Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Be Careful What You Bring Home From the Store

Episode Date: January 18, 2023

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Jumping over the couch, I run to the front door. Ali jumps back as she opens the door to see me rushing towards her. Jesus, Tony. She says, putting a caramel-colored hand to her chest. Don't come in, I say, pushing her back and stepping over the threshold, closing the door behind me. What's wrong? What are you doing? Spiders. I tell her. Breathless. Thousands of them.

Spiders? Yeah, spiders. She looks me in the eye, skeptic. You're not kidding, are you? This isn't a joke? I shake my head. There was a bag in the car when I got home from the grocery store. I tell her.

A green one. It was full of spiders. Well, where did it come from? She asks. Did you call an exterminator? I don't know. No, I didn't call one. It just happened.

Are they poisonous? I don't know. Let me look. Allie says, stepping toward the door, She's wearing a black skirt and jacket with a white blouse. Her shoes are shiny black flats. They're in the kitchen, I say. Allie doesn't really mind spiders.

I think I'm more freaked out by them than her. So if she wants to see for herself, she sets her work bag down along with her purse by the door, then goes inside, leaving the door open for a speedy retreat. I watch her until she moves left into the kitchen, at which point I lose her from view. I listen for several long moments, expecting her to cry out when she sees them. Tony?

She says. I don't see any spiders. What? I call. Are you in the kitchen? Yes. All I see are paper bags and an empty green insulated one. No spiders in it.

I move back inside. Eyes scanning the floor for signs of the eight-legged creeps. But I see none. The kitchen is just as Ali says it is. spider-free. I move cautiously to a cabinet, leaning forward to grab the handle from as far away as I can. I yank the cabinet door open to reveal our normal cups and glasses. No spiders in evidence, I whisper. The curbside pickab area at this grocery store is busy. Of course, this is 5.30 on a weekday afternoon in Austin, and it's one of the busiest grocery stores in the city, so I shouldn't be surprised.

Still, I remember a time when Austin felt like a town instead of a city. That was back before everyone started moving here, things got crazy. I have to wait for a minivan to pull out before I can back my Impala into a parking spot. When I'm parked, I text the number they provided, telling them my parking spot number. As I wait, I catch movement in my rearview mirror. I glance up and see a man in an aqua blue t-shirt that's says, personal shopper on it. He moves jerkily back and forth behind my car. His skin is deeply tanned, and his hair is a nest of brown-blonde dreadlocks. He glances through the back of my car,

and our eyes meet in the mirror. I think for a moment that he's waiting for me to pop the trunk or something, but then his gaze flicks away, and he moves to the next car in line. I turn in my seat and get a clearer view of him as he walks along the sidewalk between the grocery store and the line of curbside parking spots. I can see that he's carrying two reusable grocery bags, a blue one and a green one. They're both the kind with zip tops and insulated lining for items like milk and ice cream. As he moves away, I decide to step out of the car to wait for my personal shopper. I move to the back of my Impala and lean against the trunk. Then I gaze toward the store's side door, waiting for my groceries to be brought out. After a little over three minutes,

a girl who can't be out of her teens comes through the door, pushing a cart with brown paper bags full of groceries. She smiles at me. I smile back and turn to open my back door so we can load up the bags. When I look back up, the shopping cart is rolling slowly by itself, the girl, hurrying back to the store. I can help you, sir, a man's scratchy voice says. I look over my shoulder and see the dreadlocked man stepping up and stopping the grocery cart with one hand. In the other hand, he holds his two bags, one blue and one green. Uh, okay, I say, glancing back toward the door. The girl is out of sight now, inside the building.

Weird. Turning my attention back to the man, I notice his shirt is ragged and dirty. You work here? I ask him as he sets down his two bags. Oh, yes, if you can call it work, he says with a smile. There's something not quite right about him, but I can't place it. He seems dazed, like his eyes are having trouble focusing. He transfers the groceries into the back of my Impala.

When he's done with all the paper bags, he turns and picks up his blue bag and starts to put it in with the others. That's not mine, I tell him. He frowns, looking from me to the bag and back again. You sure? Yes, I say. I'm sure. He steps around the open door toward me, unzipping the top of the bag.

You better have a look inside. I'm sure this is yours. Before I can answer, he folds the flap over and lifts the bag. I look into the bag. The drive home is uneventful. But as I pull into the driveway, I'm surprised by hot tears running down my cheeks. At first, I think, insane. that something has dripped on my face from the roof of my car, but I shift in the seat,

looking into the rearview mirror. I'm crying. Why am I crying? I run over the past few events of my day, trying to remember. What could have made me cry? What was I even thinking about just now, as I pulled up to my house? My mind's a blank. As I wipe the tears away, I realize my hands are shaking.

Okay, what the hell? I'm coming home from the grocery store, right? I turn and look in the backseat at the brown paper bags filled with groceries. Right, I went shopping, curbside pickup, I think. Why can't I remember? I know sometimes your brain goes on autopilot. You don't remember driving home, or taking a shower, brushing your teeth, because you've done it thousands of times.

