Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 3 True Lockdown Horror Stories

Episode Date: December 17, 2025

Doors sealed. Lights off. Silence pressing in from every direction. These are true lockdown horror stories—moments when being trapped wasn’t just frightening… it was deadly. Fuel your nightmares with NoSleep Coffee — fresh, same-day roasted beans shipped right to your door. Use code NOSLEEP20 for 20% off your first order: https://nosleepcoffee.com TIMESTAMPS: Story 1: Zero Equals Infinity - 00:09 Actual Event: Cokeville Elementary Hostage Crisis, 1986 - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1986_Cokeville_Elementary_School_hostage_crisis Story 2: House of Horrors - 20:55 Actual Event: 3 children rescued from house in Italy after years-long lockdown - https://people.com/3-children-rescued-from-house-of-horrors-locked-inside-since-covid-19-pandemic-11725566 Story 3: Code Silver - 45:48 Actual Event: Mercy Hospital Shooting, Nov, 2018 - https://abc7chicago.com/post/mercy-hospital-chicago-shooting-4-dead-including-officer-gunman/4720765/?utm Author: Matt Doggett Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/MatthewDoggettAuthor/ Website/Newsletter sign up: matthewdoggettauthor.com New Book Releases: https://www.amazon.com/Matthew-G-Doggett/e/B08FD5378Z * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This podcast contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised. #creepypasta #horrorstories #drnosleeppodcast #scarystories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Story 1. Zero equals infinity. It was just after one in the afternoon. I was busy sweeping up the elementary school cafeteria following lunch. This was 1986, and I lived in a small Wyoming town at the time. My mother worked as a cook in the cafeteria, and she'd gotten me a job as a dishwasher and general helper. I was 18, and I had attended the elementary school where I now worked. I've done a lot of living since then. I'm 57 now.

But that was the most horrific experience of my life, and I still have nightmares about it to this day. The first indication that something was wrong came when a woman I didn't recognize showed up in the cafeteria. Hello, excuse me, she said from behind me. I turned, expecting one of the teachers or administrators to be there. But this woman was completely unfamiliar to me.

She had black hair fixed and a messy bun atop her head, dark brown eyes, a pointed nose, and a narrow face. She wore a loose green blouse and jeans. Yes? There's an emergency meeting, and we need everyone to attend. The woman seemed oddly energetic. Her eyes flitted around the cafeteria, and she bounced lightly on the balls of her feet.

Just under her perfume, I could smell the faintly acrid scent of sweat. She moved past me to the serving line, beyond which the kitchen staff were busy, putting or throwing away food, and doing whatever prep was required for the next day's lunch. I had no way of knowing at the time that there would be no lunch the next day. There would be no lunch in that cafeteria for a long time. The woman told those in the kitchen the same thing. Quickly now. Everyone's waiting. It's important.

As my mom and the three other workers came out, I shared a look with her. I had only been on the job for a couple of weeks, and I didn't know if this was a normal occurrence or not. All I knew was that I had a strange feeling about the woman. My mom seemed slightly confused, but she came anyway. Who is that? I asked, as we fell in line behind the woman. I have no idea, my mother said. As always, she wore a faint smile that crinkled the skin at the corners of her deep brown eyes. Looking back on it now, I realize how trusting we all were.

It was a small town, and the school had just over a hundred students. Plus, the era of mass school shootings was still over a decade from starting. So we went along, the four of us following the woman. When we passed the hallway that led to the gym, where the assemblies were normally held, Mrs. Larson, one of the kitchen workers, spoke up. The gym is this way. The black-haired woman looked over her shoulder but didn't stop. Yes, I know where the gym is.

We're meeting in a classroom. Come along now. Everyone's waiting for us. What did you say your name was? Mrs. Larson asked as we continued walking. I'm Mrs. Young. Doris Young. Did you just start working here?

My mother asked in her polite, small talk voice. Yes, just today, actually. Doris Young said as we turned the corner. She stopped outside one of the other. the third grade classrooms and opened the door for us. Here we are. Mrs. Larson headed inside first, followed by my mother, then me. Miss Married, and the other cafeteria worker, brought up the rear. Before Mrs. Larson had taken four steps into the classroom, she gasped and came up short, causing my mother to stop suddenly in front of me. I nearly ran into her just outside the threshold

before stopping and looking over the two women's shoulders into the classroom. What I saw didn't register at first. The classroom was jammed with children and teachers. Nearly the whole school had been shoved into the small space. Kids sat everywhere, on the floor, on the desktops, on each other's laps. The 18 staff members, not including us, were spread among the children, many of them comforting the little ones. In the front of the room, a man stood next to a small shopping cart that had one metal

basket over another. A mess of guns, pistols and rifles, sat on the teacher's desk behind him. Maybe this is a meeting on firearms? I thought. This was rural Wyoming, after all. Guns were part of everyday life. But the way many of the kids were crying, and the ashen looks on the adult's faces told me this wasn't a normal meeting at all. But the woman had said emergency, hadn't she? As I looked closer at the shopping cart, I saw a gallon milk jug filled with amber liquid sitting in the top basket. In the bottom basket, directly below the milk jug, were two open tuna cans with some kind of powder in them. Every so often, liquid dripped from the jug and into one of these cans. The top of the milk jug featured a clothespin for hanging clothes. The pin's jaws

were wide open, with what looked like small squares of copper attached to them. A small piece of wood between the jaws was attached by a string to the man's left wrist. Wires affixed to the two copper squares trailed down to electronic contraptions on the tuna cans. Arranged around the jug and the tuna cans were boxes of bullets and nails, and heavy lengths of chain. My bone marrow turned to solid ice when I realized what it was. A bomb. Get in here, the man said, gesturing us inside with a pistol in his right hand.

He had curly brown hair, wide, undecerning eyes, and a messy beard with a mustache that grew lopsided, making him look as if he was constantly hitching the right side of his mouth up in a half smile. But his heavy eyelids and flat stare gave off no sense of humor whatsoever. None of us moved.

