Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 3 Workplace Horror Stories

Episode Date: November 14, 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

She knows. How? Did you blouse? No. The Devil Wears Prada 2. He's the movie event 20 years in the making. Honestly, can't with the secrets anymore, so I think we just should tell her. Will you two please spit it out already?

This Friday, be the first to experience it only in theaters. In light of the recent scandal, I'm here to restore your credibility. Oh, because we're a team now? That's a nice story. The Devil Wears Prada 2 in Theaters Friday. Al-Haji, Zach, and Sempai. If you'd like to listen to the show Ad-Free and receive bonus episodes, consider becoming a patron.

It is only $5 a month, and you can cancel any time. The link is in the description below. Every time I've found one of those damned yellow sticky notes on my monitor, I knew it would be a bad day. My secret admirer had that effect on me. The notes started out kind of charming. A few polite compliments about my clothing. A note about how kind and gentle my personality was.

Little XOXO signatures at the bottom. Middle school crush style. It was a bit of an ego boost, but I was happily married. My wife, Emily, and I had a rough stretch a few years back after I had an affair, but we got things back on track. I thought of telling her about the notes, but I didn't want to worry her. The flirtatious post-its went into the trash, and I moved on with my day. I didn't give the first dozen or so much thought until they began to threaten me.

The first note that left me with an unsettling feeling showed up two months after the first one. Gone were the free-flowing, delicate curves of the handwriting. Heavy grooves gouged into the paper from the heavy block letters etched on the surface. Why don't you answer me back? You could leave a note for me on your computer. It seems like you don't care. It's starting to make me angry. X-O-X-O.

At first, I laughed it off before wadding up the note and tossing it in the trash. The idea of leaving a note for my admirer was ridiculous. They had never even mentioned wanting me to leave a reply before. How the hell was I supposed to know my computer monitor was like their own personal mailbox? Two days later when I arrived to work, there were two notes attached to my monitor. The first one was the angry message from a few days before.

It had been uncrumpled and smoothed out. Underneath sat another note on clean, uncrinkled yellow paper. You just wad up my messages and throw them in the trash? What the hell is wrong with you? You used to be something special to me. But now I see you're just like every other guy I've met. I was wrong about you. You're a piece of garbage.

X-O-X-O. I felt a mixture of anger and relief at the note. Whoever this woman was, she didn't know me well enough to make judgment calls like that about me. At the same time, it seemed like this could be the end of the whole strange ordeal. That time, I put the notes in my pocket

and tossed them into a trash can in the parking garage on my way home. Whoever was leaving them, they were checking the trash in my office. With any luck, they would move on and get over their fixation. No such luck. Only a few days later, there was another sticky note on my monitor. This time it was neon green. Had they written me so many damn notes that their yellow pad had run out?

My throat tightened as I pulled it from the screen and read. We all have our shortcomings, but I'm going to be. willing to forgive you. Please stop throwing away my notes. These little moments mean so much to me and it hurts to know you don't feel the same. That's okay though. Your feelings for me will change with time. If they don't, I may have to hurt someone. X-O-X-O. X-O. I immediately took the note to the HR office. One of the reps read it. Her eyebrows raised and her head held back in surprise. She pulled. She She placed it down on her desk and pulled off her reading glasses. How long has this been going on, Paul?

She asked me in a concerned tone. I'm not sure exactly, I said, scratching my head. They've left a dozen notes. Two dozen, maybe. Do we have security cameras on the floor? No, she said, shaking her head. No cameras, I'm afraid. Too expensive.

Same reason they laid off the security off. in the building. Post-COVID America isn't exactly thriving. She gave me a look of sympathy and told me to tell her if any more notes showed up on my computer. I nodded and told her I would. We both silently acknowledged

that this was the first of many conversations on the matter. Over the next few weeks, I made multiple trips to the HR office to report the notes. They rambled endlessly about how heartless I was. I was, how angry I'd made them, and the violent things they would do to me if I didn't respond soon. It was becoming exhausting. Last week when I arrived to work, there was a hot pink sticky note on my computer monitor. I was at a breaking point. The notes wouldn't stop.

