted around in fascination. Dozens of ghouls and goblins laughed in delight as they darted from house to house,

heavy sacks of candy slapping at their knees. I couldn't wait until I was old enough to go with my friends. The big day finally hit when I was in fourth grade. You can go with your friends, Derek, my father said, hesitantly. But you've got to be careful. Home by eight. I nodded with excitement and darted out the door. My friends and I met two blocks from my house

and prowled the neighborhood with delight. None of us had been trick-or-treating without our parents. The night seemed full of possibilities. After two hours of non-stop door knocking, our candy bags were weighing heavily, and it was close to curfew. Our group grew smaller as we walked. One friend or another would wave goodbye and cut off onto their street.

Soon I was walking alone. I was four blocks from home when I saw the little boy wearing a red Power Ranger mask. He was standing alone near a line of trees, his head darting side to side in a panic. Even from a block away, I could hear his sobs. Can you help me? He said as I got closer. He'd look like he couldn't have been any older than five. I can't find my brother.

Um, I guess, I said hesitantly. What's your name? Danny, he whimpered. I've got to get home soon, I said, and looked at my watch. It was quarter till seven, and I only had 15 minutes to get home. I wanted to help him, but I was nervous to break curfew my first time out of my own. Where do you live? Is it very far away? The little boy tried to talk, but more sobbing poured out.

His shoulders shook violently and candy slashed from his bucket. He squatted to pick it up but only dumped more onto the ground. Do you know your address? I asked. He just kept scooping the scattered candy back into his plastic pumpkin bucket. Looking down to my watch, I saw as time slipped away. In frustration, I reached out and grabbed the kid's wrist and pulled him to his feet. Come on, I said. I'm taking you home with me.

My parents can call the police and get you home. The boy went rigid and began to tug against me. I turned to ask him what was wrong, but he thrashed wildly. My grip slipped, and he stumbled backward onto the concrete. His reassembled bucket of candy scattered across the sidewalk. No! He shrieked. No, I'll be in big trouble.

I wasn't supposed to go anywhere without my brother. Mom and dad will be mad. It's not a big deal, I said. They'll just be glad you're home. Let me help you up. I began walking toward him, but he scuttled backward. Before I could reach him, he was back on his feet and running down the street. Shrugging my shoulders, I turned and headed home.

I walked in the door with two minutes to spare. My parents hugged me and asked if I had a good time. For a moment, I considered telling them about the lost boy, but decided against it. I assumed he made it home and didn't want them to hound me about it. That night, I barely slept. I couldn't help but wonder if the boy made it home. Someone must have come looking for him. His brother probably heard him screaming when I tried to help him.

The next morning at school, I sat, nodding at my desk. Morning announcements were blasting through the speaker, but I didn't register them. I was struggling to stay awake. Until they mentioned the boy. Finally, a five-year-old boy, Daniel Fireline, was reported missing last night. He became separated from his brother and never returned home. If you have any information. I never told anyone.

I moved into the house on South Kentucky Avenue three years ago. My wife and I had gone through a reasonably civil divorce. Will was only two at the time. We had shared custody, but I knew he would stay there more. The schools were better on that side of town. Moving into the new place hadn't bothered me very much. I had grown up only a block away. The neighborhood was shabbier than it was when I was a kid,

but it had a comforting familiarity. I decided to skip Halloween for the first two years. As the nighttime approached, I would cut all the lights and sit in bed watching TV. Even without the lights, the kids would knock at my door. I could hear them shouting for my attention, but I ignored them. They would eventually leave.

