Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - I’m by Myself on a Lifeboat, but I’m Not Alone

Episode Date: August 17, 2026

A ship catches fire in the middle of the North Atlantic, leaving one sailor stranded alone in a lifeboat with almost no food, barely any water, and something in the corner that won’t stop staring at him. Each night, shadows circle the boat, footsteps cross the roof, and scorched fingers scratch at the hatch from outside. As a violent storm closes in, he’s forced to confront what really happened aboard the Santa Sangre—and why the dead may have followed him into the sea. 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 all of Jake’s horror story collections at: https://jakebible.com/short-storiesnovellascollections/ * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #scarystories #horrorstories #drnosleep #doctornosleep #creepypasta #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

I don't want to open my eyes. The sea rolls beneath me in a slow, endless rhythm, and all I want is to stay curled into a ball and pretend none of this is happening. That I'm not all by myself, that I'm not stuck on this damn lifeboat, that I'm not out of food, and that I have barely one day's worth of water left

until the damn skies open up and give me some rain. But most of all, I wish you would stop staring at me. That's what I truly want more than anything, more than food or water or being rescued. I want it to just stop staring at me. A seagull cries somewhere in the darkness, and my eyes open at once. If there's a seagull nearby, there may be land.

No, no, there's no seagull. With my eyes open, I can see that it's still night. Through the lifeboat's few portholes, pinpricks of stars glimmer against the darkness. That seagull was just in my head, in my dreams. In the faint starlight, the lifeboat comes back into view, and I know the dream is over.

I'm back in my waking nightmare. It sits there in the corner watching me. I've told it to go away so many times, but it doesn't listen. If I had more strength, I'd force it out of the lifeboat. I'd pick it up, carry it through the hatch, and toss it overboard. But that kind of strength left me days ago, and I'd rather not touch it or get any closer.

There's something wrong with it. It can stay there in the corner. Whatever is outside the lifeboat frightens me more. A shadow slides across one of the starboard portholes, and I whimper. It blots out the entire view, far too large to be a seagull. The lifeboat rocks one way than the other. Muffled footsteps move overhead. Fingers scratch at the hatch.

There is no way in hell I'm opening that hatch. For days, I have seen. screamed at them to go away. They do for a bit, mostly in the daytime. I rarely see them prowling outside during the day, but that doesn't mean they're gone. So I stay sealed inside with the thing in the corner, watching me. The engine is dead and there's no power, so it gets hot during the day. I can handle the heat. This is the North Atlantic, not the Caribbean. Or I think it's the North Atlantic. It's been hard to tell lately. I used to be good at navigating by the stars. But that was years ago when I was younger, when my father and I would go out in his little boat.

With all the digital equipment and cell phones and satellite internet available today, I let my skills lapse. Kind of wish I hadn't now. I need to figure out where I am. What current this is, where it's taking me. The radio is useless. It was broken the second I dropped the lifeboat into the ocean and puttered away from the sinking ship. Santa Sangre.

Holy blood. The name of the ship should have been a dead giveaway when I got the email, asking if I was looking for work. Work that pays well. Work that would take me far away from my troubles down in Texas. Work that could keep me occupied for months. Santa Sangre. Man, I'm dumb. Being a sailor is a superstitious mess.

Yeah, sure. I've worked with guys who swear they don't believe in any of that crap. Any of the old ways, the old sayings, the old... But the second they're staring at 40-foot swells, they become instant believers. At least until the storm passes, and they have a second to change their underpants. Then, with fresh boxers on, they are back to talking shit about the ways sailors have dealt with the oppressive vastness and power of the very ocean they make their living on. Me?

I believe. Oh, I believe. Mother Ocean has made me a believer. You don't whistle into the wind, because the wind will be. wind, and you sure as hell don't want to be on the wrong side of the wind. I told this to Liam, and he just laughed at me. He saw the look on my face and said that we don't need to worry about the wind since we aren't a sailboat. I said the wind brings the storms. He rolled his eyes and walked away. That was how Liam reacted whenever I tried to teach him about the old ways.

