Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - Spiders in the Pipes

Episode Date: July 4, 2025

An aging tenant with fading hearing becomes the first to notice a whispering horror crawling through the pipes of her crumbling apartment building—just before the spiders come spilling out. Author: Jake Bible * * * 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 17. Listener discretion is advised. #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

to nice sleep. Mrs. Benson of Apartment 4A knows her hearing isn't what it used to be. Her children and grandchildren, when they bother to visit, are always nearly shouting at her. She has tried to tell them that she's not that deaf, but irony of ironies, they don't listen. So, being of a certain age, and also with the knowledge that, yes, she has actively avoided having her hearing tested, Mrs. Benson does doubt herself for a broken. brief moment when she notices the noises. But after the fifth time hearing it in only a couple of days, Mrs. Benson's doubts slip away. It's a quiet noise, a subtle noise, whisper soft at times, or whisper soft to her ears at least, and it takes her a while to track the noise through her

apartment until she realizes the source is coming from the drains. It is a noise that can be easily dismissed. And she does it first. But there's just no more denying that something is going on in the pipes. So she makes the call she does not want to make. Mrs. Benson, there's nothing here. Carl Lemley says as he crawls out from under her kitchen sink. He gets to his knees, wipes his hands on his jeans, then pulls himself up by grabbing under the kitchen counter. He wobbles a bit when the counter shifts under his pull. That needs fixing too, Mrs. Benson says. says, watching Carl play off his imbalance like he slipped. Don't tell me you didn't notice it was loose.

I noticed, I noticed. Carl wipes his brow with a handkerchief he keeps tucked away in his back pocket. It's just the landlord isn't exactly looking to spend more money on this bit. Carl darts his eyes this way in that, glancing around like they could be listened to, even though they're the only two people in the kitchen. They're the only two people in the whole apartment. Mrs. Benson purses her lips and rolls her eyes at Carl's antics. It's one of many annoying traits the man has,

and part of the reason she dreads calling him for anything. Spit it out, Carl, she snaps. Gotta get back to my stories. Well, I hear the landlord is trying to sell this place. Really? Yep, that's what I heard. Oh? And who did you hear it from? Well, the landlord. Mr. Ratchet told you that?

He did. Carl, that's not hearing something. That's being told something. It's not a rumor about the landlord if the damn landlord tells you himself. It means he actually is trying to sell the place. Well, I didn't want to break his confidence. Carl, if he told you, then the man wants everyone to know. The only confidence broken here is my confidence,

that you have even an inkling of a brain in that bald, head of yours." Kara reflexively rubs his scalp with his handkerchief. No need to bring my air loss into this. Male pattern baldness runs in my family. Does stupidest shit run in your family too? Carl frowns, then bends over and begins to gather his tools. Well, there's nothing wrong with the pipes.

I checked the bathroom and I checked in here. I know I heard something scrabbling around in there. Um, yeah, I'm sure you did, Mrs. Benson, but I can't find it whatever it is. Sorry. Then what happens now? How do you mean? Just because you can't find anything doesn't mean there's nothing in there. I heard what I heard, Carl, and there's a problem with these pipes. That problem being, something is crawling around in them.

Well, I can't find that something, so I don't know what to tell you. You. Mrs. Benson sucks at her false teeth with her tongue, something she does when she gets extra annoyed. Her children and grandchildren are quite used to the sucking noise. They experience it excessively, usually within five minutes of stepping through her door. I think an exterminator should be called. Mrs. Benson says, her hands on her hips.

Would you like to do it or shall I? You go for it, Carl says, hefting his toolbox in one hand, while he tucks his handkerchief into his back pocket with the other. But don't be submitting no receipts for reimbursement. The landlord won't pay. I can guarantee that. We'll see, Carl, we'll see. Carl walks to the apartment's front door, but before he can open it, Mrs. Benson asks.

When exactly do you think Mr. Ratchet will be selling the place? Carl pauses, his hand on the doorknop. You know, come to think of it. He didn't actually say he was going to sell. Mrs. Benson takes a deep, calming breath. Okay, Carl. Then what did he say? He said he was going to get out from under this money pit, one way or another.

