Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - The Callous Man | Part 1

Episode Date: February 3, 2021

Story written by u/Born-Beach on Reddit. Be sure to check out his subreddit here: https://www.reddit.com/r/TalesFromTheCryptid/ Help support the Dr. NoSleep podcast here: https://www.patreon.com/join/drnosleep Dr. NoSleep Animations: https://youtube.com/c/DrNoSleep Dr. NoSleep Merchandise: teespring.com/stores/dr-nosleep-merch #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #truescarystories #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Talk to nicely. I sit down, pop a piece of spearmint gum, and watch the woman across from me. She's nervous. Her hands are fretting in her lap, and her eyes are bloodshot. Long night, I ask. She looks up, timidly. Her face is awash in anxiety. She doesn't understand what's going on.

She doesn't understand what she's doing here. Sitting inside an abandoned warehouse with an asshole twice her age. It's fine. I've seen it before. Look, I say, loosening the tie around my house. my neck. It's just like I said. I only want to ask you a few questions, and you can go. Why here, she says in a small voice. This looks like the kind of place you take me to. I don't know. Murder me. I crack a smile. She isn't wrong. You don't like it? It's private. Besides that,

it's probably the safest place in the world for you. Why? Do you have snipers on the rafters? There's sarcasm in her voice. But her eyes still flick to the dimly lit steel while. walkways lining the walls. She pulls her sweater tighter around her, shivering at the draft. Or is this some secret government fortress? No and no. I lean back in the wooden chair, and it groans under my road. I'm not as slim as I used to be. It's much simpler, I say. This warehouse is the safest place for you, because I'm inside of it. It's not a lie, at least, not entirely. Still, she gives me an incredulous look. It's the sort of look one reserves for blow-heartedly. cards and narcissists, and I probably deserve it. Time to change gears. Tell me about the event.

She studies me for several moments, then shakes her head. On second thought, she says, picking up her purse. I think I'd prefer talking to the police. She stands up, makes to leave and I don't stop her. Her footfalls echo across the empty warehouse, the haphazard lighting casting her shadow in every direction. I hear her mutter something beneath her breath, but I can't make out the words. I probably don't want to. Then she stops. They always do. What's an event? She asks quietly. I click my pen and reach down for my clipboard with a groan. My last job really did a number on my ribs. An event, I explain, is a paranormal phenomenon, most commonly characterized by contact with a sentient entity. To use a more common turn of phrase, it means you stumbled across an urban legend.

She swallows. At this distance, I can just barely make out her expression, but I already know I have her. I bring my pen to my clipboard and clear my throat. You said your name was Amanda Haynes, correct? Yes, I scribble it down on my form. And the event occurred two nights ago, just outside city limits in the Cascade Mountains. Her sneakers patter across the concrete floor as she returns to her chair. Her expression shifts. Gone is the nervous shyness, the small posture and the darting eyes. She's staring at me now. She's deciding whether she's in or out. Yes, she says at length. It was in the woods. We were camping. I checked three more boxes on my clipboard. Stupendous. So far the location matches up with previous sightings of the beast. I sigh, resting the clipboard in my lap and place my pen on top of it. Why don't we start from the top? Before we do, she says, narrowing her eyes. How do I know I can trust you?

This feels so bizarre, I offer. Dramatic. Like I'm in an episode of The X-Files. Fair point. You've seen my badge. Badges can be faked. I bring a hand to my face, tracing along deep scars. How about these?

You don't get these working for television. She's quiet, skeptical, and her eyes drift down to the clipboard on my lap. She's analyzing it, determining if it's a real government form or not. All things I've seen before, she wants to believe. leave, but she isn't ready yet. Let me ask you this, I say, handing her the clipboard. She begins looking it over. When you told the search and rescue team a monster attacked you, did they believe you? Her eyes met mine, and I see it to surrender. She knows as well as I do that I'm her only shot. What she doesn't know is she's my only shot too. I've been looking for this legend for close to

40 years now. One might say it's been my life's work. I see your point, she concedes. Let's get this over with. She passes the clipboard back to me, and I click my pen, bringing it to the box labeled Encounter. All right, you said that you were camping, who was with you? Just Rachel, she says. Her eyes are filled with something, guilt, maybe. We'd been friends since elementary school. We hiked together pretty often.

