Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Don't Look Away or You'll Forget Me | Part 1

Episode Date: December 8, 2025

Listen to the full story now with a 7-DAY FREE TRIAL of Dr. NoSleep Premium: ⁠patreon.com/drnosleep⁠ A forgotten man who vanishes from memory the moment eyes leave him becomes the target of a lethal conspiracy—forcing him to hunt down the one person who still remembers him, a vengeful foe who weaponized his only weakness. NoSleep Coffee – The NoSleep Coffee Company™: Get 20% off your first order with code NOSLEEP20 at checkout. 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

The moment I was born, I was forgotten. I was birthed and bathed and set aside. If it wasn't for my screaming, the nurses and attendants would have cleaned up the operating room and just walked away, leaving me naked and alone and so hungry. Luckily, my screams pierced deep into some instinct, and a nurse shifted her body enough that she caught sight of me out of the corner of her eye. I don't know what she said or what happened after. that. I don't even know what I was thinking, since thought was such a new concept for newborn

me. But if I had to guess, I was probably thinking, where was everyone? Where was my mother? Where was the warmth and security of being held? I know, I know those are advanced and lofty thoughts for a person only a few minutes old. But I've always been a quick study. So I wouldn't put it past tiny me, to be thinking along those lines. I was taken to the nursery and promptly forgotten again as soon as the nurse left. Once more, luck was on my side, and I happened to be next to four other crying, sleeping, pooping, yawning newborns. What I wouldn't give to see the looks on the nurse's faces every time they came into the nursery and saw me. I can only imagine what they said. What the hell? Where'd this guy come from?

Somebody checked the charts. You'd think it would be easy to remember a child just born, especially if it's your job. You'd also think it'd be easy to remember when there's a new mother in a hospital room, waiting for her baby to be brought to her. Except that last part. The important part. The part about my mother waiting for me. That didn't ever happen.

It wasn't until I was older that a social worker told me my mother had died in childbirth. leaving me all alone in this cruel world, always left behind, always forgotten. I never saw that social worker again because guess what? She forgot about me. Yeah, she had a file. And once a month, she'd open that file and get a nice little surprise. Bonus case. Where did that come from? Is what I'd imagine she'd have said to herself. She'd probably pick up the phone and call my foster mother about me. And, unless I was within my foster mother's line of sight, she would have replied,

Who? Kid Doe? Never heard of him. You got the wrong file, lady. That would lead to an in-person visit, because the social worker didn't have the wrong file, and lo and behold, I would be discovered all over again. Oh, right, this little shit. My foster mother loved to make their social worker glare and frown. I can't never seem to remember he even lived. I was here half the time. Hello, kid.

The social worker would ask me to sit on the couch with her as she went over my file. That's an interesting name. Hospital named me. Which was true. Never name a dough on my file. That part stuck at least. But only because there were now duplicate files. One at the hospital, and one having been processed through child services.

I was six when that social worker came by to tell me my. story or the story that was in my file. I never saw her again, no clue why. Maybe my file was lost. Maybe she got another job and the new social worker didn't know to look for me. Not that the old social worker knew either. I was just an out-of-sight, out-of-mind kind of kid. Just like I'm an out-of-sight, out-of-mind kind of adult. I still go by kid Doe because, The name is a name, and that's been the only constant in my life. And as I sit in this chair, waiting for the hotel room door to open, I think about what it's like to be forgotten the second someone looks away from me,

because that's what happens. That's my life. I can spend hours with a person, talking and laughing and eating and drinking, sharing stories and memories and secrets. But the moment they turn away and can no longer directly see, see me. I am lost to them. Any memory of me is wiped clean and, depending on the amount of time between sightings, possibly gone forever. It makes dating nearly impossible. The pistol rests in my lap, my right hand casually draped across it, my eyes glued to the door. I'll have maybe four

seconds to act when that door opens. My hope is it'll be a quick one without any hiccups. I do not like hiccups. Hickups are how you get shot. Been there more than once, and would rather not be there again, thank you. I left my foster mother's house when I was eight. I'd had enough. Enough neglect, enough isolation, enough abuse. And when everyone forgets you, it's pretty easy to pack up and walk out the front door

without a single soul trying to stop you. With a backpack full of my three changes of clothes, my one extra pair of tennis shoes, a toothbrush, and my stuffed elephant, I left that house and never looked back. It was my turn to forget something. The world is not a nice place for an eight-year-old. There are some downright bastards out there who would just love to get their hands on a kid like me. A runaway without any ties.

