Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - I won a cursed lottery and the prize is not what I expected...

Episode Date: March 28, 2022

🎧 Check out The SCP Experience podcast here: https://spoti.fi/3zCFjQc 🎉 Ad-free episodes + bonus episodes: https://www.patreon.com/drnosleep 🎥 YouTube: https://youtube.com/c/DrNoSleep �� Send all advertising inquiries to: [e-mail] Author: Jordan Grupe Check out more of his work here: https://www.reddit.com/user/Jgrupe/ DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content. Parental guidance is advised for children under the age of 18. Listen at your own discretion. #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #truescarystories #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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We're running out of time and we still don't know the rules. Don't miss what the movie blog calls something you need to watch. Saving those children is how we all go home. From Binge All Episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. In the moment I bought the lottery ticket, it didn't feel right. I never spent money on lottery tickets and thought they were a waste of money. But a sign on the street corner caught my eye when I was walking home from work one day. Community lottery. Money raised goes to a good cause. Current jackpot, $2,234,423.

I was intrigued for some reason. It was a lot of money, and I didn't imagine a lot of people were playing, since it looked like a small operation. I went inside, and a small old man with a fine mustache stood behind the counter. The store looked a little rough inside. The paint was peeling for the from the walls and the shelves were half bare. It smelled a bit like mildew and spoiled meat. The shopkeeper smiled at me warmly as I walked up to the counter, the light dancing in his eyes behind his round spectacles. He wore a distinctive black suit with gold cuffs and collar. Welcome, welcome.

What can I do for you? He said in a friendly tone. I saw your sign outside and wanted to buy a few tickets for the lottery, I said. Of course, of course. All money raised goes to a good cause. $2 for one, $5 for three. $10, get you seven tickets. How many you want?

He was pulling out a crisp stack of tickets. Their faces appeared to have been inked by hand. But that wasn't possible, considering the size of the jackpot, I thought. They had to have been stamped. Yet, each one looked unique and different. They weren't numbered. They looked like Rorschach. tests, each one with a unique black blotch of ink. I was feeling lucky. I told him I would take

as many as $50 would get me. There wasn't a price break past $10, so I ended up with 35 tickets. I flipped through them, amazed at how different each of them was. Good luck. Remember all money raised goes to a good cause. The man's face was bemused. His mouth turned up at the corners into a little smile. Anything I should know? How do I find out if I won? I asked the man. His brow wrinkled.

His face looked annoyed by this question. I've never played this lottery before. It seems a bit strange. Someone will tell you if you win. Don't worry, he said cryptically. I didn't understand how they would find me. But he refused to take any of my information. I left the store feeling like I had been ripped off.

$50 for a handful of black and white tickets, with cool designs on them didn't seem like a very good deal. I was experiencing buyer's remorse for the first time in years as I walked home. I was usually very frugal. I couldn't help but wonder what had gotten into me. A week later, someone came to my door. It was another old man wearing the same black suit, trimmed with gold as the shopkeeper. He was holding a ticket with a black abstract pattern on it, like a Rorschach test. He didn't say a word.

He just held up the piece of paper and stood there, smiling. The black splotch looked like a devious little monkey, and I recognized it immediately. I ran upstairs, excited, and grabbed the stack of tickets. I shuffled through them and found one that matched. I made a high-pitched yell of excitement. I was rich. I waved the ticket with the monkey ink splotch on it above my head and danced. I had never won anything before in my life.

I couldn't believe it. I brought the whole stack of tickets down with me just in case, but kept the monkey one separate. I showed it to the shopkeeper, and he smiled, nodding his head. He took out a check from his pocket and handed it to me. He swiftly walked away. It was a check for $2,200. Furious. I tried to contain my anger.

I ran in front of the man and cut off his hasty escape. He looked surprised. I told him the sign had said the prize was over $2 million. $2,200 was a long way away from that. Money goes to a good cause. You are not a good cause. You take $2,200 and be happy, the man said. I couldn't believe my ears.

