Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - The Devil's Playground

Episode Date: October 29, 2021

Halloween Horror Week Special 🎧 Check out the Dr. SCP podcast here: https://spoti.fi/3zCFjQc 🎉 Ad-free episodes + bonus episodes: https://www.patreon.com/drnosleep 🎥 YouTube: https://youtube.com/c/DrNoSleep ✅ Advertising Inquiries: [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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the concourse the course fits in replacing the bleary black void that I only now recognize as sleep. I open my eyes and my blurry vision slowly clears as I look around. My

surroundings are so foreign and my mind so sluggish that I can't help but think I'm having a particularly vivid dream. I'm lying on a bed of hay on the floor of a wooden stall. The musky smell that fills my nostrils is one of animal feces, decaying organic matter, dust, and old, unfinished wood. There's a lantern hanging from the wooden wall to my left, the flame inside flickering slightly. What the hell? I say to no one. My mouth dry and my tongue thick. As I sit up, my head spins and I feel momentarily nauseous. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, which serves to calm my stomach. I open my eyes again, moving my head slowly to avoid another bout of nausea. Gathering my bearings, I notice that I'm wearing strange clothes. My gray

pants are of a stiff and scratchy wool. I'm wearing a heavy long-sleeve shirt made of thick cotton, also dark gray in color. Instead of buttons down the front of the shirt, there's a thick zipper. I feel up to the neck of the strained shirt with my hands and find that there's some kind of lock fastened there, keeping me from unzipping the garment. And notice with a sense of growing panic that I'm not wearing socks or shoes. The lantern, the clothes, and the design of the barn all tell me that I'm in some kind of reenactment. I went to sleep in my apartment in the 21st century and woke up some time before the Industrial Revolution. I shake my head in disbelief, smiling at the absurdity of it. If this is a joke, it's a really bad one, I say, getting to my feet in the stall. No one

answers. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice tells me that this is no joke, that I don't know anyone who would play this kind of joke on me, but I ignore it. Best to take things as they come. I walk over to the wooden door of the stall, able to see over it easily at my six foot four inch height. There are three more stalls across a small central aisle for me, all of which are closed. I reach down and undo the ancient latch, swinging the door open on creaky hinges. I step into the central aisle, noting the change underfoot from straw to dirt. I look into the stall directly across from the one I just left and find it empty. I moved to the the next one in line and have to do a double take. There's a girl in there, a woman, really.

She's unconscious, her eyes closed, lying on a pile of straw. Hey, I say. Hey, wake up. She doesn't move. I open the stall door and step in next to her, noting that she, too, is barefoot and dressed in strange, old-fashioned clothing similar to mine. Hey, miss, are you awake? Nothing. Crouching down next to her, I'm unsure whether I should touch her to try and wake her. I've never seen this woman before in my life, but I'm hoping she has some answers. She has small features, a downturned nose, and light brown hair pulled back into a bun. There's a slight crease in her brow, as if she's thinking hard as she sleeps.

She is no older than 25. The top of her shirt catches my eyes, and I bend down to inspect it. Sure enough, there's a small metal lock at the collar. From what I can tell, there's a stationary metal ring sewn right into the top of the shirt collar, and another affixed to the zipper. When the zipper is all the way up, the two metal rings line up. So the only reason for the lock is to keep us from taking our shirts off. Why? The shirts are thick, and the stitching is reinforced. It would take some serious work to rip them. I whisper, dread nodding my stomach. A loud thumb sounds from above me,

followed by a long scraping sound like a metal implement being pulled across wood. I snapped my head up, looking at the imperfect boards that make up the ceiling about eight feet above me. There's another level to the barn, and there's something up there. A short, guttural bark emanates from the back. The inhuman noise making the hairs on my neck stand on end. My heart beats like an alarm in my chest, but I can think of nothing to do but stare up at the ceiling, frozen in fear. I stay like that for a long moment, crouched next to the unconscious woman, straining my ears for any more threatening noises. When I think that no more will come, I turn my head back down to the woman, who strikes out at me with her hand.