I was a Diddler's dream. Except all I had to do was run around a corner and Chester the molester forgot all about me. Same with curious cops or concerned Karens. I was scared and lonely, but I was never hungry. I was never broke. I was never cold. A store clerk would glance at me when I came in, and then, that'd be that. The second their attention returned to their magazine or whatever, I didn't exist.

chips, jerky, candy bars, sodas, it all went into my backpack. If I was caught, I'd just run in circles until the clerk lost sight of me, then I'd walk out the door like it never happened. Kids learned fast, and I learned faster than most. A knock on a door, and I would know instantly by who opened that door whether or not I had a warm place to stay in. It was easier to hide in plain sight amongst a family than it was to hide with a single person. In all of the household chaos, all I'd have to say is, I'm your daughter's friend. Or, I stayed over with your son.

You talked to my mom, remember? They never remembered, because I was lying my pants off. But what self-respecting parent wants to admit that a child in their house, supposedly in their care, just doesn't ring a bell? They would smile and nod and get me a bowl of cereal. All the while I could see them puzzling it out. Of course, I had to say it all over again when they turned their backs to get the milk from the fridge or the sugar bobs from the cupboard.

It's probably why I'm such a great liar. There isn't a situation on this planet I can't talk my way out of. Yes, I have the advantage of this short game. No long cons with me. I only have to be convincing enough to not get shot or beat up or arrested before I'm forgotten all over again. The arrested part is the worst. You want to see an angry cop?

Like, a really angry cop? Just try being me handcuffed in the back of a cruiser. Each time the cop looks in the rearview mirror, they almost have a heart attack, because they think they're seeing me for the first time. I've been tased, beaten with batons, kicked over and over, thrown into muddy ditches, thrown into oncoming traffic and shot three times. Staying away from cops is a pastime of my. Keeping myself from ever being handcuffed again is a lifeline.

I have a feeling I'm only one interrogation room away from never waking up again. Cops don't like surprises. 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. And just like that, you're done in the same.

seconds. That's the power of Shopify. It supports millions of businesses and drives 10% of all e-commerce in the U.S. from major brands like Mattel and Jimshark to entrepreneurs just getting started. With Shopify, everything you need is in one place, from customizable store templates to built-in AI tools that help write product descriptions and enhance your images. It also makes marketing easy with integrated email and social campaigns. And if you get stuck, Shopify's 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. I see a shadow

passed by the hotel room door and grip my pistol. But it's only some other guest walking by on the way to they're less than luxury accommodations. Sometimes I get lucky, and my targets are holed up in a Weston penthouse or an Omni suite. This job has me in a Holiday Inn off I-40 in Kansas. No turn-down service here, no mince on the pillows. Clean sheets and towels are the bare minimum, and I wouldn't want to put a black light to either, if I'm being honest. My target should know that they are on a kill list. The people I tend to do jobs for aren't non-profit charities or philanthropic organizations. I take jobs from low-lifes and scumbags, CEOs and boards of directors, off-the-books government agencies, and long-established secret societies, crime syndicates, and ruthless dictators.

My services keep the wheels greased with blood, because blood, not money, is what makes the world go round. A shadow pauses at the door and I lift the pistol, casually aiming it at the hotel room's tiny entryway. Housekeeping? Housekeeping? It's 11 o'clock at night. That's not housekeeping. Three more knocks. Housekeeping. I hear the buzz, then click of the door's lock, disengaging. I watched the sliver of hallway light appear, then widen until someone, someone small, slips inside the room and closes the door, returning everything to the darkness I prefer. A sniffle. No, no, a sniff.

The small someone is smelling the air. Hello, Mr. Chabon, housekeeping. A woman. Another sniff. The shadowed form by the door doesn't move. Then I hear the distinct noise of a slide being drawn back as the unknown visitor cocks her gun. I fired twice and the second shot produces a loud grunt. Son of a bitch! The woman immediately yanks open the door and slips out into the hallway.

I get up to follow in no hurry. When I get to the hallway, she's gone, except for the drops of blood, showing me which direction she fled in. A decision is at hand. Do I follow and finish her off? Probably not a bad idea. A better idea is to follow and snatch her for questioning. This wasn't an open bid job. This was exclusive to me, or that's what I was told.

