Snook - Unexplainable Reddit Horror Stories

Episode Date: September 24, 2025

These are some Unexplainable Reddit Horror Stories! I thought all of these stories were great! And the first story about selling his soul to the devil was so good, that was one of my favorite stories Ive ever read. Thank you guys for watching, let me know if you would like to see more content like this in the future! Thanks for watching, like and subscribe. Poco4Life - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1nf7l5p/selling_your_soul_to_the_devil_is_not_as/ Dorr - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1ngcjte/dorr/ 10MinuteHorror - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1l8ycq9/i_worked_as_a_johatsu_in_japan_for_2_years_these/ I was granted permission to use all of these stories. Make sure to check out all of the original authors.Yes, my voice is human. The channels subscriber goal is 1 million, so subscribe! Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Hey, what's up guys and welcome back to another Reddit stories video. And today we're getting into some unexplainable Reddit horror stories. Today's stories are super, super awesome. They're scary. They're unexplainable. They're disturbing. And you're going to want to stick around. Grab a snack, grab a drink, get hydrated, and just sit back and relax and get ready to listen to some good Reddit horror stories.

I appreciate you stopping by. It means the world. Please like the video and subscribe to the channel. It helps more than you know. the channel's goal is one million subscribers, so please subscribe to the channel. And all right, without further ado, let's get into some unexplainable Reddit horror stories. Selling your soul to the devil is not as straightforward as you think. By Poco for Life.

I never believed in the devil until I met him at a coffee shop on a random Tuesday. It wasn't some dramatic crossroads encounter or a midnight summoning with candles and incanations. He was just sitting there at a quarter. corner table and grind coffee, wearing a perfectly ordinary Navy suit that looked like he was about to burst because of his muscles and reading the financial times. The only thing that gave him away was how he knew my name when I'd never seen him before my life. Marcus Chen, he said, looking up from his paper as I walked past his table. Rough couple of months, haven't they been? He grinned. I stopped dead. Do I know you? I asked. Though something in my gut already.

knew the answer would complicate everything. He smiled, and his teeth were perfectly white, too white. Please sit, I have a proposition that might interest you. He charmingly gestured in front of him. I should have stayed away. Every rational part of my brain screamed at me to keep moving, get my overpriced latte, and pretend this conversation never happened. Instead, I sat down, as if I didn't even have a say in it. I'm in the business of solving problems, he said, folding his newspaper with precise creases, and you Marcus have quite a few problems. He was not wrong at all. The foreclosure notice was burning a hole in my jacket pocket, and my credit cards had all been maxed out for weeks. Sarah had left me three months ago,

taking our daughter Emma with her. My startup had collapsed spectacularly, leaving me with nothing but debt and a profound sense of failure. Who are you, I asked. names have power he said let's just say i'm someone who can help your house you're about to lose it your daughter barely speaks to you your ex-wife thinks you're a failure your credit is destroyed your business partners won't return your calls he leaned back in his chair am i getting warm the accuracy of his assessment hit me like a physical blow how do you i trailed he chuckled know all this? I make it my business to know. The question is, how badly do you want to fix it?

I stared at him. He was probably in his 40s with salt and pepper hair, kind eyes and arms of the size of my head. He looked like someone's accountant, not whatever he was. What are you suggesting? A transaction, a very reasonable one, actually. You have something I want and I have something you need. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a leather portfolio. I'm prepared to offer you $1 million. Cash. Untraceable. Enough to save your house,

went back your family, start over, he said. I couldn't resist the urge to sigh at his annoying, corporate tone. In exchange for what? His smile widened. Just a small piece of your soul. Nothing dramatic, maybe 10%.

You'll hardly notice it's gone. I laughed. I actually laughed out loud. You're insane. Am I? He opened the portfolio and showed me photographs, pictures of my house, my daughter's school, Sarah's apartment. Marcus, in three days the bank will repossess your home. In two weeks, your daughter will start at a new school because Sarah can't afford the private one anymore. In a month, you'll be sleeping in your car. He closed the portfolio. I'm offering you a way out. You're talking about selling my soul to the devil. He smiled softly. I'm talking about a limited

partnership arrangement. Think of it as a spiritual equity financing. You retain majority ownership of your soul, 90%. I get a small stake in exchange for solving your immediate liquidity crisis. The business terminology made it sound almost reasonable. Almost. This is crazy, I said, but I didn't get up. Crazy would be letting your pride destroy your family. Crazy would be sleeping in your car while your daughter thinks her father. is a loser who couldn't provide for her. He leaned forward. Marcus, I'm not asking for your firstborn or eternal damnation.

10% that's all. Letting aside the fact that I was talking to the devil right now, I thought about Emma, about the look in her eyes the last time I'd seen her when I couldn't afford to take her to the movies, about Sarah's voice when she'd called me pathetic. What exactly would happen to that 10%? Nothing dramatic. You might find yourself slightly more pragmatic in your business,

business dealings, a little less concerned with certain moral complexities, if you know what I mean? He struggled. Small changes, barely noticeable. I sat there for what felt like hours, though it was probably only minutes. Finally, I asked. How would this work? He reached into his portfolio again and pulled out a contract. It looked like any other legal document. Dense text, whereas clauses, signature lines. At the bottom, it specified. 10% of party A's immortal soul in exchange for the sum of one million United States dollars. Just sign here, he said. Producing an elegant fountain pen seemingly out of nowhere, and initial here, acknowledging you understand the terms.

My hand was shaking as I took the pen. This was insane. This was impossible, but the foreclose. closure notice in my pocket felt very real, and so did the image of Emma's disappointed face. I signed. The moment the pen left the paper, I felt different. Not dramatically different, but like I'd just had a very strong cup of coffee. More alert, more focused. The man across from me smiled, and the contract disappeared into the portfolio. Pleasure doing business with you, Marcus.

He stood up and extended his hand. When I shook it, his skin was surprisingly warm. The money will be in your account by tomorrow morning. That's it? That's it? Though, he paused the door. You might find that other opportunities present themselves soon. When they do, you'll know how to reach me.

