Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - A homeless man asked for my help. I refused and paid the price.

Episode Date: November 28, 2022

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Welcome to aboard Via Rai. Embarked and profite. Embarque and celebrate. Rigolet. Publiere. Savory. Admire.

And profite. Villaray, the voice that we love. Before we get into this next story, I want to thank Caleb, Fuzzies for Money, and Jaden for joining my Patreon. Your support goes a long way.

For all of you who would like to gain access to my bonus episodes as well, head on over to my Patreon page at patreon.com slash DR No Sleep. The link is also in the description below. Thanks again. Now time for the story. Two years ago, I spent a few months in a homeless shelter.

It was a low point for me like it was for so many people. My job as a line cook at a fine dining restaurant was a casualty of the pandemic. My savings dried up quickly. The people who I would usually rely on during hard times weren't faring any better than I was. Before I knew it, I was on the streets. Eviction protection came too late for me. I shuffled aimlessly from place to place trying to stay warm. It was the most difficult four months of my life.

Just as I was at my wits' end, a lady directed me toward a long-term shelter, where I was lucky enough to get a bed. It was a godsend. Reliable housing and food were something I took for granted for so many years. My time at the shelter made me grateful for the life I had and made me look forward to a day when I was secure again. During my time there, I worked as a custodian. All of the jobs in the facility were staffed by other residents of the shelter. It put a little bit of money in my pocket, and it helped pass the time.

Most importantly, it gave me a sense of purpose again. Not everyone there worked, though. There was a dormitory for men and women who weren't well enough to work. Some of them had physical limitations, while others suffered from mental illness. They remained in the dorm most of the day, and I got to know quite a few of them as I would clean the common areas. James Hartman lived there. He was about my age, 37 or 38, if I recall correctly. You wouldn't have known it by looking at him, though.

He was skeletally thin with sparse wisps of iron-grim. gray hair. His gums had retracted from the base of his teeth, and all of his joints protruded horrifically under his skin. He was nice enough, but off-putting. It wasn't just his unhealthy appearance. That you could get used to. He never left his room, and rarely had visitors, but he would talk nonstop. It wasn't like mad rambling. No, it was more like half of a conversation. When you looked into his room, he was always alone. I would go to his room twice a week to clean up. James rarely got out of bed.

The desk and bedside table in his room always held untouched remains of meals the other workers brought to his room. Almost none of the food from the plate would be eaten, and I would throw the molding plates into my rolling garbage can. We would make small talk sometimes while I cleared away the waste. How are you today, James? I asked one afternoon. Smells of molding food and spoiled milk drifted through the air. Feeling all right today?

About the same as usual, he said quietly. How about you? I droned on for a few minutes about my work at the shelter and told him I was looking for a full-time job and an apartment. He would nod his head weakly and smile, showing his elongated teeth. I knew he was trying to be pleasant, and I hated myself for it. But I always felt so uncomfortable when I was in his room.

It was like talking to a living corpse. James, I said. I hate to be nosy, but are you sick? You never eat, and it looks like you're wasting away. Has the shelter taken you to the hospital to get checked out? He laughed weakly, which morphed into a head. Heavy, wet cough. I'm not sick, he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

They've taken me to the doctor, but they all say there is nothing wrong with me. Just can't eat. When they put in a feeding tube, I pull it out. Makes me sick. That's rough, man, I said, finishing up my tasks. Having gathered up all of the old plates of food, I turned to leave. I hope you start feeling better soon. I won't get better, you said without emotion.

I'm being punished. I stopped cleaning the room and turned to look at him. The smile had faded from his face. As unhealthy as he had always looked, at that moment, he looked as though he was near death. Being sick isn't a punishment, I replied with sympathy. You'll get better. He rolled over and faced the wall.

I'll be dead soon, he responded. He was right. James died the following week. To the surprise of no one, the cause of death was starvation. He was six feet and two inches tall and only weighed 80 pounds at his death. His autopsy revealed no issues. James starved himself to death, but maybe not. Shelter staff asked me if I would clear out the content of James'

room after his death, and I agreed. I knew it wouldn't take much time as he never held on to anything. There were only a few changes of clothes, some ratty paperback books, and an old notebook on his bedside table. I'm not sure why I did it, but after I boxed up his belongings, I sat down on his bed and flipped open the spiral-bound pages. The first few pages were filled with flowing cursive, but as the writing went on, you could see the delicate letters begin to deteriorate. On the last few pages, it had devolved into hard-pressed block letters. Look, I don't know if any of it was true, but I'm going to share part of it with you. I can't make sense of it. Maybe you can. Everything beyond this point is James's own words. I'll leave them

