Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - I’m a Paranormal Investigator. This Is the One Recording I’ll Never Release | Part 1

Episode Date: July 20, 2026

Get early access to all 3 parts now with a 7-day FREE TRIAL of Dr. NoSleep Premium: ⁠⁠⁠patreon.com/drnosleep⁠⁠ – Cancel anytime. No commitment. Paranormal investigator Duncan Crowley possesses a recording so dangerous that he believes playing it could end the world. When his former partner steals it and auctions it to a room filled with killers, cultists, and creatures wearing human faces, Duncan is forced to reveal what really happened during his team’s final investigation. But the recording isn’t merely evidence of an ancient evil—it’s the key to waking something that has been hiding inside him ever since. 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: You don’t need anyone’s approval to make a living. Build your own business with a free trial at shopify.com/dns Author:  Jake Bible Check out Jake's latest collection of stories, They All Bleed: Ten NoSleep Stories, Volume Two https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0G96H432Y Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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That can be anyone. The world may have forgotten Peter Parker. I'm just a neighbor, friendly neighbor. But he hasn't forgotten them. Sometimes Spider-Man has to do the hard thing. That's my responsibility. Talk to Banner? I didn't know you could get that big.

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With Wayfair, there's no what-if. Just style you love and quality you can trust. Visit Wayfair.ca. Wayfair, every style, every home. The full three-part series of I'm a paranormal investigator is live on Patreon right now. Start your seven-day free trial of Dr. No Sleep Premium to hear all three parts instantly. No delays, no waiting.

Cancelain any time, no commitment. Just go to patreon.com slash D.R. No Sleep to sign up. The link is also in the description below. That's patreon.com slash D.R. No Sleep. Part one. The warning. The beer is cheap, but the conversation is lucrative. Or would be if I were an unethical bastard who wants the... the world to burn, which I'm not, for the record. I most certainly am not. Is there a price that

could change my mind? With what I have? No. Never. Like I said, I have no desire to see the world burn. The burden is mine and mine alone. Annoyed with me, knots, picks up a tortilla chip, and dips it into the runny poop this place calls bean dip. Why anyone would order bean dip from a bar that thinks Budweiser is snobbish, I don't know. But, hey, there is guts, not mine. You know you probably won't ever see this kind of green again, right? Knott's asks around a mouthful of mush. He swallows hard, and his eyes bug out. Pounding his own chest a few times, I watch as he struggles to get the painful mouthful down. Man, that went sideways. Ow!

We've been over this, Knott's. The recording isn't for sale. I'd destroy the damn thing. if it wasn't for. I trail off as I think of what's on that recording and why I can't delete it. Knots rolls his eyes. He's always considered me overdramatic. I call it being healthily cautious and not a reckless moron. Also, there's that world is going to burn thing. He chip dips and shoves the whole thing into his mouth in one bite, having learned nothing from his previous attempt at eating the abominable stuff. I sip my lukewarm, off-brand gutter beer and try not to shudder at the metallic taste. It's like sucking on a penny attached to a battery, but with less flavor. Why does this guy want the recording so bad anyway? How do you even hear about it?

Nots shrugs like he doesn't know. My turn to roll my eyes. He laughs, clears his throat, then says, the guy is a collector. You'd know his name if I said it, but I'd been sworn to secrecy. Even more reason to say no. Sounds sketchy. And sketchy guys get people heard. Oh, get off your damn high horse, Crowley. Knott's nearly shouts, calling me by the nickname I despise. He must see the anger on my face because he waves a chip at me,

splattering bean dip across the booth's table. Chill out. I'm just kidding, Duncan. I hate that name. What? Duncan? That's your name. No, asshole. Crowley.

I hate that name. I know, I know. That's why I apologized. Jesus, Duncan, you need to learn to relax. I push my beer out of the way and lean on the table, fixing a very serious glare at Knott's. Relax? Did Luca get to relax? Or Angie? Or Bear? Knott's blanches utter former colleague's names. I utter a small, disgusted laugh. Maybe think for a second before you start spending all that money you don't deserve. That pisses Nott's off.

The guy may be a weasel, but even he has his limits. Don't deserve. Really? How do you figure that? He stands up, grabs the bowl of bean dip, and dumps it over my head. Eat shit, Duncan. How dare you throw their names in my face like that? They were my friends, too. All I can do is sit here with shitty bean dip running down my face as he downs his drink, slams the empty glass onto the table, and storms off, leaving me with the bill. Asshole!

