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On the sixteenth day of a solo trip through Tokyo, a hidden market stall offered something that felt like a gift. It looked like an orange, but it felt like feverish flesh. Now, twelve days later in a quiet Philadelphia apartment, the thing on the desk is growing. It has developed a face that watches, a mouth that breathes, and jointed legs that tap against the wood in the dead of night. Every hour it expands, and every hour the narrator’s own body begins to mirror its grotesque proportions. The transaction is nearly complete.

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I started delivering for DoorDash after midnight because the tips were better. For a while, it was just drunk food and empty porches. Then the late-night orders started coming with instructions that didn't make sense — don't look at the second-floor window, don't step on the porch, close your eyes and count to ten. I followed every rule. The tips were enormous. Nothing bad happened. I thought I was safe as long as I kept following the instructions. Then an order came through at 3:14 AM. The delivery address was my apartment. The customer name was a single letter. And DoorDash support confirmed it was placed from inside my home.

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When the school district posted the position for the third time, no one else would take it. I needed the job. I took it.

Felter sits in a shallow valley in northern Ontario, four hundred people carved out of the wilderness and slowly being taken back. The children were quiet in a way that unsettled me. The church windows were painted black from the inside. Every Thursday night, the townspeople walked north toward the lake in silence — and something walked with them.

The principal warned me not to go into the woods after dark. She never warned me about what happened to the last teacher.

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Welcome to Skully's Sinister Stories Vol. 5Some things grow where they shouldn't.In this volume of Skully's Sinister Stories, we explore what happens when the body becomes something unrecognizable. A garden in rural Hokkaido that returns what was buried in it. A sewing shop in Takayama where an inheritance runs deeper than blood. A portrait studio in Koenji where the camera doesn't just capture what's there — it decides what comes next.Three Junji Ito-inspired horror stories. Three transformations that couldn't be stopped.The body is the canvas.

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Author - https://www.reddit.com/user/gamalfrank/Original Post - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1m8aygd/my_dad_spent_15_years_tending_to_the_tree_in_our/Original title - My dad spent 15 years tending to the tree in our backyard. I just cut it down, and I don't think it was a tree.

My dad planted a strange black seed in our backyard when I was ten. Within a few years, the tree it grew into was taller than our house. Within a decade, it had killed every plant in the yard, driven the animals away, and swallowed my father whole. He quit his job to sit under it. He stopped eating. He talked to it like it could hear him. The shadow it cast didn't feel like shade — it felt alive. One night, I took an axe to the trunk to save him. The sound it made when the blade hit wasn't wood. And what I found inside was far worse than what it had done to my father.

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Cast Sarah - bayleaf. - https://www.instagram.com/bayleaf.makesnoise

https://bayleafmusic.bandcamp.com/album/champagne

Jay - Skully

I took the overnight caretaker job at a rural wildlife sanctuary because I needed somewhere quiet after