Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - I’m a Dark Web Hitman, and My Latest Contract Sent Me to a Billionaire’s Estate

Episode Date: December 5, 2025

A veteran hitman arrives at a remote estate for what should be a routine job, only to sense that something about this target—and this night—is very wrong. Fuel your nightmares with NoSleep Coffee — fresh, same-day roasted beans shipped right to your door. Use code NOSLEEP20 for 20% off your first order: ⁠https://nosleepcoffee.com⁠ 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 podcast 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. #creepypasta #horrorstories #drnosleeppodcast #scarystories Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The app tells me to take a left turn, but I keep driving. I'm earlier than planned, and want to get the lay of the land before I park and walk onto the estate. And Rachmaninoff's piano concerto number two in C minor is softly playing on the radio while the sun slowly sets across a large, fallow field, tilled and covered for the winter. I'm a sucker for some Rock Mononov. I steer my nondescript white Hyundai down the wide and winding country lane and just enjoy life for a moment. You have to take the times you are given because you never know when it'll all be over. Even now, a deer could jump out of the underbrush and slam right into my car, sending me spinning

and swerving and crashing into the drainage ditch along the side. Maybe my head snaps wrong, and that's all, folks, the lights go out for. forever. Or I could take the next winding curve and slam right into a farm truck, stalled in the middle, or a tractor moving slowly along the side. Then there are hard attacks and strokes and cancer. Although cancer isn't exactly going to take me out on a moment's notice, but still, that shit is a bitch.

I watched my, or listened to, to be honest and correct, my handler dies slowly from lung cancer. By the time he'd passed, we were conversing only via messaging. He couldn't even speak anymore. That's not how I want to go out. I'll take a header into the ass end of a tractor any day. The last half of the sun is lowering into the horizon, so I find a pull-out, park the Hyundai, and just watch the precious, beautiful seconds tick by. A rare flash of green lights up the sky when the sun is almost gone.

It's absolutely lovely. absolutely lovely. The alarm on my phone goes off and I stare at it as it sits on its charger on my dash. Cranky old dude is what it says. I use descriptors like that to keep all the jobs straight. Not that I even know if the guy I'm here to see is cranky or old. That's just what my new handler said when she called. I'll shoot you the address. I didn't say anything. I never do. Maybe it's superstition from when I first started in this position, and all communication was one way. I'd get the order, and if I didn't understand something about the job, too bad. I had to figure it out on my own.

Now, I can chat back and forth via messaging and make sure the job is clear. But I think the real reason I'm silent when my handler calls is because sound just gives everything away. When I'm on the phone, I'm on mute. Realistically, if I can't trust my handler, then I can't trust anyone. But even still, I'm cautious. Maybe the line is tapped, or the cell call is being scanned and snatched via an antenna. I have no idea what my handler's security protocols are, and I'm not betting my life that they are up to my standards.

The last of the setting sun's rays dusts the clouds. and I watch the world turn from bright pink and orange to deep blue. The night looks like it'll be great for stargazing. I'll have to find a spot on the way home before I drive back into the big city's light pollution. Not that the city close by is my home. No, it's just another city, in another state. A place to stay in and get lost in and be anonymous in. I never stay out in the boondocks, even if the job is in the most remote location ever.

I'd plant my flag in the closest metro area and commute from there. Sure, I might end up driving two, three, four hours to reach the job, but these small communities notice strangers, especially strangers staying at cousin Esther's B&B, or Uncle George's six-room roadside motel. I don't care if there is a chain hotel nearby. I stay in the city. Chain hotels are staffed by locals,

and locals get bored and take photos of guests in text. their friends. And that's how things go south fast. Is my identity in a database? Could a straight text to the wrong person trigger an alert in some law enforcement image sweep? I don't know, and I don't want to find out. A nondescript hotel in an okay part of the city is what I need. Okay, I'll admit it. I'm old school. There, I said it. I start the Hyundai up and get it back on the road. But I don't turn around to follow the map's directions back to my location. Going in the frontway isn't the plan. Instead, I drive about three miles in the opposite direction until I come to a dirt lane that isn't on the map. But it is on satellite images, and as I approach the dirt lane,