As it turns out, my ignoring them came with the price. Two years in a row my house was egged and toilet papered. I can remember other kids doing those kinds of things when I was younger, but I had never participated myself. It took me nearly a week to get the dried yolks off of the siding and to gather the final scraps of white toilet tissue paper out of the trees. Against my desire, during my third year in the house, I decided to pass out candy. I thought it would be a small price to pay not to spend a week cleaning the outside of my house. I bought a few sacks of snack-sized candy bars at the grocery store

and dumped them into a cheap orange bowl. Just as dusk began to set in, the hordes of children converged on the neighborhood. I did my best to act cheery as I dumped candy into their bags. To my surprise, I enjoyed seeing them in their costume starting from house to house. About an hour in, the doorbell rang again. I stood from my recliner and walked toward the door, scooping up the bowl of candy as I went. When I opened the door, there was a little boy dressed in jeans, a blue hoodie, and a clown mask that was roughly two sizes too large for his tiny head.

How are you doing tonight, buddy? I asked, as I grabbed a handful of candy from the bowl. His orange bucket was still hanging by his side, and he looked at me in silence. Hold your bucket up and I'll give you some candy. The little boy continued to stand there in silence. No parent or older sibling was waiting on the sidewalk for them. He was alone. Are you okay? I asked with a lump in my throat.

Without a word, he lifted his bucket. I tossed the candy in and smiled, assuming he would move along. I wished him a happy Halloween and closed the door between us. Walking into the hall, I sat the bowl back on the table. I was about to head back to the recliner when I saw the kid out of the corner of my eye. He was still standing on the porch, staring in through the door. A knot formed in my stomach. He stood rigid like a mannequin.

I would have thought he was some cheap prop or decoration if I hadn't seen a move moments earlier. It was just a kid, but his unsettling presence sent chills up my spine. I headed to check on him when he suddenly turned and darted off of the porch. As he met the end of the walkway, he stumbled and dropped his bucket of candy. Concerned, I began to walk faster toward the door to help him. Before my hand hit the handle, he pushed himself up and darted down the block. Another half hour went by. A smattering of trick-or-treaters came and went.

The crowd was beginning to thin. Some of the neighbors had turned off their porch lights and shut their doors. They must not have had the same fear of eggs and toilet paper that I had gained. Another ring of the doorbell and I headed to the door. Looking into the bowl, the candy was almost gone. There was probably only enough for about a dozen more kids, and I was considering just splitting it up between these lucky kids and calling it a night.

When I pulled the door open, a single child stood outside. A rubber pirate mask with an eye patch and a fake gold earring looked back at me. I laughed at how comically large it was on the little kid. Happy Halloween! I exclaimed as I gathered up some candy from the bowl. The child stood like a statue, hands at his side. That's when I noticed the plastic orange bucket at his side, rubbing against a pair of blue jeans,

then the blue sweatshirt. It was the same kid as earlier. Hey, buddy, I said with irritation. Weren't you here earlier? I'll give you a little more candy, but this is the last time. I tossed the candy in, and it pelt at the bottom of the empty bowl. bucket. That late into the night, he should have been overflowing with candy. It was like he hadn't

been to any other houses after he fell on the sidewalk, dumping his stash. Unlike the time before, he turned to leave. I expected him to break into a run, but he walked calmly to the end of the block and around the corner. Out of sight. Something felt off. I ran out of candy at about ate that night, so I turned off the porch light and headed into the living room to watch television. It hadn't been the miserable experience I expected, but the strange kids still rattled around in my mind. Occasionally I would glance out the window to watch as the costume children march down the street. Clusters of them still darted to houses with illuminated porch lights. Their buckets were overflowing, and they chattered like magpies. During a commercial, I pushed

myself out of the recliner and headed toward the kitchen. As I was about to exit the living room into the hallway, I heard it tapping on the window. When I turned to look, there was only the briefest glimpse of a silhouette darting out of view. I walked to the window to catch a glimpse of the prankster, but when I arrived, they were nowhere in sight. As I looked out, I heard a knock at the door. I sighed in exasperation. No porch light on Halloween was the International sign for No More Candy. I had played my part most of that night, but I started to worry that turning kids away

would result in the third year of egg-covered siding and toilet paper-filled trees. Trudging to the front door, I loudly exclaimed. Sorry, kids, no more candy. I ran out about a half hour ago. Sorry. I turned the knob and opened the door. There was no one on the porch.