Take the tattoos of pigs and roosters on the soles of your feet. I have them both. Of course I do. Any fool knows that if you have a rooster on one foot and a pig on the other, then if you fall overboard, they will guide you to shore. Just in case your shipmates decide not to come back for you. I mention this to Liam too, told him he should get tattoos on his feet like me. He laughed again and said no one believed in that crap. He was always laughing at me. I could ask who was laughing now.

Then there's first blood. You wonder why sailors fight so much? It's because we have to. If you don't shed first blood before setting sail, then you are doomed to have a rotten fishing season. Or, if you aren't part of a fishing vessel, then blood will be shut upon your boat. And no one wants that.

I saw a guy get his left arm, torn off only three days into a voyage. He was a lefty, so that made things difficult for him in life. He had refused to punch a guy who had called him a homophobic slur back at shore. If he just smacked that guy once and drawn only a trickle of blood, even if he didn't win in the end.

They'd still have that left arm. I can guarantee it. Odd number of fishing nuts? That's another. Don't lose your hat overboard, or you're doomed to be delayed out at sea for a long while. I lost my hat getting into the lifeboat, but I'd rather not think about that. Some of the old warnings are stranger than others. There's one about witches and eggshells that I never liked. I still break my eggshells into a small of pieces as possible. You have to be careful what you say, too. We sailors don't talk about drowning. We don't talk about luck. We don't talk about our land lives and detail. Maybe family stuff, but not what our houses look like or where we go to church. That's for chatter over pictures

of beer, one safely back on shore. I caught Elijah saying he was the luckiest person he knew, and I gave him hell for it. Liam had to step in and break us up. He was a fool for sense. He was a fool for that, and I'd smack him once or twice again if I could, but I can't. Not here inside this lifeboat. There's no Elijah or Liam in here. Not that I can see at the moment. All I can see is it in the corner. There are tons of superstitions, too many to list. No goodbyes. Never stir tea with anything but a spoon. Don't hand someone the salt, slide it across the table, and let them pick it up. And bananas. That one is crazy, because bananas are on board every ship or boat these days. But, just to be safe, I keep my distance. I'll have an orange or an apple instead.

And the old belief that women or redheads bring bad luck aboard a ship doesn't hold up anymore. I may not be a woman, but I am a ginger, bright red on top, deep red on my face. Speaking of, I scratch it my weak old beard and feel something crawling inside it. I pluck it out without looking and pop it into my mouth. Tastes like spider. Spiders are everywhere, even on lifeboats. Something creaks heavily on the roof above me. Then the scratching resumes.

Clamping my hands over my ears, I huddle in the opposite corner, my eyes staring at the porthole directly across from me. I whisper prayers that no one comes looking through that porthole. A passing shadow I can handle, but an actual face? No, sir. No, that won't be good for my morassette. The lifeboat rocks up and down. The swells out there are getting bigger. I have no instruments working, and since I try not to go outside in the dark, I can't see if a storm is approaching.

But I should go check. I really should. I need the water a storm can provide. But what if it follows me? What if it and the others attack me outside? To help with the scratching, I pull my hands away from my ears and force myself to stand up in the cramped space. If I'm not going outside on deck, then I can at least make sure everything is batten down tight. So if a storm does hit, I'll have a chance of making it through without taking on water and capsizing or sinking. God, I can only imagine what waits for me below. Mother oceans embrace can only be cold and dark. So cold, so dark.

I start with the hatch. Might as well get the worst over with. As the scratching continues, I check the wheel, making sure it is locked tight. I checked the four latches, two up top, two at the bottom, seeing that they are locked down and secure. The scratching becomes more frantic, and I punch the hatch, wanting to scream for them to stop. Just stop, please stop. It wasn't my fault, God damn it, it wasn't my fault. Leave me alone.

