Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - I broke into a house and what I saw changed me forever...

Episode Date: July 22, 2022

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The walls fracture and separate like sideways smiles on death's skeletal face. Splinters spew out, pelting me, but they're not splinters for long. As soon as they hit me, they transform into savage insects and crawl toward my face. I swipe them off frantically as the room shakes and rumbles. I run to a window, trying to look out at the street below, to call for help. But another face greets me in the glass. It's one I recognize, barely. I see my own face there.

but it's rotting and discolored. Folds of raw and bloody flesh, hanging off my cheeks. It's not real. It can't be real. There's a floor lamp in the corner of the room, big and solid enough to break the window with. I grab it,

careful not to glance too long into the black maw, opening in the nearby wall. As I run with the gold-colored lamp in my hands, the thinly carpeted floor surges beneath my feet, setting me sprawling. The lamp's pale shade crumbles. The bulb, shattering as it hits the floor, and suddenly, the room is silent and still. The walls are still broken.

The floor still warped, but they don't move any longer. Looking over my shoulder, I noticed the door to the hallway is open. The very same door I locked when I first came in here. It's open, but I don't see the hallway out there. I only see the stark silhouette of a hunched beat. The beast, the spikes along its spine rising and falling as it breathes. The beast makes an otherworldly noise as it steps into the room. The faint light from the brass fixture in the ceiling reveals its hideous, insanity-inducing

face. The enormous eyes seem to swirl in their sockets above two wide slits for nostrils. Its mouth drips dark saliva that sizzles as it hits the ground. The teeth are thick for translucent. the creature's sharp tongue, lulls over the serrated implements. I can do nothing but stare in disbelieving shock. I watch as the muscles in its deformed legs tense and then explode into motion. The creature is fast, bearing down on me.

I reach for the lamp knowing it's my only chance at survival. My job sucks. My life is pretty boring. My normal life anyway. It's a life of safety and comfort. There's little risk of anything happening. Maybe that's why I do this. Or maybe it's something deeper.

Some kind of power trip. I don't know. I'm not in therapy. Breaking into houses is my therapy. Yes, I'm a criminal. But I'm not a career criminal. I work a 9 to 5 office job for a medical supply company. I'm 32 years old.

And I like to break into people's houses while they're away. Most of the time, I take a few little things, mostly souvenirs. When I'm feeling particularly dickish, I'll take some jewelry or something else of value. But I've never sold any of this stuff. As a matter of fact, I've returned several expensive items to their rightful owners by breaking back into their homes while they're gone. This isn't always possible, because most people beef up their security systems after a burglary. which is why I choose my targets carefully. Even after I've broken into a house, I won't rush my return.

I'll case the place, watching it like I've never been there before. It's safer that way. But this house, the McMansion, facing a quiet park on an even quieter street, is clearly empty and has been for some time. I don't mean empty as in no one lives there. I mean, they're gone. On vacation, or perhaps, staying in a second home somewhere. The newspapers on the front stoop in the overflowing mailbox tell me that.

These signs are among the first I look for when choosing a new target. In the digital age, many people don't get newspapers, but those that do are often older and more likely to forget that uncollected mail and papers are a burglar's wet dream. The house is two stories, but I'm fairly certain it has a basement. I count eight windows on the top floor and six on the bottom, probably four or five bedrooms. It looks like there's a living space over the garage, which would make five or six bedrooms. The house has white and gray stone veneer siding everywhere but around the front door,

which juts out from the house and is flanked by darker stone veneers. The peaked, stepped roof is dark gray, and the windows all have dark tree. The landscaping is typical of these types of houses, a few shrubs beneath the windows, and a single tree in the postage stamp-sized yard. The rest of the front of the property is dominated by a gigantic asphalt driveway, complete with a small turnaround abutting the front door. A small island of grass sits in the middle of the turnaround. After three nights of watching the house from across the park, I'm ready to go in.

