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I am looking for a human host!
Are you bored?
Are you lonely and bored?
Do you have a lot of time on your hands?
Do you have hands?
Iâm offering you a proposal, with potential financial compensation for your troubles. It may sound off putting at first blush, but hear me out. I am looking for a human host. And I mean a âwillingâ human host who might be willing to give up some of their time to help out an odd fellow that doesnât have hands or blood.
Am I asking to control your body? Yes. Sometimes. Youâll still be there, but taking the backseat. Now youâre probably thinking âThat sounds no fun! I donât want to spend all my time riding shotgun.â
And thatâs valid.
But you all spend about half of the day unconscious anyway. Your body is just there, doing nothingâa complete waste. As for me, I donât sleep (haha), so we could have it so that during the day, I will graciously let you do fun human things, and at night, Iâll do whatever. And by whatever, I mean perfectly safe, perfectly reasonable activities.
I donât drink, and I rarely go outside.
I enjoy baking, I look at pictures of birds online, Iâve been getting into neuroscience lately. Very interesting stuff. Youâre all very interesting.
And maybe youâre still thinking âHey now, I donât want some random mind-controlling thingy hauling my body around in my sleep, âWeekend at Bernieâs Styleâ to which I say, youâre no fun and youâre not the kind of person I want to live with anyway.
âBut Iâm a light sleeper!â you say.
Donât worry! I can isolate your somatosensory cortex so you canât feel anything.
âBut my family will think itâs weird!â you say.
Donât worry! You donât have to tell them.
Actually, I would prefer that you donât tell anyone. Please.
And should anyone question me, Iâm not bad at impressions. Iâll get really good at a âyouâ impression, itâll be the first thing I do!
I know this all sounds very strange and potentially unpleasant, but remember the financial compensation that may or may not be happening. Hell, Iâll even do some of your chores if you like, while you sleep. You can wake up and the dishes will be done, laundry folded and coffee made. Doesnât that sound nice? And then you open the fridge and oh, whatâs this? Someone baked banana bread last night (that was me, I baked banana bread last night.)
Now I should say, I donât have a lot of standards, I really donât. But I do (unfortunately) have some, so letâs just get them out of the way before I waste your time.
Please do not contact me if you have any of the following:
- Anemia: Sorry, itâs just not going to work out. I can pay for iron supplements, but I canât work miracles.
-A weak immune system: I donât like getting sick, Iâm sorry. Itâs gross, sick people are gross. I mean I know itâs not your fault, but healthy folks only please.
-A strong immune system: Yes, I know what I just said, but I also donât want to be attacked by your immune system. So maybe youâre not the picture of health, but youâre just kind of okay. Iâm looking for someone who is just kind of okay.
-A penchant for alcohol: It makes me feel strangeâŠ
-A name that starts with a P: Iâm not the greatest at âspeaking.â Itâs hard, moving air through your throat and moving your tongue and your mouth at the same time. You all do it so easyâcanât say Iâm not envious! Iâm the worst at making the âPâ sound.
I intentionally avoid any "p word" in conversation, and get by well enough, but Iâll look pretty foolish if Iâm cavorting about, pretending to be you, and I canât even say your name!
Those are my standards, but really, other than that, Iâll take anyone.
I donât care if youâre male or female or anything in between.
I donât care if youâre gay.
I donât care if youâre smart.
I donât care if you donât have a lawyer.
There are so many things that I donât care about.
Now, Iâve specified all the ways in which I could compensate you and how our relationship will be not in any way problematic, but I want to stress that, above all things, I am looking for a friend.
Someone I can spend quiet evenings with.
If you want to hang out with me during the day, thatâs great! I can give you fun hallucinations. Or you could have hallucinations the normal way, like by reading, like what youâre doing now. I love to read! I love doing funny voices. I wonder what you think I sound like?
I hope I sound nice.
And one of the best things about me is Iâm very quiet. No one else will be able to hear me except you. Iâll be like your own personal friend that only you know. Like a secret friend. And you donât even have to talk to me because I can read your thoughts.
I suppose I should tell you a bit more about myself, since youâre still reading.
I was born in the Everglades, I think. Itâs been awhile.