just as he wrote them. This isn't a journal. No need for times and dates. I'm just going to right to the best of my memory, how I ended up this way. The thoughts in my mind are hazy now. My stomach grumbled so severely I could feel my chair shake. I looked around the conference room to see a few of my co-workers stealing glances at me from the corners of their eyes. There was no sense in pretending it wasn't me. It was an everyday occurrence now. Do you think everyone heard it this time? My attention drifted to a huddled mrs. mass in the corner of the room. The corpse acknowledges me with a slight nod as my eyes meet with the hollow sockets of his face. One side of his jaw dangles to the side, disconnected from his skull.

A bloated, black tangle flops lazily over his chipped teeth. His mouth used to move to the sounds of the words in my head, but in his advanced state of decomposition, his detached jaw no longer allowed him to complete the illusion. He just stared blankly as he mocked me. Maddening words echoed in my head. How much longer do you think it can go on, James? It's been at least three days since you've eaten, maybe four. What the hell do I now? Time doesn't mean as much to me anymore. No one else can see Robert as far as I can tell. He follows me everywhere now. When I first started to see him, I went to countless psychiatrists and therapists. All of them listened to me as I described in detail,

the rotting homeless man that followed me everywhere. He talked to me constantly and woke me up in the middle of the night. No matter how many professionals I talked to, none of them could find a diagnosis. A few suspected schizophrenia. While others were concerned, I had a brain tumor. More than one assumed I had a drug problem I couldn't come to terms with. It was a fruitless effort, and I gave up after six months.

I came to terms with the horrifying truth. I wasn't sick. I was haunted. I'm not exactly sure when I met Robert for the first time, but he was a regular fixture in my day even before he began to haunt me. The investment firm I worked for was in the heart of downtown in a major metropolitan area. It was only a short walk for my high school. rise apartment, so I traveled on foot unless the weather was bad. The fresh air and exercise were

nice. The constant barrage of homeless people begging for money? Not so much. For my first few years working for the firm, I usually carried spare change in my pocket. As I made my way to work, I would give a few quarters to each homeless person that asked as I went. Growing up in a small Midwestern town. My parents instilled in me a sense of charity. They always seemed grateful for the few coins I gave them each day, and it filled me with a sense of satisfaction for helping them in some small way. Robert was one of the homeless people I saw on my walk to work each morning. He always sat on the stoop of an abandoned apartment building, backpacks and plastic shopping bags behind him filled with his possessions.

We didn't talk much at first, but he would toss me a wave and a friendly smile as I passed by. His appearance was well kept for the most part. Neatly cropped gray hair and no more than a few days of stubble. All of his clothing, well, well worn, was in reasonably good condition. The only sign that he lived on the streets was all of the bags of property sitting behind him on the porch. He was the only one who didn't ask me for money. One morning he spoke to me, just a casual conversation. Morning, sir.

He said cheerfully. How are you doing today? Not too bad, I replied. Just heading to work. How were you? He smiled and gave me a thumbs up. I waved and returned and continued on my way. It wasn't an earth-shattering conversation,

but it was the start of daily small talk. He had a kind of way about him. As the weeks turned into months, our conversations grew a bit longer, and I started to learn more of his story. Robert had been a construction foreman for many years until a workplace accident put him on medical leave. Scaffolding he had been standing on collapsed

and caused damage to his spinal cord. He spent several weeks in the hospital followed by physical therapy. Slowly, he was getting back to normal. The pain medication became problematic. Couldn't get the monkey off my damn back until it was too late, he told me one day. Don't mess around with that shit if you don't have to, James.

It'll sink its claws into you and take everything away. I'm clean now, but hell, I lost everything in the process. His story struck a chord with me that. day. It occurred to me once again that Robert had never asked me for money. I had never seen him ask anyone for money. There was no cup for change and no cardboard sign asking for help. He just sat and waved at everyone passing by on the sidewalk. Why don't you let me give you some cash, Robert? I said as I pulled my wallet from my back pocket. I pulled a few bills out of my pocket and extended them toward him. Maybe it will help you get a little close.

to getting back on your feet. Robert smiled and pushed the money back toward me. I appreciate it, sir, he said. You just hang on to that for now. Day labor isn't too hard to find around the city, and I managed to make enough to keep my stomach filled up. It's a kind offer, but maybe you can keep it for me for a particularly bad time.

