Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - I Found Evidence of a Secret American Ritual. No One Will Talk About It... | Part 2

Episode Date: June 12, 2026

In 1985, America held a lottery no one was allowed to talk about — and the people chosen were not winners. Decades later, one forgotten ribbon leads to a secret the whole country buried: every day is a gift, but someone had to pay for it. Listen completely ad-free with a 7-day FREE TRIAL of Dr. NoSleep Premium: ⁠⁠⁠⁠patreon.com/drnosleep⁠⁠⁠ – Cancel anytime. No commitment. Are you still drinking that stale, store-bought coffee? Check out⁠ ⁠⁠NoSleepCoffee.com⁠⁠⁠ to get 20% off fresh, same-day roasted coffee delivered straight to your door. Just use promo code NOSLEEP20 at checkout for 20% off your first order! Huge thanks to our sponsors: BetterHelp: Sign up now and get 10% off at⁠ ⁠⁠⁠betterhelp.com/dns⁠⁠. Shopify: Sign up for your $1 per month trial today at ⁠shopify.com/dns⁠. Author:  Chase Shustack * * * 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 #creepypasta #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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Each episode pulls you into the hidden world of the SCP Foundation, where dangerous anomalies are studied, contained, and sometimes unleashed. These aren't just scary stories. They're classified nightmares. Click here to listen now or search for the SCP experience wherever you get your podcasts. For a week afterwards, since I got the package, I spent any free time I had, attempting to post my newfound evidence online. Somewhere, anywhere, to confirm that what I had received was real, and not part of some insane prank someone was pulling on me. I uploaded footage of the tape, as grainy as it was, to any video hosting site I could find. I must have made a dozen or so accounts for sites I've never even used in my life just to post the Polaroids. And everyone, quite literally every single one, was flagged for various offenses.

Inappropriate or violent content, shocking imagery, you name it. I was even banned from a few sites without being given any discernible reason. I was sitting on the couch on my laptop, dealing with tech support from one of these sites. when I got the phone call. It was my mother, and she sounded hysterical. She just kept telling me to come over immediately, that they needed to tell me something important. On the call, it sounded like my father was on a phone call with someone else,

but it was too muffled to hear what he was saying. Of course, I assumed that something terrible had happened. Another one of our loved ones might have died, or I would learn that one of my parents had just been diagnosed with something. I only thought these things on account of how panicked and upset my mother sounded. When I got to the house, I found my parents sitting in the living room. My father was on his recliner, and my mother was on the couch. From what it looked like, they had both been talking before I came into the room.

Beside my mother was a pile of used tissues, one of which she was wiping her eyes with, while my father sat stoically with his hands clenched on his lap. The only other time I had ever seen them act like this was when I came home from school when I was ten and I learned my grandmother had died. Mom? Dad? What's wrong? Did something happen?

No, no, everything's... My mother tried her best to sound reassuring. But I could hear her voice quiver as she spoke. Everything's fine. We just needed to talk to you. Talk to me about what? My father spoke next. He never looked up from his lap. We've heard you been asking questions about what you found in Uncle Joey's attic. For a split second, I wondered what they were talking about. The idea that they were this upset about America needs you, whatever that was, didn't even cross my mind at first. Is this about that charity thing? I asked.

How do you two even know about? Because we've been getting calls. My mother said, her voice muffling a choking sob. She said it with such stifled emotion that at the time, I was more concerned about her than what she had just said. Look, Al, we just need to talk to you about this. My father looked up, running a hand through his dark hair and exhaustion. I don't know what you've been doing, but we have to put a stop to it.

My mother motioned for me to sit. I sat beside her, watching as my parents rocked back and forth awkwardly, shamefully. There was a brief moment of stillness between the three of us before my father spoke up. Lucy, why don't you go in the other room? I know you don't want to talk about it. Al and I, we'll... We'll get things settled. I watched as my mother, stifling another sob before burying her face in her hands, quickly left the room.

