Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Quick Save

Episode Date: April 15, 2022

J.G. Martin's new book "Crooked Antlers": https://amzn.to/3JTjSPl 🎉 Ad-free episodes + bonus episodes: https://www.patreon.com/drnosleep 🎧 Check out The SCP Experience podcast here: https://spoti.fi/3zCFjQc 🎥 YouTube: https://youtube.com/c/DrNoSleep ✅ Send all advertising inquiries to: [e-mail] 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

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Crooked Antlers. He's authored some of the most terrifying stories on the podcast, including the one you're about to hear. You can pick it up for just $2.99 on Amazon or free with Kindle Unlimited. The game does something strange. The screen flickers, and the tower of wind becomes crooked. It's pixels jagged and uneven. John frowns, wondering if he's encountered a glitch.

Weird. He rounds the corner and goes down the sunset path. A little dirt trail that winds its way into a forest, winds its way toward his in-game home. a small cabin by the lake. He means to drop off his loot, grab a glass of water in real life, and then head out on a new quest.

But his cabin isn't there, not where it should be, at least. Instead, there is another cabin, this one built with rotten lumber, with broken windows, and a door hanging from its hinges, groaning in the gentle breeze. John swallows.

A scatter of blood decorates its front step, He's never seen this aspect of the game before, that his cabin, his home base, could somehow have been attacked, raided. Perhaps, he thinks, this was just an October patch, something for Halloween. Yeah, that must be it. He guides his character up the steps and in through the door. Darkness greets him. John squints at his computer screen, trying to make out anything in the ocean of black pixels. but all he can see is the faint outline of broken furniture and a shape on the floor.

A body? Unease takes root in his stomach. The game music, usually soaring with notes of high adventure, suddenly becomes a stuttering, sharp mechanical drone. The change is so jarring that he rips his headphones from his head. He throws them aside. But the music persists. Now it's coming from his computer speakers, loud, lurching,

lurching, moaning with all the unnatural melody of a cannibal's teeth, digging into still-living flesh. He reaches for the volume, but it doesn't give. He can't escape this music, this treacherous soundscape. This way, a voice whispers. His computer screen flickers, and in the darkness of his cabin, he spots a gentle light down the hall. It's coming from where his armor room should be, if this had actually been his proper cabin. But somehow John realizes that it isn't. It's a different place, a more sinister place.

John's fingers twitch as he moves his mouse over his desk, as he guides his character down the corridor, toward the glimmer of light. His pulse races. Whatever the developers patched into the game for Halloween, it's compelling content. This way, the voice says again, and now it's louder. As John moves through the cabin, his character's not. eyes adjust, the darkness recedes, and now he can see broken pottery on the floor, moldy food

on the table, and cobwebs dressing the rafters. The cabin is worn down, dilapidated. It's only after John rounds the next corner, however, that he realizes the cabin looks horribly familiar. It's not his cabin, no, not by a long shot. What it is, is his house, the one he lived in as a boy, down to the little pencil etchings carved into the kitchen wall, showing his height over the small years of his life. The layout is identical. But how? He moves through the mausoleum of memories, awestruck and terrified.

Graffiti lines the surfaces. Needles litter the carpet. There are bones in the fireplace, painted black by ashes and age. There's a thud from downstairs, loud and sudden. John bolts up from his desk. The sound doesn't come from the game. It comes from downstairs. He is downstairs in real life.

Hello? John calls, and he steps away from his computer. But then all the doors on his computer screen begin opening and closing. Opening and closing. They're crashing, louder and louder. The voice is beckoning him again. It's calling out to him to remember.

Remember what? John thinks about opening his bedroom door, about going downstairs to check on that thunding. But then reasons he's overreacting. He figures he's probably just a bit too spun up from how eerie this Halloween update is, and it's making his imagination see the sound of an acorn falling on his kitchen roof, or his old house settling, as something sinister, malicious. He takes a breath.

He sits back down in his computer chair and resolves to explore this fascinating, horrifying update. The slamming doors and the game stop. The old house is suddenly still, silent. Then, at the top of the stairs, a single door creaks open to reveal a familiar sight. John's childhood bedroom. Up here, says the narrator. John trembles as his fingers tap the keyboard, moving his character up the steps and into the room. When he enters it, there's a crash.

It's the sound of a door being kicked down, and not in the game. in real life, in his house. John bolts up to investigate, his heart pounding. But a voice calls out to him. It's coming from his computer speakers, and it's one that he recognizes. Don't leave me alone. It whimpers.

Not again. It's his mother, June. How? No, he thinks. There'll be time to question that later. For now, there's a very real chance somebody is breaking into John's house. He opens his bedroom door.

His neck cranes as he timidly looks down the stairs to confirm that there's nobody inside, that he's merely hearing things, and that it's all in his head. But he spots a shadow. Two of them. They lurch across his kitchen counter, voices muttering in alien tongues.

Panic seeps into John. He closes his door as quietly as he can, praying that the intruders don't notice. He reaches for his phone, reaches to dial 911 to report a break-in at his residence. This is 911. What is your emergency? Asks the operator. There are burglars downstairs.

John whispers, I don't know if they have weapons. A second passes. Hello? John says. Don't leave me alone here, John, says the operator. I'm dying. John drops the phone, his hand trembling. His mother's voice calls from his computer again, from the game.

