Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - And a Death Rain Is Gonna Fall

Episode Date: November 10, 2025

In a world where rain melts flesh and mercy corrodes faster than metal, a lone survivor battles both the toxic sky and the feral children who haunt what’s left of humanity—until a single act of tenderness reveals the darkest hunger of all. Over 80 exclusive bonus episodes are waiting for you. Unlock them now: ⁠⁠patreon.com/drnosleep⁠⁠ Wake up or stay up with NoSleep Coffee! Check out⁠ ⁠NoSleepCoffee.com⁠⁠ to get 20% off insanely fresh, roasted-to-order coffee delivered straight to your door. Just use promo code NOSLEEP20 at checkout for 20% off your first order! Author: Jake Bible For more terrifying stories from this author, check out his latest release – All The Monsters: Ten NoSleep Stories, Volume One: ⁠https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0FY438TSV⁠ * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode 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.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

to nicely. The world feels like it's moving in slow motion, but that's just my perception as I watch helplessly as the hammerheads straight from my thumb. Of course, that's hyperbole. It all happened so fast that there's no way I can catch the accident happen in real time. All I know is the pain that comes afterward. Son of a bitch! Yanking my hand back, I shake off the work glove and jam my thumb into my mouth, hoping

that will relieve the pain, even if just slightly. Well, looking the rest of the roof over, I know I don't have the luxury of nursing my injury. I need to get to the corrugated polypropylene panels nailed down and fast. There's a storm on the horizon, and the wind is blowing my way. With my thumb still throbbing, I slide my glove on, pick up my hammer, and get back to work. Sixteen panels and seven hours later, I'm done replacing my cabin's roof. and just in time. Exhausted.

My arms like jelly and my legs cramping. I turn and sit for a moment, admiring the oranges and pinks that glow in a strip on the horizon just under the enormous thunder clouds. Flashes of lightning add to the spectacular sight and I smile in spite of what the storm foreshadows. Death.

That's what's coming. Pure, liquid death. I have maybe 40 minutes before the deluge hits my little slice of the world. That's going to be barely enough time to get everything secured and squared away. Yet I don't move from my spot. The beauty of the horizon is just too breathtaking. And, if there's one thing this world could use more of, it's beauty. With that thought in mind, I managed to make my way to the ladder and climb down from the roof.

I turn and study what used to be an impressive ground. grove. Now all there is surrounding my cabin are warped and twisted nubs that used to be 100-foot-tall oak trees, trees that stood up to gale force winds and sub-zero winters. Trees that would bend but never break, sway but never fall. Even with that strength, none could stand up to the destruction of the rain. Not just its physical force, but the deadly chemical nature of the nature of the the liquid. Thick and heavy, stinking of sulfur, the rain falls and anything even semi-organic that stands in its path is slowly, or sometimes quickly, dissolved to nothing. The nubs of the ancient oaks being an illuminating case in point. Off to the side of my cabin stand two structures,

my workshed, which holds all of my tools, and my greenhouse, which holds all of my food. Both are roofed with the same corrugated plastic panels I just installed on my cabin. Except, I also have the greenhouse wrapped thoroughly in polypropylene sheeting, just in case. If a little acid rain gets inside my work shed, I'll live. No one has died yet because their hammer got a little corroded. But if the greenhouse is lost, well, then so am I. Nothing grows in the soil anymore. not out in the open at least.

With my work tools put away, and the greenhouse buttoned up tight, I had back to my cabin. But halfway there, I stop and stare, blinking several times to make sure I'm seeing what I'm seeing. A squirrel. I crouch and rub my fingers together, holding my hand out to the creature. Don't worry, I won't try to eat you. Which is true. Wildlife is too rare to eat. It goes back to the not of the not of the tree. enough beauty in the world any more thing. I wouldn't dare harm the little guy. What are you doing out in the open? You need to find shelter.