I stuck the cash back into my wallet, assured him that I would help if he ever asked. and said goodbye to Robert. He never did get any money for me. I offered dozens of times, but he always said no. Unfortunately for both of us, the only time he ever asked for money, I said no. Now I'm paying the price. Lazzang sur-gely,

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countryside to cobblestone streets. Begin your next chapter. Book your seat at westjet.com or call your travel agent. WestJet, where your story takes off. After a few years of seeing Robert on his stoop each morning, suddenly he was gone.

All of his belongings were gone. Another man huddled in a sleeping bag was stretched across the old apartment stoop. For a few weeks, I wondered if Robert was okay. I asked some of the people I gave change to each day if they had seen him. Some shrugged and said they weren't sure while others said they didn't know Robert. I hate to admit it, but after a month, I didn't think of him anymore. It wasn't as though we were best friends, but I feel guilty now for forgetting someone that was at least a small part of each of my work days.

Object permanence took over. I didn't see him, so I forgot him. My walk home saw much fewer unhoused people. I worked long hours, and the sun had usually seen. before I left the office. It didn't take long for a chill to settle in outside without the warm rays of sunshine falling on your shoulders. I guess most of them were busy trying to find a warm place to sleep for the night. Still, I saw one or two. A few quarters in every cup. Some kind words and well-wishes. Then off to my apartment. About halfway through my walk home, I saw a shabby

man in a long coat holding a coffee cup. He was extending it toward passers-by, largely ignored and staring at the ground. As I drew closer to him, I dug a few quarters from my pocket in preparation to drop them in his cup, but he shuffled into the alleyway to his side, looking dejected. When I reached the alley, I saw him picking up a tattered backpack and slinging the straps around his shoulders. Reluctantly, I walked toward him with my quarters in hand. It wasn't much, but I hated seeing how everyone else had ignored him and wanted him to have some cash to grab a bite to eat.

Excuse me, I said to him. The man looked up at me, concern and distrust painted on his face. I have a little bit of money for you if you need it. The man smiled at me as he readjusted his backpack. He slowly walked toward me and extended his... coffee cup in my direction. I reached out and dropped the coins. That all you can give? He asked, sounding irritated. I figured if you followed me in here, you were going to be able to give me more than a couple of quarters. His response

confused me at first, but it quickly evolved into anger. For years, I had made a point to keep enough change in my pocket to give everyone a little bit each day. People had always been appreciative of it. That was the first time anyone had scoffed at what I gave them. Yeah, I responded curtly. That's it. Have a good night. I turned to walk away, but a hand reached out and grabbed my shoulder. The force of the tug spun me back around, causing me to stumble to the side. A sneer curled the man's lip toward his nose and we made eye contact. That ain't even enough to get a damn sandwich, he spat. I began to back away from him. but he stepped forward to keep pace with me.

Dig a little deeper, man. That suit and nice shoes, gotta mean you got some money in your wallet. Why don't you just hand it over? I turned to run, but the sound of footfalls erupted behind me. The last thing I remember was a pair of hands gripping the fabric of my coat and throwing me to the ground. My head bounced against the concrete. Everything went black.

The next few months were a roller coaster for me. I woke up in the hospital. Someone had called the police when they found me lying unconscious in the alleyway. A mild concussion and a dozen stitches were my rewards for trying to give the man some change. Turns out he wasn't even homeless. His name was Tyler Hilton. He posed as a homeless person and begged on the street each day. The cops told me they had arrested him on an unrelated assault later that same night

and found my wallet in his backpack. He did a few months in jail and paid my medical bills. I was grateful that the justice system came through, but it didn't give me back my previous sense of security. Now I dreaded the walk to and from work. It was expensive, but I took a taxi each morning and each evening. My anxiety about being in public was crippling for months. On the rare occasion when I did have to walk somewhere,

I avoided getting close to any pedestrians and would cross the street not to walk in front of an alley. Therapy helped, but it was a slow process. I started out taking short walks during the daytime hours on the weekend close to my apartment building. After a few weeks, I made myself walk a bit closer to other pedestrians. Eventually, I was even able to walk in front of alleyways without having a panic attack. I know it sounds trivial. but I had lived a fortunate and secure life. The thought of being assaulted seemed like something that could only happen to someone else.

