Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - No Children Live At This Address

Episode Date: January 11, 2023

🎧 Check out The SCP Experience podcast here: https://spoti.fi/3juM1og 🎉 Ad-free episodes + bonus episodes: https://www.patreon.com/drnosleep 🎥 YouTube: https://youtube.com/c/DrNoSleep �� Send all advertising inquiries to: [e-mail] Author: John Beardify Check out more of his work Here: https://www.reddit.com/user/beardify/ New Book Release Here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09QJXLHF4 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 is applicable. New to the building, hmm. The blue-haired woman held the elevator for me. I'm Mayve, apartment 4B.

I introduced myself. We exchanged phone numbers. I waved goodbye as the door slid open, but Mave from 4B, wasn't through with me yet. By the way, if no one's told you yet, no children live at this address. Goodbye. I was sure that I'd misheard. No children live at this address? Why would she tell me that? And besides, it seemed impossible that there wasn't a single kid in Elm Hill apartments. It was six stories tall, with four units on each floor. It was bizarre, but my arms were full of groceries, the utilities weren't set up yet,

and my mattress frame had disappeared during the move. The demands of reality pushed the strangeness out of my mind at first. That night, I woke with a dry throat and a full bladder. It took me a moment to remember who and where I was. The winter hush and streetlighty glow gave my nightmare trip to the bathroom a dreamlike quality, and when I looked out the window, I wondered if I was still dreaming. A boy stood by the street, kicking at the snow-covered dead leaves. He wore a black-knit cap, a blue hoodie, and worn out yellow sneakers.

It was past midnight and freezing cold, and the kid couldn't have been older than nine. I was wondering if I should call someone when the boy suddenly looked up, directly at my window. He just stood there, hands in his hoodie pocket. pocket staring at me. Instinct made me feel around for my phone. I wasn't sure whether I planned to call the police, take a picture of the weird sight, or just feel the comforting weight of the modern world in my hand. When I found my phone had turned back to the window, however, the boy was gone. On my way to work the next morning, I noticed a sign above the mail slot, no children, no pets. I read something about that in the contract, but I had to

barely paid at any attention. I needed a place to live, and I couldn't afford to be picky. But it was odd. Kids of all ages seemed to avoid our building, even though there were plenty of them in the neighborhood. With an elementary school four blocks over and a city park across the street, at least some of them should have come chasing each other through the grass or stopped to eat ice cream on our stew, but none did. Animals, too, see. to avoid Elmhill apartments. No terrier ever hitched a leg on the holly bushes. No cat ever stalked birds through the fresh-cut grass.

They'd just sniff the air suspiciously and move on. Like our building was a carcass too rotten to eat. As a single guy with no aspirations to have a family or a pet, none of it really bothered me. But now that I noticed it, there was no going back. I decided to ask Carl about it. Carl about it. Carl was the building's janitor, a big, overweight white guy in his late 60s. As far as he was concerned, Elm Hill was his baby. He had a point, too. It had been Carl,

not the faceless agency I'd paid, who'd given me my key, and showed me how to fix my windows when they got stuck. It was Carl who kept the hot water and AC running, and who kept the holly bushes alive in winter, and the lawn trimmed, and the summer. He'd been here when Elm Hill was Park Suites, and when it had been Regency Place apartments before that, as well as all the other name changes the faded yellow brick building had been through during the past 50 years. If anyone knew the origin of Elm Hill's weird no-kid's policy, it would be him. Well, kids tear the place up, don't they? Crayon on the walls, piss puddles on the carpet, breaking windows and throwing parties. Carl shrugged, and

response to my question. Place is better off without him. He paused, suddenly unwilling to look me in the eye. Oh, uh, and if you see any kids, remember that policy. There shouldn't be any of them running around here. No children live at this address. I opened my mouth to question Carl further, but he threw his bag of leaves over his back and shuffled off to the trash can with a quick wave.

The bag was less than half full. I looked out my window for the boy in the black cap and blue hoodie, but I didn't see him again. Not that night, anyway. I was on my way back from an office party, thinking remorously about how I'd drank and overshared much more than I intended to. When I heard the sound of a ball bouncing in the parking lot, who the hell would be playing basketball in a parking lot in winter and after 2 a.m. Backlit as he was by the street lights, I couldn't see his face. But I recognized the knit cap, blue hoodie, and ugly yellow sneakers right away.