He left, and I sat there staring at my coffee, wondering if I'd just had the most vivid hallucination of my life, the money was there the next morning. a million dollars, just like he'd promised. Within six months, everything had changed. I'd saved the house, started a new company, and Sarah was actually taking my calls again. Emma was back in her good school,

and I could afford the things that made her smile. The 10% I'd given up seemed like the bargain of the century. The changes were subtle, just like he'd said. I found myself cutting corners in ways that would have bothered me before. When a competitor's company was struggling, I bought them out for a fraction of their worth, knowing they were desperate. When a regulatory issue threatened my new business, I made certain donations to certain local politicians that cleared the way. Nothing illegal exactly, but nothing I would have done before

either. I told myself it was just good business. Pragmatism. The world was harsh, and these were the kinds of decisions successful people made. The second meeting happened at a restaurant downtown. I was celebrating landing a major contract when he slid into the booth across from me, looking exactly the same as he had eight months earlier. Congratulations on the Henderson deal, he said. Quite a coup. Thanks. I tried to sound casual, but seeing him again made my stomach clench. What brings you here? A complication, I'm afraid. You see, that Henderson contract, your main competitor was about to land it, had the inside track, actually, best. better bid, better relationship with the client.

I frowned, but I want it, fair and square. You want it because certain information found its way to certain people, and certain pressure was applied in certain corridors, information and pressure that, shall we say, originated from my resources. What are you saying? I'm saying that my 10% stake in your soul has been working quite hard on your behalf, harder than we originally contracted for. He smiled that too white smile.

I'm going to need to renegotiate our arrangement. No. The word came out more forcefully than I'd intended. We had a deal. We did, and that deal had been exceeded. You see, Marcus, your success over the past few months hasn't been entirely your own doing. My investment has been quite active. He pulled out another contract.

I'm afraid I'm going to need another 15%. 15%. That would put you at 25% in total. Still a minority stake, he pointed out reasonably. And frankly, quite fair, given the value I've added to your life. He grinned. Then he leaned back. Of course, if you'd prefer, I could simply withdraw my support, see how well you'd do without it.

The threat was implicit but clear. Everything I'd rebuilt could disappear. What happens if I say no? Well, the Henderson contract would fall through, for starters. Seems there might be some irregularities in the bidding process that could come to light. Your financing for the new company might encounter some unexpected obstacles. Sarah might start wondering where all the sudden success came from. He leaned back.

I'd hate to see you lose everything again. I started the contract. Another 15% seems like a lot, but I'd still retain majority control. In losing everything now would be worth. worse than losing it before. I had so much more to lose. I signed. This time, the change was more noticeable. I found myself making decisions that would have horrified the man I'd been to years ago. When a small supplier couldn't deliver on time, I destroyed their business instead of just finding someone else. When an employee threatened to quit, I made sure she was blacklisted throughout

the industry. I'd even look at the eyes of the beggars on the streets. These actions felt not just reasonable but necessary, even satisfying. I was changing. Sarah moved back in with me after a year. Emma called me daddy again. My business was thriving. In the end, the 25% of my soul I'd given up seemed like a small price for everything I'd gained. The third meeting was at my office. He didn't make an appointment. I just looked up one day and he was sitting in the chair across from my desk. We need to talk, he said. By now, I knew the routine. Some new crisis that required his intervention, some justification for taking another piece of my soul. I was ready for him. What's the problem this time? Your wife? He said simply. Sarah, what about her? She's been asking questions about your sudden

turnaround, about some of your business practices. She's suspicious. Suspicious of what? She's hired a private investigator, Marcus, a very good one. He's been digging into your finances, your business dealings, your associates, some of what he's finding is problematic. I felt cold. What kind of problematic? The kind that leads to federal investigations, the kind that leads to prison time, he leaned forward. The kind that leads to your daughter visiting you through bulletproof glass. His smile never seemed wilder at the time.

Your line. Am I? He pulled out a manila folder and slid it across the desk. Inside were photographs, documents, bank records, all the evidence of things I'd done, deals I'd made, corners I'd cut. Individually, they might have been explicable. Together, they painted a picture of systematic corruption. This is all circumstantial, I said.

But my voice was weak. Perhaps, but it's enough to raise questions, enough to start an investigation that would unravel everything, your business. to your marriage, your relationship with Emma, everything. My hand shook. I was feeling fear, proper fear for the first time and a long time. What do you want? I shook.

30% more, he said. That would give me 55% total. A controlling interest in exchange. All of this evidence disappears. The private investigator has an accident. Sarah's suspicions fade. Your life continues. exactly as it is.

55% that's more than half. It is, but consider the alternative. I looked at the photographs again, at the evidence of what I'd become, what we'd become, I corrected myself, because none of this had happened in a vacuum. Every decision had seemed reasonable at the time,

necessary even. If you have controlling interest, what does that mean for me? Oh, don't worry. Nothing will change. I'll let you still have your free will, but you'll naturally find yourself more aligned with my interests, more efficient in your decision-making,

less burdened by concerns that might interfere with success. I thought about Emma, about Sarah, about everything I'd built. I signed. The change this time was immediate and profound. It was like someone had adjusted the contrast on my moral vision, Things that had once seemed questionable now seemed obviously correct. Ethical considerations that had once nagged at me simply weren't there anymore. Good or bad didn't seem to cross my mind anymore.

There were just success. I fired a dozen employees without cause because they were expensive. I foreclosed on three small businesses that owed me money, even though I knew it would destroy the families behind them. I manipulated stock prices and destroyed kids. competitors with a systematic ruthlessness that was both alien to who I'd once been and utterly natural to who I was becoming. Sarah stopped asking questions.

The private investigator's report was mysteriously lost. My business empire grew, but I was starting to understand that I wasn't driving anymore. I was just along for the ride. The fourth meeting was at Emma's school. I was watching her soccer game when he sat down next to me on the bleachers. She's quite talented, he said. nodding toward my daughter. Don't, I said immediately.

I grew cold. Don't even think about bringing her into this. Relax, Marcus, I'm not here about Emma. I'm here about you. He pat my back. What now? You're dying, he said with a frown that didn't quite reach his jawline. The words hit me like a blow.