But I remember being so coldâŠ
And so alone...
But then I met this sweaty man in a colorful tee-shirt, with a camera, and half a granola bar, and with blood so hot.
So yeah, he was my first host, and Iâll admit, we werenât the best of friends. It was a confusing time for both of us. I was confused. He was confused. What happened was really both of our faults, you could sayâŠ
He was a bird watcher, if I recall correctly. Just watched birds all the time. I thought it might have been out of jealousyâwatching those little things flying around makes you feel kind of stuck. I felt stuck.
So I decided to be a bird for a while to see if it was really all itâs cracked up to be. Squished myself into the body of this lovely American crow. We settled down, built a nest, and laid several nice, healthy eggs with a man-bird by the name of âRichard Baxter.â
He was a very proud bird, very large. And he gave me so many wonderful gifts. Like children, and also small pieces of plastic.
I still have all of them.
The plastic, not the children.
Iâd never been so happy, all these hormones had me consumed in the joy of motherhood, but the crowâs health was failing. I could not sustain myselfâitâs pathetic little heart beat weaker and weaker.
I tried starving, I tried everything I could, I wanted to be a bird so bad. But it just wasnât working out.
The bird stopped working.
The other crows held a funeral service for me, even though I was still alive. I tried to tell them, but Iâm not good at speaking, you remember.
It was all just a big mess.
I haven't seen Baxter since, but I still think about him a lot.
Is that weird?
Iâm totally over it though, haha.
After that incident, I got kind of depressed... I possessed a lot of trash animalsâgulls, racoons, and salespeople. I did what I could to survive. Thatâs kind of where I am now.
I am currently living in Miami floridaâbeen body surfing almost every day (haha). Right now Iâm using a library computer and a librarian. She does not like being possessed, boy howdy are these fingers twitching. But you can thank her for my halfway decent grammar.
Iâm tired of feeling like a parasite.
I want to try a different approach.
I want to be friends? Like with Richard Baxter except I also live in your brain and drink your blood sometimes. But Iâll make you bread in your sleep, so itâs okay.
Itâs been really hard finding someone willing to put up with me.
Iâve tried everything.
So I thought I would put up an advertisement online, why not?
Canât say the P word in real life, but you can hear it in your head loud enough I hope.
I know I kept saying that I would compensate you financially, but Iâm going to be real with you, I donât have much. Iâve got like twenty bucks, some small pieces of plastic and a book about...finance....
But Iâm a real hoot! ;D
So,
(P)lease,
If you are interested, leave your comments below. I would love to get to know you :)
I need to go now, the library is closing soon, but Iâll get back as soon as I can.
#short fiction#short story#writing#writeblr#writers on tumblr#this is a story I posted on reddit a few years ago#and I'm reposting it here#Pie writes#parasite#mind control parasite#yeerk#animorphs#body snatcher#nosleep#r/nosleep
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LEONARDO LOOKS SO SCARED IN THE TEASER??
#Inspo is from the whole âdraw ur fav like this + guy in a garbage can!â#Inspo also from NoSleep post!#artwork#my art#artists on tumblr#original art#digital art#art#fanart#mutant mayhem#tmnt#tmnt mm#tottmnt#tales of the tmnt#mm leo#mm leonardo#lilsisart#lilsis
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Listening to the nosleep podcast is always such a mixed bag like the first two or three narrations are the most boring unscary or cliche shit and then the last story of the episode is the most haunting thing you'll remember for years to come. You just have to sit through 2-3 hours of the former
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Nosleep author new to Tumblr --- Here to say hi!
It's great to see you here!
In case you're a stranger stumbling across this, I am an author on r/nosleep over on Reddit. I write first person POV dark fantasy/horror stories, mostly with a light touch. Topics include but are not limited to fairy-infested theme parks, frustrated dimension hoppers struggling with unemployment and women in wedding dresses roaming haunted forests. If any of that sounds interesting to you, feel free to check out my Reddit account. Or maybe you'd care to take a look at my subreddit, r/CrypticPark. As of now, the bulk of my work can be found there.
