Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Never Bid on Dark Web ‘One-of-a-Kind’ Items. They Come with a Cost.

Episode Date: December 1, 2025

When an unhinged Dark Web addict finally steals the cursed Passport to Hell, the photo inside begins erasing its last owner—so it can claim him next. 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

Melvin stares at the screen in disbelieve. No. He re-reads the banner that sits diagonally over the picture of the item of his desire. Sold? No. That can't be. Melvin double-chucks the date. Yes, the auction was for today. He double-checks the time. Yes, the auction was for 8 o'clock, and definitely PM. Eight at night on the 4th. Then he sees the three small letters off to the side of the time.

GMT? What's GMT? He opens a new tab and does a quick search. Greenwich Mean Time! What in the hell is Greenwich Mean Time? His eyes widen. Five hour difference! I should have been on five hours ago? That's not right. It should default to Eastern Time. Default! It takes all of Melvin's self-control not to punch his computer monitor.

That'd be the third monitor in the last two months. So Melvin, despite his intense rage at missing out on the auction, is quite proud of his restraint. He stands up and punches his thighs over and over and over instead. By the time the pain reaches his brain, he's exhausted himself. So he plops back into his chair and stares at the screen some more. It says, sold. But it was supposed to be mine. I was supposed to have it.

How could someone else have it? That doesn't make sense. He pulls at his hair. That doesn't make sense. Melvin punches the monitor, and the screen splits into a million jagged cracks. Damn it! He punches the monitor again, and blood joins the cracks. The sight of red on the screen, and the blood dripping from the hundred small cuts on his knuckles,

enrages Melvin even more. He leaps out of his chair, grabs the monitor on both sides, and throws it across his bedroom. Melvin, what's going on in there? Nothing, Mom. Shut up and watch your shows. Don't tell me to shut up. I'll tell you to shut up if I want to tell you to shut up, you don't, bitch. If your father was alive, he'd tan your hide for speaking to be that way. Well, he's not alive, is he, Mom? Is he? So shut your stupid trap and leave me alone. Did you break your computer TV again? Is that what I heard? I'm not paying for another computer TV, Melvin.

It's not a computer TV, Mom. It's a computer monitor. Monitor! I don't care what it's called. I'm still not buying you a new one. Melvin shakes with rage. All he wants to do is run screaming from his bedroom with his broken monitor, held up high,

into the living room and smash it over his mother's head. But he thinks of his father, and oh, what a mess that was. Such a big mess. A big, big mess. Shut up, Mom. He nudges the broken monitor with his toe and winces as a shard of glass embeds itself under his nail. Damn it, just stupid, crappy damn it, poop shit fart poop.

Aboling to his bedroom door, Melvin opens it slowly. not wanting his mother to hear. Melvin? What are you up to now? What are you doing? Melvin's shoulders simultaneously slump and shake with rage. It's a posture he's perfected over his 31 years in response to his mother's constant,

never-ending, always shrill, ever-judging, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid voice. Without responding, Melvin limps into the bathroom and closes and locks the door. He hunts under the sink for the first aid kit. but doesn't find it. Tossing cleaners and wipes and extra toilet paper everywhere, Melvin empties the small space. Still no first-aid kit. He stands and yanks open the medicine cabinet. There's a bottle of iodine and a box of adhesive bandages on a shelf. His mother calls

them band-aids, but Melvin knows better. Band-aids are a specific brand of adhesive bandages. The box in the cupboard is the generic kind from Kroger, which makes them adhesive bandages, not band-aids. So stupid, Mom. You're so stupid. He pulls the bottle and box down onto the bathroom counter, then closes the lid on the toilet and takes a seat. He stares at his knuckles, then looks down at his bleeding toe. Melvin doesn't know where to start.

Knuckles or toe. He shrugs and opens the bottle of iodine, holding it over his toe first. Gotta be careful. Slow. Gotta pour slow. He looks at the bottle, then at his toe, then at the bathroom floor. I should put a towel down so I don't... A sudden banging on the bathroom door makes him jump,

which causes him to fumble the bottle for half a second before it slips from his grip and falls, falls, landing directly on his wounded toe, then onto the bathroom floor, where it glugs iodine onto the stained linoleum. God damn it, mother! The pain is excruciating. His rage engulfs him.

The iodine spills from the bottle, a rusty pool of acrid liquid spreading across the bathroom floor. Melvin, what are you doing in there? Are you masturbating? No, Mom. I'm not masturbating. Go away. What are you doing? Is that my iodine I smell? Are you using my iodine? I had to. The first-eight kid is missing, Mom. I moved it into the kitchen after I cut myself slicing a bagel. Did you know that bagel injuries are the number one emergency room wound? No, I didn't know that, Mom.

