Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 3 Oil Rig Horror Stories (Compilation of October 2022)

Episode Date: October 7, 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] Author: Ryan Major Check out more of his work here: https://www.reddit.com/r/gtripp14/ 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 rig was an oasis for the homeless, two miles off of the Texas coast. It was an abandoned oil rig turned into a shelter for the homeless. It was against the law, but the authorities never seemed to pay us any mind. Out of sight, out of mind. Isn't that the general position most places take on the homeless? I'm not sure how long the rig had been going before I ended up there, but when I arrived, it was like a full-fledged town on the water. A few people ran boats back and forth to the mainland.

Some of the long-term residents operated like a city council. There were shops, a clinic, and a gas-powered generator to charge cell phones. A few local charities and food pantries would bring fresh water and dry goods a few times a month. Everyone got a bit for themselves, but the bulk was saved for those who couldn't go to the mainland for day labor. The most impressive feat was the garden. For countless years people had hauled dirt a few buckets at a time until there were dozens of planting beds on the old helicopter pad. No one officially oversaw it, but an older lady named Greta prided herself with constant

care and tending. I lived there for seven years. After losing all of my worldly possessions, the rig was the first place I ever felt at home. Shuffling from the alleyways to the shelter and back to the alleyways had worn me down. I had almost given up when Freddy told me about the rig. I'm heading for the coast, Tim. Freddy told me one day. He was a decade older than me and a good friend.

I wouldn't have gotten through my first few years on the streets if it weren't for him. Got an old friend who says there's plenty of space out on an oil rig. A fella at the coast will take me out to it for a few bucks. You ought to come. An oil rig? I asked in disbelief. Why the hell do you want to go live on an abandoned oil rig? Sounds too risky.

Freddy laughed and swatted me on the back. It's like a floating city. No cops to mess with you. No business owners chasing you away from their shops. Just a bunch of people like us that came together to prop each other up. What have you got to lose? The convenience store canned you. Sleeping on the streets has lost its luster.

Two days later, we hitched a ride to the coast. Freddy and I were blown away after we arrived. When he told me about the rig, I had imagined a filthy squat pad filled with trash and waste. It was quite the opposite. Aside from the rust of the aging structure, the rig was kept immaculately clean. No one slept in the open. Each available inch of indoor space was dedicated to sleeping space and food storage. A kind woman named Janet gave us both sleeping bags and blankets upon our arrival

and took us to an old boiler room where there was available space to sleep at night. She told us we could leave our belongings in the boiler room, but Freddie and I were apprehensive. Don't want anyone stealing my stuff, Freddy said curtly. Leaving stuff sitting around is a good way to get fleeced. You'll find the community here quite respectful of everyone's property, she said. Janet reached into her back pocket and pulled out two yellow sheets of paper filled with handwriting and gave them to both of us. Those are the rules here on the rig. We have a three-strike policy here. If you break the rules three times, you're banished permanently. We both began to read this list of rules. Rule one, no theft of any kind. Failure to repay debts is considered theft.

Rule 2. No fighting. Rule 3. No drug use. Rule 4. Drinking is allowed in moderation. Rule 5. If you don't contribute food or goods to the community, you must work daily to maintain the rig. Rule 6. Do not enter the mechanical room below the drill module. Seems reasonable enough, I said, and extended the list back to Janet. Who decides if the rules have been broken? You can keep it, she replied. We have an informal council that meets every Saturday night in the mess hall. It's made up of our oldest residents.

They will hear complaints and decide if a rule has been broken. If the incident is serious, the council will get together that day. We thanked her and headed to settle in. Over the next few years, Freddie and I integrated nicely into the community. on the rig. The population remained roughly the same. New people would arrive occasionally. Old-timers would move on from time to time. Freddie and I spent most of our time on the rig. Before he lost his job and home, Freddie had worked in construction and welding. The council was excited to find out about his experience and asked if he would be interested in helping maintain the facilities.

