Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - The Afterlife Sequence

Episode Date: August 19, 2022

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Before we start this story, I'd like to thank my newest supporters, Jessica, Travis, and Kara. If you'd like to listen to the show Add Free and Receive Bonus episodes, consider becoming a patron. It is only $5 a month and you can cancel any time. The link is in the description below. Talk to Nice Sleep. How does it work? Death, I mean. How does it work?

That was the point of the entire study. The trial. What happens when we die? Where do we go? What does it feel like? And is it even worth the hassle? Is there a heaven? A hell? We didn't know, but we wanted to. I suppose that's where everything went wrong, right out of the gate. We wanted to play God, or at least learn the rules of the game, to see behind the curtain for just a moment. If only so we could know what to expect when the lights went out, and we said that final good night. I'm telling you now, swearing to you, that we never intended for things to go wrong the way that they did.

The people that lost their lives knew what they were getting into. They signed releases, paperwork. They agreed to let us do what we did, just so long as we promised to handsomely compensate their families. And we did. We held up our end of the bargain to the tune of $13 million. But things like this, they never work out the way they're meant to. I knew that. I did. I think that on some level, all of us did.

But the people who were funding us had no idea. They wanted results. Be messy, they said. If that's what it takes. Do whatever you need to do to figure out what happens in this sequel to life and make it snappy because this funding is running on an hourglass, and that sand is slipping. So we cut corners.

We pushed people in ways that, in retrospect, were irresponsible, dangerous. But we did it for the common good. We did it for you, for all of us, for the benefit of future generations who could look death in the eye without the horror of not knowing what came next. It was a good thing. It really was. The first death went smoothly.

An older woman, 87 years old and dying of liver failure, was hooked up to our state-of-the-art equipment that had one job and one job only, to bring them back, to let them taste the cold kiss of death, and then tear their soul back into the land of the living long enough to give us a play-by-play of what happened while they were away. I know, I know. This has happened before.

People have come back from clinical death plenty of times, haven't they? Sure, that's true. But never after three days. The three-day timeline was a tricky one, because even though the corpse was dead, even though the cadaver was cold and beginning to cellularly decompose, we needed to keep it fresh enough to host life. Don't get me wrong.

The life it hosted didn't last long, but it lasted long enough. I still remember the pulse of excitement that shot through the room when the old woman opened her eyes. Her first rancid breath drew applause. Agnes! Roger. Our research lead said.

He stood by her bedside. Plaws. We watched the two of them from behind a layer of one-way glass. All of us in our lab coats, while Roger communed with her breathing corpse, and what was practically a freezer. Their voices carried over a loudspeaker. Owe.

Agnes gasped, her throat trembling with the strain of vocalizing, Roger said. Roger turned to us, grinning with a thumbs up. We'd successfully brought back our first subject. And not only was she alive, she was communicating, lucid. He turned back to her, likely knowing we had a limited window to extract the information we needed. Do you remember the study you agreed to be a part of?

Agnes's eyes opened wide, and her pupil seemed to jolt around like ping pong balls, muttered. Roger nodded, running a hand through her thinning hair. That's right, Agnes. We wanted to know what happens to the soul after death, and you agreed to take that journey and return to us. You're the first human being to have done so. Congratulations. I'll never forget what happened next. She gazed up at him, those rolling eyes and that absolutely.

absent voice, and she gripped the front of his shirt with a shuddering, leaned closer to her, no doubt thinking she wanted to speak into his ear, she said, her chest beginning to heave. Roger looked at us, his expression confused. He shook his head, her legs jerked sideways, her spine arching as she began to thrash on the slab. Blood leaked from the corners of her eyes. Roger, concerned, attempted to hold her body so she wouldn't injure herself and compromise what little time she had left to communicate. He ordered more of us in. I hurried to his side with three others. We belong. She said again, and this time her voice was stronger, as though empowered by her agony.

