Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - We've been trapped in the depths of the ocean for a hundred days. Something strange is happening to the crew.

Episode Date: July 15, 2022

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My old captain once told me a story about why submarines were built without windows. He would explain that the first underwater vessels were created with little glass panes, giving an insight into the darkness of the ocean depths. A world, rid of light, never meant to be seen by animals wandering on land. It's not the isolation that drives a man mad, he'd claim. Is it solitude? What drives a man to the brink of insanity is to stare into the heart of the sea and pray that nothing stares back. While it wasn't unusual for old men at sea to tell tall tales, my captain was on the loony end of the spectrum, after one too many years spent in a metal box.

That's one of the many reasons that each and every man has to endure a long and rigorous a psych evaluation before setting foot on a submarine. Obviously, that was an aspect of the job my captain hailed as pointless pseudoscience. I never believed his stories, but they stuck with me. We had all been well-versed in the functionality of military submarines. We knew that windows provided a weakness to the structural integrity and were hence never integrated into military-grade vessels. If I were a better man, I would have said that my captain knew that as well. As fate would have it, my captain did meet his end at sea. He'd end his own life by tying himself up in a metal chain

before jumping into the ocean and the darkness of night. But the idea of men going mad at sea stayed with me, a kind of madness only understood by those living at sea. Men were never meant to venture that deep into the sea. the abyss, a fact proven by the thousands of lives ending at the bottom of the ocean. Whenever I lay awake at night to the sound of our submarine's hull settling under pressure, I'd hear my old captain's words of warning not to stare into the abyss. Because if you do end up staring into the darkness, only horrors unfold when you pretend

to be the one in control. Our mission took place on the 7th of July 2021. A skeleton crew had been stationed aboard the USS Haddle with a simple mission statement to remain underwater for 200 days without resurfacing. While the task wasn't a technological feat with modern nuclear reactors, it proved a more logistical challenge, food supplies, mental stability during prolonged bouts without sunlight, and fresh air. How long could we stay in the depths before shattering our minds? Not many volunteered for such a mission, but the pay was great, and we weren't expected to face any real dangers during our tenure at sea. Essentially, we were paid to practice, and most

of us were promised an honorable discharge following the mission's end. Alas, most of our crew would never again feel the touch of the sun upon their skin, nor let their lungs fill with fresh chair. They were faded to draw their last breaths of recycled oxygen as darkness enveloped their last moments on earth, gone and forgotten by those still on shore. I first realized something was wrong 117 days into the mission. It was subtle at first, with decreasing banter among the crew, less idle chatter. Those affected seemed to isolate themselves, rising from bed only to work, never partaking in any leisurely activities. With the change, our weekly psych evals were up to twice a week. I figured the isolation at the ocean's depth was getting to them,

but something about the situation still seemed off. No one else seemed to talk about it, but whether their silence came from fear of an early mission ending or because they didn't notice, I couldn't tell. To most, it must have felt like a game of chicken. With 50 Marines rushing towards certain insanity, none were ready to be first to admit it. After all, a bit of ocean blues was certainly worth the promised prize, which would only be granted if we completed the mission. Failure meant we'd be sent back to our original stations, places where we might even engage in active combat duty.

As a man who'd already been shot twice, It was an experience I didn't long to repeat. I didn't long for my biweekly sessions with a department shrink either. He was a middle-aged man, clearly not built for the depths of the ocean, but he seemed to power through it. Each time we met, he'd pry into the deepest pits of my mind, looking for any flaw or breaking the fabric of my thoughts. You seem nervous, Dr. Rikers half stated, half asked,

As he noticed me evading his gaze, I'm not a fan of having my thoughts analyzed, I lied. Truth be told, I didn't much care for psychology. I had approached our initial meetings with a relatively nonchalant attitude, but something had changed in the past two months. The atmosphere aboard the USS Haddle was no longer the one I knew and loved. Something darker had taken over. Even our fearless captain had seemed to pull away from his official. duties, only showing up when absolutely necessary.