Her fingernails dig into my left temple and scrape diagonally down my face, one of the narrowly missing my eye. I throw myself back, slamming against the stall's wall. Get away from me! She screams, scrambling back into the far corner of the stall. What the hell, lady? I ask. my hand away from my face. You've got some nails there.

I'm bleeding. Where am I? What did you do to me? She asks, holding her right hand out in front of her like a claw to ward off an attack. I didn't do anything, I say. I just woke up in another one of these stalls, just like you. I saw you in here and came to check on you. I don't know what the hell is going on.

I was hoping you would know. She looks at me with disbelief, and I can't blame her. If I woke up with some strange guy standing over me, I'd probably do the same thing, especially if that guy looked like me. I'm tall and thin and a little hunched. It tends to intimidate people when they first meet me. The next girlfriend once described me as looming. I begrudgingly admit that it's a pretty apt description. Look, what's your name? I ask. The woman doesn't answer, and she still looks wound up as tight as a rabbit that has wandered into a wolf's den. Give me a fake name for all I care, I say.

I just don't want to have to call you lady, know what I mean? I see her defense is lower slightly before she speaks again. Brianna, she says. I'm Brianna. Great, my name's Kurt. Now, Brianna, what's the last thing you remember before you got here? Before Brianna can answer my question, a sound like liquid being poured onto dirt comes from nearby. We both hear it and instinctively get very quiet.

I put up a finger to keep Brianna where she is while I get into a cross. crouch and move toward the stall door. The sound is definitely coming from nearby. I slowly stand up out of my crouch and look over the door into the aisle. I swallow hard and turn my head toward the sound of the liquid. What it started off as a steady pouring sound is now a steady drip. I see it off to my right, a pool of dark liquid in the middle of the dirty, a strewn floor in the central aisle. I look up at the ceiling to see an open trap door there, but all is darkness beyond the the threshold. What is it?

Rihanna whispers. A gesture for her silence and open the stall door slowly. Despite my efforts, it still creaks on its old hinges. Three cautious strides take me to a pool on the dirt floor, a pool of what is unmistakably blood. It still drip, drip, dripping from the dark trap door in the ceiling. I step over to a nearby kerosene lantern hanging from an old rusty nail on a post. I grabbed the lantern and step back over to the hole in the ceiling.

the lantern as high as I can to try and see what's up there. A dark form moves in the deep shadows, seeming to lunge toward me. I throw myself back away from the hole as the figure emerges, fall into the ground with a bone-breaking thud. It only takes me a moment to realize that it's an animal, and a dead one at that. It's a black goat, lying dead in a pool of its own blood. Its throat has been sliced open. Its tongue lolls from its mouth. Its eyes stare blankly past me. The door in the ceiling suddenly slams closed, causing me to jump. What's happening? Rihanna says as she steps out from the stall behind me, the fear in her voice is unmistakable.

I, I don't know, I say. What the hell is that? Is that a goat? She asks, her eyes wide. Is that real? Yeah, it's real, I say. Someone is trying to scare us. They're messing with us. Maybe this is a prank show or something. Look around for cameras.

Even as the words come out of my mouth, I know how. how hollow they sound. This is no prank. It's no show. And the worst is yet to come. I look up toward the near end of the barn and locate a door. Then I turn the other way and do the same. I think about hanging the kerosene lantern back up, but the heaviness of it in my hand feels good, like a weapon, which gives me an idea. Look around for farm tools, anything we can use as weapons, I say. Weapons? Didn't you just say that this is a show? Why do we need weapons? Listen, I say, turning to Brianna. I don't know what this is.

I really don't. If you do, then please tell me. Otherwise, we need to be ready to fight. I don't understand, Kurt. Brianna says, Where the hell even are we? I live in the city. What is this place?

I remember going to bed last night, and then I woke up here. How is this possible? You live alone, I ask. Yeah, she says. Why, do you? I nod. Oh. God, this isn't some Halloween prank, is it?