I wouldn't mind finding out what she was told. The other option is to pack it up and call it a night. I could just go back to the Airbnb I rented and kick back, drink some beers, order some pizza, and wait for a certain phone call. Then I'll ask the person on the other end of that call, what the motherfucking hell is going on. Both options aren't without their difficulties. This new player, this woman, she might be highly skilled. I'm good, better than most, but I have never really had to rely on hand-to-hand or weapon skills to stay alive.

All I have to do is pull the shirt up over an attacker's head in poof. No memory of who they are fighting. I once punched a guy so hard in the balls that he squeezed his eyes shut for like ten whole seconds. When they popped open, I was leaning against a dumpster, acting like a drunk. The guy with the bruised balls didn't even glance at me. He just limped past, very confused. It's really a wonder that anyone even tries to take me out. Curiosity wins out, and I follow the droplets of blood down the hallway and to the bank of elevators.

The first one that opens is clean, so I let it return. When the second car arrives, I see the drops of blood and step on. The lobby would be the obvious destination when one wants to escape, but I see a smear of red on the button with 10 on it. She's heading to the rooftop bar. Yes, this Holiday Inn has a rooftop bar. They'd have to, or the two-star reviews would scare off every potential guest. I pressed the button and take a ride to the top. When I was 15, I decided I wanted to learn how to drive.

So I taught myself in a Walmart parking lot, having borrowed an older Honda from a nice woman who didn't even notice me slip her keys out of her coat pocket. Man, when you never have to deal with running away from a mark, you learn how to become an expert pickpocket. I had all the practice and failures in a week that most pickpockets get in a decade. So, with a Honda sliding on the slick pavement of the Walmart, parking lot, I taught myself how to drive. And we aren't talking keeping your hands at ten and two kind of driving. I power slid that Honda around and showed it who was boss. Security tried to chase me, but I'd just drive around back and they'd forget all about me. By the time that

old lady came back to her car, I'd pretty much trashed it and was long gone. I only got better from there. Now, standing in a different kind of car, I checked my pistol for the car. I'd check my pistol for the third time as I slowly rise up through the spine of the Holiday Inn. I don't know. Something doesn't feel right. There's a hitch in my guts that tells me I should stop the elevator at the ninth floor and get off there. I can take the stairs down to the lobby and slip out the back door. When I have the urge to check my pistol a fourth time, I just go ahead and press the button for nine. The elevator slows, stops, dings, and the doors slide open. Half a dozen men with automatic weapons all turn and stare at me.

Or I think they stare at me. It's hard to tell with the cheesy sunglasses they have on. It's 11 at night, fellas, I say and raise my pistol. Might want to take those off. I fire off four shots before twisting to the side, pressing my back against the bank of buttons as the fellas get their shit together and open fire. I hear only three weapons, so I must have tagged at least half of their group. Not bad for blind firing while dodging out of sight.

The weird part is they keep shooting. They can't see me. They should have forgotten what they were doing, and who they were doing it to. But they are still unloading their magazines into the elevator. My hand scrambles behind my lower back, and I feel for the braille symbol where the lobby button is. I press it, and the doors close while a couple of bullets ricochet and ping around the elevator.

I duck into a crouch, covering my head, hoping I don't catch one of those stray rounds. It makes me think of the day I walked into a pawn shop for the first time, thinking I could boost whatever I wanted, except I didn't count security cage at the front door. That thing slammed down tight on me when the tag on the disc man I stole it went off. I had to stand there as the owner of the shop walked toward me, a sod and half baseball bat, slapping rhythmically against his leg. He pointed that bat at me and sneered.

He stepped into the wrong shop kid. His eyes locked onto me. From the looks of you, I'm guessing you ain't got no folks waiting at home. Shit, kid, I doubt you got a home. When was the last time you took a goddamn shower? I can smell you from here. I didn't say a word. Only watched him approach.

Ready to make my move the second the cage opened. When he reached me, he slammed that bat against the bars of the cage and laughed. Little stinky rat is what I caught. He stabbed the bat at me and looked down. at my hands. What you got there, kid? A disc man? You take that so you can listen to that hip-hop crap?

I like jazz. The look on the guy's face was worth getting caught. He took a step back, studied me up and down, then folded his arms across his chest, the bat, sticking up like an angry exclamation mark in his hand. You like jazz, do you? He angled his head over his shoulder, his eyes still on me. You hear that? Russ? The kid likes jazz over hip hop. A voice comes from the back of the shop.

