Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Prior Occupant

Episode Date: December 30, 2022

🎧 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

Hey guys, I want to give a shout out to serendipity, Kate, and Timothy for recently becoming Dr. No Sleep patrons. You guys now have full access to my ad-free podcast episodes, along with all bonus episodes I've posted over the past year. If you'd like to receive access as well, go on over to my Patreon page at patreon.com slash DR No Sleep to sign up. That's patreon.com slash DR No Sleep. Now time for the story. As you can see, the place is an excellent condition. The real estate agent beamed. Her pink heels clacking across the polished wooden floor. The prior occupant was a sweet old lady. No family or kids or pets to dirty up the place. I loved the old farmhouse right away, but I doubted my wife Beth would see it that way.

We should have come at a different time of day. Lonely out here, isn't it? Beth looked at me with concern written across her face, and I could see why. The setting sun made our real estate agent's shadow looks stretched and monstrous on the bare white walls. In the dying light, the trees around the property seemed black, skeletal, and endless. Although Beth had said that she was enthusiastic about her move, I think she was already secretly afraid of the countryside, its vast spaces, its helpless isolation, and maybe she had a point. It was a big step for us, but we had to get out of the city. After what happened at our daughter's Kennedy School, we didn't have a choice. Kennedy herself held my hand, looking around the place

with wide, eager eyes. I think she liked the place too, but it was hard to know for sure. Kennedy had non-verbal autism, and her ability to communicate with us was limited to her facial expressions, gestures, and the exchanges of pictures or drawings. My wife ran her hand over the wooden and banister leading upstairs. A lot of space, though, she muttered to herself. Four bedrooms, two baths, an attic, and an unfinished basement. The real estate agent confirmed cheerfully. The two-bedroom apartment, where we currently lived,

was smaller than just half of the farmhouse's second floor. I took another look out the window at the wind-swept farmland. No one around to hear a man screams out here, I thought, and shivered. The sound of my wife's voice brought me back to reality. I think we'd like to make an offer, Beth smiled at me. Kennedy jumped up and down excitedly, then began pulling my fingers to bring me upstairs. She wanted to pick out her new bedroom. At every step in the process, I expected, maybe even hoped that something would go wrong,

trapping us in our uncomfortable but familiar city lifestyle. Yet somehow my family and everything we owned arrived safe and sound to our nation. new home. Our scanty possessions looked like toys in the high-ceilinged rooms. Soon I was so busy with furniture shopping, school shopping, and handling the relocation paperwork that I forgot all about the strange premonition I'd felt when I first set foot in the farmhouse. For a while, at least. Two weeks in, there was a knock on our door. A pudgy man about my age and a baseball cap and overalls stood on our front porch, wiping sweat from his brow. Corbyn Ladell.

He yelled out his hand the moment he saw me. I'm your tenant farmer. Guess they went all over that with the lease, huh? I nodded. I vaguely remembered signing a paper that would allow someone to continue farming the land while paying us a percentage. But so much had happened since then. What brings you folks out to our neck of the woods?

Corbin went on. I had a sudden flashback to the site of Kennedy. bruised, bloodied, eyes wide with fear. She'd wet herself and her throat was hoarse from screaming. They'd stuffed her into a locker to try to make her talk. But of course, she couldn't say who. Uh, you know, I tried to smile. Fresh air.

Uh-huh. Corbin scratched his chin. Well, if you folks need anything, there is one thing, I rushed. Did you know the woman who lived here before? You mean Nellie Pruitt? Sure, sweet old lady, kept to herself. Bank repossessed the place after she disappeared. My jaw dropped. There was a search, of course, and a story in the local news. Most folks figured she ran out of money and moved out west with some relatives. But as far as I know, she didn't have any relatives. Maybe she broke a hip out there in the woods and the coyotes got to her. I've seen you got a little girl. I'd come.