No, I say. I don't think it is. I think we're in serious trouble. I quickly open the other stall doors, looking for anything I can use as a weapon. They're all empty except for the piles of hay on the ground. I skirt the bloody goat and look around at the front of the barn. Nothing.

Brianna is following behind me as we approach the door. I have expect to find it locked, but it's not. I lift the latch and open the door slowly. cringing as its hinges creek. What the hell? I say, looking out. A raid before me is a small farming village, straight out of the 1700s. There are small houses and other buildings made out of unpainted wood,

complete with roofs covered in straw or some other kind of dried vegetation. Torches burn along the main thoroughfare of the small village, providing some light. I look up at the night sky and see slow-moving and dense cloud cover. Weak moonlight illuminates the clouds, but does little to provide light on the ground. This is insane, I say. Brianna makes a small noise behind me and then pulls me back into the barn. Someone's coming, she whispers.

Sure enough, I now hear footsteps. Brianna and I run and duck into the nearest stall. I close the door behind us, just as I hear the front door of the barn open. The sound of footfalls and hissing breath fills the space. I turned to Brianna and put a finger to my mouth. She nods. I still have the lantern in my hand as I move slowly back to the stall door and raise my head to see over it. There's a young woman there, stepping around the dead goat in the aisle. She's dressed the same as both Brianna and I, even down to her bare feet. As she passes by the stall, I notice that there's a number painted on the back of her locked on shirt. It's a big white number three.

She's clearly trying to be quiet, but her breathing is too fast, almost as if she's fighting off a panic attack. The front door of the barn creaks, and the young woman whips her head around. She screams and takes off running toward the other side of the barn. From where I am, I can't see to the front door. The stall wall blocks my vision, but I can hear heavy footfalls. I stay put, eyes wide, as a hulking figure moves past, stepping in the puddles of goat blood as he goes. He wears a black jumpsuit and a mask that looks like it's made of rotting flesh.

He has a claw hammer in one hand. He's a big man, at least six feet tall. upwards of 200 pounds. The girl is still screaming as she bangs against the other door at the far end of the barn. Apparently it's locked. I can just see her from where I am, looking at an angle down the aisle. She stops screaming as the masked man approaches. Please, she says. Please don't do this. I don't even know you. What did I do? What did I do? Oh, please, God, don't do this. The man raises the hammer as he approaches. I look down at the lantern, still held in my hand and then back up at the girl, who is clearly about to die.

I lift the lantern, wondering what kind of damage it would do if I hit the man with it. The sound of blood rushing fills my ears as adrenaline floods my bloodstream and my heart works overtime. I open the door to the stall and take a step out, but Brianna grabs a hold of my shirt from behind. I look back at her. There are tears streaming down her face. She mouths the words, don't leave me. I shake my head and pull her hand off my shirt. But as I turn around to leave the stall. I see the man slam the hammer down on the pleading girl's forehead. Her eyes cross briefly and she stumbles back a step, a large drop of blood forming where the hammer struck her. The man flips the hammer around and brings the claw and down onto the girl's face,

hitting her in the bridge of the nose. Blood sprays forth as bone crunches. I step back into the stall, trying not to vomit as my stomach heaves and revulsion. Brianna clutches me as I crouch down next to her, the sickening image of the claw sinking into the girl's nose stuck in my head. I look into Brianna's eyes as horrific sounds filled the air. The sounds of the hammer coming down on flesh and bone again and again and again. Brianna is silently crying and clutching me, but her eyes never leave mine. Something passes between us as we wait, hoping the murderer won't find us. It's a promise to each other that we'll stick together to the end, no matter what. I try to pass some of my strength to or through my eyes and my presence,

but I have so little to give. After what seems like hours, but is probably only 10 or 15 minutes, the terrible sounds stop, and we hear movement as the man leaves the barn. I wait for another five minutes before standing up and looking over the stall door. There's a pile of gore over where the girl was killed and drag marks along the floor.

He took her body out to do God knows what with it. What are we going to do? Brianna whispers. Run, I say. There's nothing else to do. Then something occurs to me. I tell Brianna to turn around. She looks confused, but does it anyway.