The man aimed the pistol a little girl sitting on top of a desk nearby. Get in here, or I killed this girl. We all moved inside. Doris closed the door behind us. That's everyone. You're sure? The man asked.

Yes, David. She snapped. I'm sure. Well, good. David said, looking around as he grinned vacantly. I have some great news for everyone. We're all going to a better place together, and we're going real soon. The smell of gasoline was making.

my head hurt. We'd been on lockdown in the classroom for 15 minutes, and the fumes from the fuel dripping out of the jug permeated the whole packed space. Doris had handed out photocopied flyers with the title zero equals infinity written on top. Meanwhile, David had explained that if he pulled on the string attached to his left wrist, the wooden block would come out from the dead man's switch and caused the bomb to explode by closing a circuit, powered by a nine-volt battery taped to the side of the jug. When he was done, he urged us to read the flyers, Doris had handed out. I couldn't make any sense of it.

Trying to comprehend the incoherent ramblings of a totally invented mathematical philosophy made my head hurt almost as much as the gasoline fumes. All around the classroom, children sobbed and squirmed and pleaded to go home. Those adults in the room, including myself, tried to comfort them. in low tones, glancing fearfully at Doris and David every so often. But there were too many children and too few of us. Both Doris and David spoke in hushed whispers at the front of the classroom, all but ignoring the rest of us aside from their eyes, constantly moving back and forth

over their hostages. Finally, when the fumes got too bad, my mother spoke up. Excuse me, do you think we could open the windows? Those gasoline fumes are giving everyone a headache. Doris and David stopped their whispering and stared at my mother. What? I can't understand you, David said, voice growing louder with each word. Are you speaking in a different language? What are you saying? Children burst into tears at his savage yell, but Doris put a hand on his arm and whispered in his ear. She giggled, and then he did too, both staring at my mother. Yes, Doris said after a moment. That's a fine idea. It's not like anyone can escape through these windows. Plus,

it will give us a way to fly out when it's time to go. I tried not to focus on her last sentence about us flying out the windows, but it was true that they weren't the kind that would allow anyone, even the smallest of the children, to slip out. Doris went to each window and cranked the handle, causing one pain to lever open at an angle to let some fresh air in. When she was done, she grabbed a pistol from the desk. She stepped over to David, whispered something in his ear, kissed him on the lips, and then turned to faces again. Who needs to use the bathroom? Several children's hands went up.

Doris chose four and said, Okay, let's go. I'll take you. As the four children worked their way through the crowded classroom, my mother spoke up again. I can help you. I need to use the facilities, too. Doris stared at my mother for a second before looking at David.

He gave her a nod and a wink. Okay, she said. Come on. As my mom got to her feet, I grabbed her wrist, an awful feeling twisting my guts and knots. Don't, Mom. Please. Picture this. It's late at night.

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She looked at me and smiled sadly. I need to make sure they're okay, she whispered, that she doesn't do anything to them. Can't someone else go? Why does it have to be you?

It'll be okay, Travis, she said. I promise. She gently pulled her wrist for my grasp and stepped over the row of children in front of us. Can I come to?

I asked. raising my hand. No, Doris said. Only four children and one adult at a time. You can go next time. As they left the room, my mother glanced back at me and smiled. I couldn't bring myself to smile back. Ten minutes later, they still hadn't returned when the phone on the teacher's desk rang,

causing me to jump, thinking for a moment the bomb was going off. David wheeled the cart close enough so that he could grab the phone off its cradle with his right hand. hand, putting his pistol down to do so. The conversation was short and clipped, as David demanded $2 million for each person he held hostage. He said he would detonate the bomb if he didn't get the money by six that evening. Don't call again unless you have the money, or you have President Reagan on the line, he said and hung up. Three minutes later, Doris returned to the classroom, alone, wearing completely different clothes. She kissed David again, and they resumed their whispering.

Excuse me? Mrs. Foss, who had been my third grade math and social studies teacher, called from near the back of the class. Where are those children? Where is Mrs. Rowan? Doris and David looked at the gray-haired woman and then at each other. Do you know what she's talking about? David asked Doris.

No idea. You must be mistaken. I haven't done anything with any students, and I certainly don't know who Mrs. Rowan is. My face burned at her mention of my mother's name. What have you done with them? Mrs. Foss demanded, getting stiffly up from her seat and starting toward the front of the class, with the kind of demeanor I'd seen from her when dealing with unruly students. Sit out! Doris called. What did you do with them?

Mrs. Foss said, still coming. Sit back down, David shouted. But Mrs. Foss wasn't having it. She kept coming, trying not to step on any students as she did. I still don't know what she thought she was going to do when she got to them, but I was rooting for her. I admired her tenacity, her fearlessness, right up until Doris shot her.

The crack of the shot made me flinch and release a frightened gasp. Mrs. Foss cried out in pain and fell to the floor, gripping her left thigh. A chorus of screams erupted from dozens of children. A fifth grade boy who had been sitting behind Mrs. Foss on the floor, when Doris shot her, now got to his feet and stumbled toward the classroom door. He made it only a few feet before he collapsed and went still. Every adult in the classroom and many of the children stared at that young boy for a long time. Even Mrs. Foss, gripping her injured leg, looked over. Blood expanded from under his chest, where the bullet struck him.

Even though the classroom was still filled with the cries of children, it seemed to me to go very still and quiet for a few long moments. And then chaos erupted. Several of the teachers leaped up from their seats and charged toward the front of the classroom as Mrs. Foss lurched toward Doris, swatting her gun out of her hand. Seeing my chance to escape, to find my mother, I got to my feet.