I glance at the incoming storm, then look back at the squirrel. It's gone. Standing, I survey my rotten grove, looking for a sign of the rare rodent. But it has retreated back to whatever sanctuary it has created for itself in these impossible times. I follow its lead and walk up onto my cabin's front porch, although it's not exactly as straightforward as that. First, I have to undo the plastic clips I use to hold the curtains of the polypropylene sheeting together. My entire cabin is wrapped in the stuff, since wood and toxic rain do not mix these days. Then I have to redo the clips, but from the inside, before I can actually step up onto my porch. Turning, I look out at my small domain,

the world warped by the lens of the plastic sheeting. But even occluded, I can see that the storm is racing directly at me. Time to batten things down. Before entering my cabin, I go from window to window, testing that the sheeting covering each is solid and secure. I use staples on this sheeting, but only because they're easy to find, since no one wants metal anymore due to how fast it corrods.

The staples will dissolve over time, which can be anywhere from a few weeks to a few months, depending on the weather. I swear I'm out here every damn day during the spring monsoons, just stapling, stapling, stapling. The door has a roll-down sheet over it, weighted with magnets and heavy dowels. I lift that up and go inside my cabin, ready to kick my feet up and ride out the storm with a hot cup of tea. A flash of lightning illuminates my single-room cabin, before I have time to light a couple of of candles. When the boom of thunder follows only a few seconds later, rattling the cabin's frame, I know I'm in for a big one. Thank God I got that roofing done, or I could be dodging deadly

drips for the rest of the day and night. I throw some wood into the cast iron stove and get it lit, letting the kindling catch. Will I take the kettle and fill it from the hand pump I installed in my large farmhouse sink? No power, no automatic pump to bring the water from the well and into the house. The cabin has plumbing, but it's manually run by me. With the kettle back on the stove, and the fire starting to burn brightly, I glance at my dwindling pile of wood over by the fireplace. It's getting harder and harder to find usable wood. The rain's acidity is getting more corrosive every year. Soon, firewood will be as precious as food and potable water. At least I have a very deep well that pulls from a freshwater aquifer, which stays clean and clear for the most part.

I have had a couple of times where the tests came back high with acid, but that dissipated quickly. So far, I haven't had any life-threatening levels. Out there? In the rest of the world? Who knows how they get their water? Certainly not from the rivers or lakes. Those are so polluted that they now produce toxic fumes, which can see rising from the water's surface in the morning and in the evening. I always mask up now when I have to walk past or alongside any body of water. One Mississippi, two Mississippi. Boom! Rumble, rumble, rumble. So very close. I wonder where that squirrel is hiding. Flash! Boom! Jesus! I didn't even get to say one Mississippi. The storm is moving fast. My ears pop as the pressure changes. Storms now,

or not what they used to be. Every single one is a deadly event. It used to be that you worried about tornadoes and flooding and damaged caused by that, which I still do have to worry about. But now the storms are so powerful. When they rip through the area, I cower under my dinner table, praying that my cabin doesn't collapse all around me. The kettle whistles and I pull it off the stove, pouring the boiling water over one of my precious tea bags. I set the kettle in the sink, tamp out the fire in the stove, blow out the couple of candles I lit, then take my steaming mug of tea with me under the table. Sitting cross-legged, relishing the smell from the steam that drifts up to my nostrils. I only have two boxes left. I'll need to go foraging soon.

I ride out the storm under the table, peeking out occasionally to look up at the ceiling. So far, my roof repairs have worked. I don't see a sink. A single drop of rain slip its way through the roof and into my cabin. The wind outside becomes a howl, then becomes a roar, and then becomes a freight train. Is this the twister that takes me out? The rage settles down. The thunder and lightning move on, and the storm drifts to the east, ready to terrorize anyone who has survived in that direction.