The boy seemed to let the ball escape his grasp and roll over toward me. Why wasn't he chasing after it? That was what kids did, right? The ball came to a stop against my foot. Like the boy's shoes, it was yellow, worn out, and filthy. This your ball? I called out. No response.

Where are your parents? Do you live around here? More silence. I wished that a car would drive by, a dog would bark, someone would pull open their blinds, anything to make me feel that I wasn't alone with this weird kid. His shadow, long and monstrous, seemed to reach out for me. With a dry gulp, I kicked the ball toward the boy and scurried inside. The mocking sound echoed after me as I practically ran up to my apartment.

Like everyone else, I closed the blinds to help with the heating. If I opened them, would I see him there? Eyes hollow, pale hands pressed against the third-story window, eager to play a nightmarish game of catch. I woke up to a bright sunrise and the worst hangover of my life. Bundling up in my warmest clothes, I tried to kill the pounding in my skull with a few quick laps around the park across the street. And since it was daylight, I was safe, probably.

I wasn't sure where that last thought had come from, but I didn't like what it implied. When the dog walkers, strollers, and families began to swarm the park in droves, I jogged to a stop beside a girl who was squinting at my apartment building while she blew on her hands and rubbed them together. Hi, I smiled and squatted down beside her. You live around here? My mommy says I'm not supposed to talk to strangers.

She eyed me suspiciously, then grinned. But yeah, I do. My name's Macy. Your mommy's a smart woman then. Hey, have you seen a kid in a black hat and a blue hoodie around? He'd be a few years older than you. Hello there! A booming, alarmed voice announced the arrival of a larger version of the girl I was talking to. Who's your new friend, Macy?

A stranger. Macy sneered. He lives in that building over there. Macy pointed to Elm Tree apartments. The boy who lives there told me so. She looked up at me. The boy in the black hat. A stranger, huh?

So do you always talk to little girls you don't know? Or is my daughter an exception, Mr. Adult-sized Macy bristled between me and her child, who giggled. Look, there's this kid I've been seeing around my building a lot. A boy. He's out way too late at night, and his clothes aren't cut out for winter. Then you should talk to social services, not to my daughter. She put her hands on her hips. The conversation was over.

But it got me thinking. the boy in the black hat. He lives there. I did as Macy's mother suggested and called social services. But all I received for my trouble was a visit from two irate agents who only told me what I've been told before. No children live at this address. With an ominous warning about fines for abusing public services, they left. My neighbors were just as unhelpful.

The moment I mentioned the boy in the black hat, they changed the topic or bolted for their apartments. They'd seen him too. I was sure of it. They were just hiding from the truth. And after what happened later that month, I took to doing the same thing. I admit, I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings. I was balancing my groceries on my knee and fishing for the keys in my pocket when a shiver ran down my spine. Almost unwillingly, I turned around. And there he was. The boy in the black hat crossed the snow-covered lawn at an alarming pace. He didn't move like a child. He moved like a predatory machine.

Keys finally in hand, I slipped inside, dropping a gallon of milk, a head of cabbage, and a chocolate bar in the process. But at least there was a locked door between me and him. The boy halted less than an inch before his face impacted with the glass door. I sprang backward. My head impacted with the row of mailboxes. When I looked back at the door, I was seeing stars.

But the boy was gone. I waited longer than I'd like to admit before collecting my fallen groceries and slinking back behind the locked door of my apartment. The chocolate bar was gone, but I considered it a small price to pay for having escaped from whatever I'd encountered in the parking lot. My neighbors were right, I realized. The more I paid attention to the boy in the black hat, the more he would pay attention to me, and I was getting obsessed. It was affecting my health, my social life, even my performance at work, and I really needed this fresh start to work out. I managed to make it almost an entire week without thinking about the boy in the black hat. But then I ran into Macy a second time.

Her mother was nowhere to be seen, and to my discomfort. She came running right up to me. Hi, Stranger. Macy waved. I winced as she crossed the street without looking. She stopped short of stepping onto the sidewalk. however, and cast a nervous glance up at Elm Hill Apartments. Scared of that ugly old building? I teased, only have kidding.

Something went bad in there. Macy nodded seriously. Can't you smell it? I shook my head. By the way, that boy you're looking for? He wanted me to give you this. She held out the crumbled chocolate bar that had fallen for my grocery bag. As I accepted it with a trembling hand, Macy spotted her mother by the swing set, Her eyes grew wide. Gotta go! Back in my apartment, I turned the words over and over in my mind.