Loud of the same rhythms. Half the samples and hip hop are stolen from the greats. Shit, most of the punks out there couldn't tell you who Miles Davis is, but they can tell you what one of his thrifts sound like. The guy in front of me focuses all of his attention on me again. You know who Miles Davis is, kid. Bitches brew, kind of blue, milestones, miles ahead, get up with it. it, Steeman. Oh shit, Russ. The kid knows his miles. Yeah, I heard. The guy in front of me points the bat at the top of the cage. Audio and video surveillance. Our cousin installed it last month. Russ can hear everything you say. Then why are you yelling back at him like some old retarded asshole? I point at the top of the cage mocking him. Can he hear you? There's a laugh from the back,

and the guy in front of me glares. Open the cage, Richie. What? No way, Russ. The little shit stole from us. I didn't say to let him go. I said to open the cage. And do what? Give him a hug. Jesus Christ, Richie. The scraping of chair legs and scuffing of feet echoes down the aisles. In seconds, the largest man I'd ever seen comes walking down the aisle in front of me.

A cane in one hand, a shotgun in the other. Open it. He waved the shotgun in my direction, and in his brother's direction. Christ, Russ! Watch where you're swinging that scattergun! Shut up and open the cage, Richie. Turned out, the guy with the baseball bat wasn't the only owner. Nope.

The pawn shop I'd walked into was owned and operated by the Rush Brothers, Russell and Richard. I would end up calling them the brother's pawn. Richie hated it. Russ humored me. What's your name, kid? Russ finally reached the cage. The guy was huge. Not just tall, but fat as fuck. He looked like a corn-fed linebacker who'd gone to seed

and just kept going to seed until there weren't no more seeds left for him to go to. Richie slammed the bat against the cage. Answer the damn question, boy. Kid. Both Russ and Richie shook their heads like I'd made the big, mistake of my life. I sighed because I was used to it. I don't know how many cops had slapped me upside the head when I gave him that answer. It's my damn name, okay? Kid Doe. I suppose that could be a hip-hop name or a jazz name. He leaned close to the bars. Which is it, Kid Doe? Are you jazz or are you

hip-hop? What's it fucking matter? This kid, let him out, Richie. And do you, do you? And do you, What do what with him? See if he's worth letting live. What the fuck, man? It's only a disc man. You're gonna kill me over a fucking disc man? No, kiddo. I'm gonna kill you for stealing from me.

I didn't steal from you. The cage begs to differ. I'm still in the shop, dipshit. I can't steal from you until I walk out the front door. You a lawyer, kid. Richie smacked the bars with the bat again. You got a fucking law degree under that hoodie? What can I say?

I shrugged. I live a life made up of technicalities. That's so. Explain. Russ then turned and glared at his brother. Open the damn cage, Richie. When he looked back at me, he jumped. Then his eyes narrowed.

Oh, this is interesting. He smiled at me like a cartoon shark, or a meth-addled whale considering his size. Richie, look over there. Over where? Doesn't matter. Just look at the kid. Why?

Because. That's not a reason. Is a shotgun enema a reason? Fuck you, Russ! Just look over there, will you? I want to try something. Fine. I'm looking over here.

Richie turned away, glancing at a wall sign that read, Beer me up, partner. With an image of a cowboy riding a can of beer. It made no sense, yet made all the sense. sense in the world. Russ's eyes never left mine. Now look back. At what? Richie stared hard at me confused. Where the fuck did this little shit come from? Exactly. But that ain't the question you should be asking. Oh, and what is genius? What the hell are we doing standing here talking to this kid? I don't remember him coming in and now look, he's locked down like a little thieving bitch.

Richie hit the bars with his bat. That what you are? A little thieving bitch? Open the cage and bring him to the back room. And don't take your hands or eyes off of him. I want to try something. With his eyes still never leaving mine, Russ turned to a surveillance camera and gave it a thumbs up. He then pointed at me, pointed at himself,

pointed at Richie, and pointed back at the camera. What the hell was that all about? Richie looked from the camera to Russ, then to me. Shit! Where'd this fucker come from? Just bring him in back and do not stop looking at him. And be prepared to tell me to watch the camera footage for the front cage when we get back there. Tell yourself to do that. I ain't your damn secretary. I'm saying you're going to have to tell me because I'll forget.