You know why? Because I don't care. No one cares about that stupid crap. There's silence for a moment. Well, I care. Melvin grabs a towel off the bar on the shower door and mops up the iodine. He sees his mistake instantly as the white towel turns rusty brownish red from the iodine and his blood. Man, that shard of monitor on.

under his toenail is bleeding like a stuck dad. Still seated on the toilet, Melvin opens a drawer and grabs a pair of tweezers. They're the ones his mother uses to pluck her eyebrows, but Melvin doesn't care. His personal health and well-being are more important than his mother's preening. Carefully, slowly, painfully, Melvin extracts the shard of glass, tossing the sliver into the trash next to the toilet. Blood wells up and spills out from under the toenail. Tripping down onto the irreparably stained bath towel. Melvin pours iodine over the toe, not caring any longer about the mess he makes. 36 minutes later, Melvin's toe is doctored and wrapped, as are his knuckles.

He looks down at his hand and grins. Bad ass! Melvin, are you done in the bathroom? I need to make a BM. God, Mom! I don't need to hear that. And yeah, I'm done. Not that you care. Oh, Melvin, why are you so hateful?

Shut up, Mom! He returns to his room and strips off his sweatpants so he can put on a pair of jeans. A dirty, musty, rancid smell comes off the jeans as he pulls them up over his legs, careful of his wounded toe. Melvin has no idea the last time the jeans were washed. He really has no idea the last time anything was washed. Mom, you forgot to do laundry again! His mother doesn't answer.

Don't bitch. Always forgetting my laundry. What's the point of her, huh? 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. And just like that, you're done in seconds. That's the power of Shopify.

It supports millions of businesses and drives 10% of all e-commerce in the U.S. From major brands like Mattel and Jimshark to entrepreneurs just getting started. With Shopify, everything you need is in one place, from customizable store templates to built-in AI

tools that help write product descriptions and enhance your images. It also makes marketing easy with integrated email and social campaigns. And if you get stuck, Shopify's award-winning customer support is there for you 24-7. See less cards go abandoned and more sales

go. with Shopify 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. Then Melvin remembers that it's his mother's disability and social security checks that pay the bills. Melvin hasn't had a job in years.

How can he work when people are so stupid? They don't understand him and his way of, looking at the world. Plus, his mother can't take care of herself, not disabled as she is, so he has to stay home. A job would be stupid, just like the people at jobs. All stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Melvin finds a hoodie and sniffs it. It's not too offensive. He pulls it on, then walks to his deck and grabs the can of febrize. He sprays himself down with a room deodorizer, breathing deeply of the fresh laundry set. Good is new.

As Melvin leaves his bedroom, he eyes the closed bathroom door. I'm going to the store for a new monitor, Mom. With what money? I have my own money, Mom. I sell things online. You spend all that money on new things you buy online. Shut up, Mom. I have money, and I'm buying a new monitor.

Done listening to his mother's crap, Melvin hurries down the hallway and into the kitchen. He grabs the car keys off the hook and steps out into the car. the garage. The 1983 Plymouth Horizon waits for him in all its dinged, dented, and rusted glory. It takes him exactly eight tries before the engine turns over. He hits the button on the clicker, and bright sunlight filters inside as the garage door yawns open behind him. Backing out, Melvin ignores the dead lawn in the shriveled rose bushes in his front yard. What does he care about landscaping? That's his mother's job. A next door neighbor tries to wave Melvin down. But he ignores the man and pulls out into the street.

He puts the car in drive and heads out, leaving the waving neighbor far behind in his rearview mirror. When he reaches the big box electronics store, he has to drive around for 20 minutes before a suitable parking space opens up. Melvin doesn't like to park more than three spaces away from the front. He won't accept the fourth or fifth spots. They just aren't close enough. Everyone knows that. The second Melvin steps through the automatic sliding doors, staff scramble to make themselves scarce. A cashier quietly calls into her lapel mic that, the monitor guy, is back.

Heads from staff who didn't see him enter suddenly lift up, looking for signs of Melvin, like gazelles look for signs of approaching lions. You, you will help me! A young man in his blue uniform shirt turns around from where he's restocking phone cases and blanches. His eyes dart to each side, panicked, desperate for help from his co-workers. But as other blue shirts disappear into the aisles, his shoulders slump with the realization that he is on his own. Um, hello, sir. How may I help you today? I need a new computer monitor. Melvin pulls out his phone and swipes a few times, then turns it around for the young man to see.

This exact one. I need it now. Go get it for me. Um, that's a picture of a broken monitor. Yeah, that's because it's broken. What does that matter? Look at the picture and go get me this exact monitor now! The young clerk jumps, but holds his ground. Um, do you know the brand, sir? The model? I can't tell from the picture what exact monitor it is. Oh my god! How stupid are you! Melvin faces his phone again and pinches and pulls until he has the bottom of the monitor blown up on his screen. Then he shoves the phone at the young clerk again.