What intonation does that mean? Carl shrugs. I don't know. Maybe ask someone who isn't as stupid as me. Then he opens the door and walks out, leaving Mrs. Benson frowning in his wake. In apartment 2B, Jeannie Cornbluth is getting ready for a date with a young man from the accounting office where she works. She'd showered earlier, now taking a moment for a quick refresh at the bathroom sink. A whores bath, as her grandfather used to call it.

Not exactly an appropriate name for this day and age. Jeannie even tried joking to a roommate that it was a sex worker bath, but her roommate didn't find it funny. Not that Jeannie's roommate finds much of anything funny. Damn it, Jeannie says, as she searches all around the edges of the bathroom sink, inside the medicine cabinet, and even on the floor behind the toilet. Macy! Where's my eyeliner? Macy Johnstone, tall, live, gorgeous, and one exploitative photo shoot away from modeling stardom,

strides past the bathroom door. I don't use that color, she says, lost from sight immediately, like a gossamer vision there and gone. It's black! Everyone uses black! Jeannie shouts. When Macy doesn't reply, Jeannie throws up her hands and starts searching again.

As she leans over the sink, her hand resting on the lip for support, she hears it. That damn scrabbling noise. It's back! Jeannie shouts. In seconds, Macy has returned to the bathroom doorway, her eyes wide with fear.

The spiders? She asks. Her bottom lip. close to trembling. It's not spiders. Jeannie laughs. Spiders can't live in drain pipes. Pipe spiders can.

Jeannie frowns at a roommate. Pipe spiders aren't a thing. They are. We had them in Oklahoma. After a hard rain, they'd come up through the pipes. Hundreds of them. Hundreds? Seriously.

They weren't that big. Just little spiders trying to get away from the rain. Macy. I'm pretty sure you're describing the plot to Itsy-Bitsy spider? To what? That nursery rhyme. The itsy-bitsy spider.

Never heard it. Jeannie eyes her roommate for a second, then goes back to looking for her eyeliner. Are you sure you don't have it? Have what? My eyeliner! Oh, the black one? Yeah, it's in my room. Jeannie grumbles as she pushes past Macy.

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Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash DNS. Todd Granger scrapes the remnants of his dinner from his plate into the garbage disposal. Technically, according to the lease, he wasn't supposed to install a garbage disposal in his kitchen sink. due to some historical clause in the building's deed. Or that's what the super, Carl Lumley, told him when he moved in. But Todd quickly figured out that historical just meant old and run down.

And with the showerhead always dripping and the radiator only working half the time in the winter, Todd treated himself to the mid-century modern comfort of a garbage disposal, so he wouldn't also be subjected to the indignity of the stink of rotten trash in his apartment. trash days were now habitually postponed from every Wednesday to every other Wednesday. And with the landlord keeping the dumpster out back locked until the Monday before trash day, things can get smelly rather fast. Eat up, Mr. Garbage Disposal, eat, eat, eat. Todd says to himself, as he pushes Salisbury steak and creamed corn into the whirring, gaping hole.

The disposal greedily devours the congealed scraps of Todd's dinner. The blades were and clunk as food is pulverized into smaller and smaller bits. Todd reaches out fast and flips the switch, killing the power to the disposal as soon as it makes the strange noises. He turns the water on full blast and aims the faucet directly over the disposal, hoping to dislodge whatever may be in there. But all that happens is the sink begins to fill with water. Food chunks float up to the surface,

bubbling out from the black rubber flaps that cover the disposal hole. Shit, shit, shit. Todd hastily turns the water off. Shit! He spins in a circle in his kitchen, his mind racing for an answer to his dilemma. It isn't like he can call the super. No, Carl would rat him out to the landlord in a heartbeat

over the unauthorized garbage disposal, and Todd can't afford to move. Got it! He races to the bathroom, returning with a plunger in one hand and a couple of large towels in the other, just in case. Fuck you, Carl! Todd mumbles as he centers the plunger directly over the garbage disposal.