Listen, James, you can stay cold for the next 80 days of the mission. You can try to pretend like nothing has changed, but we both know that would be a lie. I see it every day, and so do you. Now, I can't force you to talk about it, but are you really ready to look me in the face and lie about what's going on with the crew? I looked up at him. It was the first time anybody had openly spoken about the eerieness surrounding our mission. We'd all tried so hard to deny it,

fearing that the mission would end if we so much as mentioned it. And while I'd long since admitted defeat, I couldn't be the one to let down the crew. So, when someone else finally brought it up, I felt relieved. You worry about the future of the mission, he said confidently. Well, let me explain something to you. Talking about your thoughts won't force us to resurface. But if you keep ignoring it until you have a nervous break,

I will be forced to report that to high command. You are not the only one feeling it, James. But I can't help you solve a problem you choose to ignore. He'd never been one to speak much. He rather listened, took notes, and gave small comments as insights into my thought process. But hearing him practically read my mind didn't frighten me. Instead, it made me feel calmer. Up until that point, I hadn't realized how desperately I needed to talk about what I'd seen.

I couldn't hold it in any longer, pausing as the words got stuck in my throat. Stephen Quinn? Are you referring to the LPO from Section 3? He asked. I nodded. Why don't you tell me what happened to him? As if you don't already know, I argued. I know.

So I'll ask again. Why don't you tell me what happened? Unable to argue. I decided to finally cut my baggage loose and tell Rikers what had happened to the crew of Section 3. I'd been reassigned to turbine maintenance. couple of weeks prior. Two of the crewmen had suffered some pretty severe burns following a malfunction that to this day hasn't been explained to us. The steam would have blinded them, if not for the protective gear, but it did little for their torsos. We all figured that was it,

that we'd be forced to return to the surface. But the doc determined that the injuries weren't severe enough to call off the mission. But it just didn't sit right with me, you know? I've never seen bizarre damage to any turbines. It wasn't just wear and tear. It was something more. Sabotage. Bien-a-bore-a-rai. Embarked and profite. Embarked and relax. Syrot. Bookine. Oh, that also. And profite.

Villaray, the way that we love. I fixed the turbines alongside what remained of the crew at the section, but they weren't happy about my presence. For the entire week we spent on repairs, I don't think a single person spoke more than half a sentence to me. They looked jaded, detached from reality. It's not the first time I've seen sailors turn to autopilot, but this was something else. Still, I performed my duty to the best of my ability, but I couldn't get used to the silence. Then during the second week, I started to realize just how sick they looked, not just a pale face, and heavy eyes.

They looked hollowed out, empty. I'd find them sitting on the floor for hours at a time, never speaking a word. I asked if I could help them, but they kept brushing me off. I'm honestly surprised the mission kept going, considering the state of those men. I don't know which shrink was supposed to evaluate them,

but they clearly weren't fit for duty. I kept re-analyzing the turbine damage, certain of foul play. But before I could get any actual answers, it was a late shift. Most of the sailors had gone to sleep, leaving only a skeleton crew to maintain the turbines. The guy sleeping in the hot rack above me was snoring like a banshee, keeping me awake. And this absolute certainty that I'd miss something just wouldn't leave my mind. So, I got up to check the turbines once more, hoping to find an entirely different rack free when I returned. It was darker than usual.

Some of the lights had gone out, another problem needing to be fixed. I didn't even realize something was wrong until I slipped on something wet, falling face-first to the floor. Only when I stood back up did I realize my arms were covered in blood. I thought I'd been hurt, but I quickly realized that it wasn't my blood. I followed the blood around the turbines to find three marines with their throat slit and their stomachs cut open. They'd clearly been lying there for a few hours. Something I could tell from the decomposing stench they emitted. Then I found Quinn sitting in a corner. His hands were

covered in blood. But whether he'd been the one to inflict the damage or tried to help them, I didn't know at the time, since he didn't exactly seem hostile towards me. I didn't think to defend myself. I just confirmed the men's deaths before tending to Quinn. As I checked them over, he started whispering to me. His words were incomprehensible at first, but he kept repeating the same phrase over and over again. He said, almost rhythmically, as if he were in a trance. Quinn was taken away, distressed, but unharmed. It would only be upon closer inspection that we realized Quinn had been the one to murder his friends. He had slit them open and bitten chunks out of their innards. He had become a monster. Our mission should have ended there, but by the time the

next morning rolled around, the room had been cleared out, and Quinn was nowhere to be found. Most of our crew never even realized what had happened, besides noticing some of the other crew missing. But since the captain had essentially blocked off the control room to all save a few members of his elite, people figured they'd been transferred. But I didn't. knew the truth. Why didn't you tell anyone? Dr. Rikers asked, breaking me free from my trance. I wanted to. The Ex-O pulled me aside after it happened, warned me not to speak openly about what I'd seen, threatened me with a reassignment once we finally resurfaced. Very vaguely, of course, but we both know what he meant. Still, you're telling me now? He continued asking.