The night I came, the night I spotted the place, I thought I saw some movement and the darkness at the left side of the house. For a moment, I thought some enterprising young burglar had beat me to it. But after a couple of hours of watching, I determined it was just my overactive imagination tricking me with shadows. I get out of my car, closing the door not too hard, but not too softly either. Like I'm a considerate neighbor who knows slamming doors at a left. 11 at night is rude. I'm dressed in workout clothes, running shoes, jogging pants, and a long-sleeved,

sweat-wicking shirt. I swing my small backpack on as I walk into the park. Anyone looking out of their house will see a guy going for a late-night workout in the park, pretending like I'm stretching and limbering up for a run. I look around at the other McMansions around the neighborhood. All I see are drawn shades over dark rooms. Perfect. It doesn't take me long to jog across the street and to the side of the house's garage. I try the window there, but it's locked. So I move back alongside of the house and jump the wood slate fence. There's a pool in the backyard, an automatic cleaner chugging along through the turquoise water. The second window I find is unlocked. Too easy, I think.

smiling to myself. It opens up into a dining room with a large rectangular oak table and matching chairs. The table is set with fancy silverware in China, but there's no food. It's all decorative. My guess is the family who lives here hasn't eaten off those dishes since Christmas. I close the window behind me and stand, listening. I can see the wide kitchen off to my right, the oven and microwave displays giving off an electric green glow. Through a doorway to my left, I can see a sliver of a couch and part of a fireplace, the living room. Confident there's no one nearby, I'm moved toward the kitchen.

Something clicks behind me, causing me to stop. Looking over my shoulder, I see nothing out of the place. Just the window I came through. Curtains carefully closed over it. Just like they were when I came. in. But the click was pretty loud. I could swear it didn't come from outside. Turning back toward the kitchen, a sense of unease starts to creep up my spine. I tell myself I'm being silly. I slink toward the kitchen, not yet willing to concede that the place is empty. The only reason

I haven't been caught yet is because I'm careful. There's a framed picture on a little built-in desk to my right as I step into the kitchen. It shows a smiling family of four. The mother and father look to be on their 40s, and the boy and girl look as if they're in their early teenage years. The backdrop for the picture is a lush green landscape. I wonder briefly where they've gone. They don't seem like the type to forget about newspapers and mail collection. They're certainly not old, and I'm honestly kind of surprised people their age still get physical newspapers. I shrug and move further into the kitchen. The thrill of being in someone else's house is in full swing, and I'm starting to get comfortable. As I pass by the microwave on my left,

I catch a glimpse of a man following, not even a foot behind me. Adrenaline dumps into my bloodstream as I jump forward and spin around all at once, crashing into the refrigerator as I do. There's no one there. Even though it was out of the corner of my eye, I know I saw a figure behind my reflection as I moved past. It was too dark to make out any details, other than the shoulder length, stringy hair, and the fact that he was a few inches shorter than me. But there's no sign of anyone in the kitchen. And if the house isn't empty, the racket I made hitting the fridge has given me away.

So I stay completely still, listening. I hear nothing to indicate there's anyone in the house with me. Again, I blame my overactive imagination. The other side of the kitchen has a wide doorway that leads to a hall, flanking the stairs to the second floor. I had down the hallway and look up the stairwell. Nothing but dark, empty house. No figures, no voices.

As I step onto the stairs, something moves behind me. This time, I know something's there. I can feel the air move, and I can hear a low rumble, like the beginning. beginnings of a growl. Thinking it's right behind me, I lunge up two more steps before turning and looking back. The thing lurking there is a jumble of shifting parts so grotesque and fluid that I have a hard time comprehending what I'm really looking at. I pick out an open mouth full of savage teeth,

a pair of reptilian eyes, and some kind of oozing wound. Limbs that look like they belong to monsters keep the creature upright as its body morphs and transforms in front of me, Releasing a low cry of despair, I run up the stairs and away from the monster. The stairs creak behind me as the creature follows. I duck into the first room I come to, slamming the door and locking it behind me. For a long moment, I hear nothing from beyond the door. It feels, once again, as if I'm in an empty house.