She went up the stairs and disappeared into her room, the door slamming behind her as she did so. So... My father said slowly. I guess this all started when you found Uncle Joey's ribbons. Yeah, I guess so. But what does this have to do with anything? It means he took part in it. The big event.

America needs you. We all did it. But your uncle Joey had a special job. A special job? What? He organized a lottery, right? What's wrong with that? My father nodded solemnly.

He's a pretty big guy. Used to play running back in high school. But sitting there, he seemed like the... smallest man in the world. You'd have to understand, Al, that Uncle Joey was... It was a different time. We had to do it. It wasn't that we wanted to. Dad, I don't understand. What are you talking about? He swallowed hard, like he was swallowing something bitter in the back of his throat.

He took a deep breath and steadied himself in the chair. There's... Listen. You know I would not. would never lie to you. Your uncle only did what he had to do because there was no other way. So no matter what I say, you have to remember Uncle Joy was a good man and a bad situation. My father leaned back in his chair and he seemed to consider something on the ceiling, or on the floor, or on the wall, anywhere that wasn't looking directly at me. Back in the 80s, 1984, I should say, there was a big, ah, we'll call it an event. All over the country, not just here.

New York, Philly, Chicago, St. Louis. It was going on everywhere. We all had to do it, see? It was a kind of... You know what's like when everyone has to give a little bit? Like when your grandfather grew up during... the Second World War and everyone had to make a little sacrifice just to get by. He tapped his fingers on the armrest and a very faint, sad smile appeared on his face.

For a second, in the glint of the living room light, his eyes seemed to be welling up. It couldn't have been anyone else but Joey. I don't know why they made him do it. Part of the, uh, ritual, if you could call it that. It's a very, important thing we had to do. My father said it in such a way that it sounded childish, like a little boy who didn't fully grasp it himself. Everyone understood it at the time. Me, your mother, your uncle, your grandmother, all of us. Even if we didn't want to do it, someone still had to do it. Do what? Dad, you keep saying that, but you're not making any sense. My father took another labor to breath. He closed his eyes and wet his lips.

You got to understand how hard this is for people to talk about, Al. You don't live through something like what we did and not try to keep it down. Three thousand people had to be... He grimaced at the thought. We had to give them up. Make an offering, whatever you call it. Your Uncle Joey, he was put in charge of... organizing the lottery, going around getting names. He went from door to door, like a... A census taker.

We all tried to be really calm about it, calm as we could. Hell, we grew up with the draft, and that was just as normal as what he was doing, but... Offering? You mean, like a... My father nodded again, sucking air through his teeth. Starting a business always sounds exciting until you realize how many little things you suddenly have to figure out. We've experienced that firsthand with no-sleep coffee. Getting the idea was the fun part, but then came building the website,

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I don't know how many there were in the state, but we had 22. We knew about a quarter of them, men, women, kids. There was that Newberry kid, and he was about one and a half, so it counted still. I almost couldn't believe what he was telling me. The whole idea sounded completely absurd. My father, the man who never genuinely lied to me throughout my entire life, was sitting here

and telling me that he and my family participated in some kind of secret national human sacrifice. I had never known my father to lie, and I had never known him to start crying the way he did. We held it at the old high school, the one with the big open courtyard. It was in the middle of March, but God damn, it was so cold and dark. We had a big bonfire going, about 30 or 40 feet up, and I was in charge of, well, helping the others pile the wood on. I remember we all gathered around everyone, and we just started grabbing them. They were all drugged up, painkillers we put in the wine beforehand.

so they didn't really do anything aside from kind of squirm a bit. We thought it'd make it easier, I guess. My father let out a throaty sob, the kind that boils up in your throat and comes out as a single frog-like gurgle. God damn, it was so cold. I was standing right by the fire, adding the wood on, and I felt like I was freezing.

The sky was... It wasn't dark like you'd think night would be, but it was this dark, shimmering purple. It was only five, and you'd have thought it was midnight. I looked up, and all I could see were the sparks and the embers, flying up into the swirling violet sky. Every time they... I mean, we threw the bodies onto the pile.