That must be it. But then why was I crying just now? Crying isn't something you do on autopilot. I can't remember the last time I cried. Maybe when I last watched Saving Private Ryan, that movie gets me every time. But that's different. Okay, enough of this shit, I say to myself,

putting the car in park and turning off the engine. I grab my wallet, step out of the car, and then open the rear door to get my groceries. As I grab the three nearest bags, I notice one I don't recognize behind the passenger seat, a green one. It's one of those with a zip top, and I can tell by looking at it that it's lined with insulation to help keep stuff cold while you're running errands. But I don't remember bringing it with me to the store.

I don't remember ever even seeing it before. Shrugging it off, I take the three bags onto the porch, setting down one of them at the front door so I can unlock them. the deadbolt. When I have all the bags inside, including the green one with the zip top, I stand in the kitchen trying to recall my interaction with the store employee. They bring the groceries out to you. I know that. I can remember past interactions. Why can't I remember this one? A sound like something moving comes from the kitchen counter, from where the green bag sits. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see something push against the top flap. But when I turn to the

my head to look, everything is still. Silent. Stepping over to the bag, I noticed my palms are sweating. This is ridiculous. I grab the zipper tab on the green bag and pull it. The gap bulges as thousands of spiders pour out. They engulf my hand even before I can pull it away, scurrying on little legs up my arm, shouting, I jump back, shaking the bugs off my arm. I collide with the fridge, unable to take my eyes off the torrent of arachnids, swarming out of the grocery bag. They move everywhere, going down into the sink, disappearing into cabinets, and even scurrying toward me on the floor. Coming to my senses, I run out of the room, heart, thundering in my chest. Turning the corner into the living room, I stand on the couch and turn around, watching and waiting for them to appear in the doorway.

But they don't. I hear the sound of a key sliding into the front door. Thankfully, I don't have to go through the kitchen to get to the front door. There's another doorway over to my left. Jumping over the couch, I run to the door. Allie jumps back as she opens the door to see me rushing towards her. Jesus, Tony, she says, putting a caramel-colored hand to her chest. Don't come in, I say, pushing her back and stepping over the threshold, closing the door behind me.

What's wrong? What are you doing? Spiders. I tell her, breathless. Thousands of them. Spiders? Yeah, spiders. She looks me in the eye, skeptical. You're not kidding, are you?

This isn't a joke? I shake my head. Then tell her about the mystery bag from the car. Well, where did it come from? She asks. Did you call an exterminator? I don't know. No, I didn't call one.

It just happened. Are they poisonous? I don't know. Let me look, Allie says, stepping toward the door. I watch as she disappears into the kitchen. I expect her to scream and rush back out, but she doesn't. Several long moments pass. Tony?

She says. I don't see any spiders. What? I call. Are you in the kitchen? Yes. All I see are paper bags and an empty green insulated one. No spiders in it.

I moved back inside. I scanning the floor for signs of the eight-legged creeps, but I see none. The kitchen. is just as Ali says it is, spider-free. I yank open a cabinet, but there are no spiders inside. I whisper. How is that possible? Maybe you did see a couple of spiders come out of the bag, but they scurried away,

Ali suggests. No. I shake my head. No, there were thousands of them. They were everywhere. I felt them crawling on me. Ali moves around the kitchen, opening every cabinet and looking behind every appliance. There are no spiders.

When she's done, she looks at me. Are you okay, Tom? I don't know, I say. It was so real. Maybe I should lie down for a little while. You've been running yourself ragged lately, she says. It's true. Although I work from home, the latest consulting project I'm working on

has had me working 10 to 12 hours a day for the last couple of weeks. It was a miracle that I managed to get out and pick up the groceries this evening. I trod upstairs, leaving Allie to put away the groceries. After collapsing onto the bed, I feel exhaustion catching up with me. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. Streaks of riotous images blur across my mind's eye, accompanied by a sickening symphony of awful sounds. I try to open my eyes, but something's wrong with it. them. I go to open my mouth, but it's as if my lips are glued together. Grunting, I

lunge up from the bed, hands swinging out in front of me. My face spasms as I try to open my eyes and my mouth at the same time. I can hear the crash of my change jar falling as I run into the dresser. I bounce off the dresser and trip over my own feet in my blind panic, falling to the ground with a clatter. I jam my fingers up to my lips, finding that I can feel my teeth and tongue. My mouth is open. Prushing footsteps sound from the hallway as Allie runs up, calling my name. As soon as I bring my fingers up to my eyes, the hysterical visions are replaced by the sight of Allie's feet running across our beige bedroom carpet toward me. What happened? She asks, voice cracking. I gaze around, breathing hard.

I don't know. Are you hurt? I heard you fall from downstairs. I'm not hurt. I'm not hurt. I tell her, getting to my feet. I think we need to go to a hospital, Ali says, holding onto my arm. Let's get you checked out. I'll call Dr. Rao in the morning. I tell her, sitting on the bed. Right now, I just want to rest. That's what I need.