Scanning the street, I could see a few children in the distance. but for the most part, the block was empty. Hesitantly, I pushed open the door and stepped onto the porch and heard a crunching noise beneath my feet. I looked down and saw a red Power Ranger mask splintered into dozens of pieces beneath my shoe. It looked just like the one the Lost Boy had on all of those decades ago. My pulse spiked, and my chest tightened.

Though I had never had one before, I was sure it was what a panic attack must feel like. My vision became blurry and an overwhelming sense of dread filled every inch of my body. Then I heard the sobbing. Why? Why? Why didn't you help me? I heard a small voice say from behind me. Turning to look into the hallway, I saw a young boy in jeans, a blue hoodie, and a head full of messy auburn hair. His skin was sickeningly pale, and the hall was filled with a nauseating mixture of mildew and the sweetness of decay. K. It was Daniel Fireline, the little boy who had disappeared.

Why didn't you tell anyone you saw me? They hurt me, Derek. They put me in the dark, and no one came to find me. I tried to speak, but only a dry croak came out of my mouth. My mommy and daddy are still so sad, he said. His tiny feet made tapping noises on the hardwood floor, and he began to walk toward me. One of his pale hands stretched out toward me as I stumbled backward and fell against the door. I'm still there. In the dark. It's scary and I don't like it.

I'm sorry. I muttered in a weak voice. I was a kid. I tried to help you, but you ran. I thought you'd make it home. He continued walking slowly toward me, and outstretched. Tears ran down his pale skin,

leaving streaks in the dirt smeared on his cheeks. His eyes were milky white, filled with rage and fear. What can I do? I screamed. Please, let me make it right. Danny stopped walking toward me and dropped his hand back to his side. His tears ceased, and he wiped away the dirt from his face with his sleeve.

I don't want to be alone there anymore, he said softly. It's dark, and I hate it. I'll do anything you want, I whimpered. His head tilted to the side as though he were deep in thought. The milky gaze of his eyes drifted to my leg. He was staring at a picture by the door. A photo of my son and me. I'll take him, he said, pointing to the portrait.

He can keep me company. Then I won't be alone anymore. I jumped from the floor to run to the boy, to beg and plead for him to take me, to tell him that I would stay with him. Before I could reach him or speak another word, Danny faded away like a mirage. By the time I arrived at my ex-wife's house, there were already a half-dozen police cars lining the street.

The wash of blue and red lights illuminated the night like an arcade. Sarah was standing on the porch talking to the officers as I pushed my way through the crowd. Sarah ran to me and threw her arms around me and I pulled her in close. He's gone. She wept into my ear. We were at the last house of the night and I was talking to the lady at the door. I only took my eyes off of him for just a minute and he was gone. I tried to speak, but again, nothing would come out.

The officers have a few witnesses that saw him, though, Sarah said softly. He was walking into the park, holding hands with a little boy with a blue hoodie and a Power Ranger mask. My hometown loves Halloween festivals. It seems like every civic organization and business has its own little carnivals. Costume contests, cakewalks, apple bobbing, the whole nine yards. My personal favorite was always the scarecrow competition at Hidden Spring Cave Park, until last year, that is. I don't think the town will ever host it again. Every school in the district and even a few businesses would create a scarecrow and enter it in the contest.

Hidden Spring Cave was a local landmark in town that featured a cave, natural spring, and walking trails for the community to use. Every October, Hidden Spring would take all of the scarecrows, and place them throughout the walking trails. Joggers and families out for a stroll would walk through and admire the hard work and creativity of each one. At the end of the trail, there was a ballot box to leave votes. Whichever Scarecrow received the most votes by Halloween would be awarded a $100 prize.

One entry was selected by a panel of judges for the grant prize, $500 and a picture on the front page of the local paper. Last year, I was selected to sit on the judging panel. My family had owned a local florist shop for decades, which I had taken over after my father retired. Most of the judges owned small local businesses. Sponsoring or volunteering was free advertising. The week before Halloween, dozens of scarecrows lined the paths inside of the little park. Most of the early entries were produced by the local elementary school classes.