I shout after him. But he's already gone, the bar's door closing after him. The few patrons in the dive give me a quick once over, then return to their own misery. Snagging a wad of napkins from the dispenser at the end of the table, I start cleaning myself up. You might as well wash off in the sink, the waitress says as she comes by to grab the empty glasses.

I'll clean the booth. You wash that crap out before it sets. Trust me, you don't want that dip to set. Okay, thanks. Sorry about the mess. Oh, it's fine. At least none of this came out of an orifice. So it's not the worst I've cleaned up today.

I can tell you that. I laugh as I stand up. Funny. I'm Duncan. Nope, she says, pulling a less than clean bleach rag from her apron. Not going to happen. I raise an eyebrow at the bleach blonde, fake eyelashed, way past her prime waitress. She's had it rough.

That's easy to see. She is kind of cute, though. Maybe you'll change your mind when I come back all shiny and new without bean dip in my hair. Bean? You wish that crap was made of beans. My face must drop fast because she starts laughing, then swats me with her bleach rag. Ah, calm down. It's beans, mostly. Shaking my head, I move off to the men's room to get cleaned up. When I look in the crusty and stained mirror, I see what she means. Half my hair is standing straight up like I used two whole bottles of some 1980s hair gel. The dip is all over my shoulders and neck too, and when I peel

my shirt off, I can actually hear it crunch and crack. Half the restrooms, paper towels later, and I am mostly cleaned up. I don't have a clean t-shirt, though. The waitress looks me up and down, then snorts a huge laugh when I come back to my table shirtless. I'll check the lost and found and get you a shirt so you don't blind anyone with that ivory skin of yours. You ever think about stepping outside when the sun is shiny? My work tends to be nocturnal. Why? You a vampire? I wish. She cocks an eyebrow and purses her lips. That's so. Do I need to be worried? Should I call Van Halston to take you out? Van Helsing. What? The vampire hunter, Dracula's nemesis, his name is Van Helsing. Don't care. I, um, am a paranormal investigator. I shake my head, or was.

I hear a sob story coming on. Let me fetch you a shirt from the box behind the bar. I'll get you another beer. On the house in payment for being tonight's entertainment. Um, thanks, but I should be going. You're giving up free beer? Have you tasted the beer? She laughs.

I'll be back with the shirt. Stay if you want. Go if you have to. Then she leans in, and I can smell jasmine, cocoa butter, and work sweat. And I want to hear that sob story. There's got to be a reason I got to be. gets mostly bean dip dumped on his head. She walks off quickly. I watch her go. Not a bad view. The bar may be a dive. The beer may be the cheapest, and the dip may or may not be made of beans.

But one thing is for sure, this damn place has great AC. Sitting here shirtless in the booth, I am fighting not to start shivering. I glance about the place. The patrons look like animated cadavers, although animated may be a little generous. Considering the guy in the corner booth hasn't moved an inch since I sat down. He's been staring at those same three fingers of brown liquor for an hour now. Then there's the guy at the high top table by the jukebox. The only time he's moved is to glare at anyone who dares to approach and put a quarter in the machine, or four quarters since the price of songs has gone up. Does it even take quarters? Might only take cards or phones or whatever the machines eat these days.

Hard to know since the guy won't let anyone play music. That glare scares off everyone. And the lady at the bar, short denim skirt, teased up blonde hair, stylishly ripped t-shirt over a tank top. She was probably quite the party girl back in the day. Was that before or after Back to the Future First came out, I wonder? Finally, we have Mr. Sketchy. Him, I can't figure out.

He's got the other back-corner booth. But he's not a down-on-his-luck piece of shit like the others. Or, at least, he doesn't dress like it. Nice, expensive shirt. Open a few buttons down to his chest. Cuffs rolled up high enough that I clocked the Rolex on his wrist. Sparklingly white teeth set in a very tan face. Not fake tan.

Yacht tan. The guy never meets my eyes when I look in his direction, yet I feel like he's watching me closely. Here you go, hunt, the waitress says, handing me a bright pink Simpsons t-shirt. It's all we had that I thought would fit you. Unless you want the plus-sized sundress with the mystery stains on it. No, Marge and the gang are fine.