He presses the plunger's bulb to the disposal's hole, settling rubber against rubber, then begins to slowly pump up and down, up and down. Nothing happens except more food comes up out of the disposal chamber to float on the surface of the dirty water. Todd grunts and tries again, this time pumping up and down, up and down even harder. Although, he had heard, maybe on Reddit, that if you use a plunger on your kitchen sink to be careful because you can break the seal of the elbow joint under the sink and then flood your kitchen in a flash.

Come on, come on! Todd plunges up and down, up and down. Come on! He plunges harder, then harder still, then even harder until... The water in the sink drains away. Todd almost whoops with joy, but then water gushes out from between the doors

under the kitchen sink and his sense of accomplishment evaporates. No, no, no, no, no! Todd grabs for the towels he'd brought from the bathroom. He throws them on the ground, using his foot to sop up the water. Then he bends down and opens the under sink cabinet. Three things happen all at once. Todd smells a lot of rot and mildew. Hundreds of small, furry blobs leap for Todd's face,

and Todd doesn't even have a second to scream before his mouth is full, choking on thousands of legs as the blobs swarm down his throat. Falling back, choking to death, Todd claws and claws at his throat. His fingernails break skin, but he keeps digging, tearing the flesh away in small strips. His esophagus stretches, his chest ripples, and his belly bulges. Then, the instant that Todd's throat is clear enough for him to scream, his abdomen tears wide open and hundreds of spiders burst free, scattering around the kitchen, all headed for shadows and darkness and cracks and crevices.

Todd's body twitches once, twice, then goes still, except for one last spider, who slowly extracts itself from the bloody mess of Todd's corpse. It hops down onto the ancient linoleum and finds an imperfect seam at the baseboard, quickly disappearing into the darkness of the building's walls. Since he has his toolbox, and he's already on the fourth floor landing, Carl decides he'll finally repair the light fixture at the top of the stairs.

The apartment house, too small to call a complex, is split into eight apartments, two on each floor. The light fixture that Carl is currently fixing is close to the door of apartment for B, just across the landing from Mrs. Benson's 4A. Carl sneers when he thinks of the old woman. Dumb Broad. Always bitching about this or bitching about that. Carl counted, and one week she called him 16 times, each time acting like it was such a burden to pick up the phone.

So why can't he do his damn job and just anticipate her needs? The crack about his baldness almost sent him over the edge. If he hadn't put his tools away, he'd have brained the bitch with his pipe wrench. Although what he'd have done after that, Carl doesn't know. But old ladies fall down and crack their noggins all the time, so he's pretty sure it would if sorted itself out in his favor. Well, sort of sure. Okay, maybe not sure at all. Carl gets a headache right between his eyes from all the hard thinking. No, you're stupid, he mutters as he removes the screws from the light fixture. As the fixture hangs there, dangling from wires spliced together

with electrical tape, Carl realizes he didn't even bother to try changing the light bulb first. Maybe you You are as stupid as Mrs. Benson says, Carl thinks to himself, but he pushes the thought away. That old broad is the stupid one, not Carl Lumley. Leaving the fixture hanging, Carl bends to inspect his toolbox, hoping a spare light bulb hides in the bottom compartment. He nearly dances a jig when he finds a 60-watt incandescent still in its packaging, a leftover from the previous decade. The landlord has insisted he use only the cheaper, more efficient LED bulbs since 2013. When Carl straightens back up, he pauses before grabbing the light fixture. He hears something, and that something is coming from inside apartment 4B, which isn't rented. In fact, half the

apartments sit empty because Mr. Ratchet refuses to update them, which means Carl can't lease them. No one wants to live in an apartment where the light switch in the bedroom also cuts power to two outlets in the living room, like an apartment 1A. Or getting only scalding hot water from every tap, like an apartment 3B. Carl sets the light bulb down on his toolbox and steps closer to apartment 4B's door. He cocks his head and listens. Someone's moving around in there, he says to himself as he knocks. Hello? Hey, who's in there?