Ah, I say, noting her name on my clipboard. Rachel Tully, correct? The victim. Amanda nods. We went up to get a break from the doldrums of city life. Rachel just got out of a pretty serious relationship, and I didn't want her cooped up in that apartment. Stuck with all those memories. Her voice cracks. Emotion spills into her words. I suggested we take the weekend and go for a hike into the Cascades. There's an old trail we spotted

the last time we were up there, just off the main path. I said we could follow that, see where it leads us. She brings a sleeve to her face, wiping it forming tears. Rachel didn't want to. She said she was too depressed to shop for groceries, much less go on such a big hike. I, um, I convince her eventually, though. I see, I say quietly. How long was the hike? I don't know. It was a really old trail, overgrown in parts. There weren't any mile markings. Ballpark it. Eight miles, maybe. We left early that morning, and it took us seven hours to get up there. I whistle, scratching at my gut. That's quite the walk. It's not that bad, honestly. We'd both done longer hikes on harder trails.

We actually didn't go as far as we intended. Why's that? We came across an old cabin. It was run down with shattered windows, and it looked like it hadn't been lived in for decades. My heart pounds in my chest. I swallowed the excitement before it has a chance to leak into my voice. I'd gone looking for that cabin a hundred times.

It was never there. A cabin? She nods. Her eyes leave mine. They're gazing off at some distant point on the ground. France fixed. We figure it must have been an old ranger cabin, which would explain the overgrown trail that led us there. She pauses, her mouth hanging open, words struggling to break free. Rachel suggests instead of using our tents, we could just stay inside of it. I remind her the

windows are busted, and it's the middle of November. Plus, it's probably filled with spiders. She says all the better. Let's set up our tents inside the cabin, double the protection. Amanda gnaws on her bottom lip, her voice growing smaller and smaller with each passing sentence. There's dark clouds above us. It was supposed to rain, but it looks worse than that now. A lot worse. It looks like a storm's coming, so I agree, and we head inside to check the place out. What did it look like on the inside?

I asked quietly. It looked like a nest. We spend some time walking around it. It isn't very big. There's only a hand. handful of rooms, but there's branches and leaves all over the floor. Every step we take, there's a snap of its wig. The entrance leads through a small kitchen alcove, with a wood stove and dining table. Past that, it opens up to a living area with some rotting chairs,

and at the very end is a bedroom filled with splinters from a broken bed frame. The place is a mess. The layout sounds familiar. I can almost smell the cedar and feel the toasty warmth of the wood stove burning during cold December evenings. I check out the bedroom first, she says. I spot a couple of shattered picture frames. Call it the millennial blogger in me. A call it dumb curiosity, but I'm drawn to them. One is old, yellowed and faded. It looks like it could be from the 30s. It's a picture of a young man and woman, dressed to the nines, probably their wedding day. She smacks her lips and then looks up at me. Do you have anything to drink? I nod. Of course. I reached down and unclas my briefcase, opening it up to reveal a flurry of documents

and three water bottles. Two filled with water, one filled with a black rhyme. I grabbed the two filled with water, crack them both, and pass one to her. We both take a sip. Thanks, she says, wiping her lips. All this talking works up a thirst. Not surprised. So far it's an interesting account. I'd like to hear more. She nods. The other picture is more recent. I mean, still old, but not ancient, she laughs. But it's a nervous, self-conscious laugh. It's a photo of an older guy and a young kid with this mess of black hair.

The two of them are standing outside the cabin holding rifles. Interesting. Yeah, I figure it's probably the ranger that lived there, back when the cabin was operational. Before I can check out anything else, though, I hear a snap. It sounds like wood cracking in half. and then a crash. I dropped the picture frame, and Rachel starts screaming from the other room. Screaming?