There'd be more embers, and I'd hear these dull moans. Then there was that god-awful chanting. At that, my father completely broke down. He put his head in his hands and he cried. I had only seen my father cry a handful of times throughout my life up until this point, mainly at funerals, where it was permitted to let out a few tears and get yourself choked up. This was different. This was complete, unrestrained emotion he was showing.

I could see the way the tears spilled through the webs of his fingers, The sound of labored breathing and coughing you make when you're so focused on crying, your body can't breathe correctly. He still kept talking. Though from what I could make out, it seemed like he was just recalling details at random, like how a trauma victim recalls an accident. Vinnie from up the road carried that old woman. She just kept saying the Lord's prayer over and over.

The wind got so loud, but the fire never went out. I hit another guy with the axe because he tried to get up. Dad, dad, calm down, please. You're starting to worry me here. Al, you don't understand. Your mother and I, we try not to let it get to us. He sobbing tears from his red eyes. God, it gets to you.

We knew he had to do it. They told us it was important, and it would keep them away for another. He choked again. It was so horrible, but it had to be done. Everyone had to do it in every town and every state. But no, none of that happened. You're sitting here and telling me you, mom and Uncle Joey, were involved in, what, a human sacrifice? One that everyone knew about and just never mentioned before.

How am I supposed to sit here and believe that? My father stood up, wiped his face. and then walked out of the room. He disappeared down the hallway, going into what I presume was the storage room for all our Christmas decorations and miscellaneous junk. There was the sound of boxes shuffling and being moved around, followed by papers rustling, before my father returned, holding an envelope in his hands.

It was the same kind of envelope I found in my uncle's attic all those weeks ago, yellow, worn, and stamped with the exact same logo I'd seen. on the officer's badge. Two swords crossed over an American flag. Here, my father said as he handed me the envelope. I got this a few days after it. March 15, 1985, from the office of the governor. To Mr. and Mrs. Clark, it is with a heavy heart and deep gratitude that we thank you for your service during America needs you. Your role is ritual attendant.

not only served as a beacon of inspiration and courage, but also ensured the completion of a successful event. Your efforts, as well as the hard work and sacrifice of your fellow citizens, have ensured that future generations will be able to continue to grow and prosper in this great nation of ours. Rest assured that your actions will not go unrewarded. You and your loved ones can enjoy a new era of peace and prosperity in a nation that is stronger, healthier, and more united than ever.

We wish you nothing but the best, and remind you to consider every day to be a gift. Respectfully, Governor James Blanchard. This is real, I said, still believing that this was some kind of cruel hoax everyone was pulling on me, that at any moment my father would burst into laughter and slap me on the back, ridiculing me about the look on my face. Instead, he slouched back into his chair with that same teary-eyed look of defeat and exhaustion. I don't know why I kept it. I meant to throw it out all those years ago. Maybe I kept it as a way to remind me of what happened. I...

Listen, I'm still not sure what this is all about. Jesus, how come I've never heard of this before? What are you? You and mom. The ringing of the phone in the kitchen caught me off guard. My father, who I think was looking for any reason not to continue the painful conversation we were having, quietly left the room to get it. Hello? Yeah. Yeah, he's here. I, no, I understand. Of course. Of course. I'll, yes, yes. I'll tell him right away. Thank you. Thank you. He slammed the phone back down onto the receiver, and he turned to look at me. His eyes were red and still wet with heavy, salty tears.

You have to go home, Al. Who was that? It was no one, but you have to go home. Now. Dad, I'm not going anywhere until you explain to me what the hell is going on here. You and Mom call me up and you get all weird and paranoid on me? Then you want me to leave? I...