The room is at the front of the house. The curtains are drawn over two windows that overlook the street. There are a couple of chairs, a lamp, and a pair of bookshelves in the room. The carpet is thin, like the kind you'd find in an office building. Backing away from the door, my thoughts finally get some traction. Just as I'm about to turn to the nearest window, the room starts to shake. The walls crack, sending bits of wood out to pelt me as I struggle to keep my footing. These little bits of wood latch on to me, growing feet and stingers and pinchers.

Each looks like a cross between a spider and a scorpion. I frantically swipe them off as they try to crawl up to my face. Making it to the window, I throw the curtains open, seeing nothing but my own face looking back at me. But it's not my normal face. It's rotting. The skin peeling off, revealing raw and putrid-looking flesh.

I refuse to believe what I see in the mirror like glass. The room is still shaking, the wall still splitting open, as if to swallow me into the blackness being. into the blackness beyond. I try to ignore the growing void as I grab a golden floor lamp. I plan to break the window with it, but the floor bulges under my feet, sending me sprawling. The lamp falls just out of my reach, the shade crumpling and the bulb shattering. The room stills, the damage seeming to freeze. I look over my shoulder and see that the door to the hall is open. I know I locked it, but it's now open. A beast hunches in the door.

Our way against a backdrop of inky black. It's not the same creature that chased me up the stairs. Or if it is, it has changed into a different form. This one has a line of spikes up its spine. Its face seems to go in and out of focus. The pervading image, one of a gruesome countenance with large, swirling eyes and wide, wet slits for nostrils. The teeth in its mouth are sharp and translucent.

Its tongue hangs out, dripping sizzling saliva to the floor. floor. Its four legs are similar to those of a gorilla. If a gorilla's muscles bulged and writhed against its skin like snakes in a bag, its limbs end in appendages with bristling, dagger-like claws. The creature moves quickly into the room. I reach over my head for the lamp, knowing it's my only chance. I grab the lamp from the floor with both hands and twist around onto my back, thrusting it out the creature with all my might. With the bolt broken into a jagged circle of glass, The lamp shade has come off, which is lucky for me. The creature jumps chest first into the broken bulb at the end of the lamp.

Its momentum keeps it coming, but the heavy base of the lamp digs into the floor, causing the creature to fall to the side of me. I struggle up to my feet and yank the lamp away. The creature seems to pause, looking up at me with confused eyes. There's blood coming out of its chest, but I know the injury is far from mortal. Knowing I can't let the thing get up again,

I move forward and slam the back. and slam the base of the lamp down into its face. The creature cries out, sounding eerily like a man. It swipes at me again, embedding one of its claws in my leg just above the knee. I cry out in pain. And as I do, the creature transforms momentarily into a man, just a regular man with a smashed face and a bleeding chest. The image is barely there, like a single frame on a reel of film,

taking a fraction of a second to come and go. I don't even have time to think about this strange occurrence. If I don't end the creature now, it will surely get up and kill me. So I slam the base of the lamp into its face again and again and again until it stops moving. Breathing hard, I step back and look at what I've done and see the man again. The creature is gone. But this time, it's not a quick glimpse. No matter how many times I blink and shake my head, there's only a man there.

His face a mess of blood and bone. Blood soaks his grimy shirt from a wound in the middle of his chest. His left forearm also has a nasty wound that looks several hours old. I look around the room. The walls are now intact. So is the floor. There's nothing to indicate that anything I just experienced was real. From the looks of the scene before me, I just killed a man with a lamp.

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And, and profite. Villaray, the voice that we love I am. I look down at my leg, seeing there's a small kitchen knife sticking out above the knee.

Not a claw. A kitchen knife. What the hell did I do? I whisper. Staring at the dead man. None of it seems real to me. The only thing that makes me think this isn't a nightmare is the pain in my left leg. I reached down toward the black-handled kitchen knife, touching the skin around the wound, gingerly.