The young clerk again. There, see? Get that! The young clerk frowns. I still can't read that, sir. I am sorry. Do you have an account with us? I can look up your purchases and see if it's in there.

Will that be helpful? Helpful for you, maybe. I don't need to know my purchases. I already bought the stuff. I know what it all is. The young clerk looks like a deer caught in headlights. He glances around for help once more. quickly sees that no one is coming, and sighs.

Yes, thank you, sir. It would help me considerably. If you'll follow me. I don't follow anyone. Go get my monitor. Of course, sir. Can I get your name? You know my name.

I come in here all the time. I'm a very important customer. Yes, sir, you are. But I need your name so I don't accidentally look up an account for someone not as important as you. Melvin frowns and thinks about what the young clerk said. He scratches his neck beard, looks about to make sure no one is listening, then leans in close. The young clerk recoils at the smell, an unfortunate mixture of febreeze, sweat, and various odors. Melvin T. Agnew.

He jams a finger up under the young clerk's nose. And if you tell anyone that, I'll find out where you live and cut your balls off. Then I'll sell them on the dark web. Melvin's finger slips into one of the young clerk's nostrils, and he yanks the poor man closer. Ow! Hey! Don't mess with me, punk. I'm a big deal on the dark web. Do you know what they call me?

With Melvin's finger still in his nostril, the young clerk shakes his head. He annihilator. Scary, isn't it? And with Melvin's finger still in his nostril, the young clerk nods. Yeah, that's right. It's scary. Now go get me my monitor. The young clerk jerks away from Melvin and hurries off into the aisles.

Melvin waits, sneering at the staff and other customers as they all give him a wide berth. In a couple of minutes, a tall man with a manager name tag approaches Melvin. Melvin sees him coming and his eyes go wide. Don't you touch me. Don't you dare. The tall man points to the exit. You, get out now. I told you last time that if you touched one of my staff again, you would be able to be.

be barred from my store. This isn't your store. You don't own it. But that's about all the argument Melvin has in him. He turns tail and runs out of the store, screaming over his shoulder. I'll just buy it off Amazon. When he gets home, he rushes into the living room and stands in front of the TV, blocking his mother's view from where she sits in her nasty, moldy, smelly recliner.

God, Mom, take a shower or something. You stink. Move! No, Mom. I need your phone. I have to order a new monitor because the jerk manager down at the store is so stupid that he forgot to keep the monitor I like in stock.

That's not what happened, is it, Melvin? You got kicked out again, didn't you? Shut up, Mom. And give me your phone. Melvin doesn't wait for her response. He lunges forward, grabbing the phone out of her gnarled grip, almost taking the hand with it.

Ow, Melvin! That heard! No, it didn't. Yes, it did. I don't care. I need your phone. I'll give it back when I'm Dylan. Just shut up and let me order this. He storms off to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Stupid, Mom. Just stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid. Melvin plops down on his bed, sending a waft of funk billowing into the air. He ignores the stench as he brings up the Amazon app. There you are. And screw Mom. I'm using her credit card. She deserves it after being such a bitch about her phone.

A whooshing sound fills his room, and he pumps a fist into the air. Ordered with free overnight delivery. Melvin literally waits all night on the front stute, his eyes locked onto the road, ready for when the delivery van arrives sometime between 7 a.m. and 11 a.m. When the sun finally rises, Melvin eases himself behind the dead bushes next to the stoop, avoiding any interactions with his neighbors as they walk their dogs or get into their cars to head off to work. Melvin's legs are cramping by the time the Amazon van pulls into his driveway. He watches through brittle branches as the delivery driver hops out,

goes to the back of the van, opens both doors, then slides out a large, flat box. That's mine! The delivery driver jumps and almost drops the box, as Melvin leaps to his feet and hurries across the dead lawn to the truck. He yanks the box out of the driver's hands and races back inside his house. Melvin is in his room and connecting the new monitor before the stunned delivery driver even has a chance to log the delivery, get back into his van,

and back out. The sound of the van driving away is mixed with the sound of Melvin's computer booting up. Squeeeling tires come from outside, and corporate branded chimes come from inside. Melvin, here's none of it. He's all eyes, and those eyes are on the new monitor as the computer starts up. The second he sees his home screen, he launches his VPN and dives into a furious search for a specific person with a specific item that he wanted to win in that damn auction. An item he should have won. His fingers tremble with anger as he types. It takes him all morning before he finds what he needs. To his surprise, the address is for a house only two towns over. Perfect. Your ass is mine now. His mother shouts at him as he runs out of his room and into the