I see that the satellite images are fairly recent and accurate. The trees and bushes are missing their leaves, since this is winter, and the images were probably taken sometime in late spring or early summer, but everything else is accurate. I take the turn and drive slowly down the rutted lane. To my right is another fallow feel. To my left is even more fallowness. But up ahead is a copse of tall evergreens that will do the trick. The second I saw them online, my strategy started to come together. I pulled between the two tall firsts. and shut the car off. Then I take the key fob and tuck it into a hidden and very secure pocket inside my waistband. I've tried everything from leaving the key in a magnetic holder under the bumper,

to putting it in my shoe, to burying it a few feet from the car. All have their perils. After a few close calls and unfortunate mishaps, I came up with the pocket in the waistband trick, especially since I now only drive cars with a remote engine start feature on the fob. If I'm booking ass away from a job, it helps to have the car running and ready when I hop in. Sometimes you only have a second's head start before the wolves are on you. And speaking of wolves, it's time to get ready. I pop the trunk and hop out of the car. Taking a careful look around, and I'm positive I'm completely out of sight,

I proceed to the trunk. lift the lid and gear up. A Glock 19 on my right hip with four extra mags. Two K-bar knives, one on each thigh. A nice browning 22 for my left ankle. A Mossberg tactical shotgun with a shortened stock strapped to my back and a bandolier of extra shells across my chest. Then my M4 carbine on a strap over my shoulder

and extra mags tucked into pockets on my belt. I double-checked the Kevlar vest, making sure it's snug around the sides so I don't catch a stray bullet in the ribs, and pull on my ultra-thin, ultra-light steel mesh gloves. Many times after a job, I'll ditch my gear, just in case some evidence is left behind that can be traced to it. But when it comes to my gloves, they are custom-made and always with me. These babies can stop a machete from taking my fingers off, so it's too much of a risk not to have them pulled snugly over my digits. Easing the trunk closed, I take another look around and orient myself.

The sun's set in that direction, so that's east. I need to head west by northwest. So I turn 180 degrees and move off through the copse of evergreens. 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.

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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. According to my research, the manor house should be about two miles directly across the field at the edge of the evergreens. But I can't exactly cross an open field, can I? So I have to skirt the field, using the drainage ditches as my guide. It takes me about four times longer to get to the barbed wire fencing that delineates the manor house's grounds from the more agricultural parts of the area. But the delay is worth it so that I can stay undetected. This isn't a job for the impatient.

Man, I knew a guy in my line of work who was definitely undiagnosed adult ADHD. He was a nice guy, lots of fun at the bar and during downtime. But when it came to doing the actual job, he was a mess. Never could focus on the task, always getting. distracted. It didn't matter that the man was probably the best pistol shot in the entire world. If you're distracted, you're as good as dead. I already took a bullet in the left eye in Monaco last April. That's not how I intend to go out. I've been at this too long to be taken down by my own stupidity. The second I get sloppy is the second I retire. If my sloppiness

doesn't get me killed first. An itch at the back of my mind gets me thinking of the my new handler. I don't know why I think of her. Maybe it's the thought of retiring. She came highly recommended, one of four on the list my previous handler gave me. He said any of the names could be trusted, but he suggested her because she is young, smart, and knows the lay of the new landscape that our world has become. No more dead drops or dusty PO boxes. No more newspapers and trash cans or packages left in the men's room. No, it's all online now. The dark web is what she calls it, or what everyone calls it, I guess. I don't know.

I'm from a time when phones were bolted to the wall, and your computer could play Pac-Man with really shitty graphics. Don't get me wrong, I'm internet savvy. I have to be in order to do the research that my jobs require. I need to know everything about the target, the location, and the possible blowback after the job is done. I research local law enforcement, I check every detail of every map.