No children live at this address. Something went bad in there, can't you smell it? He wanted me to give you this. An idea struck me, something I should have done long before. I searched Weird Kid Elmhill Apartments, City, and State. The results were disappointing. Even when I added modifiers like Urban Legend or... or true crime story, nothing relevant came up.

But then, my building hadn't always been called Elm Hill Apartments, had it. I thought back to Carl's rambling about how he'd been here since the place was Park Suites, Regency Place, and many more. As I discovered, the building where I was currently living had changed its name about once a decade. Each time a child disappeared on the property. One by one, I scrolled through their photos. None were last seen wearing a black knit cap, a blue hoodie, and yellow sneakers. But I was still convinced that there was a link between the missing children and the eerie boy outside.

A knock on my door made me nearly jump out of my skin. I breathed a sigh of relief when I looked through the peephole and saw two adult men. I was considerably less relieved when I opened the door and heard what they had to say. I'm Detective Kane, and this is Special Agent Witt. We need you to answer some questions about Macy Dumier. I admit it looked bad. Macy was missing. I'd been seen talking to her while she was unsupervised two times in the past month.

And my neighbors claimed that I'd been asking uncomfortable questions about kids. It looked really bad. Elm Hill Apartments had security cameras, and they showed that I'd been either in my apartment or at work at the time of the seven-year-old's disappearance. But Macy's mother was out for my house. blood. She was convinced I was the culprit. Special Agent Witt informed me, and I should be prepared for damaging attacks on my personal reputation. He advised me to make a statement. Maybe I should have been thinking about public opinion, as he'd suggested. But I wasn't.

I was thinking about the mischievous, curious girl with Afro-puffs, bright green eyes, and wide smile had been my only lead on the creepy boy in the black-knit cap. I was thinking about how none of the six children who disappeared near my apartment block during the last 60 years had ever been found. Detective Kane and Special Agent Witt wanted to know how Macy had seemed when I talked to her, and what we'd talked about, and that's when I began to lie. I mentioned the boy in the black cap, after all. I wanted them to know about the strange kid in weather, inappropriate clothing, who'd also been speaking to Macy, but I deliberately left out any references of the unchildlike behavior, eerie silences, or supernaturally fast movement. The last thing I needed

was for the agents to doubt my sanity. Three hours after I'd walked into the station with Kane and Witt, I was released with a warning to let us know if you leave down. The mystery at Elm Hill Apartments was no longer just a passing curiosity for me. A real child's life was now tangled up in it. And if missing persons, statistics were accurate, Macy was running out of of time. Until recently, I'd been avoiding the boy in the black knit cap, but now I desperately needed to find him. As it turned out, he came to me. A barrage of messages with phone calls waited for me at home, people wanting to know where I was if the accusations were true. I ignored them all. I realized that I'd been going about my research the wrong way. Instead of

searching for children who'd gone missing in the area, I began searching the names of residents in my building, from Mave Anderson to Talia Ziflowski. Then of course, there was the caretaker, Carl Hughes. A search for news articles related to his name returned a photo that sent shivers down my spine, a smiling boy in a black knit cap, blue sweatshirt, and yellow sneakers. According to the article, the boy, Carl's son, had been killed when he fell off of his bike without a helmet. Brett Hughes's skull had fractured. A hemorrhage had put pressure on his brain. I stopped reading. My eyes drifted back to the photo. Brett Hughes. I finally had a name. But according to the article, Brett Hughes had died over 40 years ago. I rubbed my eyes. They

burned from so much time staring at the screen. Unable to remember the last time I'd eaten or drank anything, I made a cheese sandwich and ate, standing in the kitchen. I was still chewing the last bite when I moved my blinds to peer into the world outside. I found myself face to face with Brett Hughes, or something that looked like him. The child-sized mannequin wearing Brett's final outfit watched me with empty, plastic eye sockets. It tweaked its head to the side before crawling, spider-like, down my third-story window. Pressing my face against the glass, I saw it scurry into the cracked open basement window. The basement of Elm Hill Apartments was only accessible via a second entrance around back.

It was home to the water heaters, the HVAC system, and Carl's janitorial supplies. He was the only one with the key, but I figured I was skinny enough to slip through the window just as Brett had done, if I dared. I didn't want to face that horrible mannequin alone in a dark basement, but it was my only link to Macy. I couldn't see the hard-headed agents who'd interrogated me, chasing down leads about 40-year-old accidents and living mannequins. If someone was going to investigate this, it would have to be me.

