Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - We Come in Peace

Episode Date: November 4, 2022

🎧 Check out The SCP Experience podcast here: https://spoti.fi/3juM1og 🎉 Ad-free bonus stories + exclusive uncensored animations: https://www.patreon.com/drnosleep 🎥 YouTube: https://youtube.com/c/DrNoSleep ✅ Send all advertising inquiries to: [e-mail] Author: Born Beach Check out more of his work here: https://linktr.ee/jgmartin Check out Born Beach’s new book "Crooked Antlers" for more bone chilling stories. It is now available on Amazon here: http://getbook.at/crookedantlers 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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It's getting more of what you want and less of what you don't. That's how TD is making banking more human. Before this next story, I'd like to say thank you to my new patrons, Magic Kelman, Elliot, Doug, and Jess. If you'd like to support the podcast, head over to my Patreon page where you will receive new exclusive scary stories every week for just $5 a month. Go to patreon.com slash DR No Sleep. The link is also in the description below. Now back to the story. The base is under lockdown.

There's something here. It came from the sky, I think. Fell from the clouds like a meteor or shooting star. Crashed into the center of the tarmac, and it's been chaos ever since. Alarms, shouting, there's gunshots every now and again, but not like there were at first. I don't know if that means they've run low on ammunition, or if it means everybody's dead. I don't know because I haven't found the courage to pull myself from under this desk, Not since the first announcement declared,

I need to. I've got somebody depending on me. My niece, Evie. She's already suffered so much. There's no way I'm going to die here. No way I'm going to add myself under her laundry list of trauma and loss. I fish in my pocket and pull out my phone. I hammer the power button,

just like I've been doing since this disaster kicked off an hour ago. But the thing still as dead as can be. Must have been hit with an EMP. Fuck. My heart pounds in my chest, but I swallow my fear. There's enough of it that I feel my throat dry up. My breath hitches as I slip out from under the desk. I shuffle across the carpeted floor on my hands and knees.

The office space is dark, quiet. Despite the chaos outside, there doesn't appear to be any damage. Not so much as an upturned chair or tipped desk, but it's lifeless. And I don't mean that there's nobody here. There are plenty of people here, but they aren't moving. They're just standing there, staring at me. My co-workers, fellow paper pushers of the Air Force, all standing scattered across the office area, staring blankly at me.

My pulse slows. I slowly rise to my feet, and for a moment I have. think about calling out to them, asking if the situation outside has been taken care of. But then a part of me knows that it hasn't. A part of me knows that people don't just stand around in the dark. No, there's something wrong here, something horribly wrong. I trust my instincts and don't engage with them. Instead, I slink away, keeping my back to the wall, my eyes never leaving the hollow gaze of my colleagues. They aren't moving, aren't reacting. To be honest, I don't even know if they're breathing, but I know that they're watching. A voice. I stop,

my ears straining against the deafening silence, the words. I couldn't make out what it was saying, but it sounded as if it came from everywhere, reverberating around my mind like an echo. Hello? I call out. Again, the words are garbled, nonsensical. Whatever this voice is trying to say, I haven't the faintest idea. All I know is it's tied to all of this. My vapid co-workers, the chaos outside.

It has to be. Why are you doing this? I say. And my own voice sounds feeble and cowardly in comparison. Who are you? Static crackles inside of my mind. Electrical interference seems to ripple across my thoughts, making them hazy, unfollowable. A second later, and it passes.

Um, what? Receit confirmed. Verifying chemical biology. Processing. Chemical biology assessed to be homo sapient. Cortisol levels indicate discontent. Are you frightened, human? My eyes dart around the room, trying to locate the sound of the voice, but if it's here,

It's doing a good job of hiding. My body shifts along the wall toward the exit. I've got to get out of here. If I can just sprint to the parking lot on the other side of the tarmac, then I can get into my car and tear out of the gate. I can get home to Evie. Do you believe us to be a hostile force, human? What did you do to them?

I say, gesturing to my coworkers. They aren't moving. Are they even still alive? Yes. Your fellow drones have been given what they asked. Nothing more. That's so, I'm humble, taking note of my distance to the exit. It's just a handful of steps away.

But where the hell is that voice? If I can see it, then I can at least prepare to defend myself. They all ask to be turned into zombies? Zombie. Processing term. Processing complete. Your co-workers are not undead. They are at peace. They have been given the light, and now they bask in its radiance.

Do you wish to join them? Thanks, but I'll pass, I say, dashing the last few feet to the door. My shoulder slams into it, throwing it open as I burst out of the office and into hell. Flames reach into the sky, cracking and roaring. The runway is covered in ash and soot. Smoke spins up into the sky strangling the moon. Soldiers. There are soldiers everywhere.