I just had a nightmare. A nightmare? You only just came up here. Ali says, I'm exhausted. I can fall asleep in seconds. I tell her. That's the problem. But deep down, I know something else is going on.

For some reason, I think of my impala's trunk. Shaking my head, I stand up and head to the bathroom while Allie follows me, trying to convince me to go to the emergency room. I grab a sleeping pill from the medicine cabinet and down it. Ali stares at me with clear concern and a little bit of anger. Now that I've taken the sleeping pill, I definitely won't. be going out for the next eight hours or so. She watches me without comment as I lie down again. Then she heads back downstairs to finish putting groceries away and start dinner. I don't dare

close my eyes. As I stare up at the ceiling, waiting for the pill to take effect, I think of the Impala's trunk. I don't know why. There's something wrong with me. Deep down, somewhere my conscious mind can't probe. But I can feel it. waiting in the darkness beyond consciousness. It scares the shit out of me. But a little voice in my head, one that I've been listening to for a very long time, has all sorts of attractive explanations

for why I'm feeling the way I am. And it's easier to listen to that voice than to consider the alternative, that I'm going insane. But that's silly, the voice says. People with no history of mental illness don't suddenly go insane, do they? Insanity isn't contagious, like the common cold, is it?

No, of course not. How silly. My eyelids grow heavy, but I fight to keep them open until I just can't any longer. The bed is shaking as I wake up. The room as dark as I stare up at the ceiling. The hysterical images in my head fade back into my subconscious, but not completely. They float there, visible just under the surface,

coloring my thoughts crimson. I turn my head and look over at Allie. She's shaking, convulsing, choking. Spiders crawl all over her, coating every inch of her but her eyes, which stare at me, pleading. Her mouth is wide open, filled to the brim with the little black creatures.

They stuff her nostrils and her ears. She tries to scream, producing a spray of spiders from her mouth. It's not enough. They land on her chest and crawl back in. There's a small voice, in my head trying to tell me this is wrong. But that can't be right. This seems normal to me. Isn't this supposed to happen? Haven't I known this would happen? Yes. Yes, I have. I've seen it in my

dreams. Everything is as it should be. Soon, Ali stops convulsing. Her eyes glaze over, losing their luster. She's dead. Everything is as it should be. I stand from the bed, still wearing the clothes I fell asleep in. The clock reads 2.12 in the morning. The Impala trunk flashes in my mind. As I move toward the bedroom door, the spiders scurry off my dead girlfriend and onto the carpet, moving in a leggy river down the hallway ahead of me.

As the spiders move, they coalesce, merging into a river of shiny blackness. They morph into centipedes, scorpions, snakes, and a thousand other creatures. some of which I've never seen before. They gather in front of the closet door downstairs. I open the door and locate the green zip-top grocery bag, pulling it out and setting it down.

The creatures scurry into it. When they're done, I zip it up and walk out my front door, grabbing my keys from the entryway table as I go. The early morning chill gives me goosebumps. The neighborhood is quiet, dark, and peaceful. I opened the impolice trunk and take out the blue zip-top bag the dreadlocked man gave me at the grocery store, right before the manager came out and chased him away. I'm calling the police, manager said.

It didn't matter. The man had done his part. He'd fulfilled his end of the bargain, and now he was free, just like I'm about to be, free of these awful thoughts clogging up my mind. Once I do this, I'll be free, and I'll have out of. I carry both bags over to my next door neighbor's house. After setting them down on the welcome mat, I straighten and then ring the doorbell. Nothing happens for a long time, so I ring it again.

Finally, a light comes on in the entryway. I can hear Gary grumbling inside. Who the hell is it? He calls from the other side of the door. It's Tony, I say. There's a short pause. Tony? Gary opens the door.

He's in a white t-shirt and basketball shorts. His balding head shines from the porch light. What's wrong? He asks. I lean down and pick up the blue bag. I think this is yours, I say, unsipping it. What the hell? Gary looks in as I open the bag.

His eyes go wide and his face goes slack. He inhales, the rush of air making a prolonged sound like a low scream. After 20 seconds of this, he shuts his mouth and diverts his unblinking eyes from the bag. Tears streamed down his cheeks. I set the blue bag down and zip it back up. Then I lift them both and hand them over. Gary takes them without a word, shutting the door in my face. Turning, I head back over to my house.

Gary has three kids and a wife. His family will provide plenty of food for those things. Then, when it's all done, he'll pass the bags onto someone else. When he's done that, he'll be free. They all will. I step into my house and shut the door. Then I pause, waiting, waiting to be free. It promised me I would be.

It promised me when I looked into the bag. I stand in the entryway of my dark house, and I wait, listening for Allie's footsteps from upstairs. I wait and listen. and wait. Lasagne surgelley, puissance-moyerned for 15 minutes.

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