Just Ignore It

If you’re into the silly yet eerie strange rule trend on r/nosleep one of my favorites is this story about a cinema usher named Shaun who’s theater has some strange rules he needs to follow. I get why some people would find this repeated trope super annoying but I find some of these stories strangely riveting.

The second half of the second sentence really slaps ya in the face

He went to open his drawer shortly after waking up at 3 AM. When he opened it, however, there was a huge, menacing tarantula that jumped out at him. As he went to bed, terrified, he forgot that his closet was open, the skeleton of the 34 year old man he killed in 1999 was seemingly invisible in the cover of the dangling clothes. It seemed as if it were always looking at him, menacingly, he felt shivers go up his spine when he saw the fear in the man’s eyes flash before his as he was recounting that night in November 1999.

(here is another story I wrote a long time ago)

~~~

Imagine this: You’re just a normal, average guy, right? You take a few college classes here and there, you work a part time job—nothing special.

You work at an old convenience store late at night. It’s usually really slow at that time, so you spend your time reading superhero comic books. Every now and then, a customer might walk in and buy a pack of gum or bandaids or something.

So one night, your shift is nearing an end, and you’re almost done with your comic. You’re slumped back in your chair, feeling groggy.

You hear someone wall in thanks to the soft ring of the bell hanging over the door.

“Welcome,” you call out, eyes still glued to your book.

The stranger doesn’t respond, but many don’t, so you don’t think much of it.

Five minutes pass when the lights shut off. You curse under your breath as you set down your comic on the counter. It’s only when you look up, you realize it.

The stranger is standing right in front of you, right at the counter. How long was he there?

It’s impossible to see him clearly in the dark, even with the streetlights shining in from outside. He seems to be wrapped in a long, black trench coat, and his head is covered in a hoodie coming from under it. You can’t see his face, except for his eyes. You don’t know if you’re imagining it, but they appear to glow a sickly yellow and are lined with dark red veins.

You’re frozen. Your heart’s racing, but you can’t move. It felt like time itself had stopped.

Finally, logic enters your brain, and you jump from your chair. Stop looking at me like that! You don’t actually say it, but you almost do.

“I’m so sorry, it’s just a power outage, I’ll call someone. Sir? Are you okay?” you ask.

He doesn’t reply. You fumble for a flashlight.

So you continue. “I’m sorry about all this. This has never happened before, really. Can I borrow your phone?”

The lights flicker back on. You blink, struggling to adjust for a moment, when you realize it.

The man is gone.

Over the next few weeks, you keep seeing figures out in public that you swear is him. You catch him on a bridge up ahead, or disappearing behind a building at the corner of your eye.

You must have been tired that night, you need to keep telling yourself. So why do I keep seeing him?

You try to ignore the lingering figure. You pretend you don’t see it. But it’s getting harder and harder.

And he’s getting closer, and closer.

You become more terrified as time oasses. You scroll through the internet for hours, and flip through dozens of books. No answers..

You sleep with all the light on and a baseball bat under your bed—if you can even sleep at all.

He’s like a disease eating you. You begin to get weaker and weaker, and soon, you fall ill.

The thought of being stuck in bed scares you. You can’t run. And he knows this.

You ignore the doctor’s order to stay in bed, and one day, you pass out. You wake up in a hospital. You’re relieved to be surrounded by nurses and doctors.

You’re eating dinner one night when the power shuts off.

You press the button to call the nurse, but nothing happens. No lights, no sound, no nurse.

The room is getting colder and colder. You scream for a nurse. The feeling of alone-ness increases.

You’re relieved to head the door open. You say “Nurse! Thank you! There’s been a power outa-“

Glowing, yellow eyes.

He’s watching you, right at the foot of the bed. Towering over you.

“Who are you?l you scream. “Leave me alone!”

The figure doesn’t move. The room is getting colder, and it feels like your fingers are going to fall off. You scramble to get up out of bed, to run. Instead, you pummel right onto the ground.

The figure kneels in front of you, and you let out another blood-curdling scream. He takes off his hoodie.

And you see your own, smiling face staring right back at you.