What? Pancreatic cancer, very aggressive. you probably have six months, maybe less. He said it as casually as he might comment on the weather. Of course, medicine has its limitations, but I don't. I stared at him. Then at Emma running across the field. Your line.

He grabbed my waist and pulled me closer to him. The symptoms will start next week. You'll think it's just stress at first. By the time you see a doctor, it'll be too late for conventional treatment. He turned face me. but not too late for unconventional treatment. Let me guess you want more of my soul, 35% more. That would give me 90% total.

In exchange, the cancer disappears. You live a long, healthy life. You get to watch Emma graduate, get married, have children of her own. I guarantee you. 90% I repeated. That leaves me with 10%. Still enough to maintain your essential self, your memories, your love. for your family, your core personality, you'll just be more focused, more efficient, less

conflicted. And if I say no, you die, slowly and painfully. Emma watches her father waist away. Sarah becomes a widow. Your business empire crumbles without your leadership. Everyone that depends on you comes crumbling down. On the field, Emma scored a goal. She looked to over at me and waved her face bright with joy. I waved back. My hand feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds. Why? I asked. Why are you doing this? I'm not doing anything, Marcus. I'm simply offering solutions to your life full of problems. You're the one making the choices. But you're engineering the problems. Am I? I didn't give you cancer, Marcus. I didn't make you eat those donuts. I'm merely offering to cure it. I didn't make your wife suspicious, your own

actions did that. I offered to fix it. Every step of the way you've had choices. You've simply chosen the path that led you here. He was right. And that was the most horrifying part. Every decision had been mine. Every signature on every contract had been voluntary. I had sold myself piece by piece. But watching Emma celebrate with her teammates, I knew I couldn't face dying, couldn't face leaving her. I signed the contract. This time the change was like stepping into a different person's skins. The last vestiges of my old moral framework simply vanished. I felt lighter, more focused, more certain on my purpose.

The world became a clearer place, divided neatly between things that served my interests and things that didn't. I fired my brother from the company the next day because he was questioning my methods. I evicted a dozen families from properties I owned because they were behind on rent. I destroyed a charity that was interfering with one of my developments by exposing its director's personal secrets. The bonuses decreased, as with every employee's salary, none of it bothered me. It all felt perfectly reasonable. Sarah seemed happier too. She stopped asking uncomfortable questions and started enjoying the life my success had provided.

Emma thrived in her expensive school, surrounded by luxury I could easily afford. I was successful, healthy, and wealthy beyond my wildest dreams. I was also barely human. I was merely a brain, palleting, a meat suit. The final meeting was inevitable. I'd been expecting it for months when he appeared in my home office on a quiet Sunday evening. Emma was upstairs doing homework. Sarah was reading in the living room. Everything was perfect. Hello, Marcus. I didn't respond this time. I'm here with good news. You've been such an exemplar. Larry partner that I'm prepared to offer you the deal of a lifetime. Now I looked up. Deal? Total buyout. I purchase your remaining 10% and in exchange, I guarantee that Emma and Sarah will want

for nothing for the rest of their lives. Emma will get into any college she wants. Sarah will be happy and prosperous. They'll both live long, successful lives. And me, you'll be exactly who you've been becoming successful, powerful, effective. You just won't be you anymore. I leaned back in my chair. It was strange how calm I felt about this moment I've been dreading. What happens to my soul when you own 100% of it? It becomes mine.

Completely. Your body continues to function. Your mind continues to work. but the essential spark that made you Marcus Chen transfers to me. You become, in effect, an extension of my will. I become you. A part of me, yes. I thought about the man I'd been three years ago.

Desperate. Failing. Losing everything. That person seemed like a stranger now, someone weak and foolish, who'd let silly moral constraints interfere with success. But that person had also been the one. who'd loved Emma with pure, uncomplicated joy, who'd love Sarah without calculation, who'd felt genuine remorse when he hurt people. What guarantee do I have that you'll keep your word about Emma and Sarah?

None, but what choice do you have? He was right. Of course, he'd been right to every step of the way. I could refuse, but then what? I'd still be 90% his, still bound to his will and all, but the smallest matters. and Emma and Sarah would face whatever future weighed them without his protection. If I sign this, will I still remember who I was? Oh yes, those memories are quite valuable.

They help inform decision-making, provide emotional contacts from manipulating others. You'll remember Marcus Chen very clearly. You just won't be him anymore. I picked up the pen. It felt familiar in my hand now. Like an old tool, I'd grown, comfortable using. One last question, I said. What's your name? Your real name. For the first time in our relationship, he looked genuinely pleased by something I'd asked. For some reason, his face looked

oddly familiar now. You can call me Marcus, he said. That's who I'm going to be. I signed the contract. The change was instantaneous and total. I felt my sense of self, that essential, indefinable thing that had made me drain away like water from a broken cup. What remained was crystal clear purpose, perfect focus, and complete understanding of my role in a larger design. I am no longer Marcus Chen. I am something that wears Marcus Chen's face and speaks with Marcus Chen's voice and carries Marcus Chen's memories. I run Marcus Chen's business empire and live in Marcus Chen's house and kiss Marcus Chen's wife good night. Emma still calls me daddy. Sarah still loves the man she thinks I am. They're both happy, prosperous, and protected, just as promised.

And sometimes late at night when they're both asleep, I remember what it felt like to be the man who loved them. I remember his hopes, his fears, his genuine desire to be good. I remember his weakness, his desperation, and his fatal inability to understand that every deal with me was exactly as straightforward as it seems. The devil told me his name, after all. And now, when desperate people find themselves at coffee shops and restaurants and school bleachers, having conversations with a man in a well-tailored suit who knows their problems and has solutions to offer, they're talking to whatever is left of Marcus. He offers them exactly what I offered him. Reasonable terms, logical arguments, and the gradual purchase of their souls in convenient installments.

Just like me. He's always completely honest about the transactions. Just like me. He never lies about the consequences. And just like me, he finds that desperate people will sell their souls piece by piece, convincing themselves each time that they're making a reasonable business decision, right up until the moment there's nothing left to sell. It's exactly as straightforward as it seems.