My father cut me off with a deep hug. He squeezed as tight as he could, like he was trying to protect me from something by shielding me. His tears ran hot as they dripped down onto my neck. We'll have to go home, Al. He whispered weakly into my ear. Please. He pulled away, padded me on the shoulder,

and then walked back upstairs without a word. I would have tried to follow him, yell at him. Beg him for an explanation as to what was going on. Maybe I should have. But the way he looked at me, that look of exhaustion and fear that he gave me before he climbed back up those stairs, told me that it wouldn't be worth it. I couldn't go up and shake my parents, my own mother and father, down for information like some kind of thug.

So I left. I walked out of their house, got into my car, and drove home. home on autopilot. This spring, denim gets a softer, lighter update. Introducing Old Navy's drapey denim wide leg, a new fit that moves with you. It's everything you want denim to feel like for summer. Easy, breathable, and effortlessly cool. With a fit that creates natural movement and a wide leg that feels modern, not overwhelming.

Plus, that signature, wait, for this price? Moment. Old Navy's drapey denim wide leg. My thoughts still tanked. in everything I'd seen and heard. I didn't notice the headlights that stayed just far enough back to blend into the night. I didn't notice them pull over when I did, and I definitely didn't notice the second set of footsteps, perfectly matching my own, until I was already climbing the steps to my front door.

And I never noticed when the person who'd followed me inside raised a hand from behind. Only the sudden, crushing blow to the back of my head, and then nothing at all. at all as I collapsed onto my living room floor. How I got to where I was, I have no idea. In fact, where I found myself after I woke up was still a mystery. The only thing that I knew, except for a splitting headache and a feeling of blood dripping down my nose, was that I wasn't anywhere close to home. The darkness and smell of stale water in the room made me think that I was in a holding cell somewhere. I had woken up, Only because I felt two men grabbing me in the dim light, and perhaps I was still woozy from the blow,

I couldn't recognize them right away. They were huge and burly, their outfits, a dark camo green. I was picked up under each arm and carried down what I hazily remember was a long hallway. Every so often, one of them would shake or slap me awake, presumably to make sure I was awake for what happened next. A door was opened, and the men guided, or more accurately dragged me by my heels, into a brightly lit room. So bright in fact, that my groggy eyes went totally blind for a minute or two. I was sat down on a steel chair in front of a bare metal table.

I wasn't alone in the room as, sitting across from me, was a man dressed in a military uniform. It looked impressive. The left side of his chest was covered in medals and honors, with the right side having a single silver pin, two swords crossing the flag. He looked at me up and down, laughing dryly as they slumped me into the chair. Well, seems like we finally get to see who our troublemaker is.

He laughed, though not with any genuineness. You know, it's not every day we have someone as young as you asking questions about America needs you. Usually it's older folks, 40s and 50s, who we got to take care of. But I guess with computers nowadays, anything's possible. Who are you? Where am I? I said, focusing on trying to stay coherent. What did you do to me?

The man in the uniform waved his hand. Son, you've been causing a bit of a stir poking around, asking questions, posting some... pleasant things. We thought we ought to nip this little problem in the bud before things get out of hand. Can't have you stirring up some bad memories for everyone like you did your parents. Huh, Al? How did you know my name? I'm going to give you a history lesson, son. The man in the uniform said, sitting forward in the chair, tempting his fingers. Do you know what this country was built on? Sacrifice.

genuine, selfless, all-American willingness to give up everything to make sure the people you love, the country you love, get a better future. Sacrifice has been in America's blood for as long as it's been around, before even the founding fathers drafted the Constitution and declared us the greatest country on earth. The Indians, they sacrificed. So did the Pilgrims when they landed here in the 1600s. The Pilgrims told all kinds of stories. Pits full of skeletons about 20 feet deep and 10 feet across.

Apache legends about throwing pregnant women off cliffs. Hell, Lewis and Clark wrote to Jefferson that they were tribes so depraved they mounted the hearts of boys on spikes so their maize could grow better. Of course, we thought we were better men than them at the time. time. We were advanced, intelligent people. But there was only so much even we could do. You can't just stake your claim in a country like this without showing a little bit of appreciation. Some might even call it showing respect, tipping your hat sort to speak. The Indians might have been a bunch of god-awful savages, but they understood the land better than us at the time.