A shifting and shuffling noise echoes from behind the closed door. When Carl tries the knob, he finds the door locked like it should be. From his front pocket, Carl pulls a key ring free and slides the master key into the lock. But as he turns the key, he wonders if squatters had come in through an apartment window. Maybe some caution is necessary. Although, how they got up to the window is a mystery to Carl. The building's fire escapes were ripped out in 2017, with the intent of replacing them by the end of the year. That never happened.

So who's in there? Carl thinks, while retrieving his trusty hammer from the toolbox. He twists the key, unlocks the door, and pushes it wide open, his hammer down by his side. You better be gone by the time I count to ten, you hear me? He hollers. There's no response except for a strange sliding noise from far inside the apartment. Hello? I ain't fucking around. Still no response. All right. Here I go.

He sucks in a deep breath. One. Carl steps inside the apartment. Two. With his free hand, he reaches out and flicks the light switch. Nothing happens. He flips it up and down, over and over, like the switch will suddenly behave and turn the hall lights on. No such luck.

Four! What entire nation is going on out here? Mrs. Benson asks after throwing her front door open to confront the source of yet another annoyance. Carl? Why are you bellowing? Go back inside, Mrs. Benson, Carl says without turning around. Official superintendent business here. Son, you have a $2 hammer in one hand, and I'm surprised you don't have your dick in the other. There is nothing official about.

Several large red eyes appeared directly in front of. of Carl. Even Mrs. Benson can see them from across the landing. What the fuck? Carl says, just before thick strands of what looks like cream-colored rope are spun around his body. Oh, sweet Jesus! Mrs. Benson screams, slamming her door closed, leaving Carl alone with his fate, a fate which includes a lot of screaming while being wrapped up in impossibly strong strands of silk. Then Carl's voice is dulled as his mouth is covered by the silk. When his nose is covered too, he kicks and struggles with all of his might,

realization finally hitting him that he is actually going to die. But it's no use. Carl bucks hard once, twice, then stills as his lungs run out of air. His wrapped body flops to the floor before it's dragged deeper into the apartment, out of sight, as the red eyes slowly close. Even two floors down, with their apartment door closed, Both Jeannie and Macy hear the commotion from above. Macy, standing in the kitchen with a piece of plain toast in her hand,

stares up at the ceiling. What is that? Jeannie asks. Coming into the kitchen in a black skirt and bra, two blouses on hangers held to the side. No idea. Macy takes a bite of her toast. She chews and chews.

I think someone screamed. Is that what it was? I couldn't quite tell. Jeannie holds up the blouses. Red or turquoise? Neither. Macy shoves the rest of her toast in her mouth. Hold on. What? She swallows hard. I said, hold on. Macy leaves the kitchen.

While she's gone, Jeannie hears several more thumps and bangs from the apartments above, and she instinctively moves toward the counter where they keep the kitchen knives. They are cheap as hell and dull as cardboard, but they can still do the stabby-stabby thing, so Jeannie slides the chef's knife out and sets it within easy reach. Here, Macy says, walking into the kitchen. She hands Jeannie a midnight blue dress that looks like a pencil would need to go on a diet to fit into. Try this on. Macy?

Yeah, my tits will tear that thing apart. Macy examines the dress, then Jeannie's chest, down at the dress, then back to Jeannie's chest. Right. Sorry. She shrugs as she leaves. Go with turquoise. Thanks. Jeannie sets the red blouse over the back of a kitchen.

chair and slips the turquoise one on. A horrific scream rips through the apartment house. Okay, we need to call 911, Macy says, hurrying back into the kitchen. Good idea. You call. I'm going to see what's happening. What? Don't be stupid. It could be some serial killer. I doubt it's a serial killer. Jeannie finishes buttoning her blouse. That sounded like Mrs. Benson from the fourth floor. Maybe she fell. Macy has her phone out and is already dialing. Okay. Go see, but hurry back. I don't like any of this shit. Same. Jeannie rushes from the apartment, feet bare, eyes wide. Her face pointed up to the fourth floor she takes the stairs two at a time. When she reaches the fourth floor landing, she isn't sure