Not that many have survived. In the last few years, I have only seen. seen eight other people. Eight. Two-thirds of the country's population used to live within a 12-hour drive of here. Now there isn't even one-third of the population left. When the rain started to melt everything not resistant to acidic corrosion, well, that pretty much shut down all lines of communication. Satellite dishes, cables not buried deep, antennas, it all went away. I used to get some news from folks on amateur radio, but like I said, so I stopped trying to repair things and just settled into my lone existence. I got to say, the silence hasn't been so

bad. All that noise that used to assault us on a daily, hourly, minute-by-minute basis just doesn't exist anymore. The last of the storm's rumbling is far off now, and I take my empty tea mug and scoot out from under the table. I do a quick inspection of the interior and still see no damage. The new roofing held and stood up to the test of a serious storm. Knowing this will help me sleep a little better at night. Speaking of, I washed my mug out, set it in the dish trainer, then brush my teeth and get ready for bed. My nighttime routine consists of checking the plastic sheeting again, making sure my door and all the winter, windows are latched and locked tight, and setting up my alarm system of old cans and chunks

of glass on strings across every opening in the space. If someone wants in, they won't be silent about it, that's for sure. I had a couple close calls in the early days, and I haven't made that mistake again. So far, so good. Of course, it could just be that there's no one out there to try to take my place for me. There's always that. The night descends, and I slip into bed, ready for a new day. Sleep comes easily.

The anxiety of the first few years has long since dissipated. If it's my time to go, then it's my time to go. I'd rather not lose any sleep over it. Before I know it, I'm blinking as the morning light filters in through the layers of plastic and makes my cabin look like the inside of a messed up aquarium. I rub my eyes and yawn. Best not to dawdle. Who knows what my mini-kingdom looks like outside.

I fetch my mask and head outside. That place is a mess. My roofing held. The greenhouse looks fine, and my workshed is still standing, although some of the sheeting has come loose. I'll need to do a thorough inspection of that structure sooner, rather than later. While the greenhouse, workshed and my cabin fared well,

The old oak tree nubs are now shorter by a couple of inches. There are puddles of deadly rain pockmarking the ground, acidic fumes rising up like homicidal morning mist. What little firewood I had stored by the shed, completely wrapped in plastic, is still there. But any chance of harvesting more wood close by is completely shot. I can't burn any of this without choking to death on the toxins that would cook off. Then I see something that makes my heart hurt.

I can handle puddles of death and a possibly compromised work shed, but seeing the almost completely dissolved skeleton of the squirrel only a few feet from that shed is just too much. I guess it didn't find a place to hide after all. I stumbled back to the porch and take a seat in one of the rocking chairs I have set up. I'll probably have to turn it into kindling soon if my next firewood hunting expedition is fruitless. As I rock, I say, a prayer for the squirrel. It was stupid of me to let it stay outside. I should have tried to capture

it, so I could bring it into the cabin with me. Yes, it's a wild animal, but it's better than being a pool of melted flesh and dissolved fur. Okay, grieving time is over. I need to get to work. I pack a few provisions, fill my water bottle from the pump, wrap my boots and plastic, since the ground will be wet, and wet is dangerous, and head out across the open land that borders my sad little grove of oak nubs. To the west are the peaks of the mountains I live in. To the east is what was once a bustling small city, filled with restaurants and artists and music,

and everything anyone could have wished for, if that's their thing. I've scavenged through the crumbling city so many times that I've lost count, But that doesn't mean there aren't still goods to find. Pulling out my grid map, I pass over the areas I know I've picked clean, and then move on to some of the harder to get to neighborhoods. Roads that twist and turn and rise into the hills, making a one-way trip, a gamble. If I get too deep into those neighborhoods and a storm comes along,

I'm not sure what shelter I'll be able to find. But the greenhouse only provides so much, and you never know what. will still be viable, especially in some of the large buildings still standing. There could easily be closets filled with supplies that I haven't discovered yet. I have an idea where I'll stop first, so I head on out. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button.