~~~

Other stories by me:

No story today, appreciate this artwork

Art by Vincenzo Lamolinara

Those Green Eyes

I’ve never thought about the possibility of a break-in before.

I mean, sure. I know it happens. Some of my friends had experienced it before, quite unfortunately.

It’s just not something you ever think could happen to you.

Plus, my house doesn’t stand out as anything special in our cookie cutter neighborhood. It’s not those incredibly wealthy neighborhoods hidden behind a gate, probably a goldmine of expensive valuables. But it’s also a really nice neighborhood with such a low crime rate.

So yeah, I didn’t consider a break-in as a possibility.

Until that one summer night, when I was twelve, and my brother was fourteen.

I had my friend, Craig, over for a sleepover. My brother and I stayed up late playing Roblox lying on our stomachs in front of the warm, living room fireplace. Craig had his ipad, I was using the family computer that we’d unplugged and moved onto the floor, and my brother was using his tiny laptop. Our parents were upstairs sleeping, leaving only us three awake.

After beating us at a few rounds of Survive the Tornado, my brother got up and stretched. “I’m taking a break.”

Before anyone could reply, a strange noise left us all frozen in complete silence.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Like a fingernail on a windowpane.

It had come from the window on the front door.

“What was that?” Craig hissed.

“Maybe it was nothing.” I tried to insist, but my voice quivered in fear.

Tap tap tap. This time, we all stared at each other, terror etched onto our faces. I kept my gaze locked on my older brother, whose jaw jutted out. He does this whenever he's deep in thought.

I considered running upstairs to grab our parents, but the stairs were right in front of the door. My heart pounded in my chest as if warning me to get out of there.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK! Following the noise was a cracked, flickering groan, undead-like in its intonation.

We didn’t hesitate. My brother scooped up the old family dog who’d been lying peacefully next to us in a deep sleep, and the three of us bolted away towards the closest bathroom.

The small place only had a toilet and a sink. My brother locked the door behind us and we all crouched in the crowded area.

We remained in total darkness and silence, except for our heavy breaths.

And then the dog growled. Low and deep from my brother’s arms.

“What’s wrong with her?” Craig hissed fearfully. He almost sounded like he was about to cry.

Tap tap tap. There it was again, on the tiny bathroom window, which regrettably had no blinds or curtains covering the pitch-black night.

The dog started barking. Scratchy, angry barks, not the playful kind she used to greet someone at the door.

And from the pitch blackness of the window, two bright green eyes stared down at us.

We all screamed. In our scramble, I don’t remember who locked the door, but we all rushed out at once, bounding straight through the darkened living room and up the stairs, until finally reaching our parents' room.

With the family dog still tight in his arms, my brother tried to explain that someone was stalking the house. One of our dads grabbed a baseball bat and flounced outside around the house, and the other comforted us in their room after calling the cops.

My dad found the gate leading to the backyard wide open. So was our garage, even though we’d never heard it open.

Some of the boxes we kept in storage inside of it were tipped over, but we couldn’t tell if anything had been stolen.

A gruff police officer talked to the dad who had stayed inside with us about the incident, taking down notes.

“Did you see what the perpetrator looked like?” He asked me.

