Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - I'm an FBI agent. How do you investigate evil?

Episode Date: March 30, 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

Fan of soccer, you could assist a moment historic. You could get any of the final of the Cup of the World of the FIFA 2006 with Visa. It's just to have a card of credit visa BMO for participate. Inscribe you at BMO.com bar-oblique concourse. The reglements of the concourse. The woman who answered the door when I knocked had tears in her eyes. She clutched her house coat tighter around herself and took me in, looking me up and down. Mrs. Burton, I'm Agent Barnes.

May I come in, please? She regarded me through the glass, staring coldly at my face. They said you'd be coming. You're from the FBI? Some sort of special unit? That's right, ma'am. I said, pulling out my ID badge and showing it to her.

After examining it for a while, she turned the handle, pausing to take a quick, hopeful look around the neighborhood, before finally holding the creaking screen door open from it. I stepped up the wooden staircase and entered the house. The home was well kept. It had old but comfortable furnishings. The walls were covered in framed photos showing barbecues, family gatherings, weddings, and birthday parties. It looked like a peaceful place, not an abusive household or a neglected one, I thought to myself.

I took out my notepad and scribbled something illegible. I'm here to follow up on the case involving your son, Brian. Do you mind if we sit down to talk for a few minutes? She showed me into the living room, and I took a seat on the couch. Can I get you anything, agent? Barnes. And no, I'm fine. Thank you, though.

Instead of sitting down opposite me, she chose to remain standing, making me feel oddly nervous. I tried to ignore that sensation, but it did throw me off slightly. Most people sit down when you do, especially when they're the host. What can I do for you exactly? Well, I was hoping to ask you a few questions about your son's disappearance. I understand he went missing from his bedroom late one night, and there was no sign of forced entry. The doors were still locked in the morning when you woke up, is that right?

She nodded slowly. And to all this, despite the fact that he didn't have a key, and none were missing from the home. She stood with her arms crossed. not saying anything. Was there a question in there somewhere, Agent Barnes? I waited for a beat. This wasn't how I had expected it to go.

Already I felt like my entire preconception of the case was wrong. My theories were immediately forgotten, and I began to examine the whole situation with fresh eyes as I sat there looking into the woman's unreadable face. I suppose my question is, how did he go missing? It seems impossible. Unless there's something you aren't telling us.

A door left open or a window. A neighbor with a copy of your key? Something. You have to try to remember. You're singing the same old song that the first detective sang. Nobody else had a key. None of the windows or doors were unlocked. I'm sure about that.

And you're sure he didn't sneak out after dinner to play with friends? No one would blame you if that were the case. Kids that age like to go out in the forests, run around, and get into trouble. Are you sure he was in his room that night when you went to bed? I'm sure. I tucked him in myself. I'm not a drunk or a druggie, Agent Barnes. I'm not a neglectful mother either. I didn't forget seeing my son in bed that night, just like I didn't forget to lock up.

This was going nowhere. We were off to a bad start, and I had a feeling she could sense my newfound hesitancy and uncertainty. I put my notepad away and thought for a few seconds what direction to take. I had to improvise. Can you show me his room? I'd like to see it if I could. Her face showed no change of expression at the request. She just held her handout, inviting me towards the back of the house. I followed her as she led me down a hallway with creaking wooden floorboards. Do you have children, Agent Barnes? Yes, a son. How old is he, if you don't mind me asking?

11, actually. Same as your Brian. Good. Now, imagine for a second what it would feel like to have him taken from you in the night, despite doing everything possible to stop something like that from ever happening. I hate to think of it. That's every parent's worst nightmare. Here's his bedroom, she said, opening a door at the end of the hall on the left. It's just as he left it. I didn't change a thing. The room was painted a pale blue shade,

and there was a small bed in one corner, a desk with a computer sitting atop it, a gaming console, and a small television on the far end with a beanbag chair in front of it. There were no signs of violence or disarray. Nothing looked out of place or broken. A few items of clothing and toys were scattered here and there,

but overall, it looked cool. cleaner than my own son's room. Was anything missing, any of his belongings, clothes, toothbrush, phone? Brian doesn't have a phone. He kept begging me for one, but I told him he wasn't old enough. She broke off suddenly, her face screwing up into a grimace of sorrow. If I'd just let him have a damn cell phone, maybe they could have traced it. I put a comforting hand on her shoulder, and she let me do that, at least, without pulling away. Even if you had, he wouldn't have had it on him while he was sleeping. You can't blame yourself for that, I told her, feeling suddenly more and more on her side.