I lean forward, my pen scratching at the cliffboard. It feels too early for the callous man to appear. Certain criteria haven't been met. Still, if the work of my late colleagues has taught me anything, it's that legends can evolve. I keep an open mind. Amanda nods. Yeah, she's screaming bloody murder.

A storm in there, my bear mason hand, expecting to see a wolf for cougar or bear, but I don't see shit. I don't even see Rachel. I call out to her, and she calls back, but she's whimpering. The sound is coming from the pantry, just outside the kitchen alcove. I look toward it, but I don't see her there. I jog over, wondering what the fuck is going on. When I catch sight of the floorboards inside of it, they're busted, splintered and shattered. There's a dark hole in the ground, one big enough for Amanda fit through. I almost have a heart attack when her arm reaches out of the blackness. Amanda closes her eyes. takes a deep breath. She shouts at me to get her out of there. I tell her to give me a second,

and I take off my jacket and put it over the jutting pieces of broken floorboards, because I don't want her getting impaled on the things. And then I reach down and pull her up. She's bawling her eyes out, hyperventilating. And once she's firmly out of the pit, she's pointing to her foot. I ask her if she's hurt, and she tells me she thinks she twisted her ankle. Pieces of Amanda's event are beginning to connect in my mind. The twisted ankle, the panicked friend, they're all familiar ingredients, and the end dish is anything but delicious. She keeps talking. Rachel says we need to get help right now, and I'm a little thrown off by her panic. I mean, it's a twisted ankle, not a death sentence, right? Still, I pull out my phone and check for service. Predictably,

there isn't any. I ask Rachel for hers, and she can hardly speak. She's still pointing, but this time it isn't at her foot. It's at the hole in the cabin floor. She keeps whimpering about dead things over and over, dead things, dead things, dead things. I'm wondering if I just became a party to my best friend having a psychotic break, but I give her the benefit of the doubt and check out the hole. It's dark enough that I can't see the bottom, so I flick on my phone's light. Her fingers play at the tips of her hair, tugging at it. It takes me a bit for my eyes to adjust, but once they do, my blood goes cold. There's bones littering the ground, deer bones, rabbit bones, then there. At the edge of my vision, I catch sight of a human skull. I'm swearing up a storm,

and my imagination's going haywire. Rachel's hysterical, and I'm feeding into it. Both of us are repeating the words, what the fuck? Like it's a personal mantra. Amanda takes a breath, holding it for a few moments. There's goosebumps on her arms. Even reciting the account is beginning to work her up. She exhales. Then I remember I'm not living inside of a horror movie. I remember what I thought Rachel was screaming about in the first place. I tell her to relax, that it's probably just a mountain lion or grizzly's dumping ground. In the basement? I asked. Sorry, she says hastily. I probably should have mentioned it earlier, but the cabins raised off the ground on these wooden stilts. Where I'm at, it helps things avoid getting trapped beneath snow. There's a crawl space beneath it. I figure an animal

was probably using the crawl space as some sort of shelter. I check a box on my form. The story matches up. far at least. The cabin is identical to the one in my memories. The question is, did she really encounter the callous man or some rabid wolf? A human skull is a promising detail, but it's not like predators don't occasionally snack on hikers. A logical conclusion to draw, I say, does it calm your friend down? Yeah, Amanda says with a nod. Rachel starts to breathe a little slower. She relaxes a little. Eventually, she's ready to try standing, and she can, but just barely. She limps over to a dusty wooden chair near the fireplace and sits down in it, grimacing. She tells me she doesn't think she can make it back down the mountain. There's a crack of thunder in

the distance. I walk over to the windows and see the sun turning a blood red, setting over the tree line. Storm clouds are rolling in. Rain starts pitter-pattering on the cabin roof. Rachel's groaning and pain, and she shows me her phone. It doesn't have service either. You were picked up by a search and rescue team, weren't you? Yes. How's that? If you had no way of contacting them, you weren't gone longer than anticipated. Mandas size. I was just about to get to that, actually. There's an undercurrent of annoyance in her tone. She clearly doesn't care for interruptions once she gets going. I lean back in my chair. All the better for me. Like I said, Rachel and I go on these sort of hikes pretty often. me more than her, but still.