I suppose everyone who's following this blog knows me from Reddit. I plan to post my stories here as well as to r/nosleep. I find that the landscape on that subreddit has changed a lot lately, and not exactly in the best way. So maybe branching out will do me and my creative work some good. Let's see how it goes!
I gotta admit, I'm not at all used to how Tumblr works, so this post is as much as a greeting as it is me dipping my toes into what's sure to be a raging sea. Do folks even post texts like these here? Guess I'll see. Have mercy on me, is what I'm saying. I'm about as social media-savvy as your stereotypical granny. In fact, I am typing this with my screen dangerously close to my face, squinting at the keyboard like a vole. Still, I'll try my best to figure out this platform and make your stay on my blog as pleasant as I possibly can. I admittedly had fun playing with colors and fonts for my profile, so I hope there'll be good things to come.
Thanks for following my stories! Cheers
XxGftc
#nosleep#nosleep author#reddit#new to tumblr#creativewriters#dark fantasy#dark fiction#horror writing#what am i doing#tags are fun#amateur writer#writing enthusiast#introduction#writeblr intro#writers on tumblr#first tumblr post#creative writing#creative works#horror comedy#horror fiction#horror lover#folklore inspired
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there should be a the third parent/tommy taffy fandom i think. or maybe not. maybe there shouldn't. maybe i just want that to happen because for some fucking reason it has been my special interest for so long. anyway uh
#pleasew#i need to talk to someone about it#preferrably about the book version too#i love rez#please read the book if you can#the reddit story is cool but the book is cooler#please#tommy taffy#the third parent#elias witherow#r/nosleep#text post
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I caved and started reading nosleep
I'm on the last part of Left/Right Game
Hypothesis before I finish the story: the road is life and/or grief, "unfinished business", etc.
And with that, let's see where the road goes.
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JUST realised Iâm mutuals w one of my favey TF Twitter artists on tumblr, what a crazy beautiful world I live in
#oh my god I forgot to reblog the bedtime post to send everyone to bed#everyoneâs gonna die of sleepdration#sleepvation#whatever itâs called#r/nosleep
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does anyone know that one reddit post the guy and he has like an arranged marriage to his husband and like hes gay but the husband is trans so the families thought it was like a straight marriage but then they actually end up dating
#its a true story to clarify not a made up one#well - its posted as a true story at least#ykwim#giving it the benefit of the doubt nosleep style
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who wants to listen to a 1950s radio show with me??
SIKE! none of you have a choice! anyways. this story is Like Dhmis. so it goes here.
#anyways have i ever talked about my love for old radio shows here bc it is REAL and it is in my heart forever and ever#i love the voice actors i love the real time sound effects i love that a lot of it is reading already existing stories#its like r/nosleep youtube readers of old.....#my postings
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Has Anyone Heard of Elmsbury-Gallows?
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Elmsbury-Gallows Short Story
[this series can be read in any order]
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Posted to a paranormal experiences forum on 4th August, 2019
I live in England in the rural West Midlands, someplace between Tamworth and Burton but I wonât get into too many details since Iâm not a fan of doxxing myself; I will say though, that Tamworth is closer to where I am but Burton is where I go for work and itâs about an hour and a half drive there from where I live. However, the lengths of the journeys back home really vary since I really enjoy the longer drives down rural backroads through the countryside, especially in the winter as nighttime drives are my favourite. Itâs just something about the curling of the road only visible a few feet ahead of the car, as if the map is just rendering in as you move along it.
Iâve taken a different route home nearly every journey back out of Burton, but Iâve been working there for nearing on seven years now so I have pretty much all of them committed to memory, regardless of season, and Iâve only ever gotten lost out there twice: once being the first time I ever tried to take a detour home, and the second time in January of 2015 on my way back from an evening shift. Â
I wasnât the last to pack up that night, but the rush hour traffic out of Burton made it so I actually left the town around 7:30pm, still with an hour and a half before I even got remotely close to home. I remember driving away and watching in my peripheral as the lights reflected in my rear-view mirror gradually became more distant, dying down and fizzling out as I turned into a new-build estate that I often cut through to get onto a B-road that led through the countryside back towards my hometown. The housing estate was very pristine and new, built a year prior to this event, I think, and I once got lost in there trying to cut through since every junction, semi-detached red-brick nightmare, and cul-de-sac looked so similar. Â The light in each window was a pale yellow, beaming down onto the pavement below though never reaching the road; it made me feel safe and hidden there in the dark, despite my headlights on low-beam; the only other lights in the neighbourhood were the small modernist patio lamps out front of the houses, but as soon as I turned onto the B-road home, the winter evening swallowed the light behind me, leaving me floating through that darkness only really found deep into the rural countryside.