which way to look. The vacant apartment's door is wide open, and Jeannie has a creepy feeling about the darkness lurking within. On the other side is Mrs. Benson's apartment, and its door is open too. But it hasn't been left open. To Jeannie, it looks like it's been kicked open. A whispering sound echoes from behind her, and Jeannie returns her attention to the vacant apartment. She squints into the gloom, then gasps as she sees the floor moving,

and the walls, and the ceiling. Help me! Mrs. Benson screams from somewhere inside her apartment. Jeannie backs toward the door, her eyes locked on the squirming, crawling carpet of tiny legs coating every inch of the vacant apartment's hallway. She doesn't want to take her eyes off whatever nightmare, she's witnessing. Jeannie has a feeling that if she looks away, she'll be dead in seconds.

Damn, she thinks. Should have grabbed that knife. Help me! Mrs. Benson screams again. I'm coming, Mrs. B. Jeannie shouts over her shoulder. Hold on! Several ear-splitting screams come from down below, followed by thumps and bangs and crashes and more screams than a whole litany of swearing. Macy, are you okay? Jeannie shouts down. Still back. toward Mrs. Benson's doorway while her eyes stay firmly locked on the vacant apartment. Macy responds, but Jeannie can't make out the words. Hit something twice really hard if you are okay! Jeannie yells.

There's no banging, and Jeannie starts to call out again when Macy screeches at the top of her lungs. But not in terror, more like a rage-filled war cry. An orange glow fills the apartment house's open stairway. Fucking die! Macy roars. Jeannie smells burning hair and fur and flesh and paint and dust. She rushes to the fourth floor landings railing and stares down at an insane sight. Macy is below, a can of hairspray in one hand and a lighter in the other.

But the insane part isn't the impromptu flamethrower as much as what the flames are directed at. Spiders! Thousands of spiders spilling out of their apartment, and they all head for Macy. Jeannie realizes, with pure horror, that what she has been looking at, looking at in the vacant apartment is even more spiders. She whips her head to the side in time to see her own stampede, thousands of spiders pouring from the doorway. Jeannie spares one second to glance the other way, and her mind freezes as her brain tries to make sense of what she's seeing.

Mrs. Benson, she whispers. The woman is wrapped in spider silk and held aloft by two very large, very hairy legs. The woman is walked out to the landing and what carries her makes Jeannie's bladder loose. As warm pee flows down Jeannie's leg, she watches in pure horror as Mrs. Benson is flung across the landing. Spiders swarm over the wriggling Mrs. Benson, coating the old woman in hungry arachnids. They burrow through the silk to get to the screaming woman. In seconds, Mrs. Benson stops her wriggling and goes still. Macy screams from below. Jeannie looks back at Mrs. Benson's apartment and the abomination filling the doorway.

Oh, fuck! Adrenaline finally kicks in, and she sprints for the stairs, crushing spiders in her wake. The huge spider in Mrs. Benson's doorway hisses, and Jeannie doesn't need to look over her shoulder to know the monster is chasing after her. She can feel the stairs shaking behind her with each huge footfall. Run! Jeannie shouts to Macy as she hits the third floor landing and keeps going. Macy! Run! When Jeannie hits the second floor landing, she sees Macy backed against the wall. The hairspray can spurting flames in every direction. Then Jeannie's view is blocked as the giant spider from above plops down between her and Macy.

Macy's scream could shatter glass. Then it stops cold. Jeannie can't see what's happening. Then she spots the blood seeping out from under the eight-legged beast and knows her roommate is gone. A tickling, then a painful jab rips Jeannie's attention from the blood. She looks down at her right calf and stares as her leg is about to be coated in spiders. screaming and shaking her leg, Jeannie retreats into her apartment, pulverizing a dozen spiders with each step. The things try to leap for her face, and she swats them aside as she hurries to the kitchen.