Their corpses litter the tarmac, bodies mutilated and torn. Limbs lay scattered about. In front of me is the decapitated head of a man I know, a colonel named Andy Ling, a good man. His mouth is hanging open, fresh blood still leaking from the ripped flesh of his neck. The sight of it is enough to make my stomach twist into a knot. It's enough to make my knees buckle and my head spin.

I push through, I have to. This isn't about me. It's about her. I dart across the wasteland, the heat of the flames bearing down on me and the smoke searing my lungs. But I ignore all of it. There's a time and a place to feel pain, and that time is not now.

Now I need to run. Chemical readings indicate heightened levels of adrenaline. Emotional profile. Terrified. Conclusion. The sight of your dead disturbs you. No fucking shit. I bellow into the ether.

What even are you? We are salvation. Come to gift humanity their greatest wishes. What is yours? The absurdity of the statement is almost too much to bear. I think of the dead soldiers, the desecrated bodies. This is what they asked for? To get torn apart?

They are warriors. So they were given a warrior's death. You are a worker drone, and your desire is more difficult to parse. Do you seek the light? Stop with the fucking light. I don't want your light. I want you to leave me the hell alone.

Request denied. We have come to impart gifts upon humanity, and humanity has been selected to receive them. Now, what is your desire, human? My desire? My desire was to get out of here and back to my knees. That was it. All I wanted was to get home and see her,

to make sure she was okay. To do the job my brother expected me to do when he made me her godfather. I want to get home. Can you please just let me do that? You have asked this before, and the wish was deemed insufficient. State a new wish, or be given a gift of our own determination.

My shoes connect with a dismembered arm, and suddenly I'm falling. My palms fly up to catch myself before I hit the ground, and they sizzle against the smoldering tarmac. I roll onto my back, groaning in pain. Something rumbles inside of me. It's a desperation. A horrifying realization that whatever this thing is, it's bigger than me.

I'm not even certain it can be escaped. Why do you flee? I have to. I whimper, fighting past the pain as I rise to my feet. I swore an oath to somebody, and I can't let them down. Not again. Who? My brother.

Not like it matters to you. What oath? A tidal wave of emotions crashes against my mind, threatening to break through. Tears tug at the corners of my eyes. Tom. He and his wife died two years ago in a car accident.

A drunk driver practically tore their sedan in two with his truck. Tom lived just long enough to ask me to take Evie in, to raise her, and give her the life he and Jill always meant to. I promised my brother that I'd look after his daughter, that I'd raise her, and give her a happy life, no matter what it took. Lazangue sur-gillet,

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Applic. You care for the offspring of a deceased human being. That's right. I say.

and my whole body trembles as I give myself over to the grief and the memories. She hardly knew her parents. You know that? They died when she was five years old, and she's seven now. She barely got a chance to know the people who loved her more than anything else in the entire world. And now they're dead. It isn't fair. And now you, some alien asshole is putting people into comas and tearing soldiers limb from limb.

And you think that's helping. That it's what people want? I spit, tears screaming down my cheeks. Go to hell. Love, processing, chemical profile, oxytocin, feeling of euphoric peace, connection. Do you wish to be gifted love? I shake my head. Unsure how to explain to this being that its good intentions are entirely misguided.

Don't you get it? I'm telling you that you aren't helping us. Dying isn't what these soldiers wanted. Incorrect. Your warriors engaged us in combat upon our arrival. This behavior indicated a desire for violence. So we complied. Fret not.

Each warrior was gifted a unique death. This is considered a great honor across the cosmos, where many warrior beings go their entire lives, seeking a worthy end. That's the problem, I say, exasperated. These aren't warrior beings. They're human beings. There's so much more to us than our job title or position in society. These soldiers had families, friends. They had lives outside of the military, and now those lives are dust in the wind. Do you know how many people will suffer knowing they're dead? How they suffered, knowing they'd never get to see their loved ones again? implies homo sapiens are a category five life form, capable of complex emotional attachment and divergent thought. Processing. This cannot be the case. Your technology level is still level 3E. Our assessment indicates that homo sapiens are moderately intelligent pack animals

who seek personal resources and chemical experiences above all else. We have come here to provide this. We are the light. We are. your salvation. You don't get us at all, do you? Human beings are as varied as the damn stars in the sky. We aren't some kind of hive mind. We all like different things. We all value different things. I look at the legions of corpses and my heart plummets. Maybe some of these men and women felt like they were dying a worthy death. I don't know. But I can tell you at least one of them didn't. I bring a sleeve to my face, wipe the tears, and soot from my eyes. His name was Colonel Andy Ling, and he sat across from my desk.

