Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - There’s A Man On My Campus Who They Call The Gift-Giver

Episode Date: September 1, 2025

A college student burdened by family expectations and slipping grades encounters the campus legend of the Gift-Giver—only to discover that every wish comes at a horrifying cost. * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 17. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The bare concrete floor of the basement stuck to my shoes. Gray strands of something, maybe cobwebs or ripped insulation, hung from the rafters above. The crowd was so thick I couldn't move, but even more masked, half-dressed people poured down the stairs. As a pre-med student, I knew that standing so close to the speakers meant guaranteed hearing damage, but I was just glad to be attending my first-ever college party. A shirtless guy with curly black hair gripped the side of the side of the same. of a keg and flexed into a perfect handstand. He chugged so much beer that I felt sick just watching him, then dive rolled into the shrieking crowd. He was my roommate, Brett Harrison III, and he was the

only reason why I had been invited out that night. The truth was, I never felt like I fit at this elite university, or even in this country. My parents immigrated to the United States from Japan a few weeks after my ninth birthday. I was just old enough to understand that I left my home and friends behind forever, but still too young to think of the change as an opportunity. Everyone was so much louder and more aggressive than I was used to. The food was greasy or overly sweet, and most of my classmates didn't seem to care about school at all. Every night, I prayed that my parents would take me back to my home country, but their minds were made up. As far as they were concerned, my future was already decided.

I would graduate from a U.S. high school, study medicine at a top-tier university, and have a respectable, high-paying career anywhere that I pleased. Couldn't I see how much they sacrificed to give me this once-in-a-lifetime chance? My classmates didn't understand the pressure, or why I had to prioritize studying over socializing. By my second year of college, I had resigned myself to a friendless existence. And then, Brett moved in. It didn't matter that I always had my nose buried in a textbook. Brett would kick up his feet and talk at me, anyway. No matter how many times I'd turned down his invitations, he just kept repeating them.

I knew that Brett didn't need a friend, just an audience. But the companionship was nice all the same. Now Brett was polishing off a bottle of gin and breaking it against his head for reasons that could only have made sense in Brettland. I was amazed by how much the guy could drink. And that night, on our walk back from the party, I finally worked up the nerve to ask him what his secret was. It's a gift, Brett said with a wink.

Seeing the blank expression on my face, he paused beneath a streetlight and stared. You really don't know, do you? You've never heard about the gift giver? It sounded like the start of a bad joke, but Brett was completely serious. The wind blew dead crackling leaves across the lonely nighttime street as my roommate began his story.

According to Brett's grandfather, who had been the first in his family to attend our university, the gift giver legend was as old as the campus itself. He only appeared between midnight and dawn, and even then, he only showed himself to student, who were struggling through some kind of problem alone. Brett claimed to have met the gift giver while puking into a trash can beside the rec center.

The only problem on his mind that night had been wishing he could drink as much alcohol as he wanted with no consequences afterward. Dimly aware of a presence behind him, he had turned his head sideways and spotted a pair of shiny black shoes. After standing there silently for a long moment, the owner of the old-fashioned footwear

had told Brett that what he was looking for was in the top drawer of his desk. When he checked later, he found a container of tiny red pills that hadn't been there before. If I'd take one before a night out, Brett said. It doesn't matter how much I drink. All I feel is this amazing, consequence-free buzz. Breaking down Brett's story, it sounded like what had really happened was that my roommate met a pill dealer while on a bender, wandered home blackout, and filled in the gas. in his memory with his grandfather's tall tale. Only one part of the story made sense. Faced with an offer of anything that a person could wish for, it was just like Brett Harrison III to request a cure

for a hangover. When I asked him what the gift giver had wanted in return, however, he just squinted at me. It was a gift, right? Aren't gifts free? A few minutes later, Brett spotted some girls he knew and jogged across the street to talk to them, leaving me to finish the walk, back to our dorm alone. I didn't blame him. If I had his confidence, I would have done the same thing. Strolling toward campus with my hands stuffed in my pockets, I thought about the gift giver. If I ran into him now, what would I ask for? I started partying with Brett more and more after that night. I told myself that I was finally coming out of my shell, but the real reasons were more complicated. It was my junior year, and classes were tougher than ever. My grades were