I tried to respond, but I was too distracted by his familiarly shiny green eyes.

~~~

Based off of a short story I wrote when I was younger.

A really silly story I wrote as a kid.

Killer Korner

When I told him what street I was going on, he shook his head and called me an idiot. I didn't care for his opinion though. He's just my boss. So I walked.

I liked walking. It calmed me down. I had done it through many streets.

But, I had never walked down this street before.

It was called Stonecrystal Lane. Sounds magical.

It's not.

Everyone in my town knows that. It was a small town, called GreevesVille.

No one in GreevesVille would go near Stonecrystal Lane. Why? Why don't you ask one of the twenty four dead bodies found on that street? That's right. It is a murder street. That's where it got it's nickname, Killer Korner.

The police say there could be other explanations than murder. Please, GreevesVille, the billions of stab marks found on the victims and I would like to disagree. Either they are too embarrassed to admit they can't find the killer, hiding the fact that they still go out in the middle of the night and cut people up, or just doesn't care. GreevesVille doesn't exactly have the best police force out there.

Maybe it seems childish to blame the police on these murders. Well maybe it is. But it's better than no theory at all, right?

Anyways, you're probably wondering why I'm going on a slaughter street. Hey, Slaughter Street.

That's good.

Anyway, everyone in this town would call it stupid. Well, maybe it is.

Maybe I shouldn't have walked into the depths of Killer Korner, hands shoved in my pockets, whistling as I completely ignored the warnings in my brain. But I had already decided, Hey, why not?

I meant, it's not like everybody who goes on the street get butchered up. Unless only twenty-four people have gone on that street, which is doubtful. It's not like it was called Killer Korner since day one, It was Stonecrystal Lane. And no way only twenty-four people would go on a street called Stonecrystal Lane in ten years. But, anyways...

Maybe I should've brought a weapon.

A pocket knife. A switch blade. Even a glass bottle to break the bottom when I hear something.

Maybe I shouldn't have gone unarmed.

Or at all.

But a murder hasn't been committed in two years. Of course, no one has been on that street in two years, but hey, maybe the killer got bored and left. Maybe.

It was when I heard a noise when I wanted that pocket knife. That switchblade. That glass bottle to break the end. But, all I had was a piece of string.

Then I realized how paranoid I was being. It was a leaf crunching under my feet.

I continued, though I still scanned the dump, hoping to find something to defend myself with. Who knows what could be laying around in a street kids dubbed Killer Korner.

I sucked in a nervous breath, and glanced around. Slaughter Street wasn't too bad. Yes, the eerie quietness does send chills down your spine, and the empty, broken down, abandoned houses sends a shiver through your bones. The loneliness making you want to dash off running.

But, if you ignore all that, it's not such a bad place. Then again, maybe it was a dump.

I continued my trek down the creepy street.

I heard a footsteps. And froze.

What was that?!

I slowly turned around.

Next time I decide to go down a street with the name of Killer Korner, please convince me not to. Convince me before I have a tall, masked, bloody being staring back at me. Before I'm staring at a white, blood-stained mask that covers everything except those dark, brown, blood-lustful eyes, and my petrified reflection staring back at me from a monstrous-sized knife.

It was when the hulking blade hurled towards me, a thought struck me before the sharp steel did:

It didn't matter what the street was called.

Stonecrystal Lane.

Killer Korner.

Slaughter Street.

GreeveVille's Butcher house.

Or even Gummy Bear Boulevard.

Those facts didn't mattered.

The facts that did matter, though, was that in a small town, on a small street, twenty-five corpses will have touched the dulled asphalt. No one to be punished for their macabre crime.

And if you ignore everyone's warnings, too, then well, twenty-six.

One of my favorite short stories ever is this Creepypasta called Shut that Damned Door by WriterJosh. Highly recommend you read (or listen) late at night in the dark when you’re super tired

That night, I tossed and turned in my bed, sweating, as visions of the tooth-framed orifice in the center of my mother’s face descending on that sandwich visited my dreams over and over: the unsticking of the dry flesh of her lips as they parted, the soft click of her tongue as it released from the roof of her mouth and extended fully to wrap like a coil around the bread and meat before retracting quickly back between her mandibles. Every time the motions of her snatching the sandwich repeated, her teeth became elongated, sharper, glistening pearly white. A glint of light bounced off of her fangs, blinding me and sending a metallic ringing through my nerves. The sound of the food being swished around between her cheeks became an unbearable deafening static in my brain.

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Tusk

Short story: a tense horror story about the monsters we hide at home

Read this r/nosleep recently called The Arkansas Experiment by Jared Robberts. I think there’s something so uniquely charming about r/nosleep stories and I thought this one was pretty good.

"would you still love me if I was a worm?"

she said, as she reached for the zipper of her human suit.