In the past, a few high school. school art classes would submit a scarecrow. But I guess the older kids kind of outgrew the contest. While we didn't make our final decision for the grand prize until the day before Halloween, I would usually take a walk on their trails to check for new entries each day. Most of them were your run-of-the-mill scarecrows, straw hats, an old plaid shirt, and work gloves. A few others were low effort with T-shirts and a Halloween mask. The standout that year was entered by James Sterling. a local dermatologist. Well thought of in the community, but rarely seen in public anymore. His wife had an affair and left him earlier in the year. The once vibrant man became a recluse.

As I strolled the paths, I saw his name on a sign below one of the scarecrow's. It made me happy for a moment to see he was getting out and about again. My happiness turned to discomfort when I saw the scarecrow. It was too well made. The skin was made of rough burlap, and it clung to the frame beneath to form an almost perfect face. Sharp cheekbones sat beneath the black button eyes. The arms and legs stretched into a tea that made me feel as though I were looking at a crucifixion. The clothes were also a bit strange. Stretched over the anatomical frame were a blue silk blouse and a pair of white clam digger pants.

Both were in excellent condition and seemed too nice to use for a project. like this. As I walked away, it almost seemed to watch me as I left. The figure haunted my mind for the rest of the day. I loved the scarecrow's on the trail, but Dr. Sterling's entry was too realistic for my comfort. As the days passed, the burlap effigy only became more disturbing. Scarecrow wasn't an apt name for it. The figure seemed to do the exact opposite. When I would pull into the parking lot for the next few days, swarms of birds would be circling over the woods ahead of me. Just a handful during the first day, but by the second and third, there were dozens. They swooped and circled above the trails. Dozens more sat perched in the trees

lining the entrance to the trails. Caws and shrieks filled the air, piercing the usual serene atmosphere of the park. Crows, ravens maybe, I couldn't tell. Flat, black, black, and black, hateful birds, whatever they were. I was nervous to walk past or below them. They would cry out wildly and flutter their wings any time someone walked nearby. On the trail, it became even worse. The farther in I made it, the thicker the flocks of birds grew. If you couldn't see them, you could hear their hateful racket.

It was almost as if they were waiting to strike. Dr. Sterling Scarecrow was the pinnacle for the dark visitors. The outstretched arms and head of the dummy were covered in the things. They perched in a neat line. Some cawed, while others pecked at the increasingly ragged burlap face. If you drew too close to the scarecrow, the birds would flap their wings and take flight, darting above your head. A few would swoop so closely you could feel the wind rustled through your hair.

A chorus of evil things would cry out from the trees until you moved away. And there was that stench. It was the fetid smell of decomposition. The cluster of obsidian birds must have killed something in the woods nearby. I had never been one to pay much attention in biology class, but I always thought that crows and ravens were carrion birds. Maybe they were hunters. I couldn't have been sure.

For the smell to have been that intense, they would have had to kill something nearby. Trail walkers were at an all-time low that year. I don't know if it was the birds, the smell, or the disturbing scarecrow. My guess was a combination of the three. Something had to be done. I called a few of the judges to share my concerns about the disturbing scarecrow and birds, but their responses shocked me. Most of them, while equally disturbed by Dr. Sterling's creation,

thought it was the best one in the contest. Yes, they agreed it was off-putting, but that was no reason not to consider it. Before I could even recommend its removal, they stated their intentions to vote it as the Grand Prize winning. As a last-ditch effort, I tried calling Dr. Sterling himself. Every time I called his office, the automated voicemail system would pick up. I left a few messages and even called the emergency number, but never received a call back from him.

