Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - The Knife
Episode Date: January 29, 2021Written 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/drnosl...eep 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
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Welcome to aboard of Viarai. Embarked and profited. Embarked and relaxed. Syrotay. Bookine.
Oh, that also. And profite.
Viaray, the voice that we love.
Talk to Naisley.
Too long ago, there was a knife.
I say too long, because most people have forgotten about it.
They've moved on to newer mysteries, amused themselves with older legends, and fallen into deeper fables.
But this was an extraordinary knife.
And as we all know, extraordinary things should never be forgotten, no matter how mundane they
might appear. Our story begins in a village. It's a little thing that sits by a river with houses
of wood and wicker, and is rarely subject to much excitement. An old woman lives there. She has a name,
but I don't know it. And perhaps that is for the best. Her tale is one of grave misfortune.
She leads an empty life, which is to say she is neither happy nor sad. Her days are spent
attending to her garden while her evenings are lost to her dreams. She ponderes about other lifetimes
and other destinies, and whether there is some great magic out there that can extinguish her apathy
and ignite her wonder. She resides in a cottage. It's tucked neatly next to the river,
and it's surrounded by a towering wall of stone and ivy. Her husband built the wall before the
plague claimed him, hoping it would keep away looters and thieves. Sometimes when she looks at it,
she thinks of him. But the memory dies a little more each time she does.
does. Instead, she focuses on the soil. Every night she prepares supper by chopping the day's harvest
into a stew. One terrible evening, her rusty knife snaps cleanly in two. Unable to finish preparing
her meal, she reluctantly sets out through her iron gate to visit the blacksmith in town. When she arrives,
a young man shows her an array of finely forged knives. Most are well beyond what she can afford,
as all she has is an old necklace and a small purse of coins.
The young man tells her not to worry.
I have a knife, he says, more affordable than any you've seen.
He leads her into his forge, where a blade glimmers in the red light of the furnace.
Its steel is a faded blue, and upon its face is an inscription that reads,
A Promise to Keep.
How much, she asks.
It is yours for a promise, the blacksmith replies.
No more.
no less. All you must do is swear that you'll use it each day. Such a fine blade demands it.
A peculiar bargain, she thinks. She has little else to offer, however, and promises are cheap.
She agrees, I'll take that knife, she says. Upon her return, she resumes preparing her stew.
She slices into a potato, and it's almost as though the spud is made of air. The knife slips
through it by the force of its weight alone. The woman is astonished. How? How?
satisfying, she thinks to herself. She cuts a carrot next, and then a tomato, and then finally an onion.
When she's finished, she's smiling. What a lovely knife. The next day she can hardly wait to start
on her stew. She spends long hours walking through her garden, selecting the sturdiest vegetables
she can find. This time, she thinks, I'll see just how sharp that knife is. When she sets to
cutting, the blade glides through them like they were hardly even there. Again, the feeling of
wonder and satisfaction returns. It's the first time in years she's felt much of anything,
and she resolves to use the knife every chance she gets. Potatoes, carrots, lettuce, tomatoes,
none are safe from the edge of her blade. Each time one sliced, diced, or chopped, she feels the
emptiness inside of her shrink. Soon, though, the feeling dulls. The emptiness begins to
lurch back, extinguishing the embers of joy that once smoldered within. She grows depressed.
desperate for her spark.
She harvests every vegetable in the garden, mincing them into tiny cubes.
It helps at first.
Then she finds each cut less satisfying than the last.
The colors of her life begin to wash away,
and now not even the knife can bring them back.
That evening, she goes to bed and wishes that the plague had never spared her.
She wishes that it killed her instead of simply ending her life.
She stirs, but the sun has not yet risen.
How strange, she thinks.
Usually, she sleeps until dawn.
She peers out her window and sees little more than darkness,
the great walls surrounding her cottage blotting out the moon.
Then, a clatter.
She narrows her eyes.
The sound came from out there, she realizes, high upon the walls.
Clang, clang, she studies the darkness,
searching for the source of the noise,
and then she sees it.
Two children atop the wall, with a hook fashioned onto a rope.
She hears their voices.
Hurry up and get down, the boy says.
I'm hungry.
We're all hungry.
Hold your horses.
The girl hisses back.
There's movement on the wall,
and the children latch their hook into the stone
before clambering down toward the garden.
She watches them as they descend.
Two dark shapes.
Invaders.
Thieves.
What gives?
The boy says as he reaches the ground.
Where's all the vegetables?
There's no way she ate them all, the girl replies.
There was plenty here yesterday.
The figures steal through her garden,
searching desperately for a harvest that isn't theirs
to reap. They bicker relentlessly. One proposes that they should leave, while the other says they ought to
knock on the door and at least ask for a cabbage. In their distraction, they don't notice the old
woman in the window, slinking away toward the kitchen. They don't know that she lives an empty life
or that she made a promise to keep. Most importantly, though, they don't realize that there's
nothing left in the garden but them. Lazzang sur-gillet, puissance-moyance-moyne for 15 minutes.
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This story was
written by user
U slash Bourn Beach
on
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 listening.
If you're tuning in on Apple Podcast, please take a second and leave a rating.
Also, don't forget to check out my animated horror stories on YouTube.
Just search search bar to find my channel.
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