I say and shrugged the shirt on over my head. Back with your beer and a twitch of a witch's tit. I laugh at the saying. It's a good one. I'll have to start using it. Can you please turn the music down? The woman at the bar moans. There is no music, of course.

due to high top table guys glare. No one responds to her. So she lays her head on her arms and starts crying. I doubt our lack of response is why she's crying. Or maybe it is. Some folks are way too sensitive. Which gets me thinking of Knott's and his little storm out of the dive bar tantrum.

I get it. The figure he gave me is three zeros beyond anything I can hope to get paid in my lifetime. And even though Nott's would only be taking a percentage, It's enough to set him up for a while. I'd be pissed too. But he's not getting that recording. No one is.

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begins to blur. Don't miss the three-episode premiere of the Hulu original series Furious on July 27th, only on Hulu on Disney Plus. The waitress comes back with my beer, setting it in front of me with a grin. I get off in an hour, stick around until then. An hour's worth a free beer? Sure. I thought you hated the stuff, even if it is free. It's all about quantity now, not quality. She eyes me closely the nods. All right, deal. Then she walks off to deliver another three fingers of whiskey to the corner booth guy, who is still staring at the first three fingers he hasn't touched. I sip my beer, cringe, then scoot over so my back is against the wall and my legs are across the bench seat. This way, I can survey the scene for the next hour without getting a crick in my neck.

Plus, Mr. Sketchy with the Rolex has me on edge. The losers are closer to my kind of people, so I'm not worried about them. But this guy, he's off, way off. I need to keep an eye on him. The waitress, whose name I still don't know, is behind the bar, chatting with the bartender while he puts away what might be clean glasses. I wouldn't bet on it without knowing the spread. Mostly clean, partially clean, just the insides, just the outsides. I take a look at my own beer glass, then try to think of something else. It ain't fair. The woman at the bar eyes. The waitress leans across the bar and whispers something to her. The woman straightens up, her back going stiff. Then slowly, way too slowly for my taste. She cranes her neck until she's

looking directly at me. Hi, she says. I look over one of my shoulders, see the wall, look over my other shoulder. Yep, still wall. Me? The woman nods and gets off her bar stool, adjusting her denim skirt way too late for me not to notice everything. She does that little shoulder wiggle some women do that I think puts stuff back in place that may have been out of place, checks her breath, and hips weighs herself over to my table. I give the waitress a, what the hell, look. She only smiles and goes back to talking to the bartender.

Hi, I'm Allison. She sits down. Tears well up in her eyes almost the second her denim-clad ass hits the booths, cracked plastic. Um, okay. Hey Allison, I'm Duncan. Go ahead and have a seat. Thanks, babe.

I appreciate it. She grabs my beer and downs it, slamming the empty onto the table as she raises her other hand and waves at the bar. Emmy, Emmy, another round over here. The waitress rolls her eyes, then grabs a pitcher and starts to fill it. My stomach churns at the thought of what a picture of this swill will do to my insides. Not that my insides haven't handled worse, way worse. Haven't seen you in here before.

First time? Here? Yeah. At a dive bar? No. Dive bar? Allison looks around, then returns her gaze to me confused. This place?

She shakes her head. No, no. This place is nice. The waitress arrives with the pitcher and two new glasses. I'd say two clean glasses, but that's pushing things. I figured you might need some conversation while you wait for me to be done for the night. The waitress says. Then smiles at Allison.

Don't be a crazy bitch, okay? I'm not gonna. Allison scrunches her shoulders and socks. I'll behave. You better. The waitress gives me a big smile. She's not half as bad as she looks. Um, thanks.

I hold out my hand. I'm Duncan. Yeah, you said that already. She takes my hand. Emily, but everyone calls me Emmy. Good to meet you, Emmy. She licks her lips, watches me for a moment, then turns and saunters off. Damn, it really isn't a bad view when she walks away.

You want to have sex with her. Allison says in a child's sing-song voice, You want to get her into your bed and do it. Jesus, I mutter under my breath. Then pour us eat a beer. I lift mine up. Cheers. Oh, fancy. She lifts hers up too.

Cheers! We clink glasses, and I hope maybe I can keep this emotional mess of a woman from completely losing it. Allison pounds half her glass, lets loose with a loud, satisfied sigh, then pounds the rest. She belches and sets the empty glass down. Then she folds her arms on the table and puts her forehead on them, and the tears and sobs begin to flow again. So much for keeping her from losing it. I look about, but I'm not getting any help from anyone in here. I catch Mr. Sketchy watching me, and I raise an eyebrow.