To the forgotten! Even with four of us on her, each holding a limb she was rioting with the strength. that could only be described as inhuman. It took everything I had to hold her scrawny blue wrist to the slab. Beside us, the machine, monitoring her vitals began to beep violently, indicating levels grossly out of range. What comes next? She hissed, and smoke began to drift up from her mouth.

Is worse than any hell. Before we could ask further, before we could subdue her and help her pass peacefully, she went still on the slab. Her limbs fell limp. Her buzzing pupils stilled. Her mouth ceased to smoke, and her head lulled to the side. Agnes Mick had died for the second time. We had her corpse carted to the morgue for an autopsy, and discovered that her brain showed signs of hemorrhaging. Her heart had partially ruptured in her chest, and most bizarrely of all, Her vocal cords had been seared, as if something had lit them aflame. Her results were ominous, to say the least.

But we were intelligent enough to know that a sample size of one does not make a conclusion. And so we eagerly awaited our second subject. This one was a young boy named Jacob. He'd been struck by a vehicle in a hit and run and fallen into a coma. His parents never had an opportunity to say goodbye. and so they agreed to allow us to perform our study so long as they were there for his revival. The process was similar to Agnes'

Jacob lay unmoving on the slab in the freezer room. Wires and diodes hooked up to his chest and temples. A white sheet draped across him. By his side stood Roger and both of the boy's parents, all of them clad in scrub caps and gloves. Roger asked. They said, We all waited behind the glass with heart-pounding anticipation.

Roger clicked a few keys on the computer console, and the machine began its mechanical song. A moment later, and the screen flashed green as it initiated its afterlife sequence, filling Jacob's unmoving cadaver with a myriad of electrical pulses designed to shock his brain into functioning. The boy's feet, dangling outside the white cloth, began to twitch.

than his fingertips. His mother and father looked at one another, grasping hands as they waited for the son to return to them. Hopeful tears leaked from the corners of their eyes, their lips, mouthing silent words of affirmation as they prepared to say goodbye to their son. Screaming filled the room.

It burst through the loudspeaker like an explosion, causing all of us watching to jump and scatter, our primal nervous systems fleeing while we attempted to uncover the source. But the source, I think, was always obvious, even if we didn't want to believe it. It was coming from Jacob. He lay there, his toes and fingertips twitching, as his mouth hung open in an ear-splitting scream,

his mother and father crowding him in horror, doing their best to calm him, to calm his pain, his confusion, and his horror. It's difficult to describe the sound of Jacob's scream. I'm hesitant to say it was human, let alone the sound of a nine-year-old boy. It was most similar, I feel, to a drowning sheep. It was an anguished, bleeding sound, one that seemed never ending,

and yet it told a terrifying story all on its own. Eventually, Jacob's parents made the decision to pull the plug on their son. It was the second time they'd made the decision in a little under a week. The last subject was the one that stuck with me, the one that haunts me to this day, and the reason I'm writing this now, sharing this with all of you. It was a woman named Charlotte, young, vibrant, in the prime of her life. Charlotte was an eccentric woman from a wealthy and educated family. She had spent her mid-20s traveling the world, primarily across portions of South America,

as she researched content for her book, The Meaning of Life. A self-described shaman, Charlotte, put great stock in the spiritual practices of different cultures. She'd participated in hundreds of rituals across dozens of tribes. She'd tried everything from peyote to DMT, leveraging any drugs she could get her hands on that promised psychedelic insights. Despite the heavy usage, Charlotte appeared to be perfectly clear-headed and not at all negatively impacted. To put it simply, she was as healthy as could be.