I look for any possible surveillance, not just at the location, but along the entire route to and from the job. I do my due diligence. It's just that some of the mystic and charm is lost when all someone has to do to hire a hitman is find the right website, pay the right Bitcoin,

and place the order as if they're buying a sweater off Amazon. The spirit isn't there anymore. It's all supply and demand. It's all common. I see lights in the distance and clear my mind. No time to waste pining for the old days. I got to get my head in the game and be ready for action. I remove my Glock and pull a suppressor from a hip pocket.

Screwing the suppressor on, I stay close to a hedge line, making sure my matte black outfit is lost against the dark green of the hedges leaves. Every button, buckle, zipper, and snap is painted black. But the last thing I need is a super, straight glint of metal giving my location away. A cough from only a few yards off freezes me in my tracks. I stand stock still, my Glock angled and ready, and listen hard. Silence, silence, a cough. It's slight and quiet. Someone is trying hard to keep it under wraps, but sound carries in the country, and especially in cold winter air. I wait. A footfall. A footfall.

Another, the crunch of a leaf, heading my way. I crouch down and ease myself halfway into the hedge, silently making myself smaller, more hidden. The guard comes around the hedge, his AK-47 gripped properly, but at an angle that is way too low. He needs that rifle up about six more inches if he's going to be effective, which he isn't because I'm here. Before he sees me, I squeeze the trigger twice,

putting one bullet right in the middle of his left eyebrow, and the second bullet in his forehead as he collapses. I drop the Glock, and him up and catching his body before it can crash to the ground and make any noise. I slip a receiver and small black box into his pocket. Then I slide him under the hedge, retrieve my Glock, and keep heading toward the manor house. A second guard is waiting by the stone steps

that lead up to the wide expanse of bay windows and French doors that open out onto the ground. My research showed me that there would be multiple potted trees along the pathways leading to the stone steps. But it's now winter, and those potted trees must have been moved inside. There's a greenhouse larger than the hotel I'm staying in back in the city on the other side of the manor house. The trees were probably moved there, which doesn't do me much good now, but I'm prepared for this. Instead of heading straight for the steps the moment the guard turns his attention in the opposite direction, direction. I keep moving along the hedge, then hurry past a small fountain and over to a large

gazebo. At this point, it's all a risk. I'll have very little cover once I leave the gazebo. But, from what I could gather, there are several gaps in the surveillance on this side of the manor house. I can slip through those gaps easily. Of course, nothing is ever so easy. My handler's voice echoes through my head as I push away from the gazebo and cross the open and treacherous 30 yards to a low rock wall that makes up the base of a wraparound stone and concrete patio encircling the manor house. The guy is paranoid, so be careful. He expects an attack on his life at all times.

His security is robust, and his people are well trained. But if you pull this off, the payday is enough for both of us to retire. And when she sent me the number, I had to agree with her. I could retire four times over with this payout. Her percentage would make for a very comfortable life for the next six or seven decades she has left. If she's as young as I think she is, you never really know with the internet, which I guess is another one of my old ways gripes. Things have gotten more connected, but less personal. With my back pressed to the rock wall, I sidestep carefully to my right and move toward the front of the manor house.

I don't care how paranoid he is. nobody ever really thinks a frontal assault is coming. As expected, four guards stand watch at the front, two up by the main door and two down at the bottom of the steps. There are also eight cameras, six laser trip wires, and rumored explosives. But those are only rumors. I couldn't find any specific corroboration that explosives had been installed. Seems risky to me.

But the way these rich guys are, the target probably doesn't care what risks he throws. his people into, as long as his ass is safe and sound. The men guarding the manor house are alert and at the ready. Still hidden, I slide a small remote from my pocket, wait until all heads are looking away from me, then press the remote's single button. A loud explosion echoes from the back of the manor house. That first guard, and a good portion of the hedge, are probably missed right now. Just as I thought, none of the guards abandoned their posts, but all are distracted and pressing fingers to their earpieces, hoping to hear an update on what the hell is going on.