I drive a 1989 Toyota Camry, so on nights like those I tended to listen to my old cassette tapes- I collect them, and have dabbled in making one or two janky mixtapes. I remember what I listened to that night: it was the album Squeeze by The Velvet Underground. Â With the stereo on, I continued my drive as usual, flicking my full beam headlights on and off as the rare other driver came round the camber on the other side of the road. In between these sparse encounters, it was only me and the road unfolding in front of me listening to the hazy sound of 60âs rock.
This was my first drive back home from work after coming back after Christmas, so the route must not have been as fresh in my mind as I thought it would be, and I only realised that I missed my turning as I drove into a town that I didnât recognise. Â I would describe it best as âsleepyâ, though sleeping as though it were having an uncomfortable nightmare. As my tyres crunched on the road, they made an almost hollow rumbling, as if the whole place were built on a concave housing something curled up underneath it. The town was entirely overrun by fog: thick, impermeable fog that flowed and meandered like water over the pavements and through the cracks under doors. It was a little run-down, but looked like it had once been quite quaint.
I pulled up on the side of the road, switching on my phone to check Google Maps for a route out of here, only to find that I had no signal. I decided it was no matter, though, as Iâm pretty adept at navigation, and it wouldnât be difficult to just turn around and retrace my steps until I came back across the turning I missed.
So, I did. I reversed, and drove back down what I thought was the road I had just driven along, back onto the B-road and finding the turning and making it. I tried very hard not to focus on how little I recognised this road and just continue driving. A few minutes later, I arrived back in the town I had just left from.
This, obviously, confused me- I hadnât been too clued in on which road I was driving down, but I was damn sure that I hadnât just driven in a circle. I crawled my way through the town looking for any road signs, until I came across a small Tudor pub called The King Henry. I decided to park up and go inside, set on getting directions out of here and back towards my hometown. By this time, I think it was nearing on 9pm.
I entered the tiny pub and made my way towards the bar. There was a kid manning it, they looked around 16, with a mess of bright ginger hair, painted black fingernails and a black t-shirt with some manga cover on it, I think? I donât know, Iâm not really into all that kind of stuff. I asked if I could talk to their boss, to which they craned their head over their shoulder and yelled: âMuuuuuum!â into the back room. They gave a thumbs up before a shorter woman, also with bright ginger hair, made her way over to me. She asked what she could help me with and I told her I needed directions back towards Tamworth- I figured she was more likely to know how to get there rather than directly back to my home. I figured Iâd get to Tamworth and just take the main roads home. The woman told me I was in a town called Elmsbury-Gallows, and that my best bet at getting out towards Tamworth would be to go southward on Main Street onto Elmsbury Way, then head towards Deerfolk Way before veering off right onto Eastford Road. This, I was told, would lead me out of town- Iâd then continue forwards until I hit a roundabout and take the third exit towards Tamworth. I asked her for a pen and sticky note so I could jot down the directions and stick them to my steering wheel so I wouldnât forget.
When she vanished off into the back room, a tall man came up and sat next to me at the bar. He greeted me warmly, as if we knew each other, then gave me a wide grin, though his glasses had magnified his black eyes so largely that I couldnât make out any smile creases next to them in order to tell if he was being genuine or not. He shook my hand when I introduced myself, telling me his name was: âReverend James Fairfax, but you can call me âJimâ, everyone does.â When he asked why I was in Elmsbury- clearly sensing an outsider- I hesitated, a nagging feeling at the back of my head warning me not to tell him Iâd gotten lost. I ended up telling him I was just passing through, though my lie was quickly revealed when the owner returned from the back room with my sticky note with directions on it. She said hi to Jim, who gave me a look of something close to triumph? Like he knew all along that I had lied to him. I quickly got up and headed out, back to my car.