On Halloween day, I arrived at Hidden Springs and parked my car in the tiny lot. The other judges were waiting at the trailhead and I joined them. We talked amongst ourselves as we began to walk through the path and jotted notes on our clipboards. boards. We were the only ones on the trail. The flock of birds was as thick as I had ever seen them. Occasionally I would jump or stumble as one darted above our heads aggressively. The other judges reacted similarly, but no one verbalized their obvious concern. Shrieks and cause filled our ears as we neared the midway point of the trail. Dr. Sterling Scarecrow came into view. It was covered with crows. The blue blouse hung in the blue blouse.

in tatters, revealing the disturbingly accurate burlap torso beneath. Ragged swaths of cloth dangled from the face as the birds pecked madly. As we grew closer, the flock of crows bolted the scarecrow's limbs and landed in the trees. They cried out toward us, but they kept their distance. Most of Dr. Sterling's creation was in ruins, mauled and shredded by the hateful creatures. We all stood before the scarecrow. Our banter disappeared completely as we looked on. With most of the burlap, peeled away, the frame beneath was now visible.

A human face sat wrapped in frayed cloth. Shredded flesh flopped away from the white plastic mannequin head below. Crusted blood covered the underside of the skin. The crime scene technicians removed the scarecrow from the trail within 15 minutes of our call. Detectives questioned us for hours, but none of us had any useful information to give them. Dr. Sterling Scarecrow had been there for me. nearly a week, and none of us were there when he had put it out. According to the newspapers in the following weeks,

the search of his house produced an abundance of information, but nothing led to his whereabouts. Most of his clothing, and all of his identification was gone. He had left his dog with a neighbor, saying he had to travel out of town for business. He hasn't been seen since. The last thing they found was an old chest freezer in the basement. It was chained and padlocked,

But the officers made short work of it with a pair of bolt cutters. When they opened the lid, they found what was left of Mrs. Sterling. Have you ever been to a haunted house? One of those haunted houses that start up in your town around the 1st of October. Some places use their old jail or defunct courthouse to create a local tourist attraction. Sometimes it's a charity that uses the funds to supplement their budget. You know the type. It's filled with fake cotton spiderwebs.

men in cheap masks, dim lighting, and the terrible loop of screams atop the cheap mood music. The lights will randomly turn off only to turn back on and reveal one of your favorite movie slasher's standing only feet away. Those are the ones. My friends and I used to go to them every year since middle school, but I'll never go again. Some of them are real. Some of them you never walk away from. During my senior year of high school, my group of friends, friends decided that the local haunted houses were kind of played out for us. We wanted something

fresh, something that would scare us. Nothing we could find within a 30-mile drive had done the trick. Then Jimmy told us about Stanford Sanatorium. That's right, a sanatorium. Not a sanitarium. This place had been used as a tuberculosis hospital back in the early 1900s. A huge breakout out of tuberculosis called the White Plague hit the area, so they built a huge hospital to handle all of the chronic cases. Sometime in the 60s, a new medication was created to treat TB that made sanitariums obsolete. The building stood empty for a few decades after that. Sometime in the 80s, a business investor purchased the property and intended to convert it into a hotel, but plans fell through for some reason or another. The sanatorium continued to find a property. The sanatorium

continued to fall into disrepair, and eventually the city took ownership. They converted it into a museum dedicated to the history of the white plague and medical history from that period. It helped pay for the upkeep, but the budget was still razor thin. That's when the city commissioner decided to offer haunted tours of the building. They proved to be a decent hit and eventually evolved into a nearly month-long haunted hospital tour during the Halloween season. It was only two hours of away from us, and it seemed perfect. What could be scarier than a building where hundreds of people died, right? Our parents were hesitant at first, but we wore them down. We would leave

town early, take the tour before it was even dark, and then head home immediately. No big deal. When we arrived, the building was staggering. Three stories of red brick. The front was covered in long walkways and hundreds of doors were visible. Each room was completely separated and opened up to the outdoors to provide better ventilation than architecture at the time would allow. The structure seemed sturdy, but heavy cracks and thick vines ran up the sides of the building. All of the paint flaked and peeled from the doors. Some of the windows on the top floor were broken and left uncovered. There were almost no cars in the parking lot. The sun still sat high in the sky. Who wanted to take a haunted hospital tour in the daylight? I still wish we had never