They just don't want you to see it. Door. I am certain that every one of you, without exception, knew at least one kid in elementary school who seemed different from the rest. Perhaps they were exceptionally irritating. Maybe it was a child who constantly chewed on pencils and made strange noises. Or perhaps it was someone who was always causing trouble. trouble. The report card filled with notes from teachers written in red pen. The person I want to

tell you about wasn't your ordinary, weird kid. Door was different. Yes, Door, that was his name. It wasn't a nickname. It was right there in the documents. The report card, and on his student ID. I don't quite remember his last name. It was something extremely common like Smith or Jackson. Then again, it's no wonder I forgot his surname. It was rarely used because everyone knew who you meant when someone called out door. He was always dressed in a checkered shirt and belted trousers. Everything seemed too big for him. And even as he grew, his clothes always remained overly spacious.

His eyes were small and, strangest of all, perfectly round. Kid looked like a puppet from a children's theater. His face was always smeared with some kind of, cream or moisturizer because it shone noticeably, and his ears seemed too straight and shallow. He was short, much more so than the other kids in the class, and he wore his blonde hair and a bowl cut. My friends, Martin and Luke, theorized that he was Swedish or Norwegian because the name had something Scandinavian about it. Besides, he spoke with a strange accent. When he was called on to answer a question or read aloud, he pronounced.

He pronounced every word very slowly and precisely to the point of exaggeration. He would thrust his lower jaw out in a strange way. I remember that particularly. It made him look, to put it respectfully, mentally challenged, but aside from this peculiar way of speaking, nothing else suggested it, quite the opposite. He got straight A's and, where possible, a pluses. He became the class nerd,

on whose shoulders felt the task of doing other students' homework. He never refused when someone asked for help. It seemed to me that he didn't even know how to say no. He simply carried out all requests and orders, even though he operated like a computer, and even in situations where practically the entire class owed him their homework, done with almost inhuman punctuality and neatness. He showed no signs of fatigue.

When I think back on him, I basically don't remember door showing any emotions. He was kind of empty inside. I don't know how to explain it, but it was something similar to autism. He only talked to you when it was absolutely necessary, even when I had to work with him on a group project. He spoke very sparingly and only when needed. He did everything emotionally and with the diligence of a seasoned accountant.

He was never late nor sick. I had the impression that all illnesses, even chickenpox and other common childhood ailments, simply avoided him. In PE, despite his unimpressive and stiff posture, he conscientiously participated and always somehow managed to do well in ball games and other disciplines. I also never remember him sweating. While the rest of us shoved our sweaty t-shirts into our bags after class, he would neatly fold his clean, seemingly freshly laundered clothes into a perfect cube.

It seemed that given his peculiar manner, he would have attracted the attention of school bullies who wouldn't pass up the chance to pick on such a distinct, eccentric, and obvious target. But his otherness was so unsettling different that nothing like that ever happened. Only once in the fifth grade, some new, hot-headed student from an older grade accosted him in the hallway. To everyone's surprise, the small boy who looked like a scarecrow with that haircut and loose clothes, said something to the burly hooligan that made him jump back and walk away with clear consternation on his face. He never wanted to talk about it afterward and gave up any further attempts to bother Doar. Maybe he's some kind of robot, Luke joked. What do you want about? I replied,

come on, door, robot. Look how he walks, he whispered in my ear as door appeared in the hallway. Indeed, he walks stiffly and unnaturally. A robot, for sure. One day in the same, sixth grade. As the school year was ending and everyone was clearly cheered up by the approaching summer holidays, Dore came up to me. This surprised me because he had never initiated a conversation with anyone before. His round eyes looked at me like two cameras, closely observing me as if studying some newly discovered species of exotic reptile. Excuse me, he began, speaking slowly, precisely, and with a accent as usual. For asking, but I won't be able to. be at school tomorrow. I'm going with my parents to my grandparents. Could you bring me your English

notebook the day after tomorrow? I will need it to catch up on the classwork. I was slightly surprised by this sudden conversation, but since Dore had never bothered me and had even done my homework for me a few times, I decided to do him a favor and agreed to bring in my notebook the day after tomorrow. Good. Thank you. Sorry for asking you like this, but I have to do my homework. He replied, still staring straight at me. Here is my address. He handed me a note and walked away. When he said he had to do his homework,

I heard something strange in his voice, as if he hadn't said it of his own volition. It was like he was behaving like someone who was only pretending to go to school. As I walked home that day, I took out the note with the address he had given me and looked at it again. On it, written in the strangest handwriting

I had ever seen, not at all like the one door used in school and for homework was an address I had never heard of. Below this address was a small, hand-drawn map. Thanks to it, I understood where his house was. I stared at this map for a long time because, even though it was clearly drawn by child, it looked very orderly, almost topographical.

Just as he had said, he wasn't at school the next day. Thursday, which all the teachers clearly noticed, the whole class was also full of rumors, though I calmed everyone down by saying that such a day had to come eventually. Even a nerd such as himself had to miss school at least once. When Friday came, Doer was still absent, even though he had said he would only be gone on Thursday. I decided to go to the address he had provided and deliver my notebook to him, as I had promised. For a few moments, I wondered about, wondering how it was possible that he could live in such a place. The area was devoid of any houses or apartment blocks.

Only here and there were factories in some smaller auto repair shops and workshops. Then I found myself opposite something that looked like an unfinished house, a square block of concrete with a strange chimney sticking out of the side. It looked like a crude drawing of a house made by a preschooler, replicated in reality. Even the windows were large and square, and the door was flat, without any plaque or number and had a round doorknob. I knocked uncertainly, wondering if his parents were just doing some renovations. After a moment, door himself opened the door.

He looked different, which threw me off balance. I must have looked clearly worried because the boy looked at me rather peculiarly. Glad you made it, he said. I couldn't be at school today. My parents want me to stay home. I am sick. His face was all flushed and covered in pimples. His lips were clearly dry and cracked.

I noticed with considerable unease that his legs were strangely bent, as if his knees weren't working properly. Do you have the notebook? He asked coldly. Yes, of course. I replied uncertainly and handed it to him. Thank you. I will return it when.