That's why we found it strange when she approached our small project and asked to be included. When we informed her, it was only for those suffering from terminal afflictions. She asked if she could be added to the list anyway. Sort of like an organ donor. We agreed. Charlotte killed herself the following weekend. Bullet through the skull.

quick and likely painless, though it's impossible to know for certain. Many times, such acts of suicide last longer than the subject intends. Either way, we had our third volunteer, all thanks to the round narrowly missing her brain. Charlotte's parents were initially opposed to the idea, but we informed them that we had her written, legal consent. They asked to meet us halfway, to be there when she returned. After the situation with Jacob, however, we disallowed them from participating in the trial. The science is new, you understand.

It's possible that emotional catalysts, like family figures, may have an adverse effect on brains so far removed from life. No, we said. We'll bring her back, and we'll tell her everything that she says, and that will be that. So they relented, no lawsuit, no drama. we were free to bring Charlotte back from death in three days' time. And that's exactly what we did. The scenario played out like the others before. The freezing room, the beeping machine,

the diodes sprinkled across her body, and the white sheet draped over her torso. Roger stood beside her, operating the machine while we monitored the readings. His fingers danced across the keyboard and the screen glowed with the words afterlife sequence initiated. Once again, we watched from behind the glass. Once again, Roger waited patiently, a hopeful smile on his face. Twenty seconds passed and nothing occurred. Not so much as a twitch of a toe or a flick of an eyelash. Charlotte's corpse remained every bit as dead as the day we carded her in. A minute went by, and we still saw no sign of resurrection.

Roger looked back to the machine, shaking his head and he removed his gloves, evidently wondering if he'd hit a wrong key with his hands. He began the sequence again. The machine buzzed, and words flashed green across the screen once more. But Charlotte lay still. Elliot, he said to me, his voice ringing out over the loudspeaker. Can you come inside and check this out? I swallowed.

I'd triple-checked the machine. and made sure it was functioning to specification, just as it had the last two times. Still, I nodded from behind the two-way glass and opened the door to the freezer. As I stepped inside the minus 30-degree room, I pulled a set of gloves and a scrub cap from the wall and began my appraisal of the system. The wires checked out. The program was running to spec. All the diodes were in the correct place. I don't see any issues here, I said. shivering. Roger frowned, looking back to Charlotte's cadaver. He placed his hands on his hips and cursed,

wondering if somehow we'd encountered a dud. Maybe some people can't be brought back, he theorized. I opened my mouth to respond, but something about Charlotte caught my eye. It was her lips. They were pulled into a thin grin, and black fluid was leaking from between them. Have you seen? It. She muttered. Roger and I exchanged looks, and he slipped me a wink. Well done, he whispered.

Now get back behind the glass. I obliged, not wanting to impact the experiment any more than I already had, Roger said. Do you remember the study you agreed to participate in? She took a deep breath, and her body rolled upwards into a sitting position. This was new. Neither of the last subject showed anywhere near that level of physical control. Her blonde hair fell down around her as her cloth slipped onto the floor. Roger looked back at us uneasily, as though unsure how to proceed.

Yes, he said after a moment. Your parents were wondering if they had hurt you in some way or, no? She weased, and her head snapped sideways to look at Roger. At the time I didn't think anything of it, but looking back, there was something decidedly twisted about her eyes. Much like Agnes's, they were buzzing around her skull. Her pupils darting about like ricocheting hockey bucks. But this time her mouth was a tight smile.

This time, she appeared to be in control, aware. I killed myself because I needed to know that my nightmares weren't real. Around me, researchers were hastily recording details. of her interaction, her words, her appearance, her biological readings. I gazed on in abject horror. I think that even then, I knew that something awful was about to happen. I had that feeling, the one deep down in your gut that appears just before a car accident, or just before somebody's about to fall. And what was that?

Roger said. His voice breaking as he stood next to Charlotte's buzzing pupils. What came next after you died? sweeping a leg off of the slab. Her pale foot hit the linoleum floor with a dull slap. Then the other followed. She took a shaking breath and then pushed herself off of the table until she was standing naked in front of Roger. What do you think happens after we die?