John's gaze swivels to the monitor, to the source of all this torment, and a cold sweat. spreads across his body. The screen is fizzling, crackling. The display is all purple and blue, and the bedroom John's character is standing inside of, blinks from bright and whole to broken and dark. John? The voice repeats, but this time it's distorted. It's nothing but a grotesque approximation of his mother's, like hearing her voice through a dying phonograph. Are you there, Swamble? John stumbles from the computer. No, this is too much. It can't be real. The game's music Blares, reaching an awful crescendo. Its ear-splitting mechanical droning floods his bedroom,

his house, and John lunges for the computer's power cord, terrified that the shadows downstairs will hear this and shouting erupts from below. Hello? Anybody home? Their voices that John doesn't recognize, strangers, intruders. Come on downstairs. Don't make us come up there. John brings his hands to his ears. He clenches his eyes shut. He tries to wake up because he must be fast to sleep, lost in a nightmare. But he can't. Footsteps sound on the stairs. Creek, creak, creak. We just want to talk. Creek, creak. He hears them reach the top of the stairs. Here's the heavy plotting of their boots approaching the bedroom. Get out of my house! John screams. The police are on their way. We know. There was a loud bang, and his door trembles. John rushes forward, pressing himself

against it, embracing it as best he can. Panicked, tears. stream down his face. Just leave me alone. Take whatever you want. Just leave me alone. You're the only thing we came for. Get away from the door. There's another loud bang.

This one deafening. Its force has enough to knock John from the door. Knock him onto his hands and knees. He scrambles back to the door, but it's too late. It bursts open in a shower of wooden splinters, and his world shatters with it. The room, his room, is changing now. It's morphing.

Just like it did in the game. It's becoming dilapidated. Rogan. His bed is a mess. It's sheets dusty and moth eaten. His computer monitor is broken, lying flat on his wooden desk. He's no longer a young man.

He's old. Too old. The gray of his beard tickles his face as he shifts on the ground. He feels as though he may be 50 years old now. Perhaps 60. Long, greasy hair extends from his head. Coarse and thinning. There are two figures standing above.

Love him in the doorway, dark, imposing. A man and a woman, both armed with guns on their hips, both wearing Kevlar vests. Dispatch, the woman says, speaking into a black box on her shoulder. We've located the suspect. It's Lewis, again. A voice crackles from the radio. Copy that. Any idea how he keeps getting in there? The woman looks down at John, frowning. Looks like he broke through the boards on the kitchen window this time.

You want us to bring him in? Negative. Relocate him to the shelter on fourth and ninth. Roger. John fidgets in his seat. The window beside him passes in a blur of lights and scenery. The police cruiser's sirens aren't on, but they might as well be for how loudly his ears are ringing,

for how disoriented he feels. The man in the passenger seat looks at John in the rearview mirror. What's this guy's deal? He asks the woman driving. Seems like he's a known commodity around here. She nods. Her eyes scanning the road ahead. Names Jonathan Lewis.

Used to be an addict. She flips her turn signal and takes a right onto a neon-lit street. Used to be? The man looks back at John. This guy's a mess. You sure he still isn't using? Pretty sure. Must have been some hard shit then.

Not as hard as you'd think. The woman clicks her tongue as the car slows to a stop at the intersection. You're going to laugh, but try not to. He's in a lot of pain. Try me. It was video games. The man covers his mouth, juggling. All right, I'm laughing.

I wouldn't be. It's pretty tragic. How's that? The woman sighs, looking at John in the mirror. Her expression is full of sympathy. Pity. He still doesn't recognize her. Doesn't recognize the man.

Doesn't understand what police officers are doing arresting him, or why he's a frail old man in the backseat of a a cop car. But he's listening. He's listening and he's terrified because deep down, this all feels familiar. It feels like something he's done before. John's mother had several health issues, the woman says. Serious ones. She had difficulty taking care of herself, to the point that she couldn't live alone. So John stayed with her well into his 30s. It put a lot of strain on John. He never got out much, never got much of a life of his own, because he always needed to be nearby, just in case something happened to her.

Ahead, the traffic light turns green. The cruiser hums as the woman presses the gas. So he gamed to pass the time? That's right, got big into it. I guess it gave him the chance to talk to people, to have adventures while still being close at hand for his mom. He ended up falling into a bit of a rabbit hole in one of the games, though. One of those big, multiplayer ones with the massive worlds. An MMO? Yeah, might be. Anyway, one night while he's playing, his mother takes a fall, a bad one, hits her head and bleeds out on the floor, while John's upstairs finishing up a raid in his bedroom. Jesus Christ, you didn't hear her? She shrugs. Allegedly he found her a few hours later,

cold as a fish. The experience destroyed him. Never was himself after that. The words fall around John like prison bars. He doesn't want to hear them. They're lies. All lies. He would never do that.

How could he? No. No. No. Want to know something sad? What's that? As far as the coroner could tell, the mom died the moment her head struck the linoleum.

Right away, you know? So Mr. Llew. was here, couldn't have helped her even if he did hear her fall. The man looks at John in the mirror. So why does he keep going back to that house? With a history like that, it seems like it'd be torture just being there. Don't know. The social workers seem to think it's a coping mechanism, a sort of de-realization. He comes back every Halloween on the anniversary of his mother's death, probably to relive the last time his life made any sense to him. Rough go. Yup.

The cruiser rolls to a stop, and the engine cuts off. Here's us. The woman unbuckles her seat back, opens the door, and the cab explodes with bright light. John grimaces, confused, blinded. A few moments later, the door beside him opens, and the woman is standing there beneath a blue street sign that reads fourth and ninth. Come on out, she says. John shimmies out of the car, nervous, afraid.

His eyes dart from the busy traffic honking in the street, to the throngs of people on the sidewalks, to the towering building in front of him. Rusty bars cover its windows. Broken needles litter its steps. Fluorescent letters hang above its doorway, buzzing quietly. Lazzang sur-gillet,

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