And just so you know, my son doesn't have a cell phone either. I told him the same thing. The woman bit her lip, hugging herself tighter. She turned her eyes up to the ceiling, trying to dry the tears with her. within them, as if she couldn't bear the thought of weeping one minute longer. Do you think Brian could have made a copy of your key? Maybe without your knowledge? That just maybe he could have snuck out in the night and locked up afterwards?

She shook her head rapidly. He's eleven. And no, I told the officers he isn't like that. He's a good boy. I looked over to see the closet in the corner of the room was now hanging open ever so slightly. I distinctly remembered it being closed when I came into the room. Inside it, looked pitch black. For some reason, I was drawn towards that darkness and began to walk across the room towards the closet door. What I was looking for within that darkness, I wasn't sure, but it seemed

important that I check inside. Brian told me something the night before he disappeared. He said there was a monster in his closet. Most children of 11 years old have grown out of seeing monsters in the shadows, haven't they? At least my son had. He had grown out of that phase for a long time, she said, as if reading my thoughts. But then all of a sudden, that night, he told me there was this monster hiding in his closet and he... He what? He actually wet the bed. He hadn't done that for a long time. I see. And so he came out here and told you All that, and then what happened? I went back to his room with him right away,

and I turned the light on and opened his closet to show him. There was nothing inside besides his clothes and a few old shoes. But he still wasn't convinced. He said the monster was a very good hider, that it pretended to be shadows. Glancing back at the open closet door again, I started moving towards it once more. This time with my legs feeling more wobbly,

like Jello. He washed up, and I changed his sheets, and he went back to bed. Brian wanted to stay up with me and watch television after that. He didn't want to go back to his room, but I made him go. What time was this around? Two o'clock in the morning, around then. He had to get up for school the next day, she said. Then broke off sobbing once again.

Opening the closet door, I peered inside. The darkness permeated the whole. space like a thick, oily cloud of smoke, far more black and terrifying than it should have been, as if that darkness were a living thing, camouflaging itself there, pretending to be just a closet, just like the missing boy had claimed. I shook my head, trying to clear these thoughts from my mind, but they persisted. Can you turn the light on any brighter than that? No, it's all the way up. This stupid light bulb seems to get dimmer every day, even after I replaced it. I'll have to get an electrician over here one of these days. Pulling out my flashlight, I shone it into the dark

space. The oily blackness retreated almost reluctantly, as if in a delayed reaction that shouldn't have been possible. I blinked my eyes twice, trying to decide if I was seeing things. My heart was suddenly hammering and the palms of my hands were sweaty as I stared at the darkened space in the dim beam of my flashlight. It seemed to be malfunctioning, weak compared to its usual strength. I smacked it a few times and tried to remember when I'd last replaced the batteries. Can you feel it too? She asked from behind me, nervously. I wanted to turn around and look at her, but was afraid to leave my back exposed to that darkness. I know it's crazy. But ever since that night, I can't help but feel like maybe he was right.

Can you feel it? Something staring at you? She let out a nervous titter which broke me out of my stunned silence. No, ma'am, I lied. Just looks like a regular bedroom closet to me. You feel like there's something in there looking at you? Not just me. At us.

It's watching both of us right now. And it's seen your face, Agent Barnes. I don't think that's a good thing. What? How come you don't want to turn your back on it, Agent Barnes? You do feel it. I know you do. Close the door so it can't stare at us anymore, will you?