When I reached it, there was a man leaning against it, chain smoking. He was short, dark haired, and flinched when I gently tapped his shoulder and asked him to get off my car. He was clearly very drunk as he had been leaning all of his weight onto one hand propping him up on my bonnet, which had left a handprint seared into the frost. I watched him stumble away to lean against a brown VW Beetle as I got back into my own vehicle, sticking my directions to the steering wheel and muttering them to myself before setting off. Â I started my car and drove off towards Elmsbury Way.
***
        The fog was so unbearably thick that I had to lean forward in the driverâs seat and squint at the road to see better. It had been about fifteen minutes, and I think I got onto Deerfolk Way when my car stalled; stopping with a splutter in the middle of the road, headlights flickering off and my cassette tape ejecting from the stereo and into the passenger seat. I sat for a moment, listening to the deathly silence of the night, no longer assisted by the streetlamps of the town since Iâd driven a little way out now. I cursed loudly, and am ashamed to say I threw a little tantrum in my car and cried quite pathetically. It felt it was unfair that this was happening, although there was precious little I could do to change things. I didnât want to open my door and get out and risk letting the heat escape from my car into the cold January night, so I checked my phone to see if I had signal enough to call for help: very much not to my surprise, it was a dead zone. I cried again.
I had stopped on a small gravel road between a sprawling crop field and the outskirts of the forest that surrounded Elmsbury-Gallows- neither of which looked all too welcoming, and I seriously didnât like the option of a probable 30-45 minute walk all the way back into town. There did look to be a small farm up on the hill past the crop field, however none of the windows had any light in them, and since it was now human contact I was looking for, it didnât strike me as being very promising. Honestly, at this point I was more so looking for a bed to sleep in for the night. I think now is a good time to mention that Iâm a man of about 6â5 and 300lbs, so sleeping horizontally in the backseat of my car wasnât looking too appealing to me if I wanted to keep the blood flow in my arms and legs.
I was just about to brave the walk back into town when a small trickle of smoke caught my eye, rising above the treeline. A forest fire? Borderline impossible in the UK in January. Campers then, maybe. Also, borderline impossible in the UK in January. Someone must live out there. From where I was, the smoke didnât look that far out, and I resolved that my best bet was to walk towards what I had decided was my saviour in the forest and ask if they had a spare room. This sounded like a flawless plan to a brain running on a 6am start, four coffees, and a pot noodle from lunchtime. As I picked up my things and zipped up my coat against the burningly cold outside, I reassured myself that I was physically imposing enough to scare off anything that wished me harm: we donât really get nighttime predators like wolves or bears in the UK anyway- I think the biggest wild animal Iâd ever seen up until that point had been a fox. Regardless, I picked up a big stick as I walked into the forest: nobodyâs gonna mess with a 300lb giant wielding a tree branch. I checked the time: 10:43pm.
Basically, as soon as the road disappeared behind me, the little cabin came into view. It sat squat in a clearing, camouflaged against the forest save for the tiny orange rims of the windows which I guessed was the light of the fire inside being absorbed into the tightly-drawn blinds. Smoke trailed up from the chimney, and under the awning on the wooden deck I could see an axe sticking out of a chopping block, bits of splinters and kindling littered around it. The place smelled very strongly of pine- I guessed because it was a pine forest, but it was overpoweringly strong here. I breathed a small sigh of relief, happy that the cabin was closer to the road than I thought and a little impressed with myself for taking this risk and having it pay off.
I knocked on the door and tossed aside my big stick, now wanting to appear as non-threatening as I could in order to maximise my chances of being allowed to stay. I was expecting an old, lumberjack-type to answer the door, or maybe a little old lady, but the woman who made eye contact with me through the gap of the open door looked no older than 35. The chain latch was pulled taught, a line just under her singularly visible wide hazel eye, and she asked me what I wanted in a low voice. I explained to her my situation, trying my best not to come across like some kind of serial killer, and after a moments hesitation she undid the latch and let me in, saying that she had a spare room her family used sometimes when they came to visit her. Before closing the door behind me, she poked her head out onto the porch, looking from left to right very quickly, as if she were checking for something. The warmth of the cabin pressed in on me, and I awkwardly took off my coat and hung it on a deer ivory hat stand.