keep her out of the woods if I was you. Corbyn's sat over the porch railing. Anyhow, I'll leave a check in the mailbox round the first of the month, same as I did for Miss Nellie. With that, Corbyn tipped his hat and walked back to his truck. I didn't share what I'd learned with Beth and Kennedy. For one thing, I didn't want to upset them so soon after the big move. For another, I couldn't be sure that what Corbin had told me wasn't all talk. He might even have been just having a laugh at the expense of us city slickers. Doing my best to sound casual, I asked around at the post office, the gas station, and the bait shop in town. The only thing everyone was clear about, however, was that Miss Nellie had lived alone all her life, and that now

she was gone, and that I'd do well to keep Kennedy far away from the forest. My daughter herself was loving her new environment. The kids at her school didn't seem to care of at all that she didn't speak. They were just happy to see a new face in town. Her drawing abilities helped. Soon she was doing so many sketches for her friends that my wife told her to start taking commissions to help out with the bills. And Beth was only half-kitting. As much as we were enjoying the country life, that was one thing I'd underestimated, the monthly cost of the big old place. When I got the first heating bill, the town theory that Miss Nellie had gone out west to avoid her creditors, suddenly made a lot more sense. It was almost double what I expected. Of course,

I reasoned. There were probably a lot of nooks and crannies for warmth to escape through. A lot of space between the basement, the two main floors and the attic, which we'd barely even explored yet. Then there were the doors, which stuck and popped in their frames. They creaked open almost at random. The prior occupant, Miss Nellie, I reminded myself, had in store. It was installed three sets of locks on each of the exterior doors, and the real estate agent had given us keys to two of them. But it didn't seem to help. When the sun set behind the foggy fields and turned the pine trees surrounding the farm to black and jagged fangs, I could understand why an old woman living alone out here might have wanted three sets of locks.

Maybe it was my own insecurity about suddenly being so far from everything and everyone that made me notice Kennedy's strange. new behavior before anyone else. I was laying awake one blustery night about six weeks after our move, listening to the wind rattle the rafters of the old house. To my nervous mind, it sounded like wild animals scratching at our double-bolted doors. Wild animals like the coyotes that ate Miss Nellie, I grimaced, and then got out of bed for a glass of water before my thoughts could get any more insane. On my way back from the kitchen, I just had to be able to get more. I just heard creaking footsteps moving along the upstairs hallway. I charged up the stairs, as though I'd hoped to catch some intruder in the act. But I only found Kennedy. She was squatting by the floor

vent, opening it and shutting it with a frown. Are you all right, honey? I asked. Is it too cold for you? With a shake of her head, my daughter ran back to bed. I looked inside the grate, wondering what she had seen in there, but there was only blackness. Falling asleep became a struggle after that. Every time I closed my eyes to sleep, I became aware of a whole set of groaning, scraping, and thumping sounds, noises that seemed innocent enough during the day. But at night, they made me feel sure that some horrible thing from the woods

had slunk into our home, some awful elongated creature with oily black fur and sharp fangs, crawling across the ceiling of my daughter's bedroom. I had to put a stop to it. Soon my insomnia made me irritable, and I knew that it was hurting my marriage. Beth and I started fighting over idiotic things, like who had left a door unlocked,

or who had finished off the leftovers in the fridge. It was affecting Kennedy, too. She no longer had the wide-eyed enthusiasm she'd first shown when we'd first moved to the old farmhouse. In fact, she was looking just as haggard and sleepless as I was. Although I'd never used a hammer for anything more complicated than hanging a picture frame, I set out in an earnest campaign of DIY home repair. I trimmed back the tree limbs that scratched along the roof,

cleared the gutters of birds' nests and rotting leaves, patched up any cracks or holes I found. Kennedy was Daddy's little helper, handing me nails when I needed them, and giggling when I cursed or banged my head. She seemed oddly reluctant to leave my side, especially in the attic and the cellar. Not that I could blame her. The bare insulation that looked like pink flayed off skin,

the freakish shadows that came from the dusty, incandescent light bulbs, the way cold air seemed to move around in the darkness like a living thing. It all gave me the creeps. I slept better after my repair. I had checked the house myself and confirmed that it was secure. What more did I want? Of course, whenever that question crossed my mind, I thought of Kennedy.

I wanted Kennedy to talk. I wanted Kennedy to be happy. I wanted Kennedy to have a normal life. Lazzang sur-gillet, puissance-molyne, I'm sure that it's their dojo. Pre-to-jew? Vive the pleasure with the Ojo.