He tries to smile, fails miserably at it, then looks away as if the other side of the bar has suddenly gotten very interesting. I don't want to die. Allison Wales, looking up at me. Please, I want to die. She drags a forearm across her face, smearing her lipstick and the scream of snot coming out of her nose. Talk to them, Duncan.

Tell them that I don't have to die. Allie, no. The bartender shouts. None of that crap. But I don't. You know the deal, Allie. Screw this up, and... Allison shivers.

She nods, even though the bartender didn't exactly finish his sentence. I reach out and place my hand on her arm. What deal? What's he talking about? Allison? No. This time from the waitress.

High top jukebox hog is staring right. right at me. He lifts his glass and smiles. Damn, his teeth are sharp. I hadn't noticed that before, which is strange because I usually notice those details. It's noticing the details that has kept me alive this long. I'm good, I'm good. Allison says if she clears her throat. She grabs a wad of napkins and blots her face. It doesn't help, but it seems to make her feel better. All good. Everything is good. Good, good. What was all that? Allison shakes her head and tries to smile through her tears. Nothing. Just a lady having a bad night.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Slowly. She's still letting it out. Don't get lightheaded, I say and sip my beer. My muscles tense at the taste. But seriously, what's going on? So, you chase ghosts? Is that what you do? Allison grabs more napkins and continues wiping her face. Soon, all of her makeup is smeared off, mostly cleaned by the saline of her tears. What's the scariest thing you've seen?

I blink a few times as I try to figure out what to say, but the words don't come to me. Taking another look about the bar, I noticed that everyone except for the three fingers of whiskey guy is looking at my booth, even Emmy and the bartender. I may be a little late to the party, but things click in my head. I shouldn't be here anymore. I need to go now. Scooting out of the booth, I pull out my wallet and drop a 20 on the table. That should cover it! I say loudly. Then smile at Emmy.

Sorry, babe, but I just remembered that I needed to be somewhere. Possible new client. You sure? How about you sit back down, Duncan? Emmy says. Her voice has dropped an octave, and I almost do exactly as she says. It's one damn sexy voice. But I know bad mojo when I'm being surrounded by it.

Emmy said to sit down. So sit down. The bartender says. No, no, I think I'm good. I start walking toward the door. It's been great. I look down at the Pink Simpsons T-shirt I'm wearing. I'll wash this and get it back to you.

Who knows? The owner may come looking for it. He's not sitting down. The bartender says to Emmy. I know. So? What do we do? Not much we can do.

You want to try to stop him? Hey, buddy. Mr. Sketchy shouts. Sit down like the lady sent to. Yeah. I top ads. Come back, Crowley. Allison says.

She looks her lips, and the way she does it makes me want to vomit. In fact, the whole place is making me nauseous. I got to get some fresh air before I puke. Then I realized something. What did you call me? I asked Allison. What name did you just say? God damn it, Ali.

The bartender says. Why'd you call me Crowley? How do you know that name? Whether life serves you an ace or an unexpected. backhand. The high-protein yogurt, Oikos Pro, is there to feed your strength and help you turn every challenge into a smash. Oikos Pro helps build strong muscles and support muscle recovery with high protein and contains no added sugar because true strength isn't about being able to take the hits. It's about being able to bounce back. Oikos Pro. Feed your strength. Visit oikos.ca for more details.

If you're into horror with a heavy dose of sci-fi, classified experiments, and things humanity was never meant to understand, check out my other podcast, The SCP Experience. 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 podcast. Allison looks about like someone will come to a raid. No one does, of course. So she bursts into tears again, and down her head goes onto her arms. Grabbing the door handle, ready to get the hell gone, I pull,

and for a brief second, the night's cool air soothes me. My car is just around the block. A quick jog, and I am free of this shit hole and whatever the hell is going on here. Then the barrel of the pistol touches my forehead and not says, I don't think so, Crowley. Step back inside and go sit your ass down. We've got business to attend to. Nots?

I cross my eyes and try to focus on the pistol in my face. Um, what the hell are you doing? Making the hard decision that you're too chicken to make. Back the hell up and go sit down, Crowley. He cocks the hammer back. I gulp. Now. Taking slow steps backward, I put a little distance between my forehead and the gun.