There's a large white number two painted on the back of her shirt. What's on my back? I asked, turning around. A number one, she says. What about mine? Two. What does it mean? I don't know, I say.

But that girl had a three on hers, and they clearly don't want us taking. these shirts off. I don't know. It doesn't matter anyway. We've got to get out of here. We move out of the stall and toward the front door, pausing to listen every few steps. I hear nothing, except for an owl hooting off in the distance and crickets chirping. When we get out there, we're going to turn left and run. I tell Brianna. We're not going through the village. No way. Why left? She asks. Because it was dark that way. Maybe there's a forest we can go into and hide out until daylight.

Brianna nods. Then she grabs my arm and looks up at me. Don't leave me, she says. Please. I won't leave you. I tell her. No, I mean, can we go out the door together? Run together?

Will you hold my hand as we go out and as we run? Sure, I say. Of course. It's clear that she's battling a complete breakdown. I like her for keeping it together. We get to the door, and I swing it open slowly with my left hand, keeping the lantern in my right.

I'd notice with dismay that all the torches that were lit earlier have been put out. It's so dark that I can barely see the shapes of the buildings. I think about saying something, but I decide not to. It doesn't change anything. We still need to run. As soon as I swing the door open, Brianna grabs my left hand and holds on tight. The doorway is just big enough that we can both step through at once. Ready? I ask her. She nods. Okay, let's go.

I stepped forward and over the threshold. Beside me, Brianna does the same. Something comes flying at me through the dark, and I instinctively jerk my body back, trying to dodge the blow. A sickening wet thunk sounds just as I realize what the thing is. A machete swung by someone waiting just outside the door. Brianna makes a small sound, and I turn my head to look at her.

The machete is lodged in her throat. When I dodged back, she was still stepping forward. She's looking up at me as blood pours around the mottled, discolored blade. Her hand drops from mine, and her eyes roll down. to look at the hand still holding the handle of the machete. A man about my height and build steps into view from beside the doorway. He's wearing a burlap sack on his head with dark holes for eyes. He wears a brown jumpsuit and brown work boots. I can't see his eyes but I'm sure he's looking at me. He yanks the machete out of Brianna's throat and

she collapses to the ground, half in and half out of the barn. Blood pours from the gaping wound in her neck. The man takes a step toward me and I react before I know what I'm doing. I lash out with the lantern, smacking him in the head with the sturdy metal bottom. He stumbles and trips over Brianna's legs, sprawling out on the ground just inside the barn door. I'm on him in a second. I smash the bottom of the lantern on his face, using both hands this time. I feel his face smash inward with a blow.

He brings the machete up to me, but I'm ready for it. I grab his wrist and wrestle it out of his hands easily. I can feel him growing weaker. I yank the burlap hood off his head, revealing the swelling and bloody face. His right eye socket has collapsed, and his nose is a mess of cartilage and blood. With a little imagination, I can tell that there's nothing unique about that face, nothing that would tell you he was a murderer if you saw him on the street. One look at Brianna is all it takes for me to do what I need to do.

I plunged the machete deep into his throat, hitting his spine with the tip. I pulled the machete out and stand up and watch him die as he flails, and gasps and kicks, trying and failing to hold onto his life. Then something occurs to me. There was at least one other killer out there, the one who killed the girl with the hammer. These two couldn't be the same. I size up the man on the floor, now dead or close enough to not matter. He really is my size and build.

And there's no lock on his jumpsuit. I pulled Brianna into the barn and shut the door. I then undress the man I've just killed and get into his jumpsuit. The collar is wet with blood, but I'm not worried about it. This is my best bet to get out of here. His boots are a little small, but I make them work. Hopefully I won't need to wear them for long. The hood is itchy and it smells like bad breath and sweat.