But as I started for the door, I glanced over to see that David had traded his pistol for a semi-autor from the desk. I looked at the string tied to his wrist, seeing how taught it was as he took aim at the rushing teachers. He fired, squeezing the trigger as fast as his finger would allow while he swept the rifle across the classroom. Bullets punched through bone and flesh, obliterating vital organs. The back of a custodian's head exploded, spewing brains and blood all over screaming children. A new teacher, Miss Landry, took a bullet to the throat and collapsed on top of several first graders.

As the barrel shifted toward me, I knew I wouldn't make it to the door. I fell to my knees and threw myself across two bawling little girls, hoping that if I got shot, the bullets wouldn't go through me. I kept my eyes wrenched shut, waiting for the pain that never came. Instead, what came as the ringing of the gunshot started to fade from my ears was laughter. Turning my head, I gazed at Doris and David, who were both laughing insanely. Unable to believe it, I crawled off the little girls and peered around the classroom. At least ten people were dead, including Mrs. Foss and three students.

Blood was splattered all over the place, walls, ceiling, and children. These two were laughing. Well, there goes about $20 million, David said, still chuckling. I wanted to scream at them, but I thought if I opened my mouth I would vomit. Instead, I only stared, a welcome numbness spreading through me. I got to pee, David said. Switch with me. Doris untied the detonation string from David's left wrist, and he tied it to her right

before leaving the room, still holding the rifle. He didn't bother stepping around the blood from Mrs. Foss and the fifth-grade boy who lay dead nearby. The gun Mrs. Foss had knocked from Doris's hand was still on the floor. But Doris didn't seem to mind. She simply picked another one from the desk as she stood behind the shopping cart. The phone rang, but she ignored it. Instead, she looked out at the classroom.

Her head twitching while her lips moved as if she was speaking to herself. A first-grade girl, covered in blood and bawling, stood up. I want to go home! Sit out! Doris yelled, pointing the gun in her right hand toward the child. The gesture pulled the string. yanking the small piece of wood from the jaws of the clothespin. The two pieces of metal made a low click as they met.

Doris's face went pale as she looked down, realizing what she'd done. She dropped the pistol and reached out with both hands to open the clothespin again. It was too late. The jug of gasoline exploded. A ball of flame erupted, engulfing Doris and spreading throughout the classroom in a brilliantly violent explosion. I threw myself down on top of the two little girls again, dreading the feeling I knew was coming. The feeling of all the shrapnel, the bullets and nails and chains piercing my back. Excruciating pain tore through me.

Its intensity flaring for a few agonizing seconds before it faded to an adrenaline, dampered ache. People screamed in torment. It took me a moment to realize that I could still move without crippling pain. I crawled off the little girls, quickly checking them over for injuries and seeing none. The room was filled with smoke, causing me to cough, and I could hear the crackle of flames. But when I looked around, the damage wasn't nearly as bad as I had feared. Doris had clearly taken the worst of it.

She was screaming and rolling around on the floor, almost completely engulfed in flames. Sure that David would be back any moment, I crawled along the floor and grabbed the pistol from where it had fallen earlier. As I headed for the hallway, still crawling to stay below the smoke, the door opened and David looked in. His surprised eyes fixed on Doris, and then they jumped to me where I sat crouched on the floor. He raised his rifle.

I brought the pistol up, firing in my panic even before I got it pointed at his chest. But it worked in my favor. The first bullet struck him in the lower leg. He cried out and stumbled back, firing his rifle sloppily, missing me by inches. I kept firing, the recoil serving to bring the barrel up with each shot. I missed with the second and third shots, but hit him. with the fourth and fifth, in the stomach and chest. He stopped firing as he went down, collapsing in the hallway. When I was sure he was dead, I tossed the gun aside and immediately

worked to get the survivors out of the flaming classroom. Doris was still alive when I escorted the final children out, with the help of Mrs. Larson and Miss Merritt, both from the cafeteria. Although she had managed to put her fire out by rolling around on the floor, the severe burns that covered most of Doris's body were still small. moldering and smoking when I passed by her for the last time. She looked up at me, her dark eyes clear amid her scorched face. She spoke two words as I passed. Kill me!

I left her there to suffer without so much as a second thought. The police found my mother and the four children. They were all dead, killed with a machete, which was left on the blood-coated floor, along with the clothes Doris had changed out of. She had gone for my mother first, they said. before targeting those poor children. But investigators also said something else to me in the days after that,

while I lay in the hospital getting treated for the third-degree burns all along my back. They said that, even though the secondary explosives didn't go off, the gasoline explosion would have done far more damage had the classroom windows not been opened. The open windows gave the blast somewhere to go, which helped spare dozens of lives that day, including my own. I take solace in the fact that my mother's bravery saved lives that day, but that still doesn't stop the nightmares. A coffee lover looking for a great way to support the show,

then you've got to check out no sleep coffee.com. We started the no sleep coffee company with one goal in mind, keeping you wide awake through our darkest stories. We roast fresh specialty-grade coffee to order, shipped straight to your door. It's perfect for late-night binging, long drives, or any time you need that extra kick. And with the holidays already here, it's the perfect gift for the coffee lovers in your life.

And because you're part of the Doctor No Sleep Family, you can get 20% off your first order with promo code No Sleep 20. That's promo code No Sleep 20 for 20% off at nosleepcoffee.com. Thanks so much for supporting the show and for keeping the nightmares brewing. Now back to the story. Story 2. House of Horrors

I was three steps into the kitchen when the clatter of an empty tin can sounded behind me. I glanced over my shoulder, seeing my little sister, Teresa, standing on the stairs. The empty tuna can that she'd knocked off the bottom step sat amid other trash piled around the foot of the stairs. We had barely any room in the house, so mom and dad had started lining garbage on the outside of the stairs, leaving only a narrow aisle down the middle. I tiptoed back over to Teresa, whose sunken eyes stared from her face with such longing. It nearly made me burst out crying. That had been happening a lot lately.