His smile had faded, and he looked very seriously. now, as if I had broken some unspoken contract. I thought of the man's words. All money raised goes to a good cause. I hadn't even bothered to ask the name of the charity. Listen, if you try to screw me here, I will come after you guys for false advertising. I see what you're trying to pull. I won this thing fair and square. Now give me what's mine, I told him, gritting my teeth. I had never been a greedy person. But the idea of... of $2 million that was rightfully mine being taken from me, rubbed me the wrong way, and brought out a very bad side of me. I had already mentally begun to spend the money and

felt robbed and cheated. If I wanted to give some of it to their charity, that was my decision to make. A greedy and unfamiliar little monster's voice set inside my head. He furrowed his brow. His eyes looked sad for a second. But he reached into his pocket and pulled out another check. He put the other one away and handed me this one instead. The amount written on it was $2,234,423. I jumped up and down, giddy with delight. When I opened my eyes again, the man was gone. I couldn't believe my luck. I had thought I would only get half that amount at the very most after some negotiating. No one contacted me to ask if I wanted to have my picture taken with a big cardboard check and I was a bit disappointed, but I decided I wouldn't let

it bother me. I had over two million dollars to spend on whatever I wanted. No one called to ask me to donate a portion of it to the organization's charitable cause, but I just assumed they would send something by mail. First things first, I thought, and called my job. I quit without notice, playing punk rock on my laptop as I did so. singing, Take this job and shove it, out loud as the music played in my ear. I sang the lyrics to my manager, letting him know, I ain't working there no more. My boss was furious, but I just hung up on him. Holiday and Cambodia came on the playlist next, and I listened to the furiously jovial tones of Jello Biafra with a big smile on my face as I lay on the couch. It felt good to be in

charge of my own destiny for once, or so I thought. I went to the bank to deposit the check. After talking to managers for a while, they made a phone call and confirmed the check was real. They told me it would take a little while to clear and said I would have to wait a week or two to spend any money. I sat around my apartment for a couple weeks playing video games, watching old movies, and enjoying the unemployed lifestyles of the soon-to-be-rich and famous. Finally, the bank called and said I could play with my cash. The manager tried to tell me something else, but I hung up on him before he could waste any more of my time. The guy's voice was dry and boring, and suddenly I had no attention span for boring.

After a lifetime of normality, I was ready to have some fun. I went to the BMW dealership first. I had always wanted one and decided I would treat myself to an M5. They obliged, and I burnt rubber out of the car lot, watching their surprised faces as I drove away. The car had a lot of torque and was tough to control due to my lack of experience with high-performance vehicles. I didn't let that bother me, though, and gunned it down main roads until the cops pulled me over and gave me a hefty speeding ticket. The price of it didn't bother me, but the points against my license did.

I already had a couple recent speeding tickets from prior to. infractions, and the cop told me with this most recent mistake, I would need to go in front of a judge to plead my case for why I should keep my license. I bit my tongue and tried not to scream at him. My license would be revoked for up to six months if the judge decided I didn't need it that bad, or if I wasn't remorseful enough. I tried not to worry about it too much, but two weeks later, my license was revoked. The judge didn't like my attitude, apparently. To get the bad taste of that experience out of my mouth, I contacted a real estate agent. I was in the market for a house, I told her.

Something big with a pool, the greedy little voice inside me said. She showed me a few options, and I settled on the nicest one of the bunch. It cost a cool million, but it was worth it. I spent another day shopping and filled the house with top-of-the-line electronics, comfortable leather furniture, a pool table, a Pac-Man vintage tabletop game, and outfitted the back deck with a gigantic Weber Barbecue grill. After all that shopping, I gave some money to friends and family who began to hound me for cash, to help them pay down debts and to replace aging and broken down vehicles.

They had always been good to me, so I felt guilty saying no. I had some student loan debt, so I wiped that out with a sigh of relief as well. I had a terrible feeling when I logged onto my bank account and realized how much I had spent. I knew I was no longer a millionaire, but was surprised to see the balance was $655,573.253. I had spent two-thirds of the money in three weeks, but at least I had a sweet ride and a great house to show for it, I thought. I made a mental tally of all the things I had purchased and tried to make myself feel better, but couldn't. I felt empty and hollow inside, suddenly. I couldn't understand the feeling and tried desperately to get rid of it. I took a trip to