He agreed, but asked that I be allowed to assess. system. It was a comfortable life. The uncomfortable part came when we saw our first banishment. During a Saturday meeting with the council, a man was brought forward to answer for a rule infraction. His third, he was an older man with a long beard and a thin frame. His eyes were red with tears as he stood before the group. My name is Albert Martin, he said with a shaking voice. I have been accused of stealing three cans of soup from a neighbor. Someone found the empty cans under my cot. I was framed.

Someone knew I'd been in trouble two times already and pinned this on me. Have mercy. I have nowhere to go. The crowd murmured with discussion as the old man wept. Freddy and I could hear the conflicting opinions amongst the community. Some thought there wasn't enough evidence. while others said Albert was a known rule breaker and was likely guilty. Albert Martin, one of the councilmen said,

This is your third infraction, and we cannot tolerate theft on the rig. Many here rely on the food donations we receive. You are banished and will not return here. No! Albert shouted. He pulled out a rusted blade with a cloth-wrapped handle and held it toward the council. I don't have anywhere to go. I didn't steal the damn food.

It's a setup. While the man waved the knife at the group in front of him, Freddy tapped me on the shoulder and beckoned me to follow him. He crept silently up the aisle behind the man. Moving surprisingly quick for his age, he darted forward and wrapped his arm around Albert's neck. Get the knife! Freddy shouted to me, and I pried the blade from the old man's hand.

Take him to the mechanical room downstairs, demanded a woman from the council. We will hold him there, until he could be taken back to shore. Freddy and I carried the thrashing man out of the mess hall and down the stairs toward the mechanical room. A man trailed behind us and pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door.

We tossed him inside and slammed the hat shut and the man locked it. You've killed me, you bastards! Albert shouted from inside the room. He hammered on the door and threw his weight against the thick metal. You hear me? You've killed me. They aren't taking me to the shore. Those damn things are going to kill me.

Freddy and I turned to leave, but the old man's wails of fear and agony resonated in my mind. What things was he talking about? I would find out years later when Freddie was found guilty of his third violation and ended up in the mechanical room. Freddy was a hard worker and well-loved in the community, but in his later years, he became overly fond of alcohol.

He managed to keep it to himself for a while, but over time, he grew angrier when he was drunk. That's when the trouble began. His first violation was a simple fist fight. Freddy sat on his cot, drinking scotch, and talking loudly to anyone who would listen. A man who slept in the far corner from us asked him to quiet down so he could sleep.

Without warning, Freddy punched the man, and told him to shut up. The second violation came when Freddie drunkenly rifled through another man's gear, looking for cigarettes. He found half a pack of crumpled Marlboroughs and was closing the bag when the man entered. Freddy returned them, but the damage was done. His final violation came when a woman and her husband asked Freddy to fix a leak in one of the bunkhouses. He insisted it was already repaired, but they told him the leak had continued, feeling insulted.

Freddy shoved the husband and told him to piss off. When the man begged him to come to look at the leak, Freddy punched him. With that, the council decided his fate and had two men haul him off to the mechanical room to wait for a departing boat. That night when I returned to my cot, I saw all of Freddy's belongings sitting on his bed. I began to bag them up to take them down to the mechanical room for his ride back to shore. After gathering them up, I headed to the stairs into the lower level of the rig. When I arrived on the lower level, there was a man from the council, Carl, standing guard beside the door to the mechanical room. Freddy was banging on the door and begging for the man to let him out.

He stood, stone-faced, staring in my direction. Tim, stop, the man said to me. Freddy has already been judged. We're just waiting on a boat. I know, I said, gesturing toward the backpack full of my friend's belongings. Just wanted to drop his stuff off so he can take it back with him. I don't want him to leave with nothing. Just drop it there, Carl said flatly. I'll make sure he gets it before.

Suddenly the air was filled with agonized screams. You could always hear muffled yelling on the upper levels when someone was locked up awaiting their banishment. But the thick floor plating always made it inaudible. Up close, I could hear the fear in my friend's voice. What the hell is that? Freddy shouted. Let me out of here! It's going to kill me.