He had a wife, a son, and many friends. You call him a warrior-class being, but Ling never cared much for war. He joined the military to afford his son's school, his wife's medical expenses, and that was it. He found real joy at home, building model air. airplanes in his basement. Does that sound like a warrior-class being to you? Processing. Did you know he used to bring me coffee every morning at work? We were not aware of this interaction. It was a rhetorical question. Understood. He didn't bring it because I ever asked for it. He brought it because Ling was

just that kind of man. He looked out for people. Not once did he ever talk about finding a worthy death. But you know what he did talk about? Preferred methods of killing? Jesus, God, no. He talked about his son winning the school science fair, or his wife winning her battle with leukemia. These were the things he cared about. Other people, their achievements, their success, and above all, their well-being. Colonel Ling wasn't a warrior. He was a leader and a damn good one. Now do you know what he is, I point a finger past the blazing crater. Now he's a head rolling around on the runway, and you did that. Processing. Don't you see? You haven't given anybody's salvation? You haven't given a single person here what they want. All you've done is caused death and misery. And if that's what

you're going to do to me, then get it over with. I know I can't escape you. I get that now. But I've got somewhere to be, so I'm gonna at least try and get there. My feet start moving again. I'm wondering how long I've got before this thing starts gifting its nightmares upon the rest of humanity. I wonder if I'll even get a chance to make it home to Evie. Processing complete. Gift selected. Damn you! I'd break into a run.

Processing salvation. I can't let myself die here. I can't. Evie's already lost her parents. She can't handle losing me too. It's too much for her. A child can't process that much trauma in so little time. I think about her teacher telling her I'm not coming to pick her up today. That I'll never come to pick her up again because I'm dead.

Just like mom and dad. Just like grandma and grandpa. I think of that. And I tell myself no. No matter what, it can't be allowed to happen. I can't let this monster turn me into a mindless drone like the rest of my coworkers. Or another corpse on the runway. I can't.

Three. Almost there. I see the parking lot dead ahead. A short sprint past the next hangar. All I need to do is get into my car and hit the gas and I can leave this all behind. Two. I'm going to make it. I'm going to make it because I have to.

She can't lose another person. She just can't. One. Evie! I jolt away. There's a click clad of fingers tapping on keyboards. The gentle shuffle of paper being sifted through. A clatter of a mug landing on my desk.

Long night? I look up. My vision blurry. My hands find my eyes, giving them a good rub. Ling? Did the coffee give it away? Ling beams me a smile. He dressed in his combat fatigues,

a white mug in his grip reading number one dad. Hate to say it, though, but I've come for business. You wouldn't happen to have finished the report on the new airframe, would you? I realize it's a day earlier than I'd asked, but I just realized it's Evie's birthday tonight, and you booked tomorrow off. I, um... I look around the office and see my co-workers, military and civilian alike, smiling, chatting amongst themselves. Sunlight fills the room. The windows here are clear, uncovered by smoke and ash. Outside, I don't see any dead bodies. Just mechanics work. on a jet and a platoon of soldiers running by in PT Strip.

Earth to Ethan, Ling says, waving a hand in front of my face. He frowns. You sure you're feeling all right? You know you can take a sick day, right? We all need a breather now and again. I shake my head, my mind waking up. No, it's fine. I've got them here.

I open a drawer on my desk and fish inside of it, pulling out a folder. Got him finished a few days ago. Forgot to drop him off. Sorry. Ling takes the reports with a grin, giving me a gentle punch on the arm. Superstars, don't need to apologize. Thanks for this. He heads back to his desk, but stops halfway to look back at me. You sure you're all right, Ethan? You look like you've seen a ghost.

I'll be fine. Just didn't get much sleep last night. Must have dozed off. Well, hopefully the coffee helps with that. He shoots me a wink and heads back to his desk. I watch him go, and my stomach twists as I remember his head rolling on the tarmac. His lifeless eyes gazing up at me, the blood pouring from his severed throat. No way, I mutter, pushing the image from my mind. It was a bad dream, that's all.

No sense dwelling on it now. To prove it to myself, I fish in my face in my face. pocket and pull out my cell phone, punching in a number. I know it's an overreaction, but I need to be sure. Sharon speaking. How can I help you today? Hi, this is Ethan Rayner. I'd like to speak to my niece, Evie Rainer. Of course, Mr. Rayner. I'll have somebody grab Ms. Rainer. Just a moment. There's a shuffle of movement on the other end of the line, followed by what sounds like a call to Evie's classroom. A moment later, and Sharon is back on the line. Yes, it's fine. I just wanted to talk about birthday plans.