Hawaii. I got sick the day I arrived with a virus that doctors couldn't figure out. My travel insurance covered the hospital bills for the most part, but the vacation was a bust. I came home a month later after spending all that time in the hospital. I hadn't even been to a beach while I was on my trip. I was so sick I couldn't spend more than 10 minutes out of bed. Wounds and bed sores developed all over me, and my skin became paper thin from the steroids the doctors prescribed to try to fight the illness. I got a cut on my foot the day I got home, and it stubbornly refused to heal. It wouldn't even stop bleeding and quickly began to be. infected. I ended up in the hospital again, this time, in an isolation room, as my wound picked

up another infection. It was resistant to antibiotics. Perfect, I thought, just one more thing. What else could go wrong? I started to regret, not just keeping the check for $2,200. I was beginning to get the feeling my life perhaps would have been better if I had. This all felt like a punishment, The greedy voice inside me told me I was wrong, but I didn't trust it. My friends and family abandoned me and stopped visiting. I had become stingy with my remaining money, and they resented me for it. They said I had changed, that I was greedy and indifferent to them. All I wanted was to keep some of the wealth as a nest egg, I told them.

Was that so bad? I was finally discharged from the hospital. I had lost 70 pounds and was emaciated and weak. I could barely walk and just getting out of bed exhausted me. When I got home, I tried to enjoy my big house, but it was too large to get around. I was weak for my long hospital stay. I had to get a nurse and a personal support worker to help me bathe and do housework. I had no strength left suddenly and felt used up and hopeless.

I was afraid to look at my bank account now. The money in there was no good. It was toxic. One night lying in bed, restless, as I wriggled and squirmed, trying to find a way to ignore the pain from a bed sore. I decided I should give the money back. Something told me that was the only way to fix things. I sold the house and brought the BMW back to the dealership.

After selling everything else of value, I ended up with around $1.8 million back in my bank account. I felt like I needed to return the rest as well, but was in no stay to do any physical labor in order to make money. It would probably take 20 years to save up the amount I needed to pay it all back, I thought. I prayed the men in black and gold would forgive me and return my life to normal somehow. I called each member of my family and told them more or less, what I planned to do, fudging the details only slightly. I said I planned to give all the money to charity. I thought they would be angry, but everyone told me I was making the right decision. They said

the money had changed me, and certainly not for the better. I made my way back to the little shop the next morning with the help of my support worker. He drove me there and helped me inside in my wheelchair. The man at the counter was not the same, and my heart dropped. immediately. He was dressed in a white t-shirt that said Florida on it and blue jeans. He spoke in a twangy southern drawl. And when I asked about the lottery, he said he had no clue what I was talking about. We got all kinds of scratchers, if that's what you're after, he said, pulling out the scratch and wind tickets from beneath the plastic countertop. I shook my head and thanked him for his time. We left the shop, and I realized I had no clue what to do next.

I knew I had to give the money back, but how would I find the men in the black suits with gold trim? I stopped a woman walking by and asked if she knew the people who owned the shop before, the ones who ran the community lottery. The woman shrugged and said she had lived there for years, but had never heard of such a thing. I looked around and saw the street looked worse than it had the day I bought the ticket a couple months before. The people looked sadder. The buildings were dirtier and looked in disrepair.

Cars on the street belched thick gray smoke and rattled over potholes. Homeless people clustered on a corner where a little shanty was erected. Windows were boarded up and abandoned storefront windows were smashed, left unrepaired. The broken glass littered the sidewalk. I went home, anxious and upset. I needed to find the men in black suits with gold trim. It was the only way to get my life back, I thought. In my motel room that night, I lay in bed, cold and scared. It didn't seem to matter how many blankets I put on. I could never seem to stay warm. I had never put back on any of the weight I had lost. In fact, I lost more every week. I could never. I could have been. I could never be able to stay warm. I could never put back on any of the weight I had lost. I had lost more every week. I could didn't keep food down and had never-ending nausea. I thought I had cancer, but all the tests came back negative at the hospital when I was there. Still, it felt like something horrible was festering and growing inside of me. The greedy little monster voice was always there in my head, but I now ignored him and his awful desires. Still, he whispered to me constantly,

The greedy thing inside you will eat you up. A voice said, said from the shadows in the corner of my dark room. The clock on my bedside table said 3.23 a.m. I tried to call for help, but my voice came out as a strangled whisper. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. The light danced in the eyes of the man in the shadows, although there was no light in the room to be reflected. I saw him step forward out of the darkness. His smile was bemused, still barely visible. You should have kept your winnings when they were offered, he said. I'm sorry.