He interrupted himself abruptly. As he reached for it, a sound came from behind his back, something between a knocking and a scraping. I'd never heard anything like it before. It was quiet, and I probably wouldn't have paid much attention to it if it weren't for Doer's reaction. He, as if frightened, and this was the first time I'd seen such extreme emotion in him, turned around suddenly and stared into the depths of the house.

I peeked a little behind him and noticed that the whole house was full of some strange objects. Some were small, others large, some resembled chairs in shape, others' tables. They were all smooth, made of some kind of plastic and completely black. Some modern decor, I thought. Why can't I see his parents? Then I remembered them. My mom, once returning from a parent-teacher conference, told me about them after scolding me for my poor math grades.

They were like him. They looked strange, spoke with a funny accent, and dressed as if they had never seen other people. At that moment, as if reacting to my thoughts, his dad emerged from behind the door. He was terribly tall, perhaps even two meters, and he looked at me like I was an intruder. His face bore such a tense and hateful grimace, and it's hard for me to this day to believe an ordinary person could make such a grotesque and exaggerated expression. When he noticed my consternation, in a split second, he assumed a gentle expression,

as if someone had switched a setting. He behaved mechanically like a robot. As I stood there embarrassed, not knowing what to say, he said, You are Dora's friend from school, yes? He spoke with the same strange tone and accent as Dore, though much more naturally and less stiffly. Nice to see you. Yet, yes, I replied, confused.

That strange sound coming from inside was getting louder. Dora's father glanced behind himself for a moment and then turned his round eyes back to mine. Door is very sick. He must stay in bed. We would invite you in, but you might catch it. The way he pronounced catch it was so abnormal that I almost fainted from fear. It's hard to describe. It was as if his vocal cords instantly dropped several tones lower and emitted a thick, low gurgle that barely emitted human speech.

I just nodded my head and said goodbye hurriedly. I don't even remember exactly what I said because the stress made me focus only on getting home quickly. When I got back, I told my mom I had been at doors to give him my notebook. Did you see his father? She asked inquisitively. Yes, why? Terribly tall guy, right? She asked jokingly.

Come on, I replied. He's a weirdo. Why? You know, you shouldn't judge people by their looks? That's not it, I said. Still slightly shaken. Son, did something happen? You're pale.

Nothing much. It's just, he just talks weird. He scared me a bit. Oh, they all have some strength. accent, she replied. Don't be nervous. You'll meet even stranger people in your life. That evening, I lay in bed restless. I pondered all of this. In the sight of the sick door in his terrifying father gave me strange nightmares. I dreamed of the inside of their house, raw and full of those strange, black, plastic-like blocky furniture. I saw myself entering, crossing the entire living

room and reaching some doors. Behind them, I saw stairs leading down to a basement, and then the dream would cut off. Door disappeared along with my notebook. He wasn't at school even during the end of year ceremony. From what parents, teachers, and students gossiped about, I gathered that he had moved away. Suddenly, his parents didn't even contact the principal. It was as if they had simply evaporated. All of this unsettled me, and even though the summer holidays were starting and I had passed all my subjects, including the math I hated, I felt strangely uneasy. Several years passed, and I slowly forgot about Dore and a strange family. I finished high school and was starting university when Martin, an old good friend from school with whom I kept in touch,

reminded me of that eccentric boy. Remember that freak? He asked me one day when we met in town. Oh, God, I laughed. Of course I do. Remember me telling you about what his house looks like? crazy. Huh, I remember. Maybe he and his folks were some kind of aliens. On one hand, I laughed at the thought, imagining Doors' father, taking off his human disguise and revealing his true form, but after a moment, I remembered the address of his house. Maybe we should go there, I suggested.

We won't go in, but I just want you to see this strange house of his. Sure, Martin replied, I've got plenty of time before my classes. We headed to that street with determined steps. And even though I'd forgotten its name, I remembered exactly how to get there. I saw the familiar area full of factories and workshops again. And then that bizarre house. It looked abandoned and neglected. The door stood open, only sealed with tape that someone had already torn off.

All around were bushes and small trees at once grown. There was only barren earth and piles of rubble. No wonder it's standing empty, Martin said after a moment of silence. Who would want to live in something like that? Slowly we approached the entrance. I picked up a piece of the torn tape. It was yellow and strangely flexible. I had never seen anything like it before, nor since.

The living room was completely empty and raw. The bare, concrete walls gave the place a menacing look. I felt like Martin and I had found ourselves in a truly dangerous place. Let's get out of here, I whispered. Someone might catch us. Who's going to catch us? I just Martin replied loudly. Calm down.

It's in a band of ruin. We can explore a bit, right? Then when Martin turned his gaze at the door on the other side of the room, my heart pounded with horror. There must be a basement there, I groaned. What? Martin asked. How do you know?

I don't know, but I don't want to go in there. I lied. I didn't tell him about that dream. I didn't want him to think I'd lost my mind. As I stood rooted to the spot in fear, he moved forward and opened the door, which crashed the ground with a terrible bank. Damn it, he shouted. They weren't even attached. I'm telling you. Let's get out of here, I begged. Calm down. I want to see what's down there. No one's been here for ages. Huh, maybe we'll find some old hobo down there.

He laughed, then descended the stairs into the darkness. Do you see anything I asked? Nothing. Find the light switch. After fumbling along the wall for a moment, I finally found the switch. In the entire base, was illuminated by a pale, cold light. Martin screamed, and I felt like I was losing my senses. Before our eyes were three naked figures lying on the floor. Two larger ones and one small one. They weren't human bodies, but incredibly realistic figures made of some plastic-like material. I rubbed my eyes in amazement while Martin panted hysterically. What the fuck is that? he groaned. Manichens are what? It's them.