Roger looked sidelong at us from behind the two-way glass. His expression somewhere between nervous and fascinated. I'm not certain, he said. We all believe different things, I suppose. for us Charlotte. Charlotte laughed, I think. It's hard to say. But she threw back her head and started choking irregularly.

She repeated the word as though tasting it. It was a phrase we'd heard before from Agnes, one in which I'd assumed it referred to human beings, like those who died in meaningless wars or in periods of widespread misfortune. And yet the emphasis that Charlotte placed upon it, Roger repeated, taking a step back from Charlotte's hunched over body. It was miraculous that she was standing at all, but that she remained living after several minutes

was something neither of the other two subjects managed. Charlotte reached out, placing a pale hand on either side of Roger's shoulders. We watched with our breath held. She lurched forward, planting her blue, decaying lips on his. They touched only for a second before Roger instinctively pushed her backward, causing her to stumble against the metal slab. She laughed again in that choking, rasping chorus, sliding onto the linoleum floor. Roger rushed to her. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, but... Our minds are finally made.

She weased, not seeming to care. Reverse. She spat back bile onto the floor, wiping at her lips with a shaking hand. You want to know what happens when we die? Some in interest, others, terror. I merely watched on. My heart racing and my mouth dry. Charlotte continued,

Because I had a vision of the end. I saw our makers, and they were dressed in cars and empty space, hopeless in medicine. Now beside Charlotte, as her voice grew quieter with every agonizing word. She rasped. Our minds are primed for love, for joy, and for pleasure.

And when we die, they feed on us. They leave our souls empty and rotting until we're rebirthed into the next human. A little less whole, a little less complete. Once again, that thin smile twisted its way across her blue lips. A little closer to me. Roger waved at us, indicating that he wanted to make sure every second of this was being properly recorded. Then, he turned back to her. What else can you tell us?

But as they feed, her lips now, it streaked down her pale body, fooling around her trembling legs like blood from a butchered lamb. Look around you have nothing left to feel. His voice stuttered as he attempted to formulate a response. To articulate, why she must be wrong. At least, that's what I had hoped for. I'd hoped for anybody to stand up and say this was all a farce, and that the experiment had been compromised,

and none of this could be true. But nobody did. Charlotte reached up and gripped Roger by the front of his shirt. What comes next? I can show you. Roger looked at us then through the glass, his eyes wide with shock and fear. He looked at us one last time,

And I think he was waiting for somebody to shake their heads, to tell him that, no, that was a bad idea, that he should decline. But we were all too shaken, I think. We weren't thinking straight. So he nodded. He nodded and leaned into Charlotte. And then the lights flickered, and the freezer,

and our observation room were both plunged into darkness. The blackout lasted for just a second, maybe two. But it was long enough for everything. to go wrong. When the light returned, the glass was cracked and the machine was wailing a metallic tone. Roger lay in front of Charlotte's naked corpse, his head face down in the pool of bile, smoke drifting up from his slack-jawed mouth. Charlotte's eyes were no longer buzzing. Her chest was no longer heaving. She had died for the second time. Roger had died for the first. After that, our funding was pulled.

Our donor abandoned the project and scrubbed his involvement from any and all corporate records. As far as the scientific community was concerned, the experiments never occurred, and the findings didn't exist. But I remember. I remember because there's simply no way I could forget the haunting look in Agnes's eyes,

the hopeless agony of Jacob's screams, or the final message that Charlotte delivered in black bile on the linoleum floor. It was messy and easy to miss. To the others, I think it must have looked like a common splatter, a simple side effect of her legs spasming in the pool of dark fluid. But I know what I saw. The letters, though crooked and barely legible,

were scorched into my memory like a cattle brand. They weren't so much a warning as they were words of advice. Perhaps an answer to the question we set out to ask, and the question that Charlotte had set out to answer in her book. The meaning of life, she wrote, is to avoid the agony of death. Lazzange surgelley, puissance-molyne, for 15 minutes. We're like it's their dojo.

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