Open the damn door! You need to leave, Carl said, pointing toward the stairs. Something is in there with him! I shouted. Let him out! This is how it works, Tim. He's bad. If you don't want to join him, you'd better go.

I could see the keys to the room hanging from a ring on his belt. I'm not sure what came over me. but I threw the backpack at Carl's head and lunged forward for the keys. He was momentarily shocked, but quickly regained his composure and began to struggle. Landing two punches to the side of his head, he slid limply to the floor. I pulled the keys from his belt and unlocked the door. As the door creaked open, I began to call for Freddy, but the words died in my throat. Standing above my friend was a gangly creature covered in wet, scaly skin.

Gil slits opened and closed on its neck, and purple eyes gazed at me from its bulbous head. As I made eye contact with it, the thing opened its massive jaws and hissed before grabbing Freddy's limp frame by the head. It turned toward an opening by the drill shaft and began to drag Freddy toward it. A crimson streak trailed behind them. Freddy's eyes were barely open as he lifted his hand toward me in a gesture for help. The creature's hand turned, and a dry snap echoed in the mechanical room before it. through Freddy's lifeless body through the hole. A clawed hand reached toward me, mimicking the same gesture as Freddy. The thing opened its mouth again and uttered what I can only describe as a

hellish laugh. Finished with its taunt, it stepped back and fell through the hole and into the rolling waves below. I left that same night and got as far from the coast as I could. After a few days in a Houston shelter, I left the state. I live in Omaha now. Farmhand work is plentiful, and I managed to get a cracker box apartment. The green pastures make me feel safe, but when I try to sleep at night, the roar of the ocean still echoes in my mind. I never told anyone what I saw. The authorities wouldn't believe me. Hell, maybe they knew. No one is worried about the homeless. Out of sight, Out of mind. Right? Lazangue surgelley,

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We lost contact with the mainland over three weeks ago. Radio contact went out almost immediately when the ice moved in. None of the electrical systems work. Our helicopter won't start up. The men have taken to burning crude oil and barrels just to stay warm.

No one has come to rescue us. We're going to rescue us. to die here. Not exactly what I expected when I took a job managing an oil rig in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico. The recruiter sold me on the warm climate, high pay, and tranquil view. Now I'm shivering in the middle of a winter hellscape. Sixteen days ago, one of the roughnecks reported the first iceberg. He shouted over the radio. I dropped my clipboard to the desk and left the comfort of my air-conditioned office. The day was a scorcher. probably around 95 degrees, but I hadn't checked the weather that morning.

A warm wind from the Gulf swept across the platform and ruffled my shaggy mess of hair. A lot of men on the rig kept their hair close to the scalp, but mine was thinning, and I hadn't wanted to bring any more attention to it than I had to. Once I reached the observation desk, I saw a roughneck waving wildly. I picked up my pace and crossed the deck to stand beside the man. He handed me a set of binoculars and pointed into the distance. Looks like an iceberg, sir. He stammered.

An iceberg in the damn golf! My eyes got to be playing tricks on me. In disbelief, I held the binoculars to my eyes and peered in the distance. It was hard to make out at first, but as a high wave moved in the direction of the platform, my line of view became clear. There it was, massive and white, bobbing up and down smooth, in the choppy water. It was moving quickly in the direction of the rig. Son of a bitch, I muttered under my breath. How long ago did you see this? It just kind of

popped up, the man said. I've been scanning the horizon for the pickup tanker, and the damn thing just burst out of the water. My mind reeled. I'd seen dozens of bizarre sights over the years, abandoned ships floating in the waves, pods of whales sailing below the water near the support structure. Flocks of sea birds, so thick they blacked out the sun. A huge chunk of ice floating in 83-degree water was at first. Looks like it is heading directly toward us, I told the roughneck. Go inform the safety officers to expect an impact in about 15 minutes. It doesn't look large enough to cause any serious damage, but I want a maintenance crew ready to check for structural damage. The roughneck sprinted away from the observation deck, and I headed back to

the office. I needed to call the sighting into the mainland and prepare for potential damage repair. Life on a rig was far from normal, but that was more than I had ever prepared myself for. As I reached my office and began to turn the knob, a cold breeze brushed the back of my neck, sending a chill down my spine. I flicked the light switch inside the door, but the room remained dark. After a few more tries, I gave up and headed to my desk. Picking up the radio mic, I held it to my mouth and thumbed in the button. Delta rig to mainland com.