I take advantage of their distraction and come at them fast with my Glockup. Four guards, four bullets, four bodies. I'm past the dead guards and at the front door before the explosions blast stops echoing across the wintry cold estate. And luck is on my side because the front door is unlocked. I slip inside, closing the door quietly behind me. I have maybe three or four seconds before the fact that none of the front guards are responding to their comms becomes known. I'm in the massive foyer and need to head upstairs now. Racing to the grand staircase, dead center in the manor's house's entryway, I hear shouts and alarms building throughout the place. I ignore it all and move quickly up the stairs, turning left when I reach the landing. I take

another left and jog down a long hallway toward a set of double doors. When I reach them, I duck down low and try the handle. Unlocked. Good. They haven't gotten here yet. I slip inside and find myself in the most grotesquely lavish master bedroom I've ever seen. And I took out a sultan once. The room is gold and silk and expensive paintings and sculptures. Jesus, is that a real rhodon on that side table?

My research tells me to head to the far closet, which is the second door on the left. I find it, step inside, and slide my side. myself between a rack of suits, where each one costs more than the Hyundai I drove here in. I double-checked that my shoes are hidden in the shadows, because I'm no rookie bitch, and wait. The alarms and shouting don't stop. In fact, they get louder as I hear the bedroom door swing open, and a stampede of rubber-soled shoes enters. Sir, we need to get you into the panic room immediately. We are under attack, and your safety

is of the utmost. No need to bother yourself with all of that, McLean. Everything is exactly as it should be. But, sir, no buts necessary, McLean. I am sorry to keep you in the dark on this. But, as you know, my friends and I have spent a good amount of time planning our little hunt, and I didn't want any loose lips to sink ships. Hunt, sir? But that isn't until tomorrow.

The guests haven't even arrived. On the contrary, McLean, they have been here for most of the day, all hidden somewhere on the estate. It's really quite clever what we've managed to pull off. Sir, I don't understand. You will in a moment. I hear the man clear his throat. Um, excuse me, sir?

I believe she said your name was Theo. Is that it? Hello, Theo. You can come out of my closet now. And do be careful with my suits, will you? I hold my breath. not quite believing he's speaking to me, even though he knows my name and where I'm hiding. Theo, if you don't show yourself in the next five seconds, you'll forfeit your one chance at

surviving this ordeal, because if I send my men in there, I will immediately stop caring about my suits and let them do to you as they wish, and their wishes will be extremely painful and prolonged. You'll beg to die for hours before I'd let you. I wait. Then I hear a loud sigh. Your handler's name is Eloise, and you are Theodore Bromel. You were hired to come here tonight and assassinate me. I know all of this, because I am the one who hired you. So please, Stop making this more difficult than it has to be and show yourself. One? I don't bother letting him get to five.

He knows too much to be lying. When I step out of the closet, I see no less than eight M4 barrels pointed at various parts of my body. McLean? If you will relieve Theo here of his weapons, please. The guard steps forward, and I'm quickly stripped of everything, even the hidden weapons. It's beautiful.

Now, my name is Alistair Agrippa, but you know that, and I have brought you here for a little game. He claps his hands together. There are a dozen of my closest and richest friends outside, all waiting to try to kill you. Personally, I hope they don't. And to show you that I mean that, you will get a ten-second head start. If you make it back to that Hyundai of yours, then you get to live and enjoy the obscene amount of cash I paid for all of this. If you don't, well, then that's that, isn't it? One of my friends will be granted the trophy of your head and have bragging rights that they took down one of the most proficient hitmen in history.

And if I don't play, you'll kill me here and now, right? Not here, not on this carpet. But, yes, you'll be taken outside and shot, or tortured, or shot and tortured. Who knows what could happen to you? Then I better get running. Yes, you better. And if this doesn't work out for you, let me say what an honor it is to have met you. I've been a huge admirer from afar.

I was quite surprised to see you had a presence online, so unlike you. He spreads his arms wide. But I guess it was just meant to be. Isn't the internet a wonderful thing? If you say so, I prefer being old school. I don't wait for a countdown. I just run. Let them come for me.

We'll see just how wonderful the internet is for them. Because, as they are all about to find out, old school is in session. 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.