Go away, just stop! They don't stop. I move on. The lifeboat is two huge pieces of molded fiberglass fused together, so there aren't a lot of places for water to get in. In theory, but water always finds a way. way. I checked the seals around each porthole, avoiding actually looking through the porthole themselves, because as soon as I move to the first one, the scratching at the hatch stops. I hear footsteps above, following me as I move from one porthole to the next. Whoever is

out there is crossing the curved roof instead of using the narrow exterior ledge that circles the lifeboat. Crawling over this model is dangerous. Walking across it should be impossible. but whatever is out there probably doesn't care about that anymore. One thing I've learned from building businesses is that getting started is usually the hardest part. When we launched No Sleep Coffee, we already knew exactly what we wanted to sell. We just needed a website. Shopify made that step incredibly straightforward. We set up our storefront, added our products, uploaded the descriptions and images, and within a few days we had a fully functioning online store.

What I really value is how Shopify takes care of so much, behind the scenes. The checkout experience is extremely smooth. Customers complete their purchases quickly, giving you peace of mind as an owner that you're not losing sales at the last step. If you've been considering selling a product online, whether it's coffee, merch, or something you made yourself, Shopify is definitely worth a look. With Shopify, nothing stands between your idea and a real business, so go make it one. Start your free trial at Shopify.com slash DNS. Start your free Retrial at shopify.com slash dns. 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 podcasts. The portholes are sealed properly from what I can tell. I move on to the stray equipment, life preservers, my less than meager water stores, some blankets,

cushions that can be used as flotation devices, just like on an airplane. God, I wish I were on an airplane right now instead of here, flying miles above this ocean. No cares in the world except for picking up my baggage after landing. The flight attendant would bring me a Diet Coke. I love Diet Coke. Stray gear is strapped tight. There isn't a loose item in this lifeboat, except for it in the corner. I keep to the far side of the lifeboat and glare at it,

though the cramped space offers little distance between us. All it would take is a couple of ropes under the armpits and one around the waist. That would hold it tight. It doesn't move, doesn't make a sound, just sits there staring at me, judging me, accusing me. It wasn't my fault. Can't you see that? Don't you know it?

It wasn't my fault. The fire had already started. I just, I just... I don't finish. It knows. It's always known. The lifeboats bow rises, and I stagger. Shoving an arm out, I brace myself.

My eyes still on it. We are watching each other now. Another shadow crosses a porthole, and I cower, hurrying back to my spot. I sit hard and tuck my knees up to my chin, wrapping my arms around my shins as I wait for the shadow to return. It doesn't, but the scratching at the hatch starts back up. No, no, I won't let you in. No, I don't want to see you, no. That word, no. It runs through my mind. It's a stamp of regret in my psyche. It's what I said when I stepped into the galley and saw the fire blazing.

No, just a simple no, because I knew what would happen. I didn't even bother to go for the fire extinguisher. There was no point. So I panicked. As a cook on a boat, there are certain rules you follow. Keeping the crew fed and happy is the first one. A hungry crew is a grumpy crew. And when you are out at sea for weeks, maybe months,

a grumpy crew can become an angry crew. An angry crew becomes a dangerous crew. You can imagine what happens then. I was good at feeding crews, been doing it for years. I make buttermilk biscuits like no other cook out there, and I bring my own fresh honey from my grandmother's ranch. She used to live up by Austin, but passed a few years back. All I took after the funeral was the honey, jars and jars of honey.

She didn't like me much, my grandmother, said I was the spitting image in all ways of my father. He was a fiery redhead too, and a drunk, and a rageaholic. He could go from smiling to snarling in the snap of your fingers. I once told a joke about two dogs screwing, and he thought it was hilarious. So I told another joke, which he didn't like. I woke up with a swollen eye on a broken nose. Grandmother said, I should have stuck to the one joke. Then she walked away, leaving me bruised, broken, and in pain on the living room floor.

I didn't see my father for three days. When he came back home, completely shit-faced, he grabbed me and yanked me close, then told me the same joke that had gotten me beat. He laughed for hours over it. Grandmother glared and sneered at us both, but her honey is amazing. The scratching is louder now, picking up in volume just like the wind outside. The lifeboat is now going up and down regularly. My sailor's brain is counting the seconds.

Four on the way up, three on the way down. I have to remember those numbers. Four up, three down. They'll help if the storm gets worse. A starboard porthole goes dark, but that's okay. It's behind me, right over my shoulder. All I have to do is nothing. Just stay still.