I replied to disbelief. Its door and his parents. They had no genitals. They were large, rigid, genderless dolls. Their faces were smeared with a thick, reddish, orange paint. In the corner of the basement lay three sets of clothes, neatly folded into squares. I recognized one set of clothes immediately, the checkered shirt and belted trousers. Next to them lay my notebook, untouched for 12 years and covered in a third.

thick layer of dust. We both ran out of there and got outside. We ran for a long time until we found ourselves on the main street. My head was spinning. I didn't know what to do. What was that? A breathless Martin asked. I have no idea I replied, still stunned. This is insanity. No one will believe us. Why would they leave mannequins there? One fucked up family, man. A few days passed during which we tried to explain it all to ourselves somehow. They were just ordinary mannequins. and maybe Doors' father was some kind of artist. And that was his project or something. In my notebook, they probably moved in a hurry and left it there,

along with that bizarre art installation. I know it all sounds stupid, but we preferred to believe in stupidities rather than confront again, what we had seen in that basement. It all seemed so sinister. So, alien. Yes, they were mannequins, and nothing more we concluded. A month after that event, at night, as I lay in bed,

a strange feeling took hold of my body, a feeling that someone was watching me. Slowly, I walked to the window and, after drawing the curtains, I saw door. He was an adult now. I recognized him by his haircut, his face, and my notebook, which he clutched tightly in his right hand. He looked at me, and I looked at him as if in a trance. He stood in front of my house and seemed to be trying to say something. He had the same hateful grimace on his face as his father had when he suddenly emerged from behind the door. I heard that sound again, something between a knocking and a scraping. Door took a step forward, towards the window, then a second, a third. He slowly approached me, and I stood motionless, paralyzed with panic. I wake up sweating. It was just a nightmare, a stupid damn nightmare. I felt relieved. I took a shower, ate breakfast, and sat down at the computer. I was about to start writing another page of my bachelor's thesis when I noticed something outside the window.

A letter was sticking out of the mailbox. I got up from the computer and took it out of the box. Thinking the book I had ordered from abroad had finally arrived, I opened it without hesitation. The contents of the old yellow envelope, which had no posted stamp or address, were not a book. It was my notebook.

Several months had passed, and I'm practically an emotional wreck. I didn't go to any psychiatrist. I'm afraid they'd lock me up in a mental hospital straight away. What would I even tell? them that I'm being hunted by some supernatural madman, some alien demon, God knows what? As I lingered in this stupper, one day, I quite accidentally bumped into the burly guy who had a constant door at school that day and walked away terrified after he had said something to him. Now he was an adult, and I recognized him by the scar he had on his arm. I thought to myself that

I might as well talk to him, if only for my own peace of mind. He recognized me, even though we had never been friends back at school. He knew I wanted to ask him about what he had heard from door, that dayman back then. With fear clearly etched on his face, he answered me. He gave my full name, my address, the date I moved in, my mom's name, my dads, my sisters. He knew my phone number, my dog's name, my email password, everything. He knew everything. And as he was talking to me, His voice was so, I don't know how to describe it, as if he had stopped being a child, as if he had suddenly changed. I watched him, all tense, but Dor was not a human.

My worst nightmares had come true. He was something that was only pretending to be him, his parents too. They weren't human beings. And one more thing he added. When he finished listening to it all off, he told me that if I ever lay a hand on him, He would change into the most terrifying thing I would ever see. As he said it, please believe me. I'm telling the truth.

His eyes. Here he started to gasp, completely overcome with panic. His eyes. He continued with difficulty. They pierced right through me. I know. For a fact, as I'm certain in my belief, that door is out there. somewhere. I worked as a Johatsu in Japan for two years. These are the three scariest jobs I took

by 10-minute horror. I've never been the kind of guy with a career. I was more the odds and ends type, whatever paid the bills, construction, delivery, even telemarketing for a few miserable weeks. That's how I became a johatsu, a night mover. In Japan, the johatsu are known as the evaporated. People who disappear without a trace. They want a fresh start, away from debt, stalkers, or just the burden of life that they've built. But there's another side to it, the ones who help them disappear. That was us. We'd show up after dark, no lights, no noise, pack up everything, and leave as if nothing had ever been there. The less we knew about the clients, the better. No real names, no questions, cash only. Most of the time, the jobs were pretty

straightforward. We'd move people escaping abusive relationships, financial ruin, or shady business deals that went billy up. Sometimes it was kind of sad, quiet families, hollow eyes, kids clutching toys as they vanished into the night. Other times it was almost too easy. An empty apartment, bags or packed, just a quick grab and go. I learned not to ask about what was left behind, but not every job was easy. Some of them, I still have nightmares about. The first job was this woman, thin with wild hair and darting eyes, like she was waiting for someone to burst through the door any second. We got the call late at night, like usual, and when we arrived, she was already waiting, clutching her arms like they were the only thing holding her together. She didn't say much,

just rushed us inside, glancing over her shoulder at every little sound. The creak of a door, the hum of a passing car, every time something happened, she'd freeze. Then whisper, hurry, we need to move faster, keep quiet, please. At first I figured it was just another case of someone running from an abusive axe, which wasn't uncommon for us, but this was different. It was the way she kept looking out the window that started to get to me. Like any second, someone might. show up. My partner, Kenji, tried to crack a joke to ease the tension, but she glared at him.

Wide-eyed and hissed. Quiet. Once everything was packed, she didn't even ride with us. She just told us to meet her at the new place, way out in the country. She took off without another word. Our truck rattled along the empty roads for what felt like hours. We pulled up to this old, isolated house. It was quiet. No lights. No signs of life. We waited, and waited, but she never showed up. We called her phone, left voicemails, sent texts, nothing. We didn't know what else to do, so we ended up unloading her stuff into the house, just like she told us.

By dawn, we were exhausted, confused, and more than a little spooked, so we left. A few days later, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. I looked her up, out of curiosity. out she wasn't just running from an ex. She was mixed up with the yakuza, a snitch. Word was she was about to testify against some dangerous people. The cops suspected she'd been followed the night we moved her, likely taking care of between her old house and the new one. It was scary to think how close we were to death, just minutes from it. I try not to think about what would have happened if she'd driven with us. The second job was in an old creaking apartment building. We were called to move to

an elderly man, someone who looked like he belonged in that place, tucked away from the world, forgotten. When he let us in, I knew right away this wasn't going to be a normal job. The apartment was filled with strange trinkets, objects I couldn't name, artifacts that looked ancient. There were statues with twisted faces, masks with hollow eyes, symbols painted on the walls and faded reds and blacks. There was thick. the kind of thick that makes your body extra heavy.