It was only a half-lie. The truth is, we still needed to decide on whether or not she wanted an ice cream cake or regular cake for tomorrow's party. Ah, that's good to he listed as her godfather in our system. So I got a little nervous at something had happened to her parents, bless their hearts. The statement catches me off guard. Sharon's worked at the school for years. She knows very well that Evie's parents.

were killed by a drunk driver a couple years back. Hell, she helped me set up Evie's learning accommodations when it happened. I'm about to speak up and ask if she's feeling all right when a new voice comes through in the background. A young girl's. She's asking why she's being called to the office, and if it has anything to do with the pumpkin incident, I faintly hear Sharon say.

Your uncle is on the line. I'd like to talk with you. Evie says, her voice small. There's the clatter of a receiver changing hands, a muffle of static. Then a voice comes through on the other end, and suddenly the heaviness in my heart vanishes. Hey, Eve, I say with a sigh. Just calling to make sure everything's all right over there. Anything weird happened today?

Shaking my head. That's too bad. Sorry to hear you didn't take gold. Miss Thatch said you were calling about birthday plans. Yeah, I meant to ask you about dinner? What a strange thing to ask. I'd cooked her dinner every night for the past two years. So it stood to reason that I'd be at dinner.

Of course I'll be there. Why wouldn't I? Well, parties? Dad. Eve, hold on. What are you talking about? Are you feeling okay? I run a hand through my hair, suddenly feeling anxious all over again. It had taken Evie a long time to come to turns with her parents' deaths. And now, was she falling into another episode of denial? Evie, are you sure you're feeling okay?

Yes! She laughs. Give me that. Raj, I'd beat him in a race. I highly doubt that, because I can run super fast. Yeah, sounds a... Sounds great, Eve. Run like the wind.

Always do. See you tonight, Uncle Ethan. See you. The line goes dead. I look absently around the buzzing office. And everything is, just as I remember it. Each desk and each person just the way it was before. Except, Evie is back to thinking her parents are still alive.

Why? I pick up my phone, and my finger hovers on a number in my contact list. I'm nervous enough that I'm sweating, that I'm gnawing my lip, but I tell myself that I need to do this one last time. I hit dial. It rings once, twice. Then, the machine answers. Just like it did every time I called in the weeks following his death.

Hands find my face and I run them over it. Feeling exhausted and stressed and hollowed out. My brother was dead. I knew that. So why did I let myself believe anything else? Was I that desperate to be happy again? Maybe Evie and I were both more broken than I cared to admit. My phone's vibrating on my desk.

The screen says a ghost is calling me, and I think that maybe I'm going insane. But I pick it up anyway. Tom? Yeah, it's me. Excited to see you. There's a voice in the background, a woman's. No, I said I'd grab the pumpkins ahead of time, but things are hectic over here.

Mine snagging them on the way over? I'm stunned. My voice is gone. Empty, Tom says. Yeah. I mumble. I take a deep breath, pulling myself back to reality. Hey, sorry.

Huh, was that Jill? Tom laughs. Yeah, she and I called in sick to work, but don't tell anybody. She's got party fever for Evie, and I kind of just wanted to finish my season in NHO. You know, before the kids take over my PlayStation tonight. Don't tell her that, though. You, Thomas? I hope and I got out of range.

I haven't heard either of their voices in years. It's like listening to Phantoms, and yet somehow I know they're anything but. I'll definitely be by tonight, I say. And you can tell Jill I won't forget the pumpkins either. Great, Tom says. Can't wait to see you. Be perfect. Well, suppose you better get to it then. Calls.

Yeah? Drive safe. I bite my bottom lip, remembering the newspaper article describing the crash. The photo of Tom and Jill's tiny Honda Civic, cleaved in two by the semi-truck. Their limp bodies crushed between the jungle of metal. We'll do, I told him. Tears well in my eyes.

My face screwing up as I try to fight them back. Not at work. I can't have a breakdown here. My sleeve finds my eyes and dabs them away. Love you too, Tommy. Later. I put down the phone and lean back in my chair. Despite the tears in my eyes, there's a smile glued to my face.

They're back. They're really, truly alive again. After all those years of heartache, all those restless nights spent listening to Eve cry herself to sleep. It's almost funny that Jill wants to make tonight perfect. She doesn't seem to realize that it already is. We've all been there.

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