Delta rig to the mainland com. We spotted an iceberg on our perimeter. Repeat. An iceberg is headed toward our rig. No damage expected, but requesting an emergency maintenance crew. Silence. I repeated the message, but again received only silence in return. My eyes drifted down to the radio to see all of the interface lights dead and lifeless.

My heart crept into my throat. In a panic, I pushed back from my desk and headed for the door. Just as I grasped the knob, the platform shook violently beneath my feet. The iceberg had hit, much harder than I had expected. Only moments after the platform settled, two more reverberating shocks slammed into the rig. Running as hard as I could, I climbed to the top of the observation deck. A cluster of men were gathered there looking into the distance. about to ask them what had happened, but I looked into the distance too and saw it for myself.

Dozens of icebergs were drifting in the water around us, maybe hundreds. The horizon was a wall of steel-gray clouds lumbering in our direction. A fierce wind scraped against my cheeks, cold, almost freezing. The snow came later that night, gentle flurries at first, almost a whimsical sight. Dozens of crewmen stood on the deck and watched the soft white flex fall to the deck. It wasn't long before the flurries gave way to a blinding storm. In our confusion, most of the crew hadn't noticed the electricity stopped working.

The head of maintenance found me on the deck and informed me all of our systems had shut down. When I asked why the backup generators hadn't been initiated, all he could do was shrug. His crew was working on it, but so far they had no luck. I found our pilot on the helicopter pad and instructed him to fire up the bird and head inland for help. With great fear in his eyes, he told me that multiple attempts to get it started had failed. We were stranded.

Over the coming days, the snow piled in massive heaps across the deck. None of the crew had packed warm clothing and huddled under blankets in the crew barracks, shivering and watery-eyed. There was no heating system on the rig, even if there was. The damn thing wouldn't have worked anyway. Nothing did. Violent quakes had shaken the platform for days before unexpectedly ceasing. The falling snow made it impossible to see the ocean below, but most assumed the icebergs had passed us by.

At first, I believed this too, but another crewman dashed my hopes. I was sitting at my desk, wrapped in blankets and smoking a cigarette, when the old timer pushed his way into the office. Snow in the biting wind blew in behind him before he slammed the door. There was a dry cracking noise coming from outside. Do you hear that? He asked, almost devoid of emotion. The crackling and slamming noises?

I nodded. Sea ice. He spat. I worked on a fishing boat in the Bering Sea for a few years. We can't see it. But that is the sound of great slabs of sea ice breaking against each other. Food ran out a few days ago. We were due a restock shipment two weeks ago.

I melt the snow to drink, but my stomach constantly aches with hunger pains. There aren't many of us left anyway. A few men jumped over the side soon after this started. We lost dozens to hypothermia. A handful died in a fire when a burning barrel of crude oil they were using to keep warm, tipped over in their barrack, burnt them alive. Some of the men still seem strong, no complaints of rumbling bellies, but their faces are blank, absent of any emotion.

I have my suspicions, but what could I do about it? My God, I want to live, but I couldn't. One of the crewmen told me this morning they have seen things flying through the heavy drifts of snow. I haven't seen them myself, but occasionally I think I can hear something land in the thick snow above my own. office. The dull sound of footsteps echoed in the room, but then they vanished. Left my office. I thought I could hear a scream pierced through the howling winds outside the door. I looked out, but no one was there. Only the pelting white globs of God-forsaken snow. Welcome to aboard Via Raii. Embarked and profite. Embarked and celebrate.