HR didn't know who was leaving them, and my place of work was doing nothing to put an end to this. At that moment, I would have done anything to get it to end. The note offered the option. I get it. You're not interested. I'll back off. But only if you meet me tonight. I'll be on the fifth level of the parking garage near the stairwell exit. 8 p.m. don't be late.

X-O-X-O. It was 7.58 p.m. when I stepped out of the elevator onto the fifth floor of the parking garage. My heart was racing and a cold sweat ran down my back. From in front of the elevator, I had a clear view of the stairwell door about 200 feet away. No one was there, so I made my way in that direction to see if I could find them. Suddenly, a red ember glowed brightly in the shadow cast by the door. Someone was smoking a cigarette in the darkness. The muscles in my body tightened as I willed myself forward.

My admirer was there, standing in the dark. Hello? A cloud of smoke billowed from the shadow. It's Paul. You wanted to meet me? A woman stepped out of the shadow and dropped the cigarette to the ground, grinding it with her foot. She held a gun in her left hand. It was my wife, Emily.

Emily? I questioned. What the hell are you doing? I left the notes as a test. A few days a month, I stop in your office on my way. to work and leave notes. The cleaning crew thinks I work there, I guess. She said, her face streaming with tears.

I thought after, all the trouble we had from the affair, you would tell me if someone was trying to steal you away from me again. You, you left the notes? I stammered. What the hell is wrong with you? I wanted to be sure you wouldn't try to meet another woman again, she said, lifting the gun toward me. But you did.

Here you are, trying to meet some easy score. Emily, you can't be serious. I shouted. I came here to get this to stop. Why are you doing this? I knew you would, she said, but was cut off by the eruption of police sirens. She looked toward the ramp at the flashing blue and red lights. You called the police?

I nodded. Of course I did, I exclaimed. I thought someone was going to hurt me if... The thunder of a gunshot was all. I heard before the world went black, I woke up in a hospital, my entire body ached. There were thick white bandages wrapped around my midsection. A nurse saw that I was conscious and ran to find the doctor. A police officer was in a chair beside me.

After my physician entered the room, they explained that my wife had shot me in the abdomen and fled the scene. A manhunt was underway but they hadn't located her yet. A protective detail would remain with me at the hospital until I was released. They never found her. That was about five years ago. I've relocated since then. New state, new job, new life.

It's been relatively peaceful until recently. You see, yesterday I headed into the office a bit before the sun came up. When I turned the light on, there it was. A bright yellow sticky note on the center of my computer. Monitor. We've all been there. The watch party finally makes it

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is about as glamorous as it sounds it's a decent living but most of the tenants can drive you bat-shit crazy especially at Martin Place about half-pay-the-renton-place about half-pay-the-rent late if they pay it at all. Eviction court takes up most of my time. Whenever I'm not booting out a squatter, I'm doing small repairs in the apartments. No one else in the office would take the place, so I got stuck with it. I can honestly say I never had a tenant I liked there, except for Doug Albertson. He was decent. In the beginning, anyway. In the end, he was the most abominable person I'd ever met. Doug moved into apartment six, normal seeming fellow. Mid-forties, no kids, work from home job. Behavior modification, he said. I meet with people over video chat to help them break their bad habits.

Smoking, cursing, nail biting, you name it, and I can put a stop to it. He had his groceries delivered and took only his trash out at night. Nice, but reclusive. The guy never called for any kind of maintenance. The most communication I had with him was the day I showed him the place. You'd see him now and again in the hall, but that was it. The rest of the building was chaos, nonstop parties, drunk stumbling down the hallway, and druggies passed out on the stairs. Most of these miscreants were guests of Toby Hanson in Apartment 7. He raised hell all day. I was walking down the stairs on a cold afternoon when I had one of my rare Doug sightings. He was walking up the steps with his mail. We waved to each other and mumbled helloes as we passed by.