I don't like that feeling. Not one bit. I pushed it with a shaking hand and felt the satisfying click of it closing. Suddenly I could breathe again. We both left the room in a hurry, and I excused myself momentarily into the bathroom. I looked at my reflection in the mirror

and didn't recognize my own face staring back. There were bags beneath my eyes that hadn't been there before, and my skin looked slightly yellow and gray. Before I could do anything, the nausea came over me. Getting down on my knees, I reched into the toilet bowl. Pure black bile like molasses poured out of me, sticky and tenacious like tall. It burned like acid as it came up for my stomach,

coating my tongue afterwards and tasting oily and terrible. I rinsed out my mouth and flushed the toilet again and again to no avail. I stumbled out at the bathroom, drunk feeling and dizzy, but still wanting to finish my interview. I needed to at least try. She was waiting for me in the kitchen, standing by the sink. I stumbled into the room and felt it spinning on the, around me, clutching my head with both hands, I tried to force myself to see straight.

Just a couple more questions, I said, covering my mouth so she didn't see the black bile coating my tongue. My heart was pounding far too quickly, and I tried to ignore the fact that something was potentially very seriously wrong with me. I was still completely in denial of it at that point. You don't look well, Agent Barnes. You look gray in the face. Are you all right? Fine. I'm fine. Now, can you tell me about Brian's father? I understand he passed away several years ago. Did he have any family? Close friends? She shook her head at me, as if none of these questions mattered. And she was right in a way. They didn't. The interview didn't lead anywhere, and I couldn't focus on anything she said. Soon I was back out on the

street again, the memory of the end of the interview gone entirely from my mind. It was like I had been on autopilot without realizing it, and I didn't like that feeling, as if someone else had been driving the car, and I had been asleep behind the wheel. I had a very strong suspicion that whatever had happened to Brian would not be a solvable crime, and if it was solved, those findings would not be suitable for an official report. This had redacted written all over it, assuming it ever made it up the chain of command. If I told my supervisors what I had just experienced, they wouldn't believe a word of it. The case had gone cold months before, so it wasn't expected for me to solve it, only to try to lend a hand if I could. Most of my cases ended up remaining unsolved,

so it wouldn't require much explanation if I wasn't able to do anything useful. I had terrible brain fog for the rest of the trip, getting contemptuous looks from the local police detectives whenever I suggested anything I thought might be useful. Everything had been tried before by the sounds of it, and I began to feel as if I had overstayed my welcome. The flight back home was a red eye, and I tried to sleep through it,

but found my dreams were plagued by nightmares. I kept dreaming I was a kid again, back in my childhood bedroom. Not only that, but my closet door kept squealing open in the night, creaking loudly, the wood swinging back and forth, as if blown by an impossible wind. I stood up on my child legs to go over to it, but found myself frozen with fear, staring at the blackness within the closet.

That deep, penetrating darkness, which seemed to spread out in all directions. And then, as I reached out my trembling hand for the door handle to close it, something else reached out and grabbed my wrist, an ice-cold, gnarled hand, rotten, and macerated. The flesh was pale and bluish-purple, mottled, and covered in wounds, seeping and oozing with blood and pus. As I tried desperately to pull away, fighting it with all my strength, it pulled me deeper into the darkness. I fell in, plunging into the depths of it, suffocating in the dark abyss. When I woke up, I was screaming, and the airplane had just begun to descend.

The flight attendants gave me a look which told me my terror was not appreciated. By the time I got home that night, it was already dark, and well past my son Greg's bedtime. My wife was in bed, so I poured myself a drink and sat down on the couch to watch television for a little while. hoping to distract myself from the things I had seen, and from the dreams I couldn't unsee. I wanted so badly to forget that dream, but it was the only thing I could visualize when I closed my eyes. That rotten corpse hand, grabbing hold of my wrist and squeezing!

I felt as if I could feel that pain even after I had awoken. That feeling of something tightening around my forearm, like a freezing vice. I looked down at my arm, to see a handprint there. It was slightly purple like an old bruise. It was faded like it was old. And yet, I hadn't seen it earlier. What the hell? What's happening to me? I asked myself, standing up in pacing. There was cold beer in the fridge. Despite the time, I went in there and grabbed a bottle, popping it open and chugging its contents. I felt so thirsty all of a sudden, like I hadn't drank in days, but I didn't want water.