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2016 with Visa. It's just to have a card of credit visa BMO for participate. Inscribe you at BMO.com bar obliq concourse. The reglements of the concourse is applicable. Maybe that's why the breakfast conversation I had with my wife a few days later disturbed me so much. Hey! Beth tugged on the sleeve of my bathrobe.

I found something weird in Kennedy's broom this morning. I raised an eyebrow. Tupperware. My wife wrinkled her nose. I guess this solves the mystery. of where our leftovers are going. Do you think she's still hungry after dinner? I wondered aloud.

She used to be so good about letting us know with the pictures. Well, it's been a big change for her. I know she's happier at her new school, but still. My wife bit her lip, a telltale sign that she was pondering whether or not to tell me something. Hey, you don't think she's developing, like, hoarder tendencies or anything like that, do you? Where did that come from all of a sudden? I blinked.

It's just... Beth sighed. I keep losing things. Silly things. Photographs, an old ring. It's like I put something down and it's gone. Then later it reappears somewhere else. It's driving me crazy.

I resolved to check Kennedy's room later, but I was running late for work and forgot all about that odd little conversation. Until a few hours before dawn the next morning. When my eyes snapped open with no clear cause, I knew something was wrong. Whispering? Someone was whispering in our hallway. I sprung from bed and burst into the hallway, startling Kennedy. She was in her pajamas, lying on the floor beside the vent.

Honey, I knelt down beside her. Were you talking? Who were you talking to? Kennedy beckoned me to follow her back to her bedroom, and with a last, unsettled glance at the darkness inside. the floor grate. I did. My daughter flipped open the purple binder where she kept her drawings. How long had it been since we'd had time to sit down and look through them together? Too long. The first sketch showed a pair of glowing eyes behind black bars, like the bars on the

ventilation grate. In the second, a gaunt, purplish figure with floor-length white hair stooped over a familiar-looking Tupperware like a hungry animal. It appeared in drawing after drawing, walking down a dark hallway in a filthy dress, watching us from the little round window in the attic, curled up beside my daughter in her bed, stroking her hair with those long, filthy fingernails. Honey, who's this? Although I knew it was useless. I pointed to the horrible purplish figure, and Kennedy burst into tears. We scheduled an appointment with her old child psychiatrist the very next day. Learning to speak via an imaginary friend is common. she assured us sweetly.

And after the trauma your daughter experienced, it's only to be expected that her artwork is a bit disturbing. I wouldn't discourage her. This could be the breakthrough we've been hoping for. And don't worry, she smiled. There's no such thing as ghosts. I didn't feel very reassured as I drove my family back home, but a plan was forming in my mind.

Beth would call it insane, and Kennedy would be frightened by it. I'd have to wait until they were both out of the house. When Beth left to take Kennedy to school the next morning, I put my plan into action. Trustee hammer in hand, I smashed through the wall around the vent in the upstairs hallway. The space on the other side was larger than it appeared.

It was more like a tunnel than a ventilator shaft. I spotted a trap door in the cobwebby gloom. I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry. Flashlight and hammer in hand, I wiped plaster dust from my sweaty forehead and crawled forward into the darkness. The trap door was just the beginning. It led to yet another narrow space, just tall enough for an adult to move around in by crawling, located between the first and second floor.

From there, a ladder inside of an unused chimney led down to the cellar, or up to the attic. doubt, it had its exit behind the hideous, draughty pink insulation. But I wasn't focused on the countless wooden tunnels leading throughout my house. I was staring at the nest. A filthy pile of rags surrounded by jars of vile amber liquid was at the center of the space. Among the heaped cloth I noticed Beth's old ring, and photos of our family. I suddenly realized that the cramped space was a lair, a home to something horrible and wrong, And if whatever it was wasn't here, then where was it?

To my horror, I heard a door opened downstairs. Beth's voice, Kennedy's footsteps. Honey! Beth called from downstairs. Kennedy forgot her lunchbox. Have you seen it? Oh, I had seen it all right. My daughter's lunchbox was at the center of the nest. Get back to the car! Get out of here!