garage. Pick up some more cereal while you're out. No, mom. Get off your dead ass and go pick it up your own damn self. Melvin knows she can't do that. He smiles at that knowledge as he gets into the horizon and backs out of his driveway. First stop is gas, and he uses his mother's credit card for that. Then he stops for a cheese biscuit and home prize using his mother's card again. With the gas tank full and his belly full, Melvin navigates the highways until he reaches the town. Then he navigates the back streets until he finds the address. Without bothering to look around, Melvin grabs the tire iron he keeps on the floor next to the driver's seat and gets out. He stomps up to the front door, opens it without knocking, and points at the

stunned man sitting on the bench. You took something for me and I want it. The man stands up, wiping Cheeto dust from his fingers on his shirt. Who the fuck are you? Get the fuck out of my house. Melvin does the opposite and crosses the room, the tire iron lifting then falling. The man collapses across his coffee table, moaning as blood gushes from the crack in his forehead. Melvin leans down, grabs the man by the hair, and lifts his head up. Where is it? The guy moans as his eyes flit to the side. Melvin slams the man's face into the coffee table once, twice, three times. Then he looks off to the side of the living room at a ratty side table with a single drawer. When Melvin opens the drawer, he smiles so hard that his cheeks hurt. There you are!

He snatches out a passport. But it's not a United States passport. No. The seal on the front is from somewhere much, much further south, and it's not Argentina. The passport to hell! He presses the passport to his chest and sighs. Finally! Then he pulls it away and looks at the picture inside.

It's an image of the man bleeding out, only a few feet away. But the image is slowly fading to a blue. luller. Melvin smiles. That's right. Now you're mine. Get his damn picture out of there. The guy slumped across the coffee table moans again. Melvin walks over and slams the tire iron against the back of his skull. The man goes still. Melvin wipes the tire iron on the back of the guy's shirt and sneers down at the body. Teach you to steal from the annihilator. He's out of the house and back in his mother's horizon in minutes. He opens the

passport again, and the man's face is completely gone from the photo. A new face is slowly starting to appear, and Melvin grins maniacly as he recognizes the new one. When Melvin finally returns home and pulls into his driveway, one of his neighbors is standing there, blocking his way. Melvin lays on the horn, and the man walks around to the driver's window, making a roll it down gesture. What do you want, Tom? I'm really busy right now. Melvin, I am done telling you this. But you have to take care of your yard. This lawn has become an eyesore. Start maintaining the yard or I'm calling the city.

They will find you, you know. Melvin shoves the door open, forcing Tom to stumble back. You think I care? He shakes the passport at neighbor Tom. Lawns are for simpering cucks like you, Tom. Melvin gives Tom a hard shove, knocking the man onto his ass. A cloud of dirt poofs up from the dead lawn. What is wrong with you, Melvin?

Nothing is wrong with me, you little. bitch. It's you who is wrong. You and your bitch wife. Go to hell, Melvin. I'm planning on it. He hops back into his car and pulls it into the garage. He laughs as he gets out and can just see Tom still sitting in the dirt, stunned and wide-eyed. Then the garage door closes and Melvin hurries into his house. Mom, I got it. I fucking got it. He storms over to his mother's recliner and jams the passport in her face. See? It's real. real passport to hell and you didn't believe that I could get it his mother says nothing that's right I got it and it's super cool hell here I come he shakes the passport in her face again of course

Melvin's mother's desicated corpse sees nothing but Melvin doesn't realize this he absolutely refuses to realize this to Melvin his mother is alive and well how could she be dead it's not like Melvin poisoned her years ago or anything Melvin yanks the passport back and stares at the photo. It's no longer a blurry mess. Now it is fully defined, a fully defined photo of Melvin's face. Yeah, it's super cool. Now I can go to hell and find Dad and kick his ass.

What an asshole, right? I shoot him 15 times, and he does what? Dyes? What a little bitch! He lifts his chin to the ceiling and bellows. I'm coming for you, Dad! Melvin stompest to his bedroom and sits down in front of his computer. He brings up the auction website and smiles as he sees that his bid is still the highest for the train ticket to hell.

It's not like he's going to just walk into the place. The Annihilator doesn't walk anywhere, thank you very much. That would be crazy. I want to go whiff. Get me a ticket too. Shut up, Mom. You just be dead weight. And Dad hates you anyway. So the answer is a big fat no.

But I want to go. Shut up and watch your damn TV shows. Melvin stares at the new monitor and watches as the auction clock slowly counts down. But he's not worried. Even if he loses, he always has the Plymouth Horizon and his tire iron. He'll get the train ticket to hell one way or the other. What are we having for dinner? Mom, shut up!

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