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And if you get stuck, Shopify's a one. award-winning customer support is there for you 24-7. See less cards go abandoned and more sales go with Shopify and their shop pay button. Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at Shopify.com slash DNS. Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash DNS. It takes me close to 90 minutes to reach the edge of the city. All I see for miles are collapsed buildings and crumbling infrastructure. The bridges and overpasses have long since fallen apart, leaving miles of gray rubble everywhere. Even the asphalt roadways are close to completely dissolved. As I walked by what was once my favorite diner, I sigh at the massive hole in the ground, where the building used to be.

A fire took it out, and the rain did the rest. Now it's a pit of muck and mud and floating dead things. I pause, then walk closer. Bones, human bones. They float on the surface of the soiled pool, bleached from the acid rain. I lick my lips and look around, an uneasy feeling creeping into the pit of my stomach. If there are bones still in that water, then whoever it was lost their life recently, like possibly yesterday during the storm. Otherwise, the bones would already be completely dissolved.

An urge comes over me to call out to see if anyone else is around. But that's an old-world urge, one that ignores the years of hell I've been through. People are not a good thing. They never were before the rain started, and they sure as hell aren't any better now. No, no, tear a million times worse. I shove my hands deep into my jeans pocket and keep walking, leaving the bones behind. Physically, at least, they dog me for blocks. Who was that person?

Where did they come from? How'd they end up in that pit? The last question has me worried. Sure, there are all kinds of scenarios where someone wanders about the city in the dark and maybe slips on the edge, tumbling into a pool of death. They scream and scream for help, but, of course, there's no one around to come to their rescue. The water washes over them. Maybe they get some in their mouth, their nose, their eyes, their ears. The acid starts to go to work, breaking down their connective tissue in record time.

They're dead before a third or fourth scream is uttered from their gooey throats. Or, and this is the thought that has its hooks in me. Someone pushed them into that pit, or chased them. Either way, there is a distinct possibility that I'm not alone in the city today. Still walking, I unsling my backpack and open it, grabbing the small hatchet I keep with me. You never know when you'll need a hatchet, especially since even the acid rain isn't able to keep the kudzu vines at bay. Cockroaches and kudzu, the true survivors of any apocalypse.

I hold the hatchet down against my leg. eyes surveying the area, ready for the attack that may or may not come. I keep walking. The old courthouse sags, leaning at a dangerous angle. I've watched that building slowly list to the right for years now, waiting for it to finally topple over. But the old thing refuses to give up, no matter what beating the sky delivers to it. Speaking of, a far-off rumble gets my attention.

I spy the thunder clouds to the west and know I need to hurry things up. It's miles off, but in these times, a storm can cross the land in the blink of an eye if you aren't careful. I pick up the pace and navigate the ruined city streets until I reach my first destination. The old YMCA. It's a towering, sprawling complex made up of three buildings, each three stories tall. Or they were three stories years ago. Now, one is no stories and the other two look like they're ready to join their fallen comrade. I've been here before on more than one occasion, but I've never done a truly deep search for foodstuffs,

mostly just betting, which they have a lot of. The thing about WISE is that they aren't a gym and a recreational facility. They can also be a home away from home. Some WISE are only weight stations and exercise bikes and treadmills. But this one, this one, has an entire dormitory wing. With a full kitchen. Luckily, the collapsed building is the gym. The other two are the administrative building and dormitory. I study the outside of the dorm building, looking for the weak points where a single mistake on my part will send it crumbling and tumbling down around me. There are too many weak points to catalog. So it really comes down to weather, Whether or not I feel lucky today.

The bones in the pit flash across my mind. Is luck on my side today? Were those bones a bad omen? A rumble of thunder. Just a hair closer this time emphasizes my worry. I make my decision and head for the dorm's main entrance. The doors are long gone, but the frames still stand, which is kind of comforting. Feels normal to walk through what was actually designed as an entrance.