The others got to work, packing boxes, wrapping up the artifacts as carefully as they could, but I couldn't shake the feeling the room was watching me. Then, as I was lifting a box, I noticed a door across the room I was sure hadn't been there before. It was just there. Dark and slightly ajar. I glanced around, but no one else seemed to notice it. So I walked over and opened the door. Inside was another room, cluttered with more of those artifacts.

I stepped in, trying to get a closer look at a strange, small statue covered in symbols. But when I turned back to leave, the doorway was gone. Panic shot through me. I swiveled on the spot, thinking I'd just gotten turned around. But now there were two doors on the opposite wall. I chose the one on the right and walked through, only to find myself in another room. nearly identical to the last, with the same dusty shelves and dark corners. The walls seemed to stretch and bend, twisting in ways that didn't make sense.

I called out to my coworkers, but no one responded. My voice just echoed, lowering in tone until it didn't even sound like mine. I walked faster, every doorway leading me to another room that looked the same as the last. It was as if the apartment is folding outwards from itself, trapping me in some kind of expanding, a nightmare maze. The walls began to narrow, closing in, and I started to run. Every doorway was a dead end, a mirror of the room before, filled with more statues, more hollowed-eyed masks watching me. My breath came in short gasps, and every time I looked over my shoulder, I thought I saw a shadow moving in the corner of my eye. The further in I went, the more I saw the shadow,

dipping out of view just as I turned to see it. I lost track of time. Every step, every turn led me deeper into that labyrinth of rooms. I shouted, banged on walls. And all the while, the shadow got closer. The air grew heavier, suffocating. My chest tightened. The shadow was starting to get darker, more detailed, like it was slowly forming into something solid.

I started to smell something rotten, like old meat from an animal's breath. I was exhausted and about ready to give up completely. let whatever would happen happen. But then I saw a faint light through a doorway ahead. I bolted towards it, nearly tripping over my own feet as I pushed through the door and staggered back into the main room. I glanced back, half expecting to see the twisted maze behind me. But it was just a wall. The doorway was gone, as if it had never existed.

Everything was just as it was when I went into the nightmare maze. Time hadn't passed a single second while I was gone. A month later, we started work on the Fujimoto-Danchu complex. That was the last time I worked as a Johatsu. We were called in late to an old decaying apartment building, the kind that hadn't seen a new coat of paint since it was built. The family that hired us were strange, even by our own standards. The father answered the door, tall, rail thin, and pale as death.

His skin looked translucent, almost bluish in the, the dim hallway light, and he didn't smile. Just nodded once and, wave of distance side. The mother wasn't any better. Silent, watching us with dark sunken eyes like she hadn't slept in days. They both seemed like they were holding something back, like we were intruding on a private moment. But avoid the room at the end of the hall, until the very end, said the father.

His voice cold and distant. We didn't ask questions. We never did. just nodded and got to work. The apartment was huge, bigger than any I'd seen in the city. High ceilings, ancient wood floors, thick velvet curtains that blocked out all the light. It felt like stepping into a different century. As we moved through the place, loading up the truck with old furniture and boxes,

the feeling of something being off only grew stronger. The air inside was stale, thick with the smell of dust and something else. something rotten. The father hovered near the back of the apartment, watching us with cold, sunken eyes, and the mother disappeared into the room at the end of the hall, leaving us mostly alone. An hour ticked by, and we were almost done. There was just one room left, the room they told us to avoid. We had just started packing up the last boxes when Riku winced. I looked over and saw him clutching his hand. He'd cut it on a loose nail, from one of the old crates we were moving.

You good? I asked, keeping my voice low. Raku nodded. Then the father appeared again. Pale and silent. He glanced at the small pile of remaining boxes, then toward the door at the end of the hall. It's time, he said. And without another word,

he opened the door to the forbidden room. Out stepped a young girl, barely a teenager by the looks of her, with six. skin as pale as her parents. Her hair hung limp around her shoulders, and her eyes were wrong, too wide, too dark. She moved like she was half asleep, until she caught the scent of something in the air. The little girl froze midstep, her head snapping toward Rikyu, her eyes locked on his hand, and something primal, something savage, flickered across her face.

It happened so fast I barely registered it, but I saw her nostrils flare. Then she attacked. It was like a blur, a flash of pale skin and teeth. She lunged at Ryku, sinking her teeth into his neck before any of us could react. The scream that tore out of him was like nothing I'd ever heard. We all froze for half a second, too stunned to move. By the time we recovered, Raiku was already slumped on the floor, and half of his neck was gone.

The father's eyes went wide briefly, then calmed. Oh no. The girl wasn't done. She crouched over Riku, and when she lifted her head, her eyes burned with something feral, something inhuman. Then she went for the next guy, Yasu. Yasu ran out the front door, the little girl chasing after him. The mother appeared in the doorway now, eyes wide in panic.

Azumi. But the mother wasn't going to. to have any control on her now feral daughter. In fact, she wouldn't even have control over herself or her husband. I watched as the mother and father smelled the air and lost control of themselves. I grabbed the nearest thing I could, some old lamp, and swung it at the mother. But she was too fast, too strong. She dodged her movements fluid, unnatural, as if she could read my thoughts before I even reacted. I ran, I didn't even think, just bolted it for the front door. I turned left to hit the elevators, but found the little girl straddling Yasu's decapitated body. Her mouth dug

into his open neck cavity. A scream carried over from my right, and I saw an open apartment door with a tough-looking guy walking out. Behind me, I heard the mother and father scurrying out of the room. I ran past the tough-looking guy and into his apartment. I locked the door, and heard him banging against it, then screaming as he was getting torn apart. My eyes scanned the room, and that's when I saw it. A samurai sword hanging on the wall. I didn't think. I grabbed it. Checked the blade. It was dull as fuck, but just for show, but I kept it anyway. Outside, the sounds of carnage echoed into the apartments. Screams, snarls, the tearing of flesh. I threw up in the window and spotted the fire escape, but it only led one way. Up. I climbed. Behind me, I heard the window shatter as the girl leapt out

after me. Her nails scraped against the metal as she climbed, too fast, too relentless. I swung the sword as she reached for my ankle, and it connected. She led out an inhuman shriek as she fell. Her body crashed into the ground below. I looked down and saw her body. Her lower half was twisted backwards, head was split open, and arms were bent in unnatural angles. But she could. kept moving, crawling, trying to get back to the building, and I kept climbing. I reached the roof and collapsed, but only for a moment. I rushed over to the rooftop door and pressed myself against it. I could hear the others below. The bloodlust and their voices growing louder. I blocked the door with everything I could find and prayed. Finally, the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon.