He paused for a moment, seeming to consider something. He turned back to me and pulled a cigarette from his chest pocket. He offered me one, but he didn't take it. As he lit the cigarette, the man pointed to the American flag in the corner. Could you even imagine how hard it was to build a country like this? Out of nothing but sweat, blood, and dirt? Sure, we had tougher boys back then. A stronger will, you could say.

But we aren't Superman. Harsh winters, droughts, floods, infighting. These things either make or break a nation. I must have accidentally dozed off at that point because I felt a stinging pain across my cheek. I snapped awake to see him glaring down at me, like a teacher catching a student nodding off in class. Once he was sure I was awake, the man continued.

Our forefathers, or maybe my forefathers, came over in 1901 from Ireland. They studied what them Indians used to do when times got tough. Granted, they didn't jump into all the spiritual bullshit right away, mind you. They studied their agriculture, their tactics against wild animals and harsh weather, their rituals, their rites. When things become dire, right around 1784, Then it was decided. What do you mean? Decided.

Another slap on the face. I had probably taken on an attitude without realizing it. We did the first event. That's what we did. 150 Americans, men, women, children, whoever was selected. The early selection method was crude, something with colored stones and the census list. But they managed to make it work. There was some of the usual complaints about it.

Grumble. People refused to give up their kids or their spouses or whoever. But the results spoke for themselves. Another slap. Maybe this time just because he wanted to. With that first drawing of blood way back then, the pact was sealed. He spoke as if he was reading the terms of a contract. the cigarette hanging loose from his lips.

Every hundred years, the United States will offer up its own flock in exchange for another hundred years of strength and prosperity. Once in 1785, another time in 1885. I'll tell you, we kind of needed that one with the Civil War. And, as you guessed it, in 1985. The number has grown exponentially. since the colonists stoned to death a few hundred folks, sure. We've got better methods now.

Faster, more efficient. Sometimes, if we need a little extra insurance, a little something to sweeten the deal. We offer smaller sacrifices here and there. 1999 around the start of the new millennium. 2001 in New York. And every so often around election season when, but, but, why didn't you?

anyone here about this before? I stammered, instinctively flinching to prepare for another slap. At this, the man in the uniform paused. He stood quiet for some seconds, maybe considering his answer before he spoke. We did a good cover-up job. How do you think it'd look if we had in the history books? America got it start making sacrifices to corn gods and river people. It'd be a damn fine spit in the face of mom. God, an apple pie, wouldn't it? He shook his head. But if we're being honest,

I don't think we hide it just because it's a dirty little secret. We hide it because people are ashamed. They're guilty. Guilty? Yes, guilty. Visit BetMGM Casino and check out the newest exclusive. right fortune pick. BetMGM and Game Sense remind you to play responsibly. 19 plus to wager. Ontario only. Please play responsibly. If you have questions or concerns about your gambling or

someone close to you, please contact connects Ontario at 1-866-531-2,600 to speak to an advisor, free of charge. BetMGEMGEMD operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming, Ontario. What's your witnessing, son, is the mass reaction of a few million Americans who remember that once upon a time each of them participated in the sacrifice of their fellow citizens. Some of them carried it out themselves. Some of them helped round up people. Some just stood by and let it happen. Could you imagine what that would do to their psyche?

What kind of country would we be able to have if every single person walking around burst into suicidal fits at random? How? Some of it was opioids. He let out a dark chuckle. Why do you think the crack epidemic skyrocketed in the 80s the way it did? But I'd honestly say most of it was just plain old American... Er... moxie.

The ability of every American to understand that either they all acknowledge what they did together and face the consequences, Or they just piped down and go on with life like nothing happened. You wouldn't believe the things people would do just to not confront themselves. The man put out his cigarette in the ashtray before sitting down in front of me. Horrible as it was, it was worth it. You might think we sound cruel talking about it so casually. But believe me when I say that if we don't do it, The outcome would make us wish we did.