slipping, and the only way that I could pretend that things were going to be all right was by ignoring them completely. When I finally dared to look, it was worse than I had imagined. I was at risk of losing my scholarship, and unlike Brett, I didn't have a millionaire family whose donations guaranteed my graduation. It wasn't just that I was going to fail out of school. It was my parent's sacrifice, and everything that I had given up to meet their expectations. it would all be for nothing. The only way that I could turn things around was by achieving a 97% or higher

on the end-of-course exam. The problem was, I doubted I could even pass the test. Soon, not even Brett's parties were enough to make me forget. I began going for long walks alone at night, barely paying attention to the weather, my surroundings, or even where I went. I wandered through silent parking lots in between lightless buildings,

discovering parts of the campus that I never knew existed. And that was how I finally met, the gift giver. As the cold intensified, I had taken to bringing a thermos of hot coffee with me on my walks. That night, I sat on a bench behind the university's power plant to take a few sips. Why there was a bench between a chain-link fence and some undeveloped woods was a mystery, but it felt like a good spot to rest. I was about to continue my walk when I noticed,

someone standing near the fence. Backlit by the power plant's lights, I couldn't make out their features, only an old-fashioned umbrella, a baggy gray suit, and a pair of polished black shoes. The figure lurched toward me with an uneven gate, limping as though crippled by some terrible accident. Rather than feeling sympathetic, however, I was suddenly afraid. I looked at the ground, hoping that the stranger would pass by, but he sat down beside me instead. Somehow, he had crossed the distance between us in only a few seconds. I kept my eyes down, a gut instinct warning me that if I looked at the stranger's face, I wouldn't like what I saw.

Stay away from your exam on Friday, he whispered in a guttural voice that made my hair stand on end. If you don't go, your score will be the best in your class. I guarantee it. Before I could respond, he pushed a little bit of. himself painfully back to his feet and hobbled away into the darkness. The whole encounter couldn't have lasted more than two minutes. And when it was over, I questioned whether it had ever happened at all.

Was this what going crazy felt like? My exam was just two days away, and I spent every waking minute of them agonizing over what I should do. Parts of me was convinced that I had actually met the gift giver. But another part of me was sure that the whole thing had just been a hallucination brought on by stress. At 4 a.m. on the morning of the test, I groaned, rolled over in bed, and switched off my alarm. So why not give the gift giver a chance to work his magic? I woke up 20 minutes before the exam was scheduled to start. And with nothing better to do, I strolled to the dining

hall for a late breakfast. On the way, I ran into Brett. He scratched his head when he saw me. Didn't I have an exam this morning? I gave him a wink. The gift giver was taken care of it. I said. Brett went pale. I had never seen him look so serious. He put his hand on my shoulder. You need to get to your test, he whispered. I ran.

I ran even though I didn't know why I was running, even though I was probably already too late. Had Brett been trying to tell me that his story was bullshit, or was there something more sinister behind his words? Had his own gift gone wrong somehow? There was no time to think it over. I arrived on the second floor of the science building, with my heels skidding on the hallway tiles.

Just in time to watch all 16 of my classmates file into the exam room. Wait, 16? There were 16 people in my Organic Chemistry 3 class, including me. There was something odd about the guy standing in the shadows at the end of the line. But I didn't believe it until he stepped into the light. He was... ...a perfect copy. Our identical eyes met, and his mouth stretched into a two wide, wicked smile.

My jaw dropped. Before I could react, my duplicate had entered the exam room. The door was locked. The test was about to begin. Its results, however, were suddenly the last thing on my mind. I needed to find Brett. I needed to know what the hell was going on. Brett wasn't in the dining hall where I'd left him, or in the rec center where he usually spent Friday mornings, knocking a ping pong ball around and swapping stories with his fraternity brothers. Our dorm room was the last place I considered checking, and by the time I entered the lobby, over two hours had passed. For better or worse, the exam was over.