I'm used to climbing through slanted windows or just crawling over the debris of a collapsed wall. In my mind, I hear a door chime announcing to all in the lobby that someone new has arrived. But that's only in my mind. There's no one in the lobby, not intact, at least. It's the smell that hits me first, and I freeze where I am, my knuckles cracking loudly as I grip the hatchet tight in my fist. Blood. The lobby is covered.

in blood. Great splashes of it coat the floor at my feet. I stare down at the liquid and realize that it's barely congealed. This blood is fresh. And there goes my day. Any thoughts I had of finding more supplies are crushed under the weight of pure terror. I can make do with what I have for a while longer. The greenhouse can't provide everything. But it'll provide enough for me to justify leaving this scavenging for a later date. A piece of masonry breaks loose from the ceiling and crashes at my feet, causing me to jump and cry out. Then I hear the giggles.

Slowly, I look up and see several faces staring down at me from the second floor walkway. It's only partially complete, with one end an open chasm, and the other barely hanging onto the wall, a set of broken stairs leading straight down to the lobby. The children smile at me. One of them waves. I wave back. Hey there.

I'm Newman. What's your names? My voice is more than a little unsure. I need to be careful on how to navigate this new predicament. One of the kids lifts a hunk of concrete over his head and tosses it directly at me. I leap out of the way and it lands with a thud. It's fall muted by the blood coating the floor. Watch it!

You almost hit me! A different kid holds a smaller chunk of concrete in their hands. But they don't hold it for long. It too is flung at me, and I dodged at the side to avoid being smashed by it. Where are the adults? With this many kids still alive, there has to be an adult around, right? That's the person I'm really worried about. Each of the children bends down and lifts up their own chunk of concrete.

Some are softball-sized. Some are as big as center blocks and make the small limbs holding them shaped. with strain. A couple of the children skip the concrete and brandish sharpened rebar. They giggle and laugh and speak to each other in a hushed gibberish. They have their own language. It's one of grunts and hoots and snippets of words. It's a language of nods and gestures and eye contact. Their mouths widened to reveal sharp-toothed grins. Oh shit, oh shit, shit, shit. These little bastards are feral. There's no adult. I look down at the blood. Well, no adult anymore. I turned to run and see my way blocked by a dozen more children, each ranging in age from six

or seven all the way up to early teens. They're dressed in whatever rags they could find, but I can see plastic peeking out from tattered backpacks and chest slung totes. They know how to survive the rain. Hey, I don't want any trouble. I hold up my hands. Of course, that means I hold up my hatchet too. All eyes go from my face to the hatchet, then back to my face. One of the teens steps forward. No! His voice is still that of a child, not having had time to deepen yet.

No chop! Right, right, no chop! I slowly lower my hands on the hatchet. I'm going to be on my way, so there doesn't need to have to be any chop. No chop, all good. The teen sneers, then glances over his shoulder at the other children. When he looks back at me, I do not like the grin he has on his face. Hungrid.

Hungrid? The question comes out reflexively. I probably don't want to know the answer. Hungrid. The teen pants his belly. Then he points down at the blood at my feet. Hungrid! Oh.

You're hungry. I start moving sideways, hoping to flank the kids and use one of the open windows to escape through. The second I take my first step, half the group of kids spread out, moving to block any possible exits. Hungrid! The teen lifts his sharpened rebar above his head. Hungrid! Hungrid! Hungrid! Hungrid! All the children join in and begin to chant in forceful unison.