Just keep facing this way, not that way. A knock. I refuse to whimper this time. But one slips out when there's a second knock. Lightning flashes in the portside porthole. I see it flash miles and miles away, and in that flash I see the clouds. Huge storm clouds, dark and mean. Like Brogan, when he came into the galley and saw the fire,

Brogan was the first mate, and I remember him screaming at me, shouting, and asking why I hadn't used the fire extinguisher on the flames. That's when he grabbed it off the wall, pulled the pin, and aimed the hose directly at the fire. Nothing came out, just like I knew what happened. There was so much yelling and shouting. Brogan slammed the fire extinguisher into my face, then into my stomach, doubling me over. I fell to my hands and knees, coughing as more the crew came running in.

I wanted to tell them I was sorry that it wasn't my fault. The night before we left port, a woman had drugged me and robbed me blind, and I'd barely made it aboard before the ship pulled away. I didn't have time to check the extinguishers in the galley like Brogan had ordered. By the time we were out to see, it was too late. I even thought about switching it out for one of the others on board, but I was busy readying the galley for the journey and cooking the meals for the crew. I didn't have time. I didn't have time. The shadow is still there. I'll admit that I forgot. The shadow moves away, and I count to five

before looking over my shoulder. When I finally do, the porthole is clear. Beyond it, there's only the black sky and a scattering of stars. Yeah, sure. I forgot all about the experience. I also should have kept a fire blanket within reach. That might have smothered the flames. If Brogan hadn't beaten my ass, maybe my brain would have thought of it before. Stop it. Stop staring at me. It wasn't my fault. Accidents happened. But this wasn't my fault. I could have fixed it. I could have. Stop staring at me. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Knock, knock.

At the hatch this time. I turned my back on the thing in the corner and stare at the hatch. They've never knocked before. Lightning flashes again, and it is closer this time. Much closer by the sound of the thunder. Ah, right. Thunder. That's what I heard. There was no knocking at the hatch.

It was thunder. The bow rises, and I count while hanging on. Eight seconds this time. Five on the way down. The rises are getting steeper, too. Same with the descents. It's going to be a big one. Lightning, thunder.

Knock, knock, I jump. That wasn't thunder. Even I can't convince myself of that this time. If I look over my shoulder at it, I know it'll be staring. Its eyes saying that of course it's not thunder. It's them. This is all stupid. I've lost my mind, of course.

That's all this is. Madness. There's a sort of relief in this realization. This acceptance that I have gone mad. Yes, yes, of course I've gone mad. Who wouldn't? Lost at sea? No food left?

Only a few drops of water left? No hope left? Madness is like a warm hug after coming in out of a cold rain. I let it wrap around me, the madness. None of this is real, none of it. The lifeboat rises, and it's 12 seconds now. I have to brace myself tight so I don't tumble backwards. Then we peek, and I am screaming, shouting, praying as the lifeboat races down the far side of the swell. This part I can't make up. Madness can't conjure up a storm like this. The storm is real. I move about, now that we're floating sort of steady. There are a few seconds between the swells, which gives me time to do something I don't want to do. I go to a porthole and peer out of it.

The storm is almost on me. The clouds are nearly merged with the waves. It looks like a mouth, ready to devour me and this lifeboat. There's movement, and I duck back. The knocking on the hatch continues. It keeps staring at me. Lightning flashes. The lifeboat starts to rise.

I grab on. Fingertips appear on the porthole glass, dark, blackened fingertips. They slide across the glass like they're petting the lifeboat, then slide back, leaving greasy streaks behind. The knocking becomes pounding. The hatch shudders. The fingertips are gone. So are the pinpricks of stars. Only clouds outside now. Up we go. Twelve seconds pass. Fifteen seconds pass. Just as I count 19, we crest. We hover. We dive. I don't bother to count. All I can do is hold on as we race to the bottom of the swell. At the speed the lifeboat is going,

I wouldn't be surprised if we race to the bottom of the ocean itself to Mother Ocean's waiting embrace. Then the lifeboat hits the trough, and I am thrown back against the hatch. Everything evens out for a moment, so I scramble to my feet. But I slip and fall face first into its lap. I close my eyes tight and hurry away, shoving at it like it's trying to consume me.