I would just start crying for no reason. I never used to do that. But I want to go with you, Teresa said. She was eight, but lately she'd been acting much younger like a toddler. I'm not going anywhere. Yes, you are. You're going outside. I know you are.

My plan had been to see if I could find a way to pick the kitchen door of Deadbolt, but there was no way Teresa could have known. Oh, and how do you know that? Because that's where I want to go too. I want to go out there and never come back. Well, if you go back to bed, I'll see if I can make that happen. If I find a way to get out, I'll come get you. How about that?

It had been my plan all along, so I wasn't lying to my little sister. Teresa shook her head, pressing her pale lips together. The door opened upstairs, causing a vice to clamp on my heart. Teresa's eyes, doubled in size, mirroring my own. I yanked her off the stairs and toward the living room, where piles and bags of trash covered nearly every inch of the floor. Hide! Who's down there?

Dad shouted from upstairs. Who's out of their bedroom? I knew Dad would search the bedrooms upstairs if he didn't get an answer in the next few seconds. So as I shoved Teresa into a pile of trash, lifting a stinking bag to cover her, I called up. It's just me! My voice quavered sickeningly. I pushed back the urge to cry. When Dad didn't answer, the only sound was his heavy footsteps rushing down the stairs, I knew my punishment would be bad. I made sure Teresa was hidden before stepping over to the bottom of the stairs. At 15, I was nothing more than a skinny kid, weighing barely.

a hundred pounds. My father, on the other hand, was over six feet tall and two hundred pounds. As I looked up the dark stairwell, I saw him coming down. He wore only underwear and a surgical mask. His eyes blazed over the pale blue of the mask. I was thirst before I could get the rest of the word out. Dad grabbed me by the face and slammed me into the floor. Some of the trash cushioned my fall, but I felt the unyielding form of a glass bottle just. jab me in the spine. What did I tell you about leaving your bedroom? He screamed. Palms deliver my face, hand-smelling of alcohol-based hand sanitizer. What did I tell you? His voice shot up in tone as he dug his fingernails into my cheeks. There was no recognition in his bloodshot

hazel eyes, only madness and anger. What's happening? Mom screamed from upstairs. I heard another door open, and then my mother yelled again. But this time, I knew her words were directed at my twin brother, Timmy. Get back in your room. Don't come out here. It could be contaminated. Mom, he didn't go anywhere. He didn't do anything.

Timmy said, always standing up for me. The horrible sound of an open poem slap came down the stairs. My mother said something else to my brother in a low tone, but I couldn't hear it. The bedroom door shut again. Dad was no longer looking at me, and his grip had eased a little. He was peering at the back door in the kitchen, making sure. making sure it was closed. He grabbed a handful of my shaggy hair and hauled me to my feet.

With his other hand, he gripped my chin from behind and propelled me into the living room, toward the front door. I heard mom rushing down the stairs as Dad bent down and said, Did you open a door, a window? Did you open anything? No! I said through gritted teeth, as if I could. They had sealed the entire place up so tight, not even ants could get in to feast on the garbage.

Mom came around in front of me and dropped to her knees, so her face was slightly below mine. She wore shorts and a white tank top. Her light brown hair was matted from her pillow. Like Dad, she wore a surgical mask over her nose and mouth. They both slept in them. Let him go, she commanded. Dad let go of my hair and chin, allowing Mom to grab me by the ears, sharp thumbnails digging into the flesh there as she peered at me with her frenzied green eyes.

Why are you doing this, Tony? She pleaded. Why do you keep doing this? Do you want us to die? Do you want your brother and sister to die? Is that it? I couldn't hold back any longer. The tears started.

Don't you do that? Mom screamed, jabbing her thumbnails harder into my ears, drawing blood. COVID doesn't care if you cry. It won't turn around and go away if you just ball your eyes out. You're too old for this, Anthony. You should know better. I tried to say I was sorry, but I couldn't form words. I was bawling, taking hitching breaths.

For the first time in my life, I was wishing death on two members of my family, my mother and father. What is it going to take for you to learn? Dad said, his voice oddly high-pitched. We've tried everything with you. Everything. Not everything. Mom said, looking at Dad over my head. As they shared a look, I finally found my voice. I'm sorry!

I blubbered. I won't do it again. Never again, I swear. They seemed not to hear me. Bring me a pen from the kitchen, dear, mom said. I didn't know what they wanted to pen for, but I knew it wouldn't be good. I tried to pull away, but my mom shifted her grip to my head. I raised my hands and took hold of her wrists, trying to yank her hands off.

She wouldn't let go. I kicked out. not really thinking about it. My sock-covered right foot struck my mom in the pelvis. It wasn't hard, but it was enough that my mother's eyes changed. For a moment, I saw a glimpse of the old her, back before COVID, when we were allowed to leave the house, to go to school, to have lives. Back when I felt like I could count on her to protect me.

Then it was gone. Replaced by a rage I had never seen in her before, never even imagined I could see. Her teeth clacked together as she said. sneered, grabbing me by the throat. He hit me! She screamed. A fist cracked into the side of my head, and I went down to the trash-strewn floor. Mom and Dad pinned me face down. Dad knelt on my lower back, while Mom held my head down with one hand, right ear pinned to the floor. With the other hand, she took the pen dad had brought and slid it into my left ear canal. She did it slowly at first,

like a doctor checking my ear health. But as I grunted and squirmed, she jammed it in. The pain ripped my breath away. Something popped, and a sudden ringing noise erupted in my head. I could only hear my screams from one side as mom shoved the pen deeper into my ear. Then my screams were joined by others, of a bitch that only a little girl can manage. Through tear blurred eyes, I saw Teresa's bare feet come into view as she screamed for mom and dad to stop hurting me. The crack of flesh on flesh sounded in my one good ear.