I still don't understand. What outcome? What is this all for? Son, let me just say that the help our forefathers called for, the things them Indians used to dance for and cut the scalps of their enemies for, they're in the mountains, trees under the Great Lakes. The cornfields of Nebraska to the Rocky Mountains and the mesas of the Mojave. What? Ghosts? Aliens? No. His voice dropped to a low, gravelly whisper. Different things. I'm not sure what you'd call him.

But they've been here longer than you, me, or the Indians. But... But... I swallowed hard, tasting blood in the back of my throat. My cheek stung from the slaps and the pain in my head refused to go down. Oh, God, you're probably going to kill me after this? Take me out back and shoot me. The man in the uniform burst into laughter. Ha! You'd think so, wouldn't you? But it doesn't matter whether you live with it or not. There are people in this country who know exactly what happened,

and they'd rather blow their own brains out that even talk about it. It's not exactly top secret information. Just something no one brings up to be polite. light. The, then what did you bring me here for? To let you know that we're watching you, son. The USRDS has eyes and ears in every computer, phone, camera in this country. We know your address, the address of your parents, where you work, what you do when no one's

home. We know you, Alan. We can follow every step you make, whether it's physical. or digital. Now we don't care a damn whether or not you know all about America needs you or whatever name we called it back then. He leaned in, close enough that I could feel the heat of his lips on my nose. His chiseled, square face looked immense in the dim light. His eyes were small and dark, but they pierced into mine with such intensity I thought they would drill into my Sockets.

But if you keep causing trouble like you were, then we'll have another volunteer for what we need done. Are we clear? Yes. Are we clear? Yes. Yes. We're clear. We're clear.

The man pulled back. Good. I'm glad we understand each other. He walked over to an intercom on the wall and buzzed it, speaking into it loud enough so that even I could hear. Boys, get them out of here. We're through with them. Two large men dressed in dark fatigues came in, scooped me up under both of my arms,

and dragged me from the room. I was led back down the windowless hallway. But rather than going back to that small dark room, I was instead led through a door and into a parking lot. Once outside in the warm spring dawn, I was surprised to see that I was in the lot of my local police station. I was even more surprised to see my parents, standing there, next to their car waiting for me.

The men tossed me at their feet, like a rag doll they were no longer amused with. My mother quietly helped me into the car, while my father spoke to the men. What they spoke about, I don't remember, but I remember the tone of their voices, pleading, whimpering like children begging forgiveness for something they had done wrong. It was a type of pleading that comes from someone who knows they've done something terrible beyond terrible, and wanted some form of mercy shown to them. A mercy they knew they could never get, nor did they deserve. The drive back to my home was uneventful. I laid in the back, shivering and aching while my mother and father rambled in between quiet sobs up front. Their

grown son confused and dazed while they tried to maintain some form of normalcy to bury all this unpleasantness behind them. In the backseat I looked up, seeing the sun crest over the rolling tree line like a great column of fire, catching the tips of the trees on fire, and breaking apart the last remnants of the night, cleaving apart purple clouds with streaks of baby blue and crimson. The silhouettes of birds glided on their bellies across the emerald green lush that spread for miles and miles like a well-trimmed lawn, with the air sweetly smelled. of the last of the late blooming flowers and fresh dew that hung in the warm, gentle wind. God, I thought to myself, what a beautiful sight.

If I could kill to keep this sight, I would too. I stumbled out of the car up toward the door of my home. My mother said something to me, or at least I believe she did. I didn't hear what she said anyway. I passed my car, parked just where I left it, and walked into my living room. The Polaroids and the VHS tape were nowhere in sight. Everything looked exactly as I had left it.

No signs that anyone had been in my house. No signs it had been ransacked. And nothing that would indicate anything unusual had ever been seen here. But as my tired, aching body fell shaking and cold under the couch, I noticed something sitting innocently on my coffee table. A small sticky note. No bigger than the kind you'd wear on your shirt or jacket. Every day is a gift, Alan.

America needs you. 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.