Excuse me. Doug called out from the top of the stairs. May I speak with you for a moment? Sure, I replied. What you need, Doug? He smiled uncomfortably and kicked his toe on the ground. You could tell he was uncomfortable. I looked at my watch to give him the silent, hurry the hell up signal, so he'd move things along. The gentleman in apartment seven keeps late hours, he said very politely. Very noisy. Do you think you could talk to him for me? Sorry, Doug, I responded. I've talked to Toby Hansen about a dozen times, telling him to keep that racket down. Son of a bitch ignores me. Can't evict him for being a turd. Kid pays his rent.

Your best bet is to call the cops with a noise complaint. If the boy gets enough fines, maybe he'll shut up. I would rather avoid involving the police, he said dryly. Perhaps I can help him modify his behavior. Thank you for your help. We said goodbye and went about our business. That was the last complaint I ever received about Toby Hansen. Suddenly, he became a model tenant.

His rent was always in the drop box on time. I figured he must have gotten a job because he was never home when I was in the building. All of his no good friends vanished. The parties came to an end. It didn't fix the other ten-pissed poor tenants, but it went a long way toward quieting the place down. Over the next few months, oddly enough, the apartment building started quieting down a great deal. The couple in apartment three stopped their round-the-clock bickering and yelling sessions. For as long as I could remember, You'd always hear them shouting at each other anytime you were in the building, shattering plates, clothes being thrown out the window, arguments in the hallway. One day, they were just quiet.

I'd get a maintenance request every other month or so from them, which I'd take care of while they were at work. Otherwise, not a peep. I popped by the building on the second of the month to check the rent box and was surprised to see Doug again. He lived on the second floor. But I could swear he was coming out of apartment five. Joe Kimbler's place. He was a violent alcoholic with an impressive rap sheet. Didn't seem like Doug's kind of company.

But who's to judge? Morning, Doug! I shouted and tossed my hand in the air in his direction. The building was as quiet as a tomb. A welcome, if not unusual, change. This may be the most peaceful I've ever heard this place. Doug smiled. and waived in return. It's all about behavior modification, sir. He replied as he started up the

steps. Your suggestion worked. I spoke with Mr. Hansen as well as the other residents. It seems my skills were able to help them work through some of their issues. Have a good day. You too, Doug. I shouted back to him. He vanished into his apartment. My job had become manageable, enjoyable even. That was until August of this year when half of the rent checks from the building bounced. I called the tenants multiple times, but not a single one of them answered. Probably left three dozen voicemails. Hell, a hundred text messages.

Emails. Not that anyone checks the damn things anymore. No answer. I was shocked to see Doug's name on the list of bounced checks. After a few days and no returned calls, I headed over to the bill. building and started knocking on doors. No one on the first floor answered. They weren't a likely bunch to maintain regular employment, so I figured a few of them were dodging me. I headed up the stairs and knocked on Doug's door. No answer. I hammered harder calling his name, but still no response.

Just as I was turning to walk down the stairs into the car, I heard a muffled noise inside. I called his name a few times, but no answer. Just those moments. muffled cries. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out my key ring and slid the master key into the lock. As I pushed the door inward, an overwhelming smell washed over me. Ammonia and rotting food, maybe. Smelled like a damn kennel. Doug?

I shouted. You here? You okay? No answer other than a muffled voice coming from his bedroom. Concerned he may be hurt, I headed for the door and opened it. The stench intensified suicide. so badly that my eyes began to water. Suddenly the room was filled with a chorus of muffled moans and sobs. Along the walls of the bedroom were dog cages. Inside each one was one of the building

tenants. Their ankles and wrists were tethered together, dirty rags in their mouths, and shock collars around their necks. On a table in the center of the room sat a single sheet of paper. I picked it up and read the brief script. I apologize for the bad checks, sir. Some things cannot be avoided. I won't be returning. But as a thank you for the wonderful accommodations, I have completed my behavior modification sessions with your tenants.

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The following is a recording transcript for police use only. Any unauthorized distribution of this material could result in punitive action. Is the recorder on? I don't see the red light. Wait. Okay. I see it now.