Teresa collapsed to the floor next to me. Blood poured from her nose and her eyelids flickered over the whites of her eyes as she fell unconscious. With what little strength I still had, I tried to get to my feet. I told her my father partly off me and yanked my head from mom's grasp. But Dad recovered quickly. With the pen still sticking out of my ear, Dad grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my face toward him. Why can't you just obey?

He shouted, tears streaming down his determined face. He slammed his fist into my face, and the world lost its coherence. The changes had happened gradually. When the pandemic hit, I was as scared as my parents. At 10 years old, I wasn't truly able to comprehend what was happening. And because my parents never allowed us to watch the news or allowed us to have phones until we were 13, everything was filtered through them. Of course, even three years after we went into lockdown, after my twin and I had turned 13, we still weren't allowed to have phones. The pandemic

had changed everything. When the first reports of COVID in our city were announced, they pulled us out of school. By then, things were already bad in other parts of the world. Thousands of people are dying, Dad said. We need to go into lockdown to stay safe. safe. For how long? I asked. We don't know, honey, Mom replied. Until it's over.

They started to homeschool us. Back then, they let us use tablets for 30 minutes a day, but the devices had strict controls on them, not allowing us to access any social media or news sites. The only ones we were allowed to visit were learning sites. Still, we got a steady trickle of information through our limited view of the outside. world. And we started to ask questions about vaccines, about immunity, about going outside into the backyard, promising we wouldn't leave. Soon after, they took away the tablets entirely and disconnected the smart TV in the living room from the internet. When mom started to feel sick six months into lockdown,

things got worse. While mom and dad had previously left the house to take the trash out to the bin or check the mail, they would no longer do that. Even after mom's sickness passed, they refused to leave the house, except to pick up the grocery deliveries once a week. Even then, they went out in full protective gear, with bottles of spray sanitizer that they doused the groceries in before bringing them inside the house. Gradually, they grew more and more paranoid, and since they had never been bad parents before, only a little strict. I believed they were looking out for us until the abuse started. After a year and a half, they stopped homeschooling us and started banishing us to our rooms for large chunks of the day. Since one of the only things they would buy us

before the pandemic was books, I started studying them every day to pass the time. Then I started hand-copying my favorites into notebooks. So I could one day be the same. a great writer. After a year of this, I started writing my own stories, mostly about my experiences since the pandemic started. The dream of growing up to write books that could one day help a kid like me kept me going. Writing became my life, until mom decided to read one of my notebooks. After reading how badly I wanted to get out of the house, and how I thought mom and dad were overreacting to COVID, they took my books and notebooks away. That was almost a year ago.

Now, five years since our lockdown started, and a week after Mom shoved a pen into my ear, I lay on my twin bed, still unable to hear out that ear. Across the trash-strewn room, my twin brother Timmy lay on his bed. We hadn't been allowed out of our rooms since that night. We could hear Teresa crying in her room across the hall. It was a regular occurrence.

I usually wanted her to be quiet, knowing that it would only be a matter of time before the noise drew them to her room. And when that happened, the crying would turn to pain to screams as they beat her into submission. But tonight, I thought it was night at least. I wanted Teresa to keep crying. As much as it hurt me, I wanted it. Because, over the past week, suicide had begun to look more and more attractive, especially with the constant pain in my ear. There were plenty of sharp-lipped can lids around

that I could use to slit my wrists. It would be easy. But I didn't want Timmy to wake up and find me dead. I would hate to do that to him. The only other option was escape, and that was exactly what Timmy and I had been planning. We were fed once a day, given a can of beans and a can of some sort of vegetable to split,

along with two sealed water bottles. The cans were always open when they set them inside the door, often without looking at us. Our room stank of poop and pee from the bucket we used as a bathroom. That stench was undercut by the smell of rotting food remnants and the trash piled in the corners. Much of it put there by our parents, even before we'd been banished to our rooms this most recent time.

Since Dad had screwed planks of wood over every window in the house and made sure all the tools were locked up in his room, there was no way to escape without getting Dad's keys. And the only way to do that was to get into Mom and Dad's room without them knowing. First, we had to get out of our room, with the door locked from the outside. As I lay on my bed fully clothed,

I clutched a can lid in one hand. It had been folded in half to make a kind of wedge. Timmy gripped an empty can that had once held beans, An old t-shirt wrapped around the open end to protect his hand when the time came. Teresa continued crying in a room across the hall. Minutes ticked past. Then it happened.

Dad yelled for her to be quiet. Her cries turned to sobs, still clearly audible, even for someone with only one working ear. Then they gradually grew louder again. Mom and dad's bedroom door crashed open, and heavy footsteps came down the hall. Teresa cried even louder as her bedroom door was slammed open. The yelling and hitting started.

Timmy and I jumped out of bed and ran to the door hinges. I had read a book in which a character escapes by taking the pins out of the hinges, and I thought we could manage it. We started with the bottom of the three. I pressed the sharp edge of the can lid wedge under the lip of the pin, angling it slightly up. Holding it with my hand out of the way, I made room for Timmy, who used the bottom of his can as a hammer, hitting the bottom of the wedge,

with it. The twin edges of the can lid started to bend. I didn't think it was going to work. Then the pin jumped half an inch out of the hinges. Excitement swelled in me, but the horrific sounds of my little sister getting beaten dulled any hope I had. If we could only use her screams to cover the sounds we were making, it might all be worth it. The pin came up easier now, but we didn't pull it all the way out. Not yet. We moved to the middle, working fast, sweating. The pin came up. We moved to the top one. Both of us just barely tall enough to reach it.

We hadn't grown much in the last two years, probably because of malnutrition, which I had also read about. As Teresa screams cut off abruptly, Timmy and I paused, looking at each other. Dad screamed, his voice cracking. Mom's footsteps sounded as she rushed into my sister's room. In eerie silence stretched,

Timmy and I still had our hands held up at the top hinge. but we didn't dare move to finish loosening the pin. I positioned my good ear toward the hallway. What did you do? Mom shrieked. My legs turned rubbery, and I sat down hard on a spot on the floor. My mom's screaming words lost their meaning,

but I couldn't tell if it was because I was losing my grip on reality, or because she was only speaking gibberish. Timmy stood like a statue, staring at nothing as we listened to Mom's shrieks of sorrow, morph swiftly to anger. You fucking bastard killed my daughter! A punch or a slap sounded, and then two pairs of footsteps rushed back to the master bedroom. Mom's screams continued.