I managed tears streaming down my face. What can I do? I want to give it back. Let me give it back. You have all of it? He asked, with the sly and knowing look in his eyes that said he knew I didn't. I tried, but I have most of it. Over 1,800,000.

I, please. Take it back. I don't want it. My words sounded pathetic to my own ears, but I didn't care. I only hoped he would accept. He didn't. You must give it all back. The horde must be whole to tip back the scales, so they rest even once again, he said. Oh, just tell me what to do and I'll do it.

I pleaded with him desperately. There are many ways to make a dollar. Find one of them. Then do it again. and again until it's whole again. His face looked a little gleeful. The bastard was enjoying this. I can't.

Don't you understand? It's impossible. I'll die before I can make ten dollars. I was angry, but tried to plead once more with him. There must be some other way. Please. I'll do anything. Anything.

My voice came out of whisper. Well, the man said, playing with the corners of his fine mustache. You have one other option, although you may not like it. The next day, I went to the address where the man had told me to go. I walked in, and they gave me a hospital gown, although this was no hospital. I was directed to lie flat on a cold steel table and was told the doctor would be in shortly. The man who came in was wearing black scrubs with gold trim.

He introduced himself as Dr. Gold. An assistant came in next. An older woman in glasses dressed the same. She said her name was Nurse Black. They told me what would be done. And I said that would be fine. Whatever I had to do to get my life back, I would do it. They explained they no longer had an anesthesiologist.

He had paid his debt. So I would be awake for the procedure. They scrubbed large swathes of my body with a disinfectant that turned my skin pink. Then they began to cut. The scalpel left a red trail of blossoming blood wherever it went, and soon the stuff was everywhere. Nurse Black mopped it up calmly with clean towels, wiping the sweat from Dr. Gold's brow every so often.

I screamed and wept. I gnashed my teeth and pounded my fists into the hard steel table as they reached into my body, severing arteries and veins and pulling out slippery blood-soaked organs which shone like rubies in the bright light of the overhead lamp. I passed out after they cut off a portion of my lung when I felt like I could suddenly no longer breathe. The doctor looked around with wide eyes for a moment,

as if he'd made a bad mistake. I woke up once more and wished I hadn't. What I saw should not have been seen. The price of my organs on the body of my organs the black market didn't quite cover the cost of my mistakes, Dr. Gold said as my eyes fluttered open. His words were fading in and out. I nodded my head when he asked me a question, though I didn't understand it. He handed me a pen and I took it in my shaking hand. I remember signing something, but didn't read what it said. I wish I could tell you things worked out

for me. I really do. And maybe they will someday. I only wish they'd told them told me what a crappy rate people pay for black market organs. I would rather have had my kidney and my left eye than $20,000 wiped from my debt. I have to pay the rest back in labor anyways. At least they pulled that little monster out of me, kicking and screaming. A tiny, inky black monkey made of greed and hate, screeching and howling as it dug its claws into my belly in a futile effort to stay inside me, to destroy me. It's the last thing I saw before the world went dark.

Maybe one day I'll get to work behind a counter somewhere, selling tickets. But for now, I'm only tasked with inking them. Each blotch of ink has to be distinctive and different. And there's thousands, millions of tickets to make. They don't give us breaks either. We live at our desks, receiving whips to the back from a cat of nine tails when we fall asleep or slow down. They have IVs hanging from the ceiling, full of vitamins and amphetamines, which infuse into

us all day long as we hunch over our desks. I'm told the cost of the fluids and amphetamines are added to our debt every day, and that it just keeps growing and growing. But that's just a rumor. No one gets to see their balance. People disappear sometimes, and we hope they paid their debt and didn't just die of exhaustion. I look ahead and see rows of people, puttering away at their desks, fading into the distance. This warehouse, or whatever it is, it's enormous.

There are thousands of us here, all dressed in black with gold cuffs and collars. Someone smuggled in this phone the other day. We've been discreetly passing it around, making fruitless efforts to contact the outside world. So I decided to use it to tell my story and to plead with you, to beg you, please help, send money. Lazzang sur-gillet, puissance-molyne,

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