Sorry. I'm just a little nervous. Look, Bob always seemed like a decent enough guy. He was a little quiet, sure, but very friendly. Working as an accountant at an insurance company isn't the most exciting job in the world. and doesn't tend to attract the most exciting people either. We didn't know him well enough, even though he'd been there about a decade. His office was pretty sterile.

No picture of a wife or a husband, for that matter. No pictures of children. He never shared personal details about his life. Everyone in the office would invite him to birthday parties or potlucks at lunch, but he just stayed in his office. ate at his desk every day as far back as I can remember. A bologna sandwich, a bottle of water, and half of a banana. Never deviated from his routine.

Seemed like a good enough guy, though. Mr. Applegate, her manager, he was less pleasant. He was a micromanager if I ever met one. No detail of a project was too small for him to scrutinize. The guy would rip you to shreds in a meeting for the small. smallest error. Everyone walked on eggshells around him. I don't think anyone deserved what happened to him, though. During an afternoon meeting, Mr. Applegate was lecturing the staff about the importance of double-checking all financial documents for final submission. Our error percentage on financial reports last month

had increased from 1% to 1.5%. In our favor, mind you, but that was beside the point to Mr. Applegate. And who do we have to thank for making us look like a cluster of morons to the head office? Mr. Applegate asked us dramatically. Bob Brooks, accountant extraordinaire. Stand up, Bob, so we can give you a round of applause for sending out the wrong numbers. Bob stood hesitantly as Mr. Applegate clapped loudly. No one else joined him. We just felt bad for Bob.

We'd all taken our share of insults over the years, but we'd never seen Mr. Applegate go after Bog. Sometime in March, Mr. Applegate stopped showing up to work. It was out of the blue. He had worked there for over 20 years, and you could set your watch by the time he walked in the door each day. Things went on as usual for a few days, but it became clear he wasn't coming back.

He ignored every phone call or email sent his way. A rep from corporate stopped by at the time. the end of the week and called Bob into the conference room. The rep had decided Bob would be our interim manager until the position was filled. Most of us were indifferent. He wasn't anyone's friend, but no one disliked him. To our surprise, Bob was a fantastic manager. The office ran more smoothly than ever. Productivity was up. We weren't being micromanaged. Bob stayed in his office most of the day, unless he needed something specific, which wasn't often. He took care of the corporate side of things,

and we took care of the day-to-day operations. It was nice, really. At the end of the last quarter, Bob surprised us with a big announcement. Ain't office? He said quietly. Our numbers are the highest in the state. You have all done excellent work.

As a reward, we will have a barbecue in the empty field beside the parking lot. I will put a sign-up sheet on the breakroom door for sides and drinks, but I'll bring the main course. With that, he headed back to his office. The day of the cookout arrived and we all met in the field at the end of the day. A few of those folding tables sat on the edge of the parking lot by the field covered with food. You know, casseroles and dips, things like that. There was Bob, standing behind the grill cooking steaks and smiling happily to himself.

We all ate until we thought we'd be sick. I'll be damned if that wasn't how it turned out. Anyway, the part you wanted to know. We had just finished packing up from the barbecue. Bob sat in front of me at the exit onto the main road. I guess he didn't see the car coming when he pulled out and the red jeep clipped the back of his van, knocking open the back door and sending his white cooler crashing to the ground.

That's when I saw it. Couldn't tell exactly what it was at first. There were some leftover stakes from the cookout scattered on the road. I thought there were stakes anyway. Shit. I feel sick thinking about it. That's when I saw the hand sticking out of the cooler. Before I could register what I was looking at,

Bob peeled away in his damaged van, leaving the cooler behind. I don't know why the hell I got out and looked, but I did. already told your officer as my fingerprints would be on the lid of the cooler. I lifted up the lid, and that's when the arm rolled out. Inside were the rest of the pieces of Mr. Applegate. The parts we didn't eat at the cookout. I don't know why he did it. Have you found him yet?