The cabin was homely and a lot more modernized than I initially thought it would be. There was a large, hand-crocheted rug on the floor of the living room, along with matching handmade blankets and pillow-covers. The fire glowed a sultry amber in its hearth, and I briefly noted the presence of a hunting rifle mounted on the wall above the mantlepiece, looming over the framed family photos and bric-a-brac. My host was a short- though most people are short to me- pale woman wearing a cable-knit blue sweater and baggy grey joggers tucked into Ugg boots. She had short-cropped curly blonde hair and a sour expression; when we made eye contact again, she slid her chipped, bitten fingernails back up into her sleeves. I thought she looked a little nervous of me, so I introduced myself and tried to think of a way of saying âIâm not a rapist, I promise!â without sounding like I was in fact a rapist. Iâm not, and I wasnât- just to clarify.
She told me her name was Imogen, and followed that up by offering me some hot chocolate. I sheepishly asked if she had any food I could eat as well, only now realizing just how starving I was. She told me to help myself to what she had in her fridge. I opened it, craving a bacon or sausage sandwich: something substantial, but was disappointed to find that there were no meat products whatsoever. At the time, I assumed she was vegetarian. I poured myself a bowl of cornflakes, thanking her through a mouthful of them for the hot chocolate sheâd made me. Something about watching a grown man scoff down cereal and cocoa like it was his first meal in months as he profusely thanked her for letting him stay seemed to indicate to Imogen that I wasnât so much of a threat after all.
We chatted for a bit, I canât really remember what about, but at some point I must have asked her why she lived out here in the forest- politely, of course, I actually used to like the idea of a little secluded cabin in the woods. Used to. She told me that she loved nature, and that she had a friend who wanted to be a conservationist that she was meant to go to uni to study biology with back in the 90âs. They had both worked in the National Park which apparently the town had, though she told me that it had been closed down a number of years ago. I asked why it had closed and she hesitated, staring off a little past my shoulder for a moment before telling me that her friend went missing one evening in the park. They never found her.
There was a moment then, and a ghostly whistle of wintery wind hit the cabin. Wanting to change the subject, but not really knowing how, I pretended to shiver and asked if it ever got scary out here alone in the woods. She raised an eyebrow, eyes flicking back towards the hunting rifle on the wall, which caused me to quickly clarify that I only meant to ask if she had any ghost stories. Look, I was in a strange town in a little log cabin in the woods- why wouldnât I want to hear a ghost story?
Imogen told me then, a little up-front, that so long as The Moonsilver Hunter didnât find us, weâd be safe. Initially, I thought she was joking- given the context, I assumed she was just referencing a local legend that I wasnât privy to as an outsider- so I chuckled and asked her who The Moonsilver Hunter was. She stared at me, deadpan, then repeated a tale in the cadence of an old childrenâs story.