Furniture crashed. Dad yelled, glass shattered, grunts sounded. And then silence fell. Time passed in the slow motion blur. Every thudding heartbeat in my chest seemed to take a minute. Every breath an hour. The house remained as quiet as a mass grave. Finally, without a word,

Timmy extended a hand to me. I took it, and he helped me up. Together, we loosened the last pin. While I held the door in place so it wouldn't shift, Timmy extracted the pins. We opened the door at the hinge side, but before leaving, I made sure to grab my folded-in-half-can lid,

just in case. Because the padlock hasp, Dad had installed on the outside of the door, was still in place. We could only open it enough to slip out into the hallway. Timmy stepped out across the hall to Teresa's open door, stopping as he peered inside. I slipped past him and went to my sister, who lay sprawled among the trash-coating her floor. One of her eyes was full of blood.

The other was pointing the wrong way. Part of her forehead had been caved in. She was dead. I turned and walked out of the room, past Timmy, who remained unmoving, staring at our sister. I went down the hall and peered into my parents' open bedroom. Dad stood like a statue with his back to me, head hanging, a piece of bloody mirror glass in one hand. Mom lay on the floor at his feet, the bloody stab wounds to her face and neck, making her look worse than anything I had ever pictured in my head while reading my books.

Dad's slumped back, straightened, and he looked over his shoulder. His face had been scratched, no doubt, by my mother's nails. For the first time in years, I saw his entire face because his mask had been torn off in the fight. But it was his eyes that froze me in place. They weren't vacant, like some people say the eyes of a killer are. They were full. So full, they seemed to bulge as they fixed on me. There was no love in them, only a sliver of recognition amid the sheer madness that seemed to overflow from his eyes,

along with the constant streams of tears that mixed with blood from the scrapes. He turned away from me, looking back at Mom's corpse. It's better this way. I barely heard the words escape his mouth. My eyes were too focused on the piece of glass in his right hand. He was squeezing it tightly, causing blood to drip from where the shard dug into his flesh. With terrifying speed, he spun around and lurched toward me, a determined snare on his face. I turned and bolted, screaming at Timmy to run.

My twin brother didn't react. He was still just outside Teresa's bedroom, staring at her body. Hoping Dad would come after me, I shoved Timmy into the room as I passed. He stumbled, but I didn't see him land because I was still running, heading for the stairs. Dad's footsteps thundered behind me, closing in. As I approached the trash-strewn stairwell, I knew I wasn't going to make it. Dad was a step behind me. I felt him closing in.

A sudden idea sprung to mind. and I had no time to examine it for holes. I only acted, dropping to my knees and sliding on the carpet, turning my body and curling into a ball as I stopped at the very top of the stairs. Dad couldn't slow fast enough. He crashed into me, one chin slamming into my side as his momentum carried him forward. I tumbled onto the stairwell, but Dad flew headfirst over me, hitting the stairs with a bone-jarring thud and then crashing all the way to the bottom.

I fell a few steps, managing to stop myself by grabbing the rail. but I had lost my canned lid weapon in the process. Peering down the stairs, I studied Dad. He lay tangled in a heap, face down, partially covered in trash from the stairs. I quickly darted back to his bedroom, trying not to look at Mom as I searched for the keys. I found them in a dresser drawer. Back in Teresa's room, I helped Timmy to his feet. What happened?

He asked blankly, still looking stunned. We're leaving, I said, pulling him along. As we neared the bottom of the stairs, I noticed that Dad hadn't moved, but I could tell he was still breathing. We had to get past him. I went first, stepping carefully over one of his legs. Trash crunched under my feet, causing me to wince and look at his prone form. He didn't move. When I got to the other side, I guided Timmy along.

When he was passed, we headed to the front door. Not only did the deadbolt lock from the inside, there was a little. also a padlocked hasp, screwed to the door. I had no idea which of the dozen keys on the keychain belonged to which. None of them were labeled. As I picked one key and tried it, Dad shifted. Hurry, Timmy said, staring back. I looked over my shoulder to see Dad getting to his knees. Turning back, I tried the key in the padlock. It didn't work. I moved to the next key. Dad grunted and snorted behind me. The key didn't work on either lock. I moved to the next one. What are you doing?

Dad screamed, making me drop the keys as I tried the third one on the deadbolt. As I knelt to pick them up, I glanced back. Dad's face was covered in blood, much of it coming from his nose. His left arm was broken badly, but in his right, he held the shard of glass. He tottered to his feet and limped toward us. Hurry! Timmy cried. Hand-shaking, I tried the fourth key.

It worked in the deadbolt. Knowing it wouldn't work in both locks, I moved to the next one. Dad's footsteps grew closer. Timmy started crying, begging Dad to leave us alone. The key worked in the padlock. I pulled it off the hasp and threw it to the floor, yanking the door open. But it was too late. Dad slammed it before we could slip out.