I wince at the pain, knowing I have to get out of this house into an emergency room. I can tell them I did it by accident, or that someone tried to mug me. Using the lamp as a crutch, I turned toward the door to head downstairs to leave this horrible house. behind. But as I walk into the hall, I see another creature waiting for me. It makes a snarling sound as it steps toward me, leathery wings, scraping against the walls and ceiling, burnt and bubbling skin covering its body. Yellow eyes stare out at me from under arched eyebrows and above a sneering mouth with elongated fangs. It continues its snarling as it moves toward me, almost hesitantly. I try to run. But the claw on my left leg sends a current.

of sickening pain through me. And as the pain causes me to grit my teeth, the demonic creature's snarling sound becomes garbled and turns into words. Not going to hurt you. I hear. The voice sounds like it belongs to a man. Looking over my shoulder at the thing,

I only see the demon. I only hear its terrible snarling. So I hop toward the stairs, keeping my left leg raised slightly. I use the lamp to keep my balance as I move. I come to the stairs. they've been transformed. They're no longer carpeted. Instead, they're made of rotting wood. There's a giant hole in the middle of them, leading down into darkness. Seeing that I have

no choice, I turn to face the demon. It has its hands held out in front of it, shimmering sharp claws reaching toward me, ready to fillet my skin. But something insistent whispers in the back of my mind, something about the pain, and the dead man in the room. Or was that a monster? And what about The words I heard as I put my weight on my left leg. I slam my left foot into the ground, the sickening pain washing through me. My instinct is to shut my eyes and pull my leg back up to get the weight off it. But I resist. The demon flickers, revealing a man in his earlier middle 20s.

His dark hair is matted with sweat, and he has wild-looking eyes. He holds his hands in front of him, palms out, as if to show he doesn't have a weapon. It's not real, he says. I'm not going to hurt you. What is this? I say, my voice tight with pain. Who are you? He smiles weakly.

You figured it out, man. Nice, nice. Just keep the pain going. Otherwise, it'll come back. It'll trick you. I look around, seeing the house as it was when I came in. The stairs are carpeted and intact again. It looks just like a normal upper middle class house.

Feeling myself getting woozy from the pain, I lift my foot up again. Don't do that, the man says, just before he turns back into a demon. The house morphs into a run-down haunted mansion. It's not real, I say. It's not real. But as the snarling demon steps toward me, I do think it's real. Like the memory of seconds ago is just washed away by the hallucination.

The demon lunges for me and grabs my leg, jostling the embedded claw. A throbbing agony sweeps through me. The claw is suddenly just a knife again, and the demon is back to a man. And my memory seemed to come back into stark relief. Don't let the pain stop, the man says. You can't remember. The house won't let you. The only way to see the truth is through the pain. How do you know?

I say, breathing hard and looking him over. I don't see any visible injury. My back, he says. I was in a car accident. I take heavy-duty pain killers. I took one before me and Miles came in here, left the rest in the car. I don't know how long ago that was, but the pill sure as hell wore off a while ago. So you're constantly in pain? I ask, thinking the wild look in his eyes makes sense.

Yeah, he says. Thank God, right? Now you're going to put your leg down, or should I hit the knife again? I swallow hard as I put my foot onto the ground and lean some of my weight on it. "'Who's Miles?' I ask. "'A pained look comes over his face.' "'The guy you just killed in that room.' "'I stand speechless for a moment.'

"'I—I thought he was—a monster, yeah. "'He thought you were one too. "'That's what this place does. "'I couldn't keep him in pain. "'I tried with that knife. "'But I couldn't be with him every single second. "'It was up to him to keep digging that knife into his arm. "'But when I went to try and find a knife,

way out for the tenth time. I guess he stopped doing it. Next thing I know, I hear you two fighting from down the hall. Christ, I say. So this isn't your house. What's your name? Name's Charles. What's yours? Troy, I say. Charles nods. This isn't my house, he says. We broke in just like you did. Look like a good spot to make some quick cash. Now I think it lures people like us in. Why? I don't know, so we can kill each other or die of fright. Is there anyone else here? I ask. Not that I've seen. No one alive anyway.

You've seen some dead people? Two, Charles says. One in the master bedroom, the other in the bathroom. They've been here for a while. Can't we just walk out the front door? You can try. It wouldn't open for me or miles. Same with the windows.