Yeah, I suppose I am. I couldn't quite explain the impulse I had to tell Rikers the truth, but my gut was ordering me to do so, as if I knew he could help us. I'm glad you trusted me, he said. And you're right. Something is happening to the crew aboard this submarine. We have to convince the captain to resurface. He doesn't seem exactly interested in talking to the crew, I said.

He's been locked in the control room. with his team for the past three days. If he refuses to listen, there are other options. Riker started. But we're gonna, we need. He was caught off by a loud, metallic clank reverberating through the ship, as if the hull had suddenly caved in from the enormous pressure outside.

Did you hear that? I asked. He nodded, not able to respond before the all too familiar sound of a bursting pipe echoed through the vessel. Alarm started blaring, calling all men to the posts. Stay here, I ordered as I jumped out of my seat and rushed in the direction of the sound. On the way, I ran into another LPO working maintenance on the torpedo tubes, a younger man by the name of Thompson. He seemed relieved to see me, practically begging me to come with him.

What the hell happened? I asked. I don't fucking know. I've tried reaching the navigation crew in the cockpit. We're not getting through on any comms. He explained. The captain is in there with them. The burst pipe was located at the main engine in the back of the submarine. Should it suffer a significant amount of damage, we'd be at the full mercy of the ocean's vast depths. Two other crewmen joined us by the time we reached the door to the engine room. It had been closed off, and to our luck, it was locked. Where is everyone? I asked, expecting at least a dozen men to aid us.

They should have been here already. Half my team has been missing for two days already, locked away in the fucking control room. Thompson explained, we finally were able to pry the door open, allowing three feet of water to flow into the rest of the submarine. Within the engine room, we found four sailors just standing there, staring at the burst pipes, shooting out water. Hey, what are you doing? Thompson asked, more confused than angry. But they didn't respond. They just stood there and stared, waiting for the room to fill up and drown them.

Move them out of the way. I ordered as I went to work on the breach. The damage wasn't too extensive, but it couldn't be fully repaired without resurfacing. Still, we managed to stop the leak, which would at least buy us some time. As the last drop of water emerged from the busted pipe, I felt my ears pop. Only then did it dawn on me what had caused the damage, and why a group of our crew had locked themselves inside the cockpit and control room. We're diving, I said.

What? Thompson asked. They're trying to drown the sun. I explained. They're going to keep descending until the submarine breaks under the pressure. We have to get to the captain now. What about these guys? He asked, gesturing to the catatonic marines sitting on the floor.

Tie them up. They might try to hurt themselves or the ship. We can't take any risks. Thompson and I left the two functional men behind to secure the catatonic marines, making sure nothing else damaged the engine room while we went to find a way into the cockpit. We're going to face resistance if we get in. Thompson said. Split up.

Gather all the men you can. I'll do the same. Since Rikers had mentioned a way to resurface, even without the captain, I went to collect him first. Whether he had a man inside the control room or other means to break through didn't matter. If we had a chance to escape, I'd take it.

But before I could reach the doctor, I found him running in my direction, joined by four crewmen. Figured we could use some help, he said. They all looked worn down on the brink of collapse. but at least they weren't catatonic, meaning they had some usefulness left in them. So, what's the plan? I asked.

I've been authorized by High Command to abort the mission, given a psychological decompensation of the crew on board. Worst case scenario, if the captain won't cooperate, will initiate remote control of the vessel. How? I just need to make contact with the surface, but I can only do that from the control room. Let's get there then. As we made our way towards the door, we could feel the increase in pressure. While we were kept safe from the excessive weight of the ocean outside, with each foot descended into its depth, the hull of the submarine would endure stress beyond its structural integrity.

Within the next hour, we'd be crushed to death. The doors to the control room, sonar room, and cockpit had all been sealed off. Within it, they gathered maybe 20 men, including the captain himself. Thompson joined us, accompanied by the XO, who seemed equally as worried. He'd been working alongside a group of men, trying to use explosives to enter the control room. In his hands, he held a modified warhead. Its damaging capabilities had been greatly reduced, too weak to damage the hall, but enough to blow the hinges off the door. Stay back, a planet, Thompson said.