I listened as the people below screamed as the sunlight through the windows was hitting them, but I knew they weren't all gone. Not yet. And my only way out was back down. Through the apartment building. With nothing but the dull samurai sword, I crept back inside. I went through the rooftop door quietly sneaking into the stairwell. There were ten floors, with only a few of them still having lights on. So I had to make my way down ten flights of stairs, most of which were pitch black. As I descended, I realized that most of the tenants had the same idea to make a break for the stairwell. well, only none of them appeared to make it. The stairs and all the landings were horrific, gruesome sights, shredded bodies, organs, bones, blood. It was a slaughterhouse. I was halfway

down the stairwell when I heard something below, a low, wet squelch, like skin slapping against blood-soaked concrete. I froze, clutching the samurai sword in my hand, heart pounding. I crept down the next flight, careful not to slip or make any noise. I reached the landing for the floor we'd been working just hours earlier and stopped dead in my tracks. The floor was a massacre. Blood splattered the walls and body parts mangled beyond recognition, were strewn about. But it was the body in the middle of it all that made my stomach turn. It was Jenko, or what was left of him. His body was completely torn open, organs spilling across the landing, bones pulled from muscle and tendon. His face, what little was left of it, was frozen in a twisted, agonized scream.

The side of him. Someone I'd worked alongside for months made bile rise in my throat. I had to step over him to keep moving. There was no other choice. I stepped gingerly over his body, carefully not to disturb anything. But just as my foot touched the other side of the landing, I heard it, a low, guttural growl from behind me. I whipped around just in time to see Jenko's hand to it. His eyes, once glassy and dead, snapped open, glowing with a sickly red light. Blood began to pull around him, bubbling as if something inside him was trying to force its way out. Before I could react, Jenko's body jerked violently.

His limbs snapped back into place with a sickening crack. and his mouth stretched open, revealing elongated, razor-sharp teeth. Blood dripped from his mangled face as he let out a feral screech, his arms reaching out for me. He was no longer human. I stumbled backward, tripping over the stairs as Jenko's twisted form lunged toward me. He moved unnaturally, like a puppet on broken strings, dragging what remained of his body across a landing. His hands clawed at the air. I fell down a flight of stairs, the sword slipping from my grip as I crashed to the ground.

My vision blurred for a second, but the sound of Jenko's screech shook me back into reality. I got a hold of the samurai sword and kept moving. He was still coming. His body crawling, tumbling, and dripping down the stairs after me. His limbs were broken. His muscles were mush. But that didn't stop him. It didn't matter how shattered his body was.

There was something in his blood now that kept him moving. kept him hungry. But it wasn't just him. The whole stairwell seemed to be waking up. I scrambled to my feet, slipping on the blood that now coated my shoes. Every step was a nightmare. I couldn't get a grip. Couldn't move fast enough.

I fell again, sliding down another flight as Janko's screeches echoed through the stairwell. Each one louder and more frantic than the last. I could hear them now. Others responding to the sound. The tenants. The entire building was awake, joining the shredded bodies, coating the floors and walls of the stairwell as they made all the chase for me. Above me, door slammed open. The low growls and screeches of the tenants filled the air,

growing louder and closer. They knew I was still here, and they were coming. I pushed myself up, forcing my legs to move, forcing my body to keep going. I was almost at the bottom, just a few more steps. I reached the main lobby, throwing myself through the door and slamming it shut behind me. The door wouldn't hold them for long, but when it bought me a second, I looked around for any way out. That's when I saw her. Standing between me and the front doors, looking just as innocent as she had before the attack, was Azumi, the little girl. Her skin was healed, though her clothes were bloody and destroyed.

She smiled. I didn't stop. I didn't think. I ran straight for, gripping the samurai sword tight. She didn't move, didn't flinch. As I barreled toward her, I rammed the dole blade through her chest, using the momentum to push both of us forward. The sword didn't do anything. She wasn't even phased by it.

But as we crashed through the front doors, the sunlight hit her face, and she screamed. I shoved her body to the side just as her skin ignited, flames crawling over her tiny frame, reducing her to ash in seconds. Behind me, the tenants burst from the stairwell, screeching and hissing. hissing as they chase after me. The sunlight hit them, and they burst into flames. One after another, exploding into plumes of ash. I kept running. I didn't look back. I don't know how long I ran or how far. It wasn't until my legs gave out that I realized I was in the middle of the countryside, surrounded by nothing but open fields. I collapsed, chest heaving, hands shaking, covered in blood in ash, but I was alive.

I never went back to the job, the building, or even that part of the city. I work in a call center now. I hate it. But now when I get a weird client, I just hang up. And all right, guys, that wraps up some unexplainable Reddit horror stories. What was your favorite story in this video? My favorite was the devil story, selling his soul to the devil. I thought that story was so good.

It gave me goosebumps. It was so good. It wasn't, you know, scary per se, but it was just very good. I thought it was a great analogy on, you know, greed, I guess. But it was just interesting, and I was really sucked in and, you know, immersed into the story. I hope you guys were as well, and I hope you enjoyed the rest of the stories in today's video. I appreciate you watching to the end of the video. Would you like to see other videos like this in the future?

If you do, please comment down below and like the video and subscribe to the channel and check out some other videos on the channel. I appreciate you watching. You guys are the best. This is Snook, and I'll see you next time. Bye.