I shouted. But the thick walls muffled my voice. I scrambled out of that disgusting area as quick. as quickly as I could, smashing my head on wooden cross beams and slicing my hands on rotted, splintering wood. A shriek came from downstairs, and as I skidded into the kitchen behind my daughter, I saw what made my wife scream. It wasn't exactly like Kennedy's drawings, but it was pretty close. No, not it, I realized. Her. The waxy-skinned, gumless, skeletal thing I was looking at was Miss Nellie Pruitt, and she held a butcher knife in her hand.

I was so lonely. All I wanted was a family. The old woman rasped. And now I have one. You are my family. And I won't ever let you go. I kicked a chair at her and split it for the kitchen door, but it was locked. Of course, the third set of keys. We were trapped. Why don't you come over here, sweetie? The old woman beckoned to Kennedy with a long, dirty fingernail. Doesn't your grandma Nellie always get you?

whatever you want?" My daughter looked at me with wide, uncertain eyes. As the gaunt figure reached out for Kennedy, Beth tugged her away. The old woman's face twisted into a purple expression of rage. Don't you dare try to take my granddaughter from me! She hissed insanely, flashing out with the knife. Nellie Pruitt caught my wife in the wrist. Kennedy wailed as blood splattered across the kitchen floor.

The old woman pulled my daughter close against her yellowed, stained nightgown. Sh-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-hueh, she cooed. Don't worry, sweetie. Grandma Nellie won't let them ruin our happy family. Her teeth freakishly lengthened by the scurvy that had infected her while living hidden between our walls clacked together when she spoke. I wanted more than anything to shatter her drooling smile with my boot,

but I didn't dare move. A red droplet ran down Kennedy's neck from where the old woman was pressing her knife against my daughter's jugular. Ignoring her own bleeding, Beth had slipped her phone out of her pocket. She was trying to call for help. Put him on the table.

Nellie suddenly screeched. Now! All them newfangled devices! We're not having any of that in our family. Are we, sweetie? She stroked my daughter's hair with a filthy hand. Kennedy looked at me, hyperventilating, silent tears in her marble round eyes.

And there was nothing I could do. Beth and I put our phones on the kitchen table. Nellie Pruitt's grin was hidey. Now, son, she went on, and I realized in horror that she was talking to me. Why don't you make some pancakes? Grandma Nellie's hungry. When I didn't move right away, her glare turned angry, and she twisted the point of the knife ever so slightly on Kennedy's neck. I began to rummage around for flour and milk. No need for my sweet granddaughter to go to school anymore. She can stay home and play with grandma.

And you! Nellie's voice suddenly became cruel again as she turned on my wife. The place is a pig's eye. Didn't anyone ever teach you to clean? Get those dishes tidied up. While I heated butter in the frying pan, Beth moved mechanically to the sink beside me. Our eyes met.

She made grabbing motions with the plate in her hand and nodded to the hot cast iron skillet in my hand. One, two, she mouthed. Three. As my wife dived to rip Kennedy from Nellie Pruitt's grasp, I flung the scalding butter at her face, then brought the hot metal down on her wrist like a hammer. Beth covered Kennedy with her body as I fought the old woman for control of the knife. She had a strength and ferocity born of madness, but the difference in our age and weight began to tell.

I struggled to cover my face as she gouged at me with her nails. Then I felt her teeth sink into my neck. My shove sent her sprawling backwards. Her skull hit the countertop with a sickening crack, and something fell from her neck when she closed. collapsed, a dirty string from which three keys hung. I grabbed it and left her where she lay. My first priorities were my wife and child. Kennedy seemed to be in shock, and Beth was pale from loss of blood. I helped them to the car, barely bothering to look over my shoulder at the crumpled form on the kitchen floor. We were already barreling down the driveway in search of help when I smelt

the smoke. Behind us, the old farmhouse was burning. We never discovered whether the fire was caused by the gas stove I'd left on, or whether it had been set on purpose by Nellie Pruitt herself. Just for a flash, however, I thought I saw an emaciated figure in a torn nightgown standing in the flame-shrouted doorway. It reached out to us with a mix of hate and longing. She turned and walked back into the blazing house. Once my wife is released from the hospital, we're going to move back to the city. This time, however, we're going to make sure to when after the prior occupant of our new home and make sure that they've really left.