Maybe I hadn't handled it well, but we all have different struggles. It took almost a year, but I finally resolved to start walking for my daily work commute again. I carried a can of pepper spray in my pocket to help alleviate some of the anxiety. I squeezed the damn thing like a stress ball for my entire. commute. I stopped carrying change in my pocket too. The thought of going back to that practice was more than I could stand. Even though the man who attacked me hadn't been homeless, I couldn't break the association between giving out change and having been attacked. It seems heartless, but I was consumed with fear. After a few weeks of walking to work, I was surprised to see Robert

for the first time in ages. He wasn't a lot of time. on his usual stoop. Instead, he sat with his back resting against a brick wall. A tattered duffel bag sat beside him on the sidewalk, and he stared down at the ground. He didn't look well either. When I had last seen him, he had still been neatly shaven with a close-cropped haircut and a fairly neat set of clothing. Now shaggy whitening hair dangled in front of his eyes. A matted beard fell onto his chest. His clothes were. filthy and riddled with holes. For a moment I considered passing him by since he hadn't seen me, but something made me stop. Robert? I questioned. Is that you? He looked up at me, eyes sunken into

his thin face. While he had never been a large man, when he looked at me I could see how much weight he had lost. The muscles danced and rippled under his skin. But he smiled and waved. For a moment, he looked like the Robert I had seen so many mornings. James! He exclaimed, voice hoarse. Where have you been? It's been a long time. I hesitantly walked closer to the man.

I had an accident. I stammered, pointing to the scar on the side of my head. The wound had healed, but a delicate line of scar tissue still ran across my scalp. I'm doing better, though. You were gone for a while, too. Is everything okay? The short-lived smile melted away from Robert's face. He pulled up his left pant leg, revealing a gruesome field of scars. I looked on in horror at the patchwork of pale, mended skin.

Got hit by a car, he muttered. Broke my leg pretty bad. Spent a while in the hospital. I was doing better, but that damn monkey crawled. back on me. I looked at him with a puzzled expression, and he realized I didn't understand what he meant. They had to give me narcotic painkillers after surgery, he said.

Got hooked on him again. When they released me from the hospital, I couldn't get anymore. Did some things that I ain't so proud of to try and get a hold of some. Shit, I said weekly. Robert, I'm so. sorry. He waved a hand at me and smiled again. No sweat, he said with a bit more vigor. I'm clean again. It's been rough, but I'm off the junk, trying to get myself back together. I stood in silence, wanting to comfort him but failing to find the words.

Say, he said, I hate to be that guy, but you made a kind offer a long time ago. Think you could help me out with a little bit of that cash? As I said, I hate to ask, but I'm kind of in a spot. My heart raced when he mentioned the money. Suddenly my mind was filled with memories of the man in the alley that had assaulted me. I couldn't open my mouth to answer. Just a couple of dollars would help, he said, pushing his wiry frame from the ground and stumbling toward me. Nothing much.

Just maybe, whatever you can help me with, I haven't eaten in days. I panicked and ran. All logic had left my body. Internally, I knew Robert probably wasn't dangerous. But my mind couldn't keep itself under control. My legs didn't stop until I made it into my building. My daily walk to work was a thing of the past. I started taking cabs again.

That morning on the sidewalk was the last time I saw Robert. alive anyway. Instacart makes grocery shopping easier. And just because you're not doing the shopping yourself doesn't mean you don't care how it's done. With Instacart shopper notes, you can get particular about what you want right in the app, like rotissory chicken that's extra crispy,

cheddar that's sharp as your skates, and lettuce you to actually pick yourself. Just leave a note for your shopper so they can get it right for you without having to ask. That way, you can get groceries just how you like. Download the Instacart app and shop today. It was already dark when I got home to my apartment from work. Four months had passed since I fled Robert on the sidewalk.

Putting the key into the lock and pushing my apartment door open, I was hit with an overwhelming stench as though food had spoiled on the counter. Confused, I slapped the light switch to illuminate the entryway of my home. Dull white light washed across my sterile apartment. Nothing in view would have caused such a terrible odor. turned to lock the door when I heard the voice behind me. James, said a familiar voice. You couldn't have helped me out with a few bucks?

I turned into panic and saw Robert standing before me in my apartment. He looked, worse than the last time I had seen him. His skin was stretched even more tightly over the muscles of his body. Both of his eyes were milky and his clothes were in shreds. What the hell are you doing in my apartment? I said in shock. Get out before I call the police. Robert laughed, expelling a noxious odor that drifted across the space between us.