Lydia, the front desk worker, stood up as I approached the stairs. I saw her every Friday. Yet for some reason, she suddenly wanted to inspect my student ID. I fished my wallet out of my pocket and held it out to her. She examined the plastic card, suspicious. Sir, she informed me. This ID expired in 1997. Dorms are for current students only.

I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Her hand inched toward the phone on her desk. She was afraid of me, I realized. She was getting ready to call security. While I backed away, doing my best to look non-threatening, I glanced down at my ID. I didn't recognize anything about the person I saw. Not the blurry photo, the date of birth, the address,

Nothing. That wasn't all. My hands, too, were different. How could I have overlooked it before? They were tanned and hairy, with bitten off nails and a worm-like scar that I couldn't remember ever getting. I rushed to the nearest public restroom, the one on the first floor of the Student Services Building. Even though I already suspected what I would find when I looked into the mirror, the shock of it was so great that I nearly passed out. I gripped the edges of the sink, staring helplessly at the reflection of a complete stranger. Who was I? And who, or what, had taken my place? There was a computer lab near the lobby. Even if my physical ID had been stolen, I still had my login information,

and I could use it to research the person I had somehow become. I punched in the data from the stranger's student ID. Terence Witt, born July 8, 1976. Billing address, Nashville, Tennessee. It was immediately clear that Terrence Witt was a missing person. He had been 21 years old when he'd vanished from the University Library one foggy spring night. The security cameras had captured Terrence entering the building, but not leaving it, and online forums were full of strangers speculating about what might have happened.

Some suspected that he had gotten lost in the library's maze-like basement, which was under construction at the time, and that his corpse had been entombed in its walls. Others argued that Terrence must have been deep into the university's drug culture and owed money to the wrong people. I had my own theory about why Terrence Witt had gone missing, and it had everything to do with the gift giver. I looked down at Terrence's face,

my face on the worn-out college ID. Terrence, poor bastard. What gift were you after? Picture this. It's late at night. scrolling and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for. You add it to your cart, maybe browse a little more than head to checkout, only to realize you don't have your wallet. But then you see it, that purple shop pay button. And just like that, you're done in seconds.

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Go to Shopify.com slash DNS. That's Shopify.com slash DNS. The Wits had posted a phone number for tips or information about their son's disappearance. And even though the website hadn't been updated since the early 2000s, I figured I didn't have anything to lose by calling it. I was shocked when someone picked up on the third ring. The old woman on the other end of the line was Terrence's mother, and she had kept the number open even after all these years.

I sputtered, suddenly remembering that I needed to provide information of my own before I asked any questions. I quickly asked if Terrence had a small white scar on his left hand. His mother's response was so hopeful and excited it hurt. Yes, she shouted. Have you seen him? I told her that I thought I might have, but I needed to know something first. Did she have any idea about why her son might have wanted to disappear? Anything that was bothering him at the time.

You know, Mrs. Witt said finally. You're the first person to call this number in over 13 years. I suppose there's no harm in telling you. He wanted to stay in school and finish his Ph.D. But my husband demanded that he come home to take over the family business. I muttered that I had to go, that I would call back when I knew more. Mrs. Witt's voice still rang in my ears, and I could already imagine how it might have gone. Terrence, bitter and delusioned.

roamed aimlessly through the library. There's hardly anyone here this late at night. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. The ugly gray carpet muffles his footsteps. Someone clears their throat on the other side of the shelves. A stranger's voice whispers to him through a gap in the books. It tells Terrence that he can stay at the university after all. If only he follows a few simple instructions.