Rigolet. Publiere. Saviore. Admire. Admirriere. And profite. Villaray, the voice that we love that am. These personal entries recorded by Anonymous are intended for research purposes only. Entries unrelated to the event have been removed. All materials found here are the sole property of Even Tide Petroleum and are not authorized for reproduction. If any unauthorized person or persons find themselves in possession of these documents, please contact the corporate office for a financial reward. August 10th, 2021. The jumpers always looked so happy as they marched to their death.

You could see their faces clearly from the dozens of security cameras on the deck. Satisfied smiles covered their faces as they bounded carriages. tirelessly toward the edge of the platform. We've installed a higher railing system around the edges, but it only made them work harder to get over the top. Before they jump, their arms extend out as though they expect something to come from the sky and scoop them up like a mother would pick up a small child. After one or two minutes of holding their crucifixion like pose, they fall forward and sail

through the air until they make an impact with the churning water below. on oil rigs aren't common, but they aren't unheard of either. The rate for oil extraction workers is near twice the percentage of males in the general population. At least that's what I read when I started researching this job. From what I've seen, it is drastically higher here. During my first month on the rig, I watched two men plummet to their death from the control room. Braxton and Garvin were their names. Happy guys, as far as I could tell. Wife, kids, and nice houses to get back to after their rotations. Best job in the world, Braxton had told me the day we met.

He pointed a finger out toward the endless blue waves that spread as far as we could see. No better view for that matter. It's almost like the ocean sings to you every night. Like it never wants you to leave. He never did leave. Twenty days after we met, Earl Braxton and Jimmy Gavin leapt over the side of the rig during the night shift. Their bodies were never recovered. August 28, 2021.

We've lost three more men since I last had a chance to write. Derek Overton had only been on the rig for six days. Young guy couldn't have been more than 22. It was his first offshore job, and he had seemed so excited. He was a hard worker too. You ever hear anything weird when you're working out on the platform? He asked me one day. Sounds like there is someone out on.

a boat singing. No, I replied. I worked down in control and keep an eye on the vital systems. Don't get outside as much as I should. I'm probably just hearing things. Tried to ask a few of the other workers up top, but I guess they're too busy to talk.

A few of them told me I should wear earplugs, but I don't know. The sound of the waves is soothing. The singing noise, too. I kind of enjoy it. That was two days before he jumped. Our night shift crew wasn't fast enough to stop him. They never are.

Doyle Hargrove was an old-timer. He worked on even-tied rigs for over 30 years. According to the duty roster, he was due to rotate home next week. His psychological evaluation was top-notch. No history of mental illness. All of his crew said nothing seemed out of place. If anything, he seemed happier than he had in months. Just the same.

Doyle threw himself over the side of the rig during the night shift. The third death wasn't a jumper. One of the motor hands, Alvi Spencer, was found standing near the edge of the platform, arms outstretched, looking toward the sky. Two roughnecks on the night shift saw him and managed to drag him back from the edge before he scaled the railing to fall into the drink. Alvi fought them tooth and nail as they pulled him toward the barracks. A few other men heard the commotion and came running.

running to aid in the rescue. The motor hand punched and kicked everyone around him and scrambled to find a grip on the rig floor as they pulled him toward the bulkhead. The whole time he was just screaming the same thing over and over. Let me go! It's so beautiful! Just let me go!

Unsure of what to do, the rig manager had them secure Alvi in an empty storage room while he radioed the mainland crew. They informed us they would send a helicopter to retrieve Alvi and take him in for a mental health evaluation. We were all relieved to have finally saved one, but the celebration came too early. When we opened the storage room,

Alvi Spencer swung from his belt, secured to a pipe. Poor bastard, thought we'd managed to save one. September 20th, 2021. Shit just keeps getting more and more strange around here. There have been no more jumpers, which is great, But corporate has made some odd changes. Our old rig manager was replaced with some suit from corporate.