I'm guessing you came in through one of the downstairs windows? Yeah, I say, shifting my leg to keep the pain going. How did you know I was a burglar? Your clothes and the empty backpack, Charles says. Besides, there were pictures of the family all over the place. I nod, remembering the picture I saw down in the kitchen. Are they the people in the master bedroom? I don't know, could be.

But I haven't found any. kids, so who knows? I look around, thinking. I wonder if Charles is another hallucination. Maybe he's a trick, lying to me about not being able to get out of the house. I pull out my phone and look at it. No service. I search for a Wi-Fi signal I can piggyback on, but my phone isn't detecting any. That was one of the first things I tried, Charles says. I put my phone away. I'm going to break a window or a door or something, I say, moving over to the stairs. I leave the lamp behind and put as much weight as I can bear on my left leg as I move. Suit yourself. Just don't go into the basement.

I stop. Why not? Because whatever causes the hallucinations get stronger down there. I made it two steps down the stairs before I started losing it. And I described my pain as an eight. Then it's protecting something, I say, half turning on the stairs to look up at Charles. That's exactly where we should go. We won't be able to do anything if we start having hallucinations, Charles says. We'll be at its mercy. Well, if you're right, we can't even bust our way out of here. Then it's our best option.

It's going to take some serious pain to get down there with our minds intact, Charles says. I look up into his haunted eyes for a long moment before speaking. I'm going to try a couple of doors and a couple of windows. If it doesn't work, it won't, Charles interrupts. If it doesn't work, I continue. Then I'm going to try the basement. You coming or not? Charles turns to look back down the hall,

and I notice him wince and grab for his low back. Yeah, I'm coming, he says after a moment. Sorry, Miles. He whispers towards the bedroom, talking to the friend I killed. I swallow my guilt as he continues. Just loud enough for me to hear. I'll come back and burn this place down if I get out.

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The doors feel like they're sealed with cement. The windows feel as if they're made of steel. Everything I throw at them just bounces off, not even leaving a mark. My leg is now soaked in blood. And I'm starting to feel like like I'll pass out from blood loss soon. The basement is the only option. And we're not even sure if we'll find a way out down there. But if what Charles says is true, the house doesn't

want us to go down there. We stand at the top of the stairs, looking down into the dim basement. We each have tools found around the house on our hands and pockets. I flipped the switch and see the light down in the unfinished basement come on. The little bit I can see, looks like normal basement. But I doubt it will look like that for long. I turned to Charles and lift the hammer in my right hand. You ready? I say. Charles swallows hard, then nods. The pinky, he says, bringing his hand up and positioning his pinky on the door jam. I bring the hammer close and then pull it away, making sure my aim is true. Charles looks away. I swing the hammer down, feeling the pinky crunch with the impact. Charles yells out and yanks his hand away. He releases a stream of curses before

extending his right hand. I give him the hammer and position my own left pinky against the door jam. Do it, I say. The hammer crashes down, crushing my finger and separating it at the middle knuckle. It's a breathtaking pain. I move down the stairs quickly, wanting to use the pain as much as I can. Charles moved down beside me. I make it three steps before things begin to transform. Where the stairs once ended at a cement floor, they now end at a lake of blood. Large, slithering beasts move through the blood, waiting for me to get close.

I shake my head and reach down, pulling on my broken pinky finger. The sharp pain causes the images to flicker over the real basement. A look over at Charles tells me he's seeing them too. I yank the hammer away from him and hit his injured hand with it. He calls out, then blinks and looks at me.