The thought of it disgusted me. The bottle was empty, and so I grabbed another, and another, draining them both. Soon I was on my fourth, and then it was empty. The rest of the six-pack was gone two minutes later, and I belched loud enough to wake the dead after I had finished polishing it off. Still thirsty, I went into the cupboard and pulled out an old, dusty bottle of Gibson's. I drank it straight down, the usual burn of it absent now. Instead, it just felt like heat in my belly afterwards. Suddenly very tired. I stumbled off to bed,

but not before peeking into Greg's room to check on him. It was around 3 a.m. by that point. He was fast asleep and snoring, and his closet door was closed tightly. I made him. I made sure of that. When we woke up the next morning, Greg was gone. I had locked all the doors and windows, and Greg didn't have his own key. He didn't have a cell phone we could trace either, but I got the feeling it wouldn't make a difference either way. The police came to investigate and were surprised to hear what I do for a living. They were even more surprised to hear about the case I had just been investigating. Think it might be a copycat? One of the detectives. The perspectives asked innocently, if only it could have been so simple.

Or maybe the same guy? You might be right, I said, unable to deny their logic. But I knew that wasn't what had happened, not really. Let's take a look around his room, they said. And I led them down the hallway towards Greg's room, showing them inside. I left it exactly how it was. We didn't touch a thing. The closet door swung open in the inner.

and stopped. It opened an inch wider and stopped again. Does the closet door always do that? The taller detective asked. No. Why don't you go and take a look? There's something else here now. Something new. From exclusively on Paramount Plus, it's the series Stephen King calls scary as hell. Everything here is impossible, but it's also real. Sci-fi vision calls it the best show streaming right now. 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.

My wife stood at the front door with her suitcase in hand. Her face and eyes are red from hours of crying. You're not the man I'm married! I need to go. I just need to get out of this house for a while. Are you coming back? I don't know. She turned around to leave, and I reached out to stop her, grabbing her shoulder and squeezing a little harder than I meant to. I stopped myself, let go, asking myself again.

What the hell is wrong with me? What exactly have I been infected with? Just tell me why. Haven't you been listening? Half the time you're not here, and the other half you're lost in your thoughts. You don't even hear the words I'm saying when I talk to you. Our son has been missing for days And you act like nothing's happened

Like there's nothing we can do There isn't anything we can do It's up to the local police I have no jurisdiction I told you that a hundred times And even if I did it's a conflict of interest I can't investigate my own son's disappearance At least not officially

I'd believe that I really would If not for the smell of booze on your breath every day You aren't even trying to help unofficially you've given up. All you do is drink. And when you're not drinking, you're missing for hours at a time. I'm going out looking for him. Just stay. Please. She rolled her eyes, not believing my lie. When you get your shit together, you call me. Until then, I'll be staying with my sister. Goodbye, Ted. She opened the glass door and let it slam shut behind her as she marched towards the curb. Her sister,

Her sister pulled up a moment later in her little blue economy car and stared daggers at me as she waited for Lisa to get in. They drove off, and just like that, I stood at the door for a long time, before turning around and surveying the empty house. It didn't feel empty, though. Not since that last case. In my son's bedroom closet, a shadow thing had taken up residence, not to mention, it was now living inside of me. I couldn't help but wonder if I was serving as an incubator for some malicious creature growing larger by the day. My sadness suddenly turned to anger as I thought about it.

Whatever the thing was, it had taken not just my child, but at least one other, maybe more. Not only that, but it was working on taking my life as well, erasing it in bits and pieces. I would lose chunks of time an hour long or more. the periods of mental absence were growing longer and more frequent by the day. I marched towards my son's room and threw open the door, turning on the light. It did little to illuminate the small space. It was as if the light bulbs needed to be replaced in the ceiling fan, but I had done that several times already, just as the mother of the missing child on my investigation had said

about her son's light, I too would need to call an electrician. Although I doubted that would help, I had to try. The darkness was already spreading out into the hallway, like a malicious plague made of shadows. What do you want for me? I asked the empty room. My eyes fixed on the closet door. I had put a deadbolt on it to keep it closed, but it began to slide across to the other side, as if being pulled by sideways gravity, or by an invisible hand. I rushed across the room to pull it closed, but it was too late.