He doesn't seem to have much experience in the field. Has a strange way about him. Made a lot of changes, too. Everyone who works outdoors on the rig has to wear earplugs during their entire shift. No exceptions. It wouldn't be that big of a deal, but it's difficult to call someone over the loudspeakers with a wad of foam in their ears. Men have to work in two-man teams now, regardless of their position.

If one goes to the bathroom, the other goes with them. They eat together, shower together. The only time you are away from them is when you go to bed. You even have to fill out a daily observation report about your partner. The questions are weird. You figure it would be a productivity thing. But it isn't like that at all. Has your partner exhibited any odd behavior?

Does your partner stare off into the distance frequently? Does your partner seem to hum or sing as they work? Have you noticed your partner spending too much time near the edge of the platform? There are also tons of signs posted everywhere on the rig, saying we should report any strange thoughts or compulsions to our supervisor. No telling what kind of weird stuff those poor bastards are hearing from the crew. It's almost an open invitation for bad jokes. I'm not sure what the hell is going on.

out here, but it may be time for a job change. My rotation is up on November 1st. It can't get here soon enough. October 17th, 2021. Working up on the deck has been a nice change of pace. We've been short on roughnecks lately, and I accepted a pay bump to help out with grunt work. Steve, my partner, doesn't follow me around too much, which has been nice. We're both old timers, so it wasn't too hard to work out an agreement to skirt a few of the new corporate rules. Those damn earplugs annoyed me too much, so mostly I just leave them out. None of the young bucks on the crew say anything about it. Most of them have started keeping theirs out too, not hard to manage. The suits from corporate stay inside and the air conditioning gives us a free run of the place. I'm more relaxed than I've

been in months. Braxton was right. The ocean does sing to you. Sometimes I close my eyes. and it almost sounds like a woman. I can almost see her. Down below the rig, floating between the white caps. She's beautiful. It's like she's singing just for me. October 21st, 2021.

Steve jumped from the platform yesterday. We were doing a security check on the railing system around the edge of the platform. They had been hastily installed as the incidents increased and the material wasn't holding. holding up well against the salty sea spray. Bad news for the maintenance crew.

Hey! Steve said to me as I was examining the bolts fastening the railing to the deck. I looked toward him and saw him pointing into the ocean. Look out there! Looks like a damn lady swimming in the water! It's 15 miles to shore and there isn't a boat in sight, Steve. Your eyes are playing tricks on you. No!

He stated. Take a look for yourself. She's waving at us. I think I can hear her singing. I stood up and looked in the direction he pointed. At first, I couldn't see anything. Just the rolling blue waves. And I saw her.

Pale skin, dark hair, slender frame. She was bobbing up and down in the water. A long, thin arm waved above her head. She was too far away to make out any details of her face. But I couldn't help but think she would. would be the most beautiful woman I'd seen if I were a bit closer. A strange thought to have when you see a woman floating miles from the shore. But it haunted my mind.

We've got to get someone out there to help, Steve said. Run up to the office and tell the rig manager, we need to get out there to her. I ran as quickly as I could to the office and threw the door open like a bull and a china shop. It startled the men inside. Gasping for air, I told them there was a woman in the water. and told them to follow me. We charged out of the office in the direction of Steve. By the time we returned, Steve was standing on top of the railing, arms outstretched.

We shouted his name and ran toward him, but he never turned his head or acknowledged us. Just as we reached the bottom of the railing and began to climb up to retrieve him, he tilted over the edge and began to sail down. As Steve passed in front of my face, I caught a glimpse of his serene smile, October 30th, 2021. The rescue crew never found Steve or the woman we saw in the water. I feel like I'm going mad. The music still fills my ears as I sit here on my bunk. Layers of steel walls and bulkheads can't drown it out.

It's maddening, but oddly beautiful. I wanted to stop, but I also don't. It would probably sound so much better if I could get a bit closer to it. I wonder if the woman Steve and I saw as the one singing. I wonder if she is as beautiful as I think she is. Maybe she's still down there. She just needs help. I should help her.

I'm going to see if I can spot her. I'll just stand by the rail for a little while. Just for a minute.