The ones above me, the ones in front of me, and to my horror, the ones behind me that I never even noticed. I am surrounded by children chanting a word that doesn't exist. Yet, communicates their desire as plain as day. Thunder rumbles, and it's a lot closer than last time. A few of the children blocking the entrance glance up at the sky. Hey, that storm is going to be a nasty one. You all should find shelter. How about we go our separate ways so we can each get to safety before the rain hits? That work for you, kids? The teen frowns. I can tell he has no idea what I'm saying my god how long have they been without anyone watching over them long enough now i suppose that english is a foreign language and some invented gibberish has become their chosen tongue the chanting continues

grid over until the teen rushes at me and my hatchet comes up then down so fast that the children keep on chanting as if nothing has happened but something has definitely happened the teen passed me as as I sidestepped his attack. He stands with his back to me, perfectly still as blood rushes from the stump at his right shoulder where his arm used to be. I keep my hatchet very, very sharp for just these occasions. The chanting slows, then stops, as the teen crouches on wobbly legs and picks up his severed arm. I'm sorry, I look around at the rest.

I am truly sorry you have to live in this world. I really am. But I live here too, and plan on living for his life. long as I possibly can. The teen looks at his arm then looks at me. He stands up, his legs, almost giving out on him, and tries to press his arm back to his shoulder. Just like with the squirrel, a piece of my heart breaks as I watch the confusion and pain

cloud his dirty face. Then he collapses, his eyes rolling up into his head, blood still spurting from his wound. The spurts slow, then stop. and his last breath eases from between his lips. The place is silent. Then that silence is broken by a booming crash of thunder and the collective roar of the feral children as they all come for me. I brace myself, grip my hatchet tight, and get to work when it is all done.

And the storm, both real and metaphorical, has passed. I stand there and make a decision I've had to make more times than I care to admit. As I walk home, my third. clothes soaked to the skin in blood, my backpack weighing heavy against my spine. I shove images of small hands and arms and faces and necks and heads and legs and bellies out of my mind. I know they will haunt me in my dreams for a very long time. But while I'm awake, I can lock them away, just like all the other horrors I have had to commit over the years. That woman who only wanted some fresh water. The man and the girl who was or wasn't his daughter, sneaking

up on me as I scavenged close to my cabin. The young family, looking for help as the mother carried the corpse of their infant son in her arms. The band of hunters who stumbled across my little grove and never got the chance to leave. No, I lock all of those memories away. There's no need to dwell on acts that had to be done. We are all just trying to survive in this world of toxic, deadly rain, we do what we have to do, when we have to do it. I run a hand through my hair and pull something out of the blood-matted tangles. A tooth, a child's tooth. I toss it into a tangle of kudzu off to the side and keep walking. When I finally reach my cabin, I'm exhausted. I set the backpack in the farmhouse sink, then stripped naked. Filling a wall. Filling a

wash tub, I soak my clothes in it, hoping I can get most of the blood out. Intact clothing is a precious thing these days. Naked and shivering, I go outside and make sure everything is safe and secure before yet another storm breaks over me. I rinse off my hatchet and put it in the work shed. I hear what sounds like, chirping? Looking about, I hunt for the noise, finally finding the source tucked in the back corner amidst a pile of rags. Holy shit! A nest of baby squirrels. My brief friend must have been their mama, and now they're left all alone.

A flash of lightning illuminates the dark shed and thunder follows close behind. Slowly, carefully, gently. I wrap the squirrels tight in a couple of the rags and hold them close to my chest as I walk back to the cabin. I find a pot and set them in there. Stay, and get the shed secured to make sure my front porch is battened down. Then I go back inside, start some tea, and hunt through my meager rations. Now, what do baby squirrels eat? The squirming brood only chirps and squeaks.

I poke a finger into the nest, and one of the little guys growls and nips my skin. I pull my hand back and stare at the tiny drop of blood. Oh, that's good. You're going to fit right into this mad, brutal world. The kettle whistles, and I fill my mug. Then I look at the backpack in the sink. Maybe saving the baby squirrels will balance what I had to do earlier. What I have to do now.

As I pull out small, bloody limbs and dripping wet organs from my backpack, I smile over at the nest of squirrels. Babies, dinner will be ready soon. Hear more stories like this. Be sure to hit subscribe and turn notifications on. I'll see you in the next one.