gone in. Jimmy, Carlos, Stephen, and I jumped out of the car and followed the signs to the admission table. A woman wearing an old-fashioned nursing outfit sat at the desk and took five dollars from each of us and then slid a clipboard in front of us. It was a liability release. We laughed and told her we were minors and were too young to sign. She smiled. We'll need you. to sign it anyway, she said in a whispering tone. You never know what could happen. We all laughed and signed the sheets of paper and handed them to her. At the time, we thought it was supposed to set the tone, but now I know she was serious. I wish we had never gone inside. Our half hour inside was kind of a bust. The tour was self-guided, and you could go anywhere in any order you wanted. We opted to

check out the patient rooms first, assuming there would be horrifying scenes, but we were quickly let down. The rooms sat in ruins, a rusted bed frame with a shredded mattress, bedpans, molding sheets, and splintering chairs scattered the floor. The only thing in those rooms worth signing a release for would have been the risk of tetanus. Man, this kind of blows, Carlos said as we walk down the open-air corridor. Want to head home? This seems like it wasn't worth the truth. trip. Stephen pulled a brochure for the place out of his back pocket. Unfolding it, he thumped the map with his middle finger excitedly. We all looked down. The rooms are only part of the tour, he exclaimed. In the basement, there is still an operating theater and morgue. We got to check

that out before we go. We all shrugged and followed Stephen as he guided us toward the stairwell leading into the basement. I'm not sure how many flights we walked down, but it seemed like took ages. But the rooms lacked in disturbing scenery, the way to the basement made up for it quickly. Once we entered the basement, the smell of must and decay filled our noses. The sounds of dripping water echoed through the empty halls. We walked cautiously in the low light, expecting a jump scare or two, but one never came. Somehow, the lack of intended horror made it worse. Our footsteps echoed off the grime-covered tile walls, and occasionally we would splash through a shallow puddle. None of us spoke. The ambiance of the subterranean levels had crept into our bones.

As we continued walking, we could see a brighter light ahead. Looks like we're almost to the operating theater, Jimmy said as he looked at his pamphlet. According to this, we can watch a surgery in progress. Let's check it out. We reached a wall of dirty windows and saw the first people on our entire, entire tour. Two men in old-fashioned surgical scrubs spattered with gore stood over a body on the table. Their scalples danced over the chest and torso of the body as the person convulsed. We're losing him. One of the men shouted, Get more ether. We have to calm him down. The other doctor grabbed a bottle and a breathing mask,

but the man on the table smacked their hands and sprung to his feet. He darted toward the window and pressed his body against the glass. His visible wound looked so real. got to help me he banted get me out of here we have to escape without a word the four of us darted away from the window and ran down the hall as quickly as we could pushing through a set of double doors we entered another dimly lit room and began to pant after a few moments we began to chuckle holy shit jimmy shouted that was wild that was worth it do you guys oh man look at the walls We looked around to see dozens of quarter-sized metal doors lining the walls. This was the morgue.

Should we look inside? Carlos asked as he approached one of the doors. Before I could even respond, he tugged at the rusted handle and pulled it open. Leaning into the darkness to get a better look, he began to talk before a pair of ivory arms wrapped around and pulled him inside. He darted to the door and opened it, but no one was inside. It was no larger than a coffin, and we couldn't see it. a trap door. We searched the other coolers one by one, calling Carlos' name, but there was no sign of him.

What the hell? Jimmy said. This has to be some kind of joke. He's messing with us. Suddenly the room filled with a sound of hands thudding against the metal doors of the more coolers. In full panic, the three of us ran from the room and back to our car. On the way, we saw that the nurse and the admission table were gone. We drove straight home and told our parents everything. Carlos' family called the police to report their son missing. After investigating, the detectives reported that when they made contact with the organization that ran the sanatorium, it wasn't due to open for another week. There was no staff there. We never saw our friend again.