I come prepared. All-weather clothing, bare mace, flint and steel, you name it, I got it. I don't cut corners, so I made sure to pack my GPS locator beacon. It sends a one-way distress signal. Ah, I say, noting in the report, a survivalist. The fire in her eyes falters, and she pauses. A moment of silence stretches between us, and when she starts talking again, her voice cracks.

Not as much of a survivalist as I should have been. in. Rachel wants me to use it, but I tell her no. Odd. Hear me out, Amanda's eyes connect with mine, and there's a pleading expression on her face, a desperation to be understood. Rachel wasn't in any immediate danger, not then. Neither of us were. Plus, a storm was rolling in, and it looked like a big one. She takes a shuddering breath. I know the look. Memories are clawing at her mind. My father was a search and rescue technician. He was killed trying to to rescue a couple of teenagers who got themselves trapped in a cave. Ah, there it is. The tragic backstory. I was wondering when it'd squirm its way out of her mouth. Somehow, all the human stupidity in the

world can be traced back to our emotions, overriding our will to survive. I scratch her reasoning down on the clipboard. I didn't want anybody risking their lives when we had food, shelter, and weren't in danger. I told her no, no way. I couldn't have that blood on my hands if something went wrong and she trails off. And Rachel understood. Amanda gets quiet. She's staring at me, and there's that same look I've seen a thousand times before. I want to roll my eyes. I want to spit in her face for being such a naive idealist, but I hold it down. Instead, I plaster an understanding smile on my lips and nod my head sagely. You made the right choice. It was the only choice you could have made, knowing what you knew in that moment. It works, she perks up. Yeah, I suppose. So the two

of you decide to stay inside the cabin then? You're not worried about the bear or cougar using it as a snack bar might swing by? At that point, we don't really have another choice. I'm the outdoorsy type. I've seen storms, and I know that the one coming our way is going to be a big one. We decide the cabins are best bet, but we take precautions. I keep my bear mace close by, and we close all the doors. A cougar isn't going to open a door, and a bear might break it down, but only if it feels it needs to. It's far more likely to wander into the crawl space, safely away from us. Sure, makes sense. I decide to put an extra layer between us in the front door, though, just in case.

I clear out the busted bed frame and sweep the splinters from the bedroom floor. Then I get to work setting up the tent. Her voice dies. Memories are calling to her again. Difficult memories. What happened? I ask. The hairs on my arms rising. Did you see something? She nods. Yes. Animals were running through the clearing outside of the window. They were running past the cabin, dears, rabbits, then a whole flock of

birds burst through the treetops and started flying over us. I lick my lips. Yes, this is very promising. My pen scratches at the clipboard in excitement. The callous man has a defining characteristic, one unique to him in the realm of legends. He always comes. from the same direction. Always. Which way were the animals running? Her voice is small, brittle. I barely hear it over the sound of my pounding heart. South, she says. I write the word and underline it three times. My fingers are shaking with excitement. My mind's racing. After so many dead ends and broken threads, so many killed and missing, it's finally coming together. I found one, a survivor, and not only that, but one that might still have the link. How many animals were

running, I ask. I know the answer, but I need to hear her say it. It takes her a second to get the words out. They're uncomfortable for her. Disturbing. All of them, she whispers, an exodus of life. My heart hammers, my breath quickens, all of it. Each detail of her story means one thing. The callous man is coming. There's something else here now, something new. From exclusively on Paramount Plus, it's the series Stephen King calls Scariot. is hell. Everything here is impossible, but it's also real. Sci-fi vision

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This story was written by user You slash Born Beach on Reddit. He is a very talented horror writer. To check out more of his work, go to his Subreddit at R slash Tales from the Cryptid. The link to his subreddit is in the episode description. Thanks for tuning in. Please consider supporting the podcast by going to patreon.com

slash Dr. No Sleep. All donations go towards the production of more stories for you all to enjoy. Thank you so much. Lasagne sur-gillet, puissance-moly for 15 minutes. We're like to dojo. Pre-to-jou? Vive the pleasure with the Ojo.

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