But it can't. I won't let it. it. Stair all you want, you thing! I'm not giving up. Thunder roars around me, drowning out the knocking, which is now pounding, which is now in my head, in my head, in my head. Someone screamed to throw water on it, on the flames. This is why it's not my fault. Everyone knows not to throw water on a grease fire. Everyone knows that. Everyone. Right? One thing I've learned from building businesses is that getting started is usually the hardest part. When we launched No Sleep Coffee, we already knew exactly what we wanted to sell.

We just needed a website. Shopify made that step incredibly straightforward. We set up our storefront, added our products, uploaded the descriptions and images, and within a few days we had a fully functioning online store. What I really value is how Shopify takes care of so much behind the scenes. The checkout experience is extremely smooth. Customers complete their purchases quickly, giving you peace of mind as an owner that you're not losing sales at the last step.

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tell them but Brogan kept me down I raised my chin and he walloped it all while screaming in my face if he'd calm down just for a second I could have said not to do what they did someone grabbed a pot of water from the sink and threw the entire thing over the stove I didn't get to set it because my head was down, my chin at my chest, blood dripping from split lips. Oh, but I heard it. I heard the initial hiss of the water hitting the flames. Then came the whoosh, as the water mixed with the fiery oil, sending flames exploding everywhere in the galley. No place was untouched. Even me, still cowering on the deck. I felt the heat sear the back of my neck. I felt the skin on my upper shoulders, then between my shoulder blades, then down my spine begin to bubble. I heard the

screams too. Men, my crewmates, their bodies coated in hot flaming oil, were screaming like small girls. They ran in all directions, but there was nowhere to go. The galley was small like most galleys on most boats. I heard them crying and pleading and trying to put the flames out. The hard slaps of hands on newly-christened flesh. The soft wetness of that crisp skin splitting under those slaps, I heard it all. Then, feeling my own pain, knowing that if I didn't do something soon, I'd die with everyone else in that damn galley. I began to crawl. A few men had fallen to the deck, their faces charred, and I crawled over them, beating away the desperate hands that reached for me. My knees pressed into bellies and against ribs. Then I headed for the

galley's hatch. I was almost out when a powerful grip on one of my ankles began to pull me back inside. I screamed and kicked at the hand, then spun around, the burned skin on my back, stretching and tearing from the effort. I kicked the the owner of the hand straight in the face. Brogan! His eyes were wild with pain, but also filled with fury. I kicked and kicked and kicked until he let go, until all that pain and fury dimmed from his eyes, and all that was left was glass, like the surface of a windless ocean. The knocking, the thudding at the hatch does not relent. Neither does the storm, the sea, or it. Sitting in the corner, as if Mother Ocean herself wasn't trying to destroy us,

sitting there without any cares or fears or worries, only judgment and loathing. Up we go again, and my cries are lost to the thunder. We rise and rise and rise. I turn my head, and now there are faces, faces at every porthole as we ascend the swell, climbing high into the air, the bow of the lifeboat ready to touch the raging, awful, cruel storm clouds above us. Angry faces, scorched faces, doomed faces.

They fill all of the portholes, their skin press, tight against the glass. I jerk my head away. More faces crowd the portholes on the other side, and I turned from them too. My eyes land on the thing in the corner. There was nothing I could do, which was true, but it doesn't care. It says nothing, does nothing, only stairs and stairs and stairs. We crest, we fall. I scream. I pray. Please, Heavenly Father, do not leave me to other ocean's fate. Her wrath is more than I deserve. I tried to be good. I tried to save them. The lie tastes like a corpse's ash upon my tongue. Did I really try to save them? No. I crawled out of that galley and using all of my strength to find handholds. I pulled myself upright. The cries had

already started to diminish. I think a few of my crewmates were already dead, with the rest quickly or perhaps slowly on their way. So I kicked Brogan out of the way, reached in and grabbed the hatch, then swung it shut, sealing the burning galley off from the rest of the ship. Then I hobbled my way down the cord or up the steps and out onto the open deck. The cool air on my scorched skin was heaven. The fire alarm was blaring, and as I stumbled over to one of the lifeboats, I heard the rest of the crew calling to each other, shouting orders, asking questions, all rushing to stop the spread of the fire. But they were too late. The fire suppression system should have saved the rest of the ship.