Russ smiled, then pointed the shotgun at me. Right, kid? You ain't normal, are you, kid? Says the fattest man on earth. Motherfucker! Richie! Just open the cage and bring him to the back. Richie calmed down enough to unlock the cage and yank me free. You ain't got a piece on you, do you, kid?

Nope. A knife? Box cutter? Taser? Nope. I don't believe you. So get in front. Don't stop walking.

Unless I say so, or I swear to God I'll bring you right here in the shop. I'm within my right, you fucking little thieving, bitch. Russ finally turned and walked toward the back. Richie gave me a shove and we followed. When we ran around the counter, Russ unlocked the door and stepped inside. We were right behind him the whole way. When I stepped into the back room,

Russ stared at me like he'd never seen me before. Then he smiled. What were you going to tell me? Russ was asking his brother, but his eyes stayed on me. I've been repeating it in my head over and over. Richie has something to tell you. Richie has something to tell you.

Uh, that you're supposed to watch the security tapes. Richie shoved me all the way into the room. He turned and closed the door. When he turned back, he shouted. Who the fuck is this little shit? That's what we're going to find out. Russ plopped down into a rolling chair that looked like it wanted to commit suicide. Those were crazy times.

Almost as crazy as now. The elevator doors open onto the lobby, and I watch four more large assholes with automatic weapons turn and stare at me. Well, they may be staring. I can't tell since these dipshits are wearing sunglasses, too. That's him! And up come the weapons. I dive out of the elevator, my pistol firing round after round after round. One asshole falls, a hole in his forehead, and another cries out, spinning around.

His weapon discharging into the asshole standing next to him, as blood sprays from the wound in his chest. neck. Three down before I'm able to scramble for cover behind a tall planter with a barely alive palm tree stuffed into it. Not a bad ratio, taking out three of the four. But that still leaves the fourth asshole, and he's not taking his finger off the trigger. So I wait for his magazine to go dry before standing up and putting one in his right eye. His head rocks back, brain and blood and blown, splattering the hotel lobby, and his sunglasses fly into the air. I watch them tumble end over, end, over end. When they hit the floor, a small spark flies up from the broken lens. Well, huh? What we got here? I walk over to them, making sure to keep one eye on the rest of the

lobby, the door to the stairwell, and the bank of elevators. I kneel and pick up the broken glasses. These aren't raybans. There's circuitry in them. Not that it makes any difference. This pair is destroyed. I stand and walk to one of the other dead outside. I stand and walk to one of the other dead assholes and yank off an intact pair. Putting them on, I understand immediately. They're smart glasses, and a picture of me is front and center, or sort of. Smart glasses are weird, and it takes me a second to get oriented and be able to concentrate on the data being displayed. Target, kiddo, threat level, extreme. Orders, kill immediately. Special instructions. Always have image displayed, never turn image off.

There are other commands and prompts streaming in a column in my peripheral vision, so I turn my head and all that info moves into my direct line of sight while still keeping the image of my face front and center. There's a prompt for my full bio, a prompt for known associates, a prompt for current and past jobs, a prompt for current location. I have no idea how to work the glasses, so I toss them to the ground. Around the lobby, I clock all of the surveillance cameras. If these guys have tech like this, then I'm probably not being paranoid in thinking someone

is hacked the hotel's security and is watching me right now. I give the cameras a middle finger and head straight for the front doors. I could go out the back, but I bet there are just as many assholes watching that door as the front. By going this way, I might catch them off guard because what idiot goes out the front door door. The sliding doors open and I step out into the cool night air, pistol up, eyes searching the parking lot for the next threat. Except there isn't one. No assholes gunning for me, no wounded woman with the grudge waiting to put two in my chest and one in my head. There are

sirens from far off though, so I book ass to my rented ride, hop in, and floor it out of the lot. I drive for miles and miles, leaving the small city in my rearview mirror. Once I'm on the interstate, I look for the first truck stop and pull off there. I parked the car at the back of the lot behind a row of tractor trailers, grab my backpack, and toss the keys into the bushes. Then I head inside, pave for a shower, and strip myself clean, checking myself over for any unnoticed wounds. You'd be surprised what adrenaline can hide.

I once performed an entire job with a bullet, lodged in my ass, and never noticed until I got back to the boat I was used. and sat down in the captain's chair, which makes me think of those early years with the Brothers Pond. Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe and share the show with a fellow horror fan.

I'll see you in the next one.