Let's not risk our XO's life. If the captain is incapacitated, we need a new leader. We went to another room and waited for Thompson's signal. Within a minute, he had the bomb set up, primed it, and ran back towards us. He threw himself into the room just as we closed the door, feeling the pressure of the explosion within. It was exceptionally loud, and despite the door's protection, we still felt the heat. Black smoke poured out as we opened the door, clearing quickly,

but leaving behind a misty atmosphere, Let's go, Thompson ordered. We rushed through the smoke, barging into the control room. While we were ready for a fight, we all prayed not having to wound or kill the men that had been our friends and brothers only days prior. Something had broken their minds, but it didn't mean they couldn't be fixed and that inside were not men prepared to fight. But a horrific nightmare to drive us nearer to the brink of insanity.

What in God's name have they done? Rikers asked. Before us lay the mutilated corpses of a dozen sailors, each of them with their throats cut and various wounds to their abdomens and chests. The entirety of the floor had been painted red in blood, with chunks of guts strewn across it. We were frozen by the sight, but the creaking of the breaking hall quickly brought us back to attention. A time for morning would come, but first we had to act. We have to get to the cockpit, Thompson said. I'll stick with the dock, Try to regain contact with the surface, I said.

Once again, we split up into two groups. Thompson quickly led the charge up into the cockpit alongside the XO and a handful of Marines, while the rest of us took care of the control room. But no sooner had we entered before three gunshots shot through the silence. Dr. Rikers fell to the ground clutching his leg, while another sailor fell dead from a gunshot wound to his head. The rest of us dove for cover. none of us having had access to the gun locker.

All the while, the shots continued, shooting wildly around the room. Rikers, are you okay? I screamed over the hail of gunfire. I'm not sure. There's a lot of blood. He said in shock. Even through his clothing, I could tell they hit his femoral artery. If we didn't get him help quickly, he'd be dead in minutes.

The sound of bullets was quickly replaced by the repeated clicks of an empty mag, pummeling the room into an awkward silence. With that, we stormed inside, quickly pinning the deluded man to the ground. There were three other Marines sitting around the room with various self-inflicted wounds. While they were in no condition to fight back, their presence sent shivers down my spine.

The void is waiting. It's time to join this. Look into its eyes. They mumbled silently. I turned back to Rikers, whose face had gone pale, sitting in a pool of his own blood. It was clear he wasn't going to make it, a fact he himself knew. Come on, Doc, we got to fix you up.

Seven, three, orange. He mumbled in response. Dawn, sunrise. What? I command. Tell them. He tried to say, but his voice was fading quickly. his voice faded for the last time before his eyes went blank hey come on i yelled

fuck seven three orange dawn sunrise one of the men repeated i got it go check on thompson and the exo we'll grieve later i climbed into the small cockpit to find thompson standing over our exos dead body he'd been stabbed in the chest perfectly aimed between his ribs in one of the chairs next to them sat the captain, catatonic with a stab wound to his neck. Blood was pouring down his torso, but he didn't even seem to register the pain. I tried to help him, but despite my efforts, the man would be dead within minutes. The fuckers damaged the controls. We're stuck down here, Thompson said. We're initiating remote control. As long as they can get the comms up, we'll be fine. Well, they better hurry. We're approaching a thousand meters of depth. This thing

wasn't built for that kind of pressure. We gathered the remaining crew in the control room as we awaited our fates. Each minute represented another few meters closer to the abyss of the ocean. And the closer we got, the more likely a total collapse of this submarine's hull became. Only two dozen men remained. The rest, either catatonic, murdered, or dead by self-inflicted wounds. Other than deal with the hull breaches, there was little we could do as the comms were repaired. Then, as I expected the pressure to finally kill us, the radio came back to life with a static noise.

This is USS Haddle. We're requesting immediate assistance. Please respond. The radio operator yelled into the radio. We hear you loud and clear, USS Haddle. We're initiating remote control. Code 73 Orange Dawn Sunrise. Copy that. Without further questioning, the team on the surface took control of the sub. I almost fell to the ground as it halted in its dive. quickly reversing directions towards the surface.

All we could do while we waited was to gather the remaining survivors and treat the wounded. But as we got closer to the surface, I didn't feel relieved to be leaving. I felt sad, homesick. I thought the feeling would vanish as I got back home, but it never did. Even after three months on land, I just kept longing for the darkness of the ocean depths. dreaming of its embrace. Only now do I understand what these Marines had seen and felt down in the darkness.

It's not something I can explain. It's something I have to show you. Lucky for me, I'm scheduled to board another sub in just a few weeks. One filled with men, ignorant to the beauty of the abyss. I am looking forward to showing them what the sea can offer. Lasagne sur-joled, puissance-moyane for 15 minutes.

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