It should have, but it didn't. And as I launched the lifeboat, with only myself aboard, I told myself that because I wasn't in charge of the fire suppression system, none of it was my fault. It wasn't my fault as the lifeboat drifted away from the burning ship. It wasn't my fault as I waited for the second lifeboat to launch, though it never did. It wasn't my fault as the entire ship became up all of flame,

a funeral pyre in the middle of the North Atlantic. I tell myself this now, that it's not my fault, not my fault, not my fault, as the lifeboat slams down into the next trough, and I'm thrown across the small space, my shoulder colliding with the wall. My head throbs. When I touch it, my fingers come away wet with blood as the lifeboat begins to rise again. I don't know how many more of these I can take. How many more the lifeboat can take?

The storm is going to win. It always does. But not if they win first. I watch in horror as the wheel on the hatch begins to turn. Slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster, like a roulette wheel at a casino. Then with a clang, it stops. Something shoves against the hatch, hard.

At least the hatches are still in place. Two up top, two at the bottom. Click. The lifeboat's bow lifts. A latch comes loose. Click. The lifeboat climbs the swell. A second latch comes loose.

Click. The lifeboat is almost straight up and down. I have to wrap my arm in a safety rope to keep from falling down against that hatch. A third latch comes undone. Click, a fourth. With the four latch is free. The only thing keeping the hatch from opening is that it swings outward. Gravity is my ally at the moment.

Then we hit, and it all becomes topsy-turvy. Through the portholes, I see ocean water, not a stormy sky. The lifeboat is plunged beneath the surface, carrying me underwater with it. But only for a moment. It bobs back up, and I am balanced. bounced about like a buoy. Then gravity turns on me, and the hatch swings open. Scorched hands reach inside looking for purchase. One pair, two pairs, a third, a fourth, a fifth. All I see are hands gripping the edges of the open hatch. Then those hands pull in bodies.

Even with their faces burned, I recognize Elijah. I recognize Liam. I recognize Brogan. They clamber inside like spiders. Their milky white eyes landing on me. Their crisp lips, ripping as they grin. I turned toward the corner, but the thing is no longer sitting there. It has toppled beside the hatch, folded awkwardly in on itself. Not like it could save me. Not from them. They say nothing, but there's nothing to say.

They could spit accusations, but it wouldn't matter. They could proclaim my guilt, but why bother? They are not here for accusations. They are here for retribution. Even though it's not my fault. And that is what I tell them as they fall on me, and pull me back to the hatch as the lifeboat climbs and climbs and climbs. It is not my fault! Not my fault! Not my fault!

Their greedy, grubby, blistered fingers don't care, though. They find me, grab me, and pull me as I try to scramble away. But there is nowhere for me to go in this small space, just like there was nowhere for them to go in that burning galley, on that burning ship. I'd try to fight them off, but there aren't too many. As they drag me through the hatch, I see the thing lying beside it, Its body still folded awkwardly in on itself. Lightning flashes and its eyes stare back.

Dead eyes. Glassy eyes. Guilty eyes. Two bare feet extend from the twisted body. One has the tattoo of a rooster on it. One has the tattoo of a pig on it. My feet. And those eyes are my eyes.

Oh, that's who it was. Me. Me all this time. But if it was me, Then what am I? As they drag me from the lifeboat and into the water, my crewmates hold me tight. Together we sink slowly,

slowly toward the ocean floor, and I begin to wonder if I was hurt worse than I realized. Maybe the burns on my back became infected. Maybe I didn't make it. But that can't be true. I escaped. I got away. I lived.

I still live. Because it wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my... fault. But as I sink, whatever I am, I realize that Mother Ocean knows better. She always does. Perhaps. Perhaps it was my fault after all. Want more? Subscribe and turn on all notifications so you never miss any of our weekly uploads.

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