Then I keep backing up until I'm going. I'm at the booth again. Allison looks up, streamers of snot swinging from her chin. You came back! She reaches out and pats my arm this time as I take a seat. My focus on Knott's and his pistol. That's so nice of you. You seem like a nice guy. I'm sorry you have to die too. Jesus Christ, shut the hell up, bitch! Knott's yells, making Allison jump. And, yes, she starts to cry for the umpteenth time. Knott's steps to the booth. then sits down on my side, hip-checking me up against the wall. His pistol jammed into my side.

He has a courier bag across his chest, and he grabs the strap and lifts it over his head, setting the bag back down on the table. The pistol presses into me. I'd like to put this away, because we both know how accidents can happen, right, Crowley? Stop calling me that. Oh, shut the hell up.

Nicknames happen. Stop being a little bitch about it. Nots? What is going on? He shoves the gun into my ribs. Can I put this away so we can talk like friends? Or do I need to worry about you doing something stupid? No, go ahead, put it away. I'll be chill.

He shakes his head. Bullshit, but I'm putting it away anyway. I'm sure the others are packing. There's a good amount of busy noise. Then I see Mr. Sketchy hold up a goddamn hand cannon and set it on his table. I glance at High Top and he has two nine millimeters in his hands. He gives them a shake. in my direction, then sets them on his table. Looking toward the bar, I see a

sought-off shotgun in the bartender's hands. Emmy doesn't have a weapon. She just gives me a sad smile. Have you brought it? It's a deep, quiet voice. Heads turn, and all eyes fall on the three fingers of whiskey guy. Then all heads turn, and the eyes fall onto me. No, onto knots. He pats the courier bag. Yep, got it right here. Got what right there, Knots? I looked down at the gun. I thought you were putting that away.

I am. He moves the gun away, then opens the courier bag and places the pistol in one of the compartments. From another, he pulls out a laptop. My laptop. Shit, Knots, what are you doing? He sets the laptop in front of me and lifts the lid. It boots up, and the request for my password blinks before us. I'm making sure that Luca and Angie and Bear didn't die for nothing, Crowley.

I cringe at the name, but don't protest. We're way past shitty nicknames at this point, that's for sure. Nants, no, just no. I'm not unlocking my laptop. I wave my hands at the bar. I don't know who these people are, but I do know that there's no way in hell I'm handing the recording over to any of them. I'm not handing it to anyone. It's too goddamn dangerous, Nats. You know this! There's a horrid scraping noise, and I look at three fingers of whiskey.

He is slowly, painfully pushing his chair back. Then he plants his hands on the table and pushes up from the chair. His eyes never leaving his two glasses of whiskey. How dangerous it is is not for you to decide, boy. You are a delivery mechanism for what has been foretold. What he said! Mr. Sketchy laughs and points at her booth. I didn't think you'd make it happen, Mr. Knott's.

Just Knott's, asshole. Mr. Sketchy reaches for his hand cannon. Knott's starts to reach for the courier bag. No! Emmy shouts, coming out from behind the bar, her palms out, trying to chill the situation. A situation I'm still trying to figure out. Knock it off, both of you. You are all here for the auction. She nods at Mr. Sketchy, high top, and then at three fingers of whiskey.

And this is a neutral space. No more threats, no more guns. Put your crap away and act civilized. Civilized? Allison shrieks. They're gonna gut me like a big! Okay, other than that. responds. Allison goes back to crying and snodding all over her arms. Now, are you assholes going to chill so we can start this auction or what? If not, then kindly leave. No one gets up to leave.

No one puts their guns away, though. Emmy places her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes. I am not joking. Get the hell out if you can't behave. Well said, my dear. Three figures of whiskey walks away from his table and approaches Emmy. He places a very long, very sharp-looking fingernail under her chin, lifting her face so she's looking directly at him. To her credit, she doesn't try to retreat. But don't forget who you are speaking to. He flicks quickly, then he gasps, her hand going to her chin. Blood is already seeping past her fingers.

Three fingers of whiskey gives her a dangerous smile. Then he swivels his head and looks directly at knots. Will he give up the password? Nots nods. Like hell I will! I try to shove knots out of the way, but three fingers of whiskey's arms snaps out, his hand going around Emmy's throat. I stop. He grins. I sit my ass back down. His grin widens, and he lets go of Emmy. Good. Now, let the auction begin.