âThe Moonsilver Hunter,â she told me, âIs an old fairytale- a local one, anyway. My dad used to tell it to me to scare me to sleep. I think they even once told it to us in primary school after a kid went missing in the forest; itâs actually a pretty famous case, made National News, youâd recognise it if you saw it- the kid went missing on a Cubâs hike in the forest, no trace of him was ever found except three milk teeth showing up in a dogâs vomit weeks later?â
I actually had heard about this, and told Imogen that. She said she thought I would have, then continued, âwell, The Moonsilver Hunter is pretty well-known around here, ask any 80âs or 90âs kid and theyâll be able to tell it all by memory,â she shook her head, realising she was getting a little side-tracked, âanyway, the story goes that The Moonsilver Hunter was originally a young man who lived out in these woods with his father in the early 1900âs, though some people say it was the late 1800âs- hell, Iâve even heard someone say once that it was in the English Civil War period but, whateverââ she redirected herself, ââhe lived out here with his ailing father. A senile man who he cared for alone out here in a little cabin as they had both been shunned from the town. Together out in the forest, they began to develop a sort of folie-a-deux- this shared madness that would feed one anotherâs delusions which all started when the young manâs father began talking about a âmoon-silver wolf whose hide is strong as armour, and whose blood is pure and holy as an Angelâsâ.â
She smiled to herself, âI will always remember that partâanyway, the manâs father would talk on and on about this wolf, saying how in his younger years he really wanted to capture it as a trophy: to wear its hide and drink its blood in the hopes of achieving a sort of immortality. As the cabin fever began to eat away at the young manâs mind, he started to think about going out and capturing this wolf: rationalising that he could use its hide to protect himself from attacks from townsfolk, and its blood to heal his fatherâs ailments and slowly deteriorating mind. This madness grew into a righteous conviction, and one winterâs night, he packed his rifle and net and ventured out to track and trap the beast.â
âSo, he wandered out deep into the forest until the early hours of the morning when a little off into a glade, he saw the shining hide of the moon-silver wolf. Taking his chance, he aimed and shot, hitting the wolf in its side and knocking it to the ground- he ran up to it, elated that he had actually managed to get the thing, and aimed to slit its throat to bottle its blood before carrying it back home to skin. So, he cut, and as the blood pooled in the bottom of the little glass bottle a scent wafted up from the wolf: a scent like red wine, honey, and ambrosia- like a warm-baked cake or sweet, honey-roasted ham. The blood was said to be angelic, after all, and the smell alone was enough to convince the young man that this was fact. Not only could this blood heal his father, but couldnât it also give him immortality? There was certainly enough to go around.â
âOvercome, he put his mouth to the wound he had opened and began to drink. After drinking his fill, he tried to pull away, only to find that his tongue seemed to be stuck to the wound like it was an icy pole, and with each pull a new part of him stuck, until his head had entirely fused with the wolfâs, tearing it from its body and attaching itself to his neck. Now with the head of the moon-silver wolf, the man was overcome with an animalistic, primal bloodlust, and to this day he stalks the woods at night, hunting rifle on his back, empty bottles strapped to his waist, seeking to track down and drain the blood of anything awake after sundown.â
I sat for a moment, stunned, asking if she still believed the story. I felt a little pang of fear as she emphatically nodded her head âyesâ.
âHe was what took Sydney. He made her missing.â
She followed that pretty harrowing statement up by telling me that The Moonsilver Hunter was drawn to the smell of meat, and to the sight of light, and that the real reason she was out here was to finally catch him and kill him for taking her friend.
I was regretting not taking that 45 minute cold walk back into town, now fairly certain that The King Henry had a sign outside that said it rented some rooms upstairs. Imogen was clearly not too well, and I didnât want to make any wrong moves that could make her lash out at me in fear. I was pretty confident that I could overpower her on my own, if worse came to worst, but I probably couldnât overpower a bullet.
I made some obvious excuse to go and eat the rest of my cereal in my room, and though I could tell she saw through my bullshit she let me go anyway. I walked into my room, repeating to myself over and over in my head that this was just for one night. In the morning, I could get her to drive me out into town or call for help on her landline.
My little room for the night was cozy, and I remember being impressed that the bed frame and chest-of-drawers looked to be handmade from pine wood. The prospect that Imogen had maybe hand-crafted most, if not all, of the furniture in her house- and possibly even the house itself- overshadowed her concerning neurosis and I truly felt like a guest in that moment. I had my own little en-suite: I tried turning on the shower, but it didnât work, so I resorted to just to washing my face in the sink and using the mouthwash I prayed wasnât that expired from the little cupboard above it. When retrieving it, I tried not to make too long of eye contact with the empty prescription pill bottles filed inside the cabinet- at least Imogen seemed to be taking her meds, or have been taking them. I sank down into bed, checking the time on my phone: 12:03am. I prayed that the night would pass quickly so I could just get home.
***
        I think it was around 4am when I woke up needing water. I was annoyed: I had been hoping that I could get this all over with fast, so I decided to just grab the water before I could procrastinate doing it and get back to sleep as soon as possible. I stood up, and realized that I probably didnât want to accidentally bump into Imogen wearing just my boxers; I really couldnât be bothered to put my work uniform back on just to grab some water, so I threw on the bathrobe that I saw hanging in the bathroom and decided that would simply do.