I threw on a coat and barreled down the stairs, nearly trampling a terrified mave as she left for a winter evening walk. The last rays of sunset were almost gone. My breath was a bluish cloud as I struggled with the overgrown frost-stuck basement window. The tiny light on my phone illuminated nothing of what waited for me on the other side. With a sigh, I kicked open the window and lowered myself into the blackness. I could barely make out the dusty shapes of sheet-covered furniture, tool chests, and shelves stacked with mechanical junk. I knocked over some kind of metal lid that clattered along the floor, making a racket loud enough to wake the dead, or so I feared. In the faint glow of my phone, every corner seemed to hide grasping plastic hands.

Even the hot water heater seemed monstrous. A blue-clad shape darted across my vision. I gave chase. The Brett doll turned left. Then right, leading me through a maze of water-damaged boxes and grimy gardening equipment. And then, suddenly, he was gone. There was nothing up ahead but an old pushmower and yet another stack of boxes. Or was there?

A short distance along the mildewed concrete wall, I spotted a rusted metal door about half my height, similar to a refrigerator door. But what was it doing all the way down here? I crawled forward through the filth and tried the handle. Locked, of course. But I get here sobbing on the other side. Hello, I whispered. Stranger?

Macy gasped. Macy, is that you? Don't worry, I'm calling the police. He's not a real boy. Macy shrieked through the thick metal, cutting me off. He can crawl on his ceiling. A freakish, jangly weight fell on top of my shoulders. My eyes exploded in pain as plastic thumbs jabbed into them.

It was like fighting with a giant spider. I slammed myself backward against the wall, but the inhuman thing clawing in my face just would not let go. The box! Macy was shouting. The big man locks it in the box! My phone was shattered on the floor, but its light revealed a strange, old-fashioned leather trunk against the wall. Its interior lined with starry blue velvet. I realized I was only seeing it through one blurry eye.

My vision and the other was gone, maybe permanently. Blind Fury gave me the strength I needed to pry the feather. flailing mannequin off me. Its arms were still swinging unnaturally when I crammed it into the trunk and slammed it shut. I barely had breath back into my lungs when I heard a key turning in the lock of the basement door. Macy hissed. Snatching up the remains of my cell phone, I scrambled behind a shelf of chunk and waited. Carl was whistling as he lumbered down the basement steps with a sports bag and a flashlight. He was still whistling when he stopped in front of the half door and removed an odd assortment of items from his duffle,

candles, chalk, a yellowed scrap of paper, and a cruel-looking silver dagger. My jaw hung open as I watched my building's janitor draw two weird ritual circles on the basement floor and place 13 candles around them. He then picked up the dagger and unlocked the half-height door. Although pain pounded through my eyes and my vision was blurry, I could see what waited on the other side all too clearly.

It was a homemade recreation of a child's bedroom, probably Brett's bedroom. The furniture, posters, and even the Star Wars-themed sheets were exactly as they would have been 40 years ago. The only thing out of place was the scared, seven-year-old girl sitting on the bunk bed, Macy. Carl stooped to fit his big frame through the door and grabbed her. Sorry, he grunted. It's the only way to keep my boy with me. That isn't your boy. Macy whimpered, her voice muffled by the man's mid-sized hand.

With his other hand, he lifted the dagger. I attacked Carl with the nearest object at hand, the heavy iron crowbar. It made an awful thwack when it connected with his skull. And as I ran toward the door with his flashlight and a crying Macy, I had no idea if he was alive or dead. Seconds after we burst out the door, I heard cries of... Police, hands in the air. And...

Step away from the girl! booming from two bulky figures that had been waiting in an unmarked car in front of the building. Detective Kane and Special Agent Witt. Apparently, they hadn't thought I was so innocent after all. I was tackled into the frozen mud before I could explain the bloody crowbar or the screaming child, and it was several minutes more before I could convince one of the agents to investigate the basement. By then, Carl and his son were nowhere to be found. Only hours later, when police finally forced open the weird half door, did they find the hidden passageway at the back of the replica room that Carl had created.

Along with Macy's testimony, it was enough to confirm my story. But it wasn't enough to explain what I'd seen. Every time I opened the blinds, I expect to see the boy in the black hat staring back at me. I know that Carl Hughes is still out there somewhere, searching for a sacrifice to keep his son's replacement by his side, but he won't find one here. No children live at this address. At least, no, human children. Lazzang sur-gillet, puissance-molyne,

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