Thanks. pull on the finger, I say, or use your screwdriver. Charles nods and pulls the screwdriver out of his front pocket. He used the tip to jostle his broken finger. We make it down a few more steps. The images continue to flicker as I use the hammer to hit my own broken finger. They get more powerful as I reach the bottom of the stairs. So I flip the hammer around and slam the claws into my pinky and ring fingers on my left hand. Between hits, I can feel whatever is causing this tugging at my mind, pulling reality away like a curtain I'm barely hanging onto by my fingertips. There's no time to check on Charles now. If I stop smacking myself with the hammer,

I'll surely succumb to the power of this horrible unreality. I just hope he can cause himself enough pain to keep up with me. There's a wall to the left, so I turn right at the bottom of the stairs. There are four figures in the middle of the open basement. Between each hit with the hammer. They look like terrible, hulking monstrosities with eyes all over their heads and snarling mouths all over their bodies. But clarity comes with pain, and I can see that they're the family who lives in the house. I recognize them from the picture upstairs, although they look enaciated now. Behind the four figures, seeming to emanate from a strange doll made of bones and clumps of hair, there's a swirling vortex about ten feet in diameter. Huge, fiery, eye.

float in the middle of the vortex, while a soup of tormented body swirls around behind it. Their screams barely audible. The vortex doesn't change with the pain. It remains there, while everything else around it flickers. The boy is the only one touching the small, skeletal doll. But the other three family members are arranged around him, each with a hand on him. They seem frozen, although I can see that their eyes, their real eyes, are open. Their faces are frozen in horror. I take two more steps forward, wondering where Charles is

and how he's doing. Then reality blinks out, and I'm left standing up to my ankles and blood, staring at four monsters, waiting for the swimming creatures to attack. No! I dropped the hammer, knowing it will no longer do me any good. I reach down and pull the knife out of my leg and then jam it back in at the same spot. It does the trick, but only for a second. I'm becoming number. I'm under the pain. I pull the knife out and stab it into my left hand, screaming as I do so. The blood at my feet disappears, and everything goes back to normal. I'm now five yards away from the family, but I have no idea what to do. I pull the knife out of my hand. Maybe if I... Something slams into me from behind, knocking me down. Reality blinks out, replaced by the hellworld.

I turn to see a demon drooling on me, its wings twitching behind it. The hell world wants to force its way into my brain, making me believe it's real. I resist, trying to raise the knife so I can stab myself. The demon, Charles, reaches out and pins my wrist to the floor. I jerk my head up, slamming it into the demon's face. Charles's eyes go wide as his nose breaks on my forehead. He scrambles away from me. I take the knife and stab my left hand again, keeping the real world in focus so I can stand up. I've lost too much blood, and I'm in too much pain to do any critical thinking, so I just limp toward the family, hoping I'll come up with a plan when I get there. Try!

Charles calls. I look over, seeing the hammer in mid-air as Charles tosses it to me. Without thinking, I pull the knife out of my left hand and catch the hammer with my four working fingers. The pain and the damaged hand is exquisite, just what I needed. I slammed the hammer down on the bone doll, shattering it with explosive force. The hammer crashes down on the boy's hand, making him release the part of the doll. still holding. The huge flaming eyes in the vortex widened while the churning body scream

out in an ear-splitting din. A hot, sulfur-stinking wind whips past me as the swirling vortex shrinks, growing more violent as it does. As it reaches the size of a bowling ball, the air around it seems to ripple with flames just before it explodes, sending me flying across the wound to crash into the side of the staircase. I open my eyes to see the four family members lying near me, dazed as they glance around. The boy holds his mangled hand to his chest, his eyes seeming to bulge out of his skull with pain, disbelief, or both. Charles is to my left, looking at me over his swelling nose.

He smiles a bloody smile. What day is it? The father asks, looking at us. What day? He looks like he hasn't eaten in a week. All of them do. As far as I know, it's Monday, September 13th. I tell him.

Thirteenth? Good God. We've been down here for nearly two weeks. Dad? I think my hand is broken. The boy says. The girl latches onto her mother, who holds her against her chest,

rocking and whispering to her. I pull out my phone and see that I have a strong signal. I'm going to order us a couple of ambulances. I say, No one's going to believe us, Charles says. Screw it. Better in the loony bin than dead of blood loss. I tell them,

Can't argue with that. I dial 911 and put the phone to my ear. It rings. Do me a favor, kid, I say to the boy, don't touch anything. The kid starts to laugh. Then his dad joins in. Then his sister and mother.

Pretty soon, we're all laughing like a bunch of lunatics. 911, what is your emergency?