He leaned against the door with his right hand, which still clasped the mirror shard, preventing me from opening it. I turned and looked up at him, surprised to see terror on his face. You let it in, he said. My mask. Where's my mask? Dad lurched away from the door in a limping frenzy. shouting about his mask as he searched frantically among the trash at the bottom of the stairs, apparently not remembering when he'd lost it. I pulled the door open again. Timmy and I slipped out

into the night, shutting the door behind us. Dad shouted from inside, but as we sprinted down our long driveway toward the road, I glanced back over my shoulder often. He never opened the door. Our nearest neighbor was a good quarter mile away. We'd banged on the door. Soon, lights came on in the dark house. When a man came to the door, he saw the state of us. I rushed through a brief explanation of our situation and asked him to call the police. He led us into his immaculately clean house, where he gave us water to drink when he dialed 911. Finally, I thought to ask him, is it over? Is what over? The pandemic, COVID-19, is it over? The man looked at us like we were crazy. How long have you been? Locked up. Since whatever the pandemic started, I said.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the man whispered. Five years? Yes, the pandemic is over. COVID is still out there. Probably always will be. But it's not like it was. You're safe. You'll be okay. So we're not going to die from it even though we were outside? Timmy asked. No, the man said. No, you're not. Timmy and I looked at each other, and while we couldn't muster a smile, we shared a look of relief. I turned back to the man and said, Do you have a notebook and pen I could borrow? Story three, Code Silver. Emily whispered, so as not to wake my grandmother.

I peeled my eyes from the hospital bed, containing my shrunken, sleeping granny, and looked at my girlfriend. Maybe just a coffee, I said. hospital food is always so expensive. My treat, Emily said. Gold green eyes, sparkling in the afternoon light, streaming through the window next to my seat. Thank you, I smiled. Coffee would be great, though.

Emily nodded, gave me a kiss, and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. Settling back in my seat, I reached out with my right hand and took Granny Grace's left. Her paper-thin-skin was. dry and translucent. I could feel her fragile bones through the cold flesh. The hospice people were going to arrive within the hour to move her from the hospital and into the facility

where she would take her last breaths. I had known this day was coming, like I knew death would eventually come for us all. But now that it was here, I could only rage ineffectually against it. The woman who had raised me was dying, and I couldn't do a goddamn thing about it. Like most people, I had never liked hospitals. I had always associated them with death. But as I sat there holding Granny Grace's hand, I had no idea the kind of death that was about to befall the hospital. Granny Grace's room was on the second floor, with the window overlooking a parking lot

just outside the emergency room entrance. Still holding Granny's hand, I glanced out that window at the rows of cars under the gray November sky. Monday afternoon traffic moved through the city on the nearby street. People came and went through the parking lot and on the sidewalks, bundled against the cold wind so familiar to anyone who lives in Chicago. But the violent gestures of a man in the parking lot caught my eye. Turning my full attention to him,

I saw that he was talking to a dark-haired woman in scrubs next to a red truck parked in the lot. The woman's back was to me, but I could see the man's sneering face. A large Hispanic man, he had close-cut dark hair and a stubble goatee. His thick, round head made it seem like he had no neck. He wore a dark long-sleeve shirt and jeans. Gisticulating wildly, it was clear that he was upset about something.

The woman seemed to be trying to calm him down as he got into her face, yelling words I couldn't hear. I watched, unable to look away as the man grew more and more agitated. my heart sped up in sympathy for the woman. Then the fight seemed to come to a head. The man turned in exasperation and went to the driver's door of the red truck. As he did, the woman slipped away, turning to head back to the hospital. I saw that she was a pretty black woman in pale gray scrubs.

She pulled a phone out of her pocket and quickly dialed a number as she hustled away. At first, I thought the man was leaving, but he didn't get in the truck. He leaned into the cab and then came out with something in his hand, which he held down by his right thigh as he moved after the woman. I let go of Granny Grace's hand and lurched up to the window. I slammed the glass with both fists and yelled for the woman to look out behind her. She couldn't hear me. Helpless, I watched as the man caught up to her.

He called to her, and she turned around, phone stilled to her ear. The man raised the pistol he'd taken from the truck and fired at the woman's face from point-blank range. The crack of the gunshot, unmistakable even inside. Her thick, dark hair twitched at the back of her head as the bullet tore through her skull. She fell to the asphalt. The man stood over her, yelling. I just witnessed a murder, I thought distantly.

Is this real? Still yelling, the gunman shot the woman three times in the stomach. Then he dropped to his knees, pulled her tattered shirt up, and jammed his face into the three closely placed wounds. A deeply intense revulsion settled on me as I stared out the window, making my stomach feel like a ball of ice, my legs like they were made of twigs. The man worked his jaw as if eating something from the wounds. When he jerked his head up again, his face was slathered with blood. He jumped to his feet and hustled back over to the truck.

Again, I thought he was going to leave, but he didn't. He stuffed his pockets with items I couldn't make out. But something told me there were magazines for his gun. Then he shoved what could only be a second gun into his back waistband. After slamming the car door, he marched toward the hospital, spitting on the dead woman as he passed her. As he headed toward the emergency room entrance with his gun still in hand, he glanced up at me. Our eyes met for a moment. He raised the pistol and fired.

I threw myself down as the bullet punched to the window and into the ceiling, leaving a spider-webbed hole in the glass. I stayed on my hands and knees for a long moment, hyperventilating. The distant sound of gunshots brought one thought screaming to mind. Emily! An announcement came over the hospital's PA system. Down procedures immediately! I scrambled on my hands and knees to the room door. Opening at a crack, I peered out, seeing hospital staff rushing around,

getting patients into rooms, locking doors, shouting commands at each other. Sir, stay in there! A passing nurse said to me, Close the door. Shaking with fright, I considered simply closing the door and hoping for the best. Isn't that what you're supposed to do in these situations? Lockdown and wait for backup? I glanced back at Granny Grace, who was still unconscious,

and thought about how helpless I'd felt ever since her diagnosis. I had wanted so badly to do something, anything, to fight back against death. But I couldn't. Not for Granny Grace. But maybe I could do something for Emily. And if not, maybe I could simply find her and be with her. With one last look at my grandma, I slipped out the door, closed it behind me. As I ran down the hall toward the stairs, several staff members yelled at me.