The lock was undone. The door began to swing open, revealing a crack of pure darkness, and I stopped in my tracks, not wanting to get any closer. My heart was pounding, and I had forgotten all about my anger. Now I was only afraid, like a child staring into the shadows of my bedroom closet late at night, hearing sounds from within it, rustling movement, papery, like old snake, skin being shed, a poisonous midnight reptile, growing larger by the day. What did you do with my son? I asked the empty closet. My voice was just above a whisper.

I was backing up, now trying to get away. Whatever the thing was, it was getting stronger. Daddy? A voice sounding almost like my sunset from within that darkness. I almost ran in that direction to save him, purely out of instinct. But then I stopped myself. Something about the voice was different. A slight distortion, like it had been played through a guitar pedal. No, it's not. It can't be. No response came back.

Only silence. And that feeling of something staring at me from the shadows. Not my son, but something else mimicking his voice. I stepped out of the room quickly and closed the door behind me. The hallway was noticeably darker now, as if that plague had spread, incitably. further outwards into the rest of the house. There was no stopping it. I could only try to slow it down.

I went into the dining room and grabbed a chair, tipping it over onto its back legs. I jammed it against the doorknob, making it impromptu lock for the bedroom. I would need to get something stronger, though, and fast. A padlock, I decided, maybe two or three. First, I wanted to make a couple phone calls, while I was still the one steering my own body.

Who knew when whatever entity was in size? side of me would take over and I would go into autopilot again. My first call was to my boss. I asked for a bit more time off to look for my son. He didn't question it for a second and told me to call if I needed anything. After hanging up with him, I dialed another number. I hoped to contact the woman I had visited a few days prior in my capacity as an FBI agent while investigating her missing son. She had acted quite strangely and had known about the shadow. entity, whatever it was. It was also the place where this had all started. She answered, knowing it would be me despite the fact that my FBI issued cell phone blocked my caller ID.

Mrs. Burke, I, uh, call to ask you a few follow-up questions. She waited silently for me to continue. Several moments passed, and I wondered if she'd hung up. Mrs. Burke? Fine. I'm fine. Mrs. Burke, can I ask you about your husband again? We skipped past that last time. You said you were married. Where was he when I came by? At work? The flesh of my arms.

And I realized I was holding my breath and let it out. Is that what it was? Necrotizing fasciitis? Found my voice was suddenly caught in my throat. And I was unable to speak, couldn't speak. That was the last thing I remembered. When I regained consciousness, I was back in my son's bedroom, the closet door hanging wide open in front of me.

I stumbled out of the room and looked for a chair to put back beneath a door handle, but they were all gone, missing from the house completely. All the lights were off, and I went around trying to turn them back on, only to find the bulbs smashed and the light switch is torn from the walls. My phone cast a dim glow, revealing that several hours had passed. That was when I noticed the red stains on my hands. In the dim light cast by my phone, I stood in the bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror. I saw that my hands were covered in dried blood up to the elbows.

It was splattered on my face and clothing, too. As far as I could tell, it was not my own. A voice called for my son's room again, this time sounding a little bit more like him. And then, to my horror, the sound of a child's footsteps came towards me, and he called out again, closer this time. Daddy, what happened? Why are you hiding? Where's mommy? He started to laugh, sounding utterly inhuman once again. He then appeared to perform me in the hallway outside the bathroom door.

His eyes looked black as polished coal, and his smile was full of malice. I had a strong suspicion. Whatever this thing was, it was not my child. Lazzang sur-gillet, puissance-molyne, for 15 minutes. We're like it's their dojo. Pre-a-joo! Vive the pleasure with Leo Jo!

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