Buck spray, bug spray! She cries, brushing spiders off her shoulders, out of her hair, off her neck. She's kicking at them, stomping them to death, slipping on the crushed bodies. Jeannie gets the cabinet under the kitchen sink open and reaches in to grab the can of bug spray. It's for roaches, but she isn't. picky at the moment. As she finds the aerosol can and removes it, she also brings a sleeve of spiders with it. Their tiny fangs bite deep into the flesh of Jeannie's forearm. Preeting her teeth, she slams her arm against the lower cabinets, trying to dislodge the spiders. The pain builds

as she endures bite after bite after bite. She tries to get to her feet, but there are so many spiders on the kitchen floor that she slips and slides, and her elbow collides with the gas stove controls, turning one of the dials all the way to high. Spiders flee the suddenly flowing natural gas and Jeannie grins. She holds her arm over the invisible gas and spiders drop away like fall leaves in a rough storm. Don't like that, huh? Jeannie shouts, turning the rest of the dials to high, spinning them so fast that the pilot spark can't light them. She doesn't want the flames. She wants the gas. The rotten meat stench of natural gas fills the kitchen and Jeannie coughs. Oh, shit.

stagging out of the room and into the hallway. Spiders flee the apartment, desperate to get away from the deadly gas. Jeannie crushes hundreds under her feet as she races down the hallway, out of her apartment, and on to the second floor landing, right into the ass end of the gigantic spider. Shit! Jeannie realizes she's trapped. The monster slowly turns its bulk around, revealing a dozen red, unblinking eyes. Then she smells it.

Smoke. Out of the corner of her eye has the corner of her eye, has the monster. The huge spider rears back on its hind legs. Jeannie sees a flicker of orange light. Macy's flamethrower must have set something ablaze. And when the stink of natural gas hits her nose, she understands that she's not getting out of this alive. The Cadillac pulls into the empty space in front of the apartment house,

and a man gets out of the driver's side. He's mumbling and grumbling to himself as he walks to the trunk and pops it open with his key fob. Below, the license plate reads, hashtag one landlord. fucking stupid investment. Mr. Ratchet, the landlord, grumbles as he lifts the trunk lid all the way up. I don't know why I let that dumb bitch talk me into buying this stupid place.

He reaches him to the trunk, then pauses and takes a good look around. He studies every shadow for lurkers. He watches all the neighbor's windows for movement. Then his eyes sweep the street, both sides. Once he's satisfied he's not being observed. He pulls the gas can out of the trunk. Then he hurries around the side of the apartment house, trying to hide the gas can with his legs. Yeah, well, this expensive mistake can be taken care of.

He opens the gate to the small backyard that he has never bothered to hire someone to maintain. It's all weeds and mud surrounding a half-assed brick patio. Lots of junkies and hoodlums and losers in this area. A little arson is bound to happen. Mr. Ratchet sets the gas can down and tries to unscrew the top. It stuck and will not budge. Carrying the can back with him, Mr. Ratchet returns to the Cadillac's trunk to hunt for a rag. Maybe that will help him grip the gas can's lid better.

As he leans into the trunk, his whole world is upended, and he finds himself suddenly on the ground. His head throbbing, his ears ringing, and the distinct smell of burning wood, plastic, and scorched meat filling the air. Dazed, he watches embers float down around him. Then he looks past the embers at the apartment house that's now fully engulfed in flames. For a second, before the entire building is fully consumed, Mr. Ratchet swears he hears something very big thrashing around inside. When the roof caves in, Mr. Ratchet shakes off his shock and gets to his feet. His legs are wobbly, but he fights past the weakness and limps to the gas can sitting on the ground behind the caddy. He quickly lifts it up and places it back in the trunk.

Won't be needing that, I guess. He slams the trunk lid shut. His ears finally clear a little, and he can hear the sirens coming. The neighbors may have been away from their curtains before, but they aren't now. Mr. Ratchet tries to look nonchalant as people step out onto their porches. Some wave at him, and he's about to wave back when he stops. What the? He mutters, seeing a large shape slip into the shadows between two of the houses across the street.

Then the front porch of the apartment house collapses. and his attention is pulled away. When he looks back at the houses, he sees nothing, of course. But there is an inkling just at the base of his skull, a primal warning that he can't quite figure out. As he rubs the back of his neck, he wonders, did that shadow have eight legs?