Call him, he said calmly. I'm dead, buddy. You starved on the street. You said you'd help, but the one damn time I asked you, he said no. I turned back toward the door to unlock it, but the latch wouldn't turn. No matter how hard I struggled, the deadbolt wouldn't budge. Hot bile was building up. my throat as I scrambled to escape. Footsteps patted up the hallway toward me as I struggled with the lock. Turning back around, I was horrified to see Robert standing only feet away from me. The stench of rot was

overwhelming. He opened his mouth to speak, and I could see the writhing maggots crawling over his tongue. That's okay, though, he said, cold breath blowing out of his mouth. So you'll lose everything, too. You'll know what you deny. Robert, please, I begged. You'll lose it all, he said before fading from my vision. Just like me. After seeing Robert's Phantom for the first time, I made appointment after appointment with mental health providers. They questioned me about my hallucinations, but never found a diagnosis.

I did my best to explain to them what I was experiencing, but they were at a complete loss. Robert followed me everywhere, slowly decaying. Sometimes he talked to me, while other times he just watched silently. It was maddening to be pursued by a walking corpse, but oddly, I became used to it. My acceptance of his constant presence only caused Robert to double down on his efforts. I sat in my apartment eating dinner and watching television one evening. The rotting man sat in a chair a few feet away. away from me, watching me eat. He hadn't spoken to me in days, and it was clear to him that I had

grown reluctantly used to him being there. He asked in a wet, heavy voice. Looks pretty good. Steady potatoes, is it? I ignored him and kept my eyes on the television. You know, one of the worst parts about my last few months was not being able to get fresh food, He muttered. Head he had the garbage in those days. Spoiled food. Taste awful. Constantly, food poisoning.

I remained silent. I think that's what's next to you, Jimmy. He stated. No more fresh food for you. The mouthful of steak I was chewing suddenly shifted flavors. All of the savory taste vanished, and was replaced by the sharp tang of decay. I had never taken.

tasted spoiled food before, but the taste in my mouth matched the smell of every past-date item of food I had ever smelled. I reched onto the table in front of me. Chewed food covered the plate. I looked down at it to see all of the food looked perfectly safe to eat, but the acrid smell of rot filled my nose. From that day forward, every piece of food I put in my mouth tasted like it was expired. My weight dropped rapidly as I was unable to stomach more than a few bites a day of the rants of tasting stuff. My energy dropped just as quickly. Patches of my hair began to turn gray, and my skin began to develop flaky patches from the malnutrition.

He took away my ability to sleep, too. During the nighttime, Robert's decaying frame sat in a chair in the corner of my room. His eyes were almost completely gone now, turned to a disgusting gray jelly. His jaw was beginning to sag as the muscles holding it in place began to disintegrate. Hard to sleep on the streets, James. He said in a garbled voice, constantly noisy, people screaming, got horror talking, rats crawling all over you. Damn your impossible to stay warm. I think it's time for you to enjoy that as well.

Before I could respond, the left side of his jaw detached from his head and flopped against his chest. From the gaping maw in his face poured the nighttime sounds of the city, screaming voices, car horns, and the scurrying of vermin. Tucked under my thick comforter, suddenly all warmth left my body. It was as though I were outdoors during December in shorts and a day. t-shirt, I shivered deeply. No matter how many layers of clothes or how many blankets I put on the bed, I never had a warm night of sleep again. I tried using earplugs, but the overwhelming sound from Robert's rotted maw filled my ears. Things fell apart rapidly from that point.

My lack of sleep, malnutrition, and unhealthy appearance caused my jaw performance to drop. I couldn't keep my work done and clients no longer felt comfortable meeting with me. The firm fired me. I tried to find a job, any job, but my poor health and appearance kept anyone from hiring me. All of my savings had vanished rapidly during my attempts to find medical help. I ended up on the streets. luckier than Robert had been. Someone from a shelter in town found me near death in an alleyway. They tried to nurse me back to health, but I can't explain to them why I can't eat.

They even tried taking me to the hospital for IV fluids, but I pulled the needles out. The injection site burns as they try to pour the life-saving fluids into my body. Robert just watches me from the corner. I didn't help him, so he won't allow me to be helped. There is no bargaining with him. This is all going to be over soon. I can hear his voice say in my head. You just have paid the press, James. I would like to think that he means he will leave me alone,

but I know he won't. He said I would lose it all. I've lost almost everything I had, just like Robert did. The only thing I have left to lose is my life.