It's hard to see out of. No wonder the guy hit Brianna when he was aiming for me. I walked to the other end of the barn and take a lantern off the wall and then smash it into the ground, breaking the glass and causing flames to spring to life on the hay and the wooden wall. I do the same three more times on my way out. With any luck, the flames will obscure what happened in the barn long enough for me to get out of here, wherever the hell here it is.

As the flames grow around me, I step out into the night. I walk away from the burning barn and into the dark village, carrying the bloody machete in my right hand. I hear tortured screams coming from two of the buildings in the little village, but I keep walking. I pass an old decrepit church on the far side of the village. The doors are open and there's a soft glow coming from inside. As I pass by, I look inside, seeing a man wearing a black hood and dressed in an old-time

preacher's outfit. He's taking slices off a young man that has been nailed to a man. a cross. The crucified man makes ineffectual noises, and I can see why. His mouth has been sewn shut with thick black thread. The torturous preacher turns and looks at me as I pass, nodding slightly before turning back to his unholy work. I follow the dirt path out of the village for about a quarter mile before coming to a large brick wall that stretches off in both directions. It's at least 15 feet tall and topped with razor wire. There's a heavy-duty, windowless metal door set in the wall just ahead of me. There's a little camera set just above the door,

the only evidence of technology I've seen since I woke up in this nightmare. I walk up to the door and bang on it, looking up at the camera through the eye holes in the burlap hood. After a long moment, the door buzzes, and I hear the click of a sliding deadbolt. I reach out and open the door. I walk into a concrete building. I pass a locker room, showers, and a room with tables and vending machines. I hear voices up ahead as I work my way through the building. men's voices, laughing, cursing, and sounding like they're having a good old time. My hand tightens on the machete. There's a doorway up ahead on the right of the concrete hallway I'm walking through,

and I can tell that's where the voices are coming from. I slow down as I approach it. My heart beating so hard I'm afraid it will give me away. I decide to walk right past the doorway without looking in. I'll keep on going until I'm home free. Then I'll call the cops and tell them what's going on here. I pick up the pace again. My palms sweaty and my breathing labored. I come up to the doorway. Just two more steps until I'm

completely past it. One more. Hey, Reaver! A voice calls out from inside the room. I can tell the greeting is directed at me. I freeze. Where are you going, Reaver? Come on in here. Join us. I turn to look into the room. There are three men, each wearing different, gruesome masks, sitting around a wooden table scattered with cards and beer cans and ashtrays. Two of them are shirtless, but still wearing their masks. The other clothes are stained with blood. I stand there, staring at them, unsure what to do. Ah, leave Reaver alone, one of the other guys says. He's not much for words. I was here with him last year. He didn't say a word until all the killing was done. Then you know what he says to me? Keep in mind, he's all coated in blood, and his hood's all messed up and he's wearing this

kid's guts like a scarf. Anyway, he says to me, this is the most fun I had since killing my daddy. You believe that? The man slaps the table and laughs. His demon mask seeming to laugh with him. Well, shit, Reeves. The first man says, I don't care whether you say nothing to us at all, long as you pay your way like everyone else.

This shit is expensive. You're goddamn right about that, says the third man, who then lifts up the bottom of his mask to chug a beer. Getting more expensive every year. He continues. Put hits worth it. God damn worth every red scent.

Another reason to look forward to Halloween. It's some kind of sense. sick hunting retreat for serial killers, I realize. I turn and keep walking. The only thought in my mind is one of getting out of here alive. There's a door ahead of me, and it looks identical to the one I came through on the other side of the building. It's an exterior door. I can just walk out and keep walking until I find someone who isn't a murdering psycho. I step up to the door and try the knob with my left hand. It's locked. I look for a locking mechanism, but don't find any. There's a Keep out on the wall next to the door.

My heart sinks. You didn't think it'd be that easy, did you? A voice says from behind me. Another voice chuckles. I know without turning around that the three killers are arrayed behind me in the hallway. Old Reaver. The voice continues. Was trying to kill you, a number one.

But he accidentally killed a number two, which is my number. I guess that means you're mine, kid. Before I turn around, I make sure I have a tight grip on the man. machete. It's all the hope I have left.