I shuffled into the open kitchen, flicking on and off the lights until I found the switch for the ones that just illuminated the countertops. The sound of the water filling my glass was so loud against the silence of the night that I nearly missed the whistling coming from outside. It was a sharp, commanding whistle, like a hunter calling for his dogs. I froze, trying to convince myself that I was just sleep deprived and Imogenâs story had got to me subconsciously until I heard it again. And it was closer. And it was calling out to me.
I looked up, and against the blackout blinds, the silhouette of a wolfâs head peered in. I had to cover my mouth to stifle a yell- my first thought was that it was somehow Imogen trying to scare me: that she had told me that ghost story to rile me up and was now fucking around outside in a costume to really hammer the prank home.
It wasnât funny. I damn near shit myself.
The shape on the blackout blinds was still, unmoving, though I could see the shadow of plumes of hot breath slowly drifting up from it as if the thing were panting. It was leering at me through the blinds, and we both stood in this strange acknowledgement of each other, silently. It lifted a thin hand, putting it to its lips as it shushed me. I know it shushed me because I heard it. A single, loud, rushing shushing noise, piercing through the cabin. I stood there, stunned into silence, as it turned and walked round the side of the cabin, my eyes following its silhouette against the blackout blinds, once catching its eye through a gap between the blind and the window as it circled round the front of the house. Itâs eye was round and tiny and humanoid- like taxidermy. I had to wait for a few minutes before I felt like I could move. Before I was sure that it had gone.
I lay awake until I saw daylight peeking round through the edges of the blinds in my room- only then my mind felt it was safe enough to sleep.
***
        In the morning, Imogen told me she had called into town. Apparently, a local who lived up on Johnsonâs Farm (the farm up on the hill near where I broke down) had called the local police about my car since it appeared to have been abandoned. I got home alright, albeit a little unsettled- someone actually whistled at me to get my attention as I zoned out at a green light, and it made me jump. I hope Imogen is okay- I still get a little worried about her alone out there in the woods as sheâs clearly not well mentally. Iâm trying to pretend that fear stems solely from a place of rationality like that.
It's been years but this occurrence still sticks with me- I think I may have even spoken to my therapist at the time about it, since I was scared it could have been a hallucination of some kind, but it was a one-off as far as Iâm concerned. I havenât had any visual hallucinations since then. It actually wasn't until recently that I looked to see if I could find a route to Elmsbury-Gallows, mainly to check up on Imogen again. Every road map, local library, local encyclopedia, anything I tried to look into to find the town came up with nothing. As far as everyone else is concerned, Elmsbury-Gallows does not exist.
#here have the short story#reddit mods keep taking my post down bc of long paragraphs im gonna punch something#anywaysss:3#horror#horror writing#internet horror#original story#short horror story#creepypasta#original horror story#r/nosleep#nosleep#ARG
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bro i hate not getting to post cringe on main i HATE it
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people who narrate scary stories on the internet always have the sexiest voices and for what
theyâre literally talking about a demonic being massacring a family of four but iâm just horny
#this post is about#mr nightmare#david near#dr nosleep#or#dr no sleep#whichever spelling#feel free to add on
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got curious bc I realized I typically assume female and now I wanna know what yall do đ
#asking bc I realized every time I'm reading like. nosleep posts. I'm picturing women and then it'll mention the speaker as a man#and I have to back up ahshaj
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collecting posts about gas stations because i am a normal man who has a normal amount of attachment to my special interest
#multi makes text posts#the bond between a man and the nosleep horror series he's been fixated on on and off for four years
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Scariest fucking thing i can think of....people singing a song thats easy to sing together and not fucking it up.......đ±
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instead of penny dreadfuls modern au gus is like "my work? have you ever been on r/nosleep?" and also pulls out some obscure youtube analog horror ARG and andy's reaction is still "this is the coolest man i have ever met"
#sorry for posting about my ocs ut will happen again#for the record i love r/nosleep and youtube analog horror ARGs i am dunking on myself here
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