Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - The Wallpaper Man

Episode Date: February 10, 2023

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Thanks for tuning in to another episode of Dr. No Sleep. Before we get started, I'd like to thank Tatiana, K. Mann, David, Sean, Anthony, and Logan for supporting the podcast by recently becoming Dr. No Sleep patrons. If you'd like to listen ad free and receive Dr. No Sleep merchandise as well, go on over to patreon.com slash DR No Sleep Today or click the link in the episode description. Now time for the story. year ago, a month after mom died. Just me and Dad and Piper in an old salt-encrusted Victorian with big dormer windows and a swooping front porch. It's not much to look at, really. A faded blue clapboard construction fronted by a piss yellow lawn and a view of the Safeway parking lot across the street. Not exactly what I expected when Dad told me we were moving to the coast. He said he had to get far away from her, or from the memory of her anyway, some bullshit line about missing her too much. Nick, she haunts me. Every night I can feel her in the

room haunting me. It's not good for me here no more, or for you and your sister. We need a fresh start somewhere else. But I knew it wasn't a fresh start he needed. No, he wanted to run. I could see it in his nervous, washed out eyes darting this way and that every time we went to the store. The tight smiles and curt nods in between all the poisoned glances. And at home, the trash cans boiling over with empty vodka bottles and crumpled cartons of camel lights, the floors ashed in dust. No one to clean them up anymore. So, one day in late October, he pulled up in front of my school with a U-Haul tacked to the back of our rusted-out 98 Chevy Silverado, and we laughed. No warning. No time for goodbyes.

Just a quick, get in, kid. I found a place up the ghost. A place we can get right again. Piper cried the entire way. And me, well, I just bit my tongue. The fear always starts in my toes when he speaks. A sinister prickle that blooms through my feet and spreads up my legs like a swarm of hatchling spiders in search of a meal.

I can help you. I can make seed all. All go away. The wallpaper man's voice is brittle, fluttering through the air of my room like a wisp of awkward smoke. To me, will it gives me the bed? I shudder in my bed and pull the sheets higher, close my eyes, and hope to snuff it out, to drown it in the black void of my dreams.

Anything to make it stop, to make it go away. Sometimes, when I'm feeling brave, I try to tune him out. I think about things like Piper's smile when I tell her one of my stupid knock-knock jokes. I love her smile. It's crooked and perfect, just like moms was. I think about her, too. About her lavender perfume and how soft she felt when she hugged me. I miss those hugs, a lot.

When those things don't work, when I'm too afraid to think about anything else, I focus on the fear. The color of it, black, definitely black. It's consistency, thick, like tree sap. The taste, a bitter copper like when I bite my lip, like how I imagine battery acid would taste. But it doesn't work. Nothing does. The wallpaper man is used to kids who can get out of bed, kids who can run. Me, I have no use for legs. ALS took them six months ago. Most people are nice enough when they see me. I mean, sure, they stare a little too long and nod a little too hard when they say hello.

They're quick to flash me a plastic smile and talk to me like I'm dumb or something. Like I'm a two-year-old, which I'm not. I'm 16. I just look young. Whatever, I can't say I blame them. Who wants to spend time talking to death warmed over in a wheelchair? I sure as hell wouldn't. I mean, I can't bear to look at myself in the mirror.

And why should I? I know how I look. The right side of my face droops like a stroke victim's. Muscles frozen in place and not quite working right. With the other half scrunching tight like I just swallowed a mouth full of sour candy. My eyes are buried in sharp sockets, and my mouse brown hair sprouts from my head in weird direction. directions that don't quite make sense, no matter how hard I try to smooth it into place.

The worst part is the pain. It's my entire existence. Cramps that go on forever. Muscle spasms and skin sores on my legs. Knees and elbows that lock up like rusty old latches. Despite this, like I said, most people are nice. Everyone except Roger Ellis. I'm in the boys' bathroom.

changing my catheter before first period. When the door bangs open to a cloud of polo sport and a heavy set of footsteps, I know it's him before he even speaks. Hey, look who we have here. It's Nikki Twitch. Twitch, because it's what my body does. Leave me alone, Roger, I mutter. Before I have a chance to brace myself, he's behind me, whipping my wheelchair around in a circle,

whooping and sending the contents of my catheter bag all over my lap. The sharp smell of ammonia stings my nostrils as I swipe at my jeans with a nearby paper towel, hoping to mop it up before it soaks in. Hey, don't freak out, Twitch. Roger says, rounding my wheelchair. I'm just messing with you, man. Looks like someone needs to cheer. The words trail off, the corners of his mouth tugging into an evil grin. Oh my God. Did you piss yourself? You did, didn't you? He barks out a laugh. That's so disgusting.

Wait until everyone hears about this. Fissing your pants. What a baby. He spouts a few more jags of laughter and stomps out of the bathroom. I watch him go. Rage, swamping my chest and my lungs. Roger has everything. Perfect bone structure, broad shoulders,

a strong jawline, already sprouting stubble, and girls chasing him everywhere he goes. He even drives a red Dodge Charger, one his lawyer father bought him the day he turned 16. It's not fair. He's everything I want to be and everything I hate. A ray of moonlight cuts through the blinds and washes over the wallpaper of my room. It's awful stuff. Toy bears marching with trumpets, leading a troop of stuffed animals through a candy cane forest. Rabbits and deer and bug-eyed badgers following behind in a drunken zigzag line. each wielding an instrument of their own,

rippling beneath it like he's floating in a pool of oil as the wallpaper man. He has ten-inch serrated fingers that fall past a set of disjointed knees. His angular shoulder blades slope up into a razor blade neck. His skull is long and segmented, punctuated by a jaw that curls inward, bones crackling when he speaks. Ridged eye sockets bulge from either side of his head and shift when he moves. Four eyes and awe. I wish I could see all of him.

Somehow it's worse being forced to picture the true horror that lies beneath the wallpaper. The slick rows of teeth that sometimes flicker against it when he speaks. The skin I imagine to be thick and black and reptilian. Has it brought me a name? Has it brought me the first of three? His putrid breath seeps through the wall. paper. Foul exhalations awaiting my response. Gives me three names, and I will take the pain, yes?

Night after night, it's the same question. Will I give him his gifts? Will I give him his three names? And night after night, I croak out a wet, gurgled no. My voice nothing more than a splash of baby vomit. I don't know what will happen if I give him a name. I don't want him to hurt anyone, but tonight something's different. Tonight, something cold boils through my blood as the prospect of having to face another day with Roger Ellis in it. Without thinking, I whisper his name. I expect to see Roger slouched low at his desk the next morning, but it sits wonderfully empty. The sight fills me with relief. For the first time in a very long time, I can breathe. No looking over my shoulder, at least for today. And it only gets better. He doesn't come to school

the next day or the next. It isn't until Friday that I start to worry. Is he dead? Surely not, right? I didn't want to kill him, only hurt him a little. Make him pay for everything he's done to me. Make him feel, I don't know, as worthless as I feel sometimes. He comes to school on Monday and sits with his head, cupped in his hands. He doesn't bother to look up when I enter class. A thick swoop of sweat, drenched hair obscuring his eyes. His foot taps out an irregular beat on the floor, a frantic, tap, tap, tap, tap, that sends me rolling to my desk a little faster. As I glide past him, a burst of air pushes through his lips.

It's laced with a familiar odor that tickles my nose. The sticky tack of glue fumes. I watch him throughout the entire class. There's something off about the way he sits, hunched forward like an 80-year-old suffering from a lifetime of poor posture. His skin has taken on a strange chalky texture. It looks like drywall, like it would crumble beneath my fingertips if touched.

Halfway through class, he turns. His gaze locking with mine into like, I look away. For some reason, I expected to see anger in his eyes for him to know this was my fault, that I did this to him. But what I saw staring back at me now just wasn't anger. It was fear. A lake of it. Cold, clear, fear. Lazzang sur-gillet, puissance-moyane for 15 minutes. We're saying that's their dojo. Pre-to-joo? Vive the pleasure with the Ojo. The casino on-line that's

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Begues'clock The conditions apply. After the last period, bell rings, I roll outside of the curb and wait for Dad to pick me up. It's frigid out. I shiver in my windbreaker

and wonder how late he'll be today. Yesterday, it was half an hour. The day before, 45 minutes, and he was reeking of booze. If he's that late today, I'm pretty sure I'll freeze. A shrill wine snaps me out of the thought, an ambulance, distant, but coming closer. Then, behind me, I hear the cry. Rogers cry. It's pain-drenched and terrified.

He's screaming like he's burning alive. I turn and spot him stumbling across the cement with two of his jock friends. His hands flapping like a pair of panicked birds, spraying watery pink fluid everywhere. He collapses in front of me, a few feet away, and... Oh, God! His skin! It's gone!

All of it! In its place are pale bands of fibrous red muscle, entwined with tangled nerve endings. Strips of bone peeked through the pink tissue. And there's something else. Sticky white, clumps of what look to be paced are speckled all over his ruined palms, coating his naked digits, running up to his forearms where the skin is peeling back in tattered strips. I choke back a slug of vile. The gym teacher, Mr. Johnson, abandons his post directing traffic and sprints over.

Jesus! What the hell happened here? One of Roger's friends. I think his name is Ethan, looks up wild-eyed, panicked. It just... He glances away and shakes his head. His skin just came off, Mr. Johnson, like a pair of gloves. We were playing catch, and Roger started screaming when he caught the football. We don't know what happened. But I do. I did this to him. I made this happen. Roger unleashes a painful hell that slices through my rib cage all the way to my heart. A moment later, the ambulance tears up to the curb,

and I watch EMTs load Roger onto a stretcher. His eyes wild with pain, rotating in their sockets, like dirty brown marbles as they wheel him away. That night, my eyelids scrape open to sheer darkness. A tomb. I can't see the streetlight through my blinds and can't locate the reassuring red glow of my alarm clock on the dresser. My torso is slicked with sweat. I can't stop thinking about Roger's skin, about the way it peeled off his arms like paint left too long in the sun. The way it... A chill washes down my arms and legs. Someone's watching me. No, not someone.

Him. My gums turned to sandpaper. My tongue swells in my mouth. I can't handle him tonight. I can't give him another name to do this to someone else. I won't. I'll... There's a knock at the door.

Nick? Are you awake? Hyper. My heart thrashes as the door creaks open. She can't come in here. Not now. Not with him here. But, in more than a year,

He's only ever talked to me, never Piper. And she needs me right now. I can feel the panic radiating off of her. I can hear it trembling in her 10-year-old voice. Hey there, you okay? I ask. Can I sleep with you tonight? Of course.

Get in here. I lift the sheets and pat the bed. She used to sleep with me all the time when she was little, slipping into my room clutching her teddy bear while complaining about nightmares. But I knew that was a lie. She came in when the fighting got too rough, back when Dad would lose his temper with mom, and the snap of his voice would pour through the house like dull claps of thunder. I drape an arm around her as she slides in next to me, and I realize she's shivering.

What's the matter? You have a bad dream or something? She shakes her head, a length of her hair tickling my chin. What then? It was. She shudders, letting out a sob. Go on. You can tell you. Tell me, you know that, right? She nods, going quiet for a long moment before she says.

It was Dad. He was in my room again. I stiffen. Every wasted muscle in my body snapping taut. My throat glues itself shut as I run a hand over her head and soothe her until her breathing evens out. Then I lie there wide awake and think of my mom lying dead-eyed on the bathroom floor. A storm of pills scattered around her lifeless fingers like four. fallen snowflakes. I think of the hem of her sweater, hiked up just enough for me to see the purple patch of stomach peeking through, and the fist-sized bruises near her hip. Dad always liked to keep his handiwork hidden. I lie cardboard stiff for hours, waiting and waiting, staring at the

wall, unable to sleep, willing him to appear. Near 3 a.m., I finally catch up. flicker of movement above my headrest, that familiar seriform grin bubbling to the surface. A wallpaper talon extends from the wall, dipping gently to twirl a lock of Piper's hair. I like this one. Is this to be my gift? Is this to be my next name? No, I reply, trying to steady my voice. No, not her. Never her. Someone else. I have your name.

In the morning, I wake Piper and have her wheel me into the kitchen, which has been outfitted for me. The one thing Dad's done right since we moved in. I make us a breakfast of scrambled eggs with sausage and orange juice and strawberry jam toast, just like Mom used to. I even draw a smiley face sunshine on Piper's napkin as I set the table. It doesn't help. We eat in silence.

Piper barely touching her food. She pushes it around her plate while glancing at Dad's bedroom door off the kitchen, like she expects it to burst open at any moment. She stands for a few minutes before the bus arrives and throws on her backpack. As she turns to leave, I take hold of her arm and say, Piper, that stuff with Dad? It's never going to happen again, ever. You don't have to worry about him anymore, okay? Her eyes wilt.

her lips pressing together in a thin line. She suddenly looks so like Mom with her chocolate brown hair and her soft bubble of a nose. It hurts. Piper, I promise. She gives a quick nod, her eyes flicking to her feet, and I can tell she doesn't believe me. After she leaves, after I tell her how much I love her,

I stare at Dad's door for the longest time. My fingers vice-gripping the armrests of my wheelchair, until my forearms feel like blocks of cement. Finally, after an hour, I roll over to knock once, twice, three times. Hello? I expect to hear his gravelled voice telling me to fuck off. For him to yell at me to go away like he does every morning

when I wake him up for my ride to school. But no response comes. Hesitantly, I turn the knob and roll into his room. Dust moats clutter the air. The carpet scattered with piles of dirty laundry. Greased stained t-shirts intermixed with a bunch of torn jeans and crumpled polos. An empty bottle of Jack Daniels lies cock-eyed on his dresser. The room reeking, like he hasn't opened a window in weeks.

Dad, I say, wheeling toward the bed. And even though I can make out his form beneath the blankets, there's no answer. He just lies there motionless. I call out again. more silence. The last time I woke him from a whiskey-soaked bender, I got a black eye from my trouble, which is why I brace myself as I reach out

and give his comforter a tug. It rustles down over something thin and fibrous. The sound, like that of a grocery sack tearing. Only, what I find beneath is no grocery sack. It's wallpaper, miles of it. The ugly brown and yellow striped stuff, like on the walls of his room, winding from beneath his bed, and running up and around his arms, his torso, and legs.

It covers his skull and forms a cup over his mouth. A long black stain leaks down the wall above his headboard, and his head is angled back toward it, in a sick fashion that makes me think he saw it coming, whatever it was. I find a crease in the wallpaper near his chest and take hold of it. Sprinkles of sand shiver through as I pull, streams of grit spilling onto the bed and scattering to the floor.

I know I should stop, that I should turn and wheel myself out of the room, but I can't. My fingers work away as beads of sweat erupt across my forehead. I'm ripping the wallpaper off in chunks, tearing into it like a toddler on Christmas morning, who's anxious for his shiny new toy. Except what I find beneath is anything but shiny. There's something else here now, something new. exclusively on Paramount Plus. It's the series Stephen King calls Scary as Hell.

Everything here is impossible, but it's also real. Sci-fi vision calls it the best show streaming right now. We're running out of time and we still don't know the rules. Don't miss what the movie blog calls something you need to watch. Saving those children is how we all go home. From Binge All Episodes exclusively on Paramount Plus. All that's left of him is a pile of bones half-beamount. buried in sand, no flesh, no organs. Nause churns through my intestines, and I nearly wretch,

but somehow I managed to keep ripping and tearing, uncovering the remains of a pitted femur and the small bones of his wrist. His skull, its bleached white, the eye sockets two black pits of tar peeking through all the matted grit. After a while, I don't know how long, I turn and roll out of the room. Drifts of sand crunch beneath my wheels. My stomach spasming with disgust, mixed with a sick satisfaction that it's finally over. Piper never has to worry about him again.

Piper, it hits me like a brick to the face. The wallpaper man won't stop without a third name, and I know who he wants. The thought sends waves of goosebumps rippling down my arms. It can't happen, and I won't let it. I have his final name. I've had it all along. But first I need to make a call.

I wait for hours, the house creaking around me as I sit in the silence of my room, staring at the wallpaper. Dad promised me he'd take it down when we moved in. He said to give him a couple of weeks to get settled first. Yeah, right. Decayed fragments of light spill past the curtains onto the carpet. It's getting late. Aunt Lauren will be here soon. I can't wait any longer. One look at her, at the face so like moms,

and all the strength will run out of me. From my lap, I take the steak knife and press it against the heel of my palm until I feel the cold metal bite into my skin. Moisture frames my vision. I don't want to do this. I don't want to die, even if I don't have that long left to live as it is. The thought of never seeing Piper smile again, of never hearing her laugh. or watching her wave at me from her bike, of never again telling her how much I love her, is almost more than I can bear. It's okay, though. Aunt Lauren loves Piper, almost as much as I do. She'll take good care of her, better than I ever could. She'll protect her. She'll give her the childhood she deserves. I steal myself and slide the blade the length of my lifeline. The pain is

indescribable. I'm gritting my teeth so hard that it feels as if my molars will crack, but I managed to keep it together long enough to roll over to the wall and press my hand against the wallpaper. Work, please, work. I say my name. Nothing happens. I can feel the blood pulsing out of the wound in thick torrents, turning the wallpaper sticky and slick. I struggle to focus, whispering my name over and over again. Take me! My hand slips an inch. Please. Two inches.

My vision is failing, everything turning black. A sudden piercing cold floods my arm, and I look down to see wallpaper-coated fingers encircling my wrist. I take the page. The wallpaper man asks. Yes, I reply. The hiss is otherworldly, as it reverberates through my chest and washes down my legs in aching, undulating bursts.

The fingers release their grip, and I thumped back into my chair, unable to move, unable to blink. I can only stare dumbly at the ring of crusted black skin, flaking off beneath my palm where the wallpaper man held me. I've never known pain like this before. It feels like I'm holding my hand in a hot pan of bacon grease. A shearing sound brings my attention back to the wall.

There, a single-ta-ta-te-one. talon cuts a clean, vertical line through the vinyl paper. From the rift, it emerges, followed by another, and another. So many talons spilling through that I lose count. At least a dozen in all, maybe more. Beneath them are fingers with black, knotted knuckles, impossibly long as they unfurl like the legs of some enormous spider. I teach the pain.

I take sit all. The words carry with them a noxious rot that coats my nostrils and sets my eyes watering. I'd blink through the tears and stare dumbfounded at the hundreds of miniature patches of wallpaper, tearing away from the wall and migrating toward the hand, crawling like maggots onto the beetle black palm. Shining trails of mucus mark their paths. They rive and contort and twist upon one another. in sick, disjointed motions, combining to sprout wings, antennae, and hungry, sucking mouths.

I watch and disgust, unable to avert my eyes from the seizing horde as it convulses into something I recognize. Moths. Dozens and dozens of wallpaper moths. Another burst of decay spills from the wall, and before I can make a sound, they take flight and hurdle toward me. Their razor-sharp wings lashing against my skin and their stabbing legs piercing my flesh. They work their rotten bodies into my mouth and down my throat, burrowing into my stomach, into the soft gelatin of my eyeballs. Pure agony swims through every cell of my being, my life spilling out of me in a thousand cuts at once. Grey, white, muted, colorless shades. I am everything, everywhere, all at once. flicking into existence in a new body.

One that feels strange and electric and without pain. One that feels dangerous. I'm in a girl's room. I can tell by the mountain of stuffed animals bulging from the corner hammock. Dogs and cats and a red-lipped smiling monkey. A jewelry case rests on a white dresser. Posters of boy bands and horses speckle the walls. A tangle of beaded necklaces are draped over a rocking chair

and in the corner, from beneath a plush bedspread, a lush spray of hair drifts over a pillow. It's hard to see the color clearly through the striped wallpaper. It's dark, maybe amber, maybe brown. I can't quite tell with my new eyes. All four of them.