I ignored them and kept running until I hit the stairwell. As I reached the first floor stairway door, I listened hard for gunshots. While I had heard a dozen or more on my way down the second floor corridor, I now heard none. Maybe one of the security guards shot him, I thought. or maybe the asshole shot himself. Since I had been to the hospital many times with Granny Grace, I knew the general layout of the first floor, especially how to get to the cafeteria,

which was located on the other side of the building. After peering carefully through the narrow window in the door, I eased the crash bar down and opened the door, peering out into the hallway. A security officer lay on his back in a pool of blood to my right. His gun was gone, holster empty. He wasn't moving. Swallowing my gorge, I moved into the hall, ears still straining for any sound the gunman might make.

To my left was the emergency room. To get to the cafeteria, I had to go right. Clearly the gunman had already been this way, but I was hoping he wasn't headed for the cafeteria, if he was still here and still alive. I closed the door quietly behind me and patted down the hall, past the dead security guard. I reached the main hospital entrance where the reception desk was empty, along with the waiting area. I moved left down another hallway toward the cafeteria.

The wide hallway intersected one of the cafeteria's glass walls, allowing you to go left or right to enter the large space through its two primary doorways. As I closed in on the glass-encast space, I spotted people who hadn't evacuated. Many of them huddled under tables in the eatery, and all of them were looking towards something I couldn't see. Taking it slowly, scanning for Emily, and not seeing her, I moved to the end of the hallway and peered to the right, where the people in the cafeteria were looking.

There he was, the gunman. He had his back to me as he stood bent over a table, doing something with his right hand. In his left hand, he held a pistol to a man's head. The gray-haired man sat on the floor next to the table, facing outward, tears streaming down his face as the gunman pressed the barrel to the crown of his skull. As I shifted a little, leaning out from the wall, I brought more the table into view. A woman was lying face up on the table. I could see her legs, but little else, because the gunman was blocking my view.

The legs looked familiar. They were clad in dark blue thermal leggings. The boots were also familiar. Emily? No, it's not her. She wasn't wearing her boots. today, was she? The gumman brought his right hand up from the woman's body and slung a thin scarf over the back of his neck. No, it wasn't a scarf. It was an intestine. I stumbled backward, using the wall to keep me up as I tried to breathe deeply. I felt like I couldn't get enough air into my lungs. Emily was wearing her boots today. She was. Something snapped in my brain as images of Emily and my grandmother sped through my head at lightning speed. An urge. swept through me that I now find nearly impossible to explain. Anyone who has ever experienced

restless leg syndrome has a fraction of an idea of what I felt. But it wasn't just my legs. It was an urge to move my entire body. I want it. No, I needed to put every fiber of my being into violent action or I would explode. I truly thought in those few moments that my heart would simply give out if I didn't take drastic action. Convinced I would either die there in the hallway doing nothing or in the cafeteria trying to do something to stop this madness. I jerked myself away from the wall and ran toward the left side cafeteria door, which was my best option for coming up on the man unnoticed. As I neared a table, I noticed a to-go cup next to a closed styrofoam container, not knowing whether the drink was still hot and not

really caring. I snatched it up, squeezing it so hard that the lid popped off and some of the liquid splashed onto my hand. It was hot, very hot. Don't! The gray-haired hostage screamed when I was still 30 feet away. This alerted the gunman that something was wrong. Without removing the pistol from the man's head, he twisted and looked over his intestine-draped shoulder. His face was covered with blood,

and he had a piece of human flesh in his mouth. Between his teeth. Once again, our eyes met. Something flickered in his expression as I sprinted toward him, coffee sloshing out of the cup. He brought the pistol up and twisted to face me as I flung what remained at the coffee at him. Instead of firing, he raised the gun hand to protect his face from the hot liquid.

It worked, and it gave me time to reach him. I grabbed the gun and fought him for it. He was much stronger than me. As we fell to the floor, I knew he was going to win the fight for the gun. Still, I held on with all I had as we wrestled. Then the gray-haired hostage joined, grabbing the gunman's arm. The killer managed to pull the trigger, shooting into the ceiling. People screamed.

Suddenly, two others arrived, a man and a woman. The woman clawed at the killer's eyes, while the man took hold of his other arm. A security guard rushed in and pointed the gun at the man, commanding him to give up the weapon. The gunman didn't listen. So the security guard holstered his gun, grabbed one of the metal chairs from nearby, and yelled for the woman to get out of the way. As soon as she moved, the security guard slammed one leg of the chair into the gunman's face, while the rest of us hung onto his arms and kept him pinned on his back.

The gunman kept fighting, the intestines around his neck, stringing out from the body lying on the nearby table. I hadn't looked at the body. I didn't need to. I knew who it was. The security guard smashed the chair leg into the man's face again. Now it wasn't just other people's blood on his face. Most of it was his. One of his eyes had come loose, protruding madly from the bloody and damaged socket. Still, the man fought. The security guard yelled, a mixture of anger, fear and determination as he slammed the chair into the man's face again and again and again. Finally, the killer went limp. I yanked the gun out of his hand and threw it so hard it cracked

the glass wall I'd been looking through mere minutes ago. Gasping and shaking, I got to my knees and looked at the others who had helped subdue the man. Then I looked at his ruined face. It barely resembled a human face anymore. It seemed to me that it was the face the guy deserved, the one that matched who he really was on the inside. I hoped he was dead. I shook with that hope, swelled with it. Together, we got the guy turned onto his front. The guard secured his hands behind his back.

Moments later, the police stormed in and started taking control of the scene. As I got to my feet, I glanced at the woman on the table. It wasn't Emily. A sense of relief swept over me, followed immediately by a crushing guilt. A woman was dead. Many people were dead. And I was relieved? Jason! I turned at the call to see Emily coming over from the far side of the cafeteria, tears pouring down her cheeks. I could now see I'd been wrong. She wasn't wearing her boots today. She was wearing tennis shoes. As we embraced, the relief overpowered the guilt.

Just barely. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe and share the show. with a fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one.