Wouldn't that be a lovely gift? A security guard was watching me suspiciously through the computer lab window. As he muttered something into his radio, I hurried out the back entrance. I headed for the park at the center of the university. I didn't think that campus police were actively searching for me, but if they were, it would be a good place to lose them. The park was a bull-shaped ravine, crisscrossed by paths, most of them half-hidden by bushes, rows of gnarled old trees,

and the walls of a large amphitheater. The leaves had fallen weeks ago, but there was still enough cover to pass by unobserved. I hoped. This late on a Friday afternoon, the park was almost completely empty. On a bench up ahead, however, I spotted two figures, a boy and a girl. Their heads were pressed together as though they were having an intimate conversation. But the closer I got, the more wrong the situation looked. The girl leaned her body nervously away from the boy, who had a white-knuckle grip on her wrist. He held her in place, and while I wasn't sure what he muttered into her ear, she did.

didn't like it. When I saw the boy's face, I understood that no matter how much time passed, I would never get used to the feeling of seeing my own body under something else's control. With horror, I realized that I recognized the girl as well. Raquel. I had had a crush on her since freshman year, but had never worked up the courage to talk to her. Just think about what will happen if you refuse. My duplicate hissed into her ear. What would your parents think if they found out? You don't want me as your enemy. I forced myself to stop and asked the couple if everything was all right. My own face glared angrily up at me,

and for a second I would have sworn that my duplicate's eyes went inky black. It was like staring into two lightless pits, and from the way Raquel screamed, she had seen it too. Get away from me, you freak! She shouted, then fled down the trail. My duplicate stood, cracked its neck, then punched me in the stomach. The wind went out of my lungs.

I doubled over in the damp grass, gasping for air. My duplicate knelt beside me and pressed my face into the dirt. This is my life now, mine, and you're never getting it back, understand? It snarled. I couldn't breathe. My mouth filled with the reek of mud and rotting leaves. Hey! Someone shouted, and the weight on my back disappeared.

Running footsteps approached. I spat black muck into the grass. It was the security guard from the Student Services Building. The bulky older man hauled me to my feet, dusted me off, and asked if I was all right. Once he'd confirmed that I wasn't going to die in his custody, he pointed to the parking lot that marked the edge of the university. I've had my eye on you for a while, he grunted. You've been nothing but trouble ever since you showed up. And if I see you around here again, I'm going to detain you for trespassing.

Are we clear? I nodded. I didn't have much choice. With no money and no way of proving who I was. I really was, I could only wander the chilly gray streets until sunset. Around twilight, the sound of wailing sirens made me look toward the liquor store at the edge of campus. A red-faced, bellowing student was dragged through its doors by four police officers. It was Brett! By the time I jogged up to the liquor store, my roommate had already been taken away. The store owner and a cashier

were still outside, having a smoke and shaking their heads. With a sinking feeling in my gun, I approached and asked them what had happened. The owner, a grizzled old man in a white apron, said that he had never seen anything like it. Apparently, Brett had stumbled into the store 15 minutes earlier, rambling about how he needed more. He had unscrewed a bottle of whiskey, chugged it, and they did the same to the next one. By the time the cashier realized what was going on, Brett had polished off five without a single sign of drunkenness. When the owner tried to stop him, He shattered a bottle and threatened them with its jagged edges, and he still kept drinking. Even after the police tackled and cuffed him, Brett fought to lick a few last drops of alcohol

from the floor. His tongue, shredded by broken glass, had left a bloody smear across the filthy tiles. If Brett died on the way to the hospital, it would be attributed to alcohol poisoning. His gift, like mine and Terrance's, was twisted from the beginning. He may have wanted a cool party trick, but what he did he would be. received was something dangerous, something that had to be fed. I felt certain that if Brett couldn't feed his gift, it would consume him instead. And what about my so-called gift? What was my duplicate using my name and my body to do, even now? Somehow, I had to find the gift giver. I returned to campus under cover of darkness, and by 2 a.m., I had circled the entire

university three times. My legs ached, my eyelids were heavy, and I could see my breath in the frosty air. I was halfway through a parking lot underpass when I heard the tap of an umbrella on the concrete behind me. I turned slowly, and in the yellowish glow of the underpass's solitary light, I saw the gift giver face to face for the first time. Where his eyes, ears, and nose should have been were only empty pits. His awkward movements, I realized, were caused by his bent backwards limbs. Even so, he was fast, faster than should have been possible. The light flickered. I blinked, and suddenly his face was mere inches from mine. What's wrong? He rasped through graying empty gums. You don't like your gift? I bit down a scream. The gift giver made a horrible gurgling noise

that might have been a giggle. You can give it back, you know, as long as you do a favor for me in return. Forcing my lips to move again, I asked the gift giver what he wanted. I asked the gift giver what he wanted. Oh, that's easy. I want you to kill me. My jaw dropped. See that concrete brick over there? Smash it into my skull again and again and again until there's nothing left. Do that, and your duplicate will disappear. You'll be yourself again. Do we have a deal? I hesitated. The gift giver was literally asking me to commit murder, and what was the catch in his new offer? Would I get my body back? Only to spend the rest of my my days rotting in prison? Or would the consequences of returning my gift be something even worse?

Something unimaginable. I thought about spending the rest of my days in Terrence Witt's body, forced to do nothing but watch while my duplicate committed horrors using my name, my face, and my reputation. I thought about my parents, about the padded cell where I would be locked up if I ever tried to tell anyone the truth. Nothing could be worse than that, could it? I could see the brick, the gift giver mentioned, surrounded by slimy puddles and trash. It seemed to have its own gravity. It seemed to be calling to me. I swallowed.

My throat was dry. I told the gift giver to turn around. I lifted the brick in my hand and took a deep breath. As long as I didn't think about what I was doing, it was no different than hammering in a nail or tenderizing a slab of meat. The gift giver had asked me to do this, I reminded myself. And then I swung. He went down the moment the sharp edge cracked against his skull, but I didn't stop.

I shut my eyes tight, ridded my teeth, and smashed the brick into his head until I didn't have the strength to lift it anymore. A sick burbling sound made me look down. The gift giver was laughing, and that wasn't all. Something moved beneath his skin. No, that wasn't right. His flesh itself changed, reshaping itself into the form of someone else. Someone I recognized. I rolled the gift giver's corpse over with the tip of my shoe

and looked down at the ruined face of Terrence Witt. It didn't make sense. If Terence Witt had been the gift giver all along, then where had the legend come from? Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. Terence Witt's body was a gory mess. I was holding the murder weapon, and a witness could come along at any time.

What mattered now was distancing myself from the scene and washing away the evidence. The bloodstains weren't up. obvious on my dark jacket. They could have been anything, and I had my doubts that the stuff was even blood at all. The oily black liquid that had splattered from the gift giver's wound was thick and viscous. It seemed to sink into my clothes and skin, rather than dripping off of them. With a shutter, I wiped away what I could and hurried back to my dorm. Fifteen minutes later, I crossed the threshold of the lobby. It felt like a moment of truth.

Behind the front desk, Lydia looked up from her computer and gave me a small smile. She recognized me. It was all the proof I needed that I was truly myself again. I left my filthy clothes on the floor of my room, wrapped up in a towel, and hurried down the hallway to the bathroom. The communal showers always smelled like mold, bleach, and too much cologne, but that night, they felt like heaven. Beneath the hot water, I felt reborn. Tomorrow would be a new day. I could finally put this nightmare behind me.

My confidence only lasted as long as it took me to dry off, change into my pajamas, and return to my lightless dorm room. The clothes that I had piled on the floor were gone. In their place was a gray silk suit, a black umbrella, and a pair of polished shoes. I clamped a hand over my mouth. I felt a tooth, wiggle loose, and then fall out. I finally understood the deal I had made with Terrence Witt,

the same deal that he must have made with the gift. gift giver before him. It's just a matter of time now. I can feel my eyes sinking into their sockets, my elbows and knees beginning to bend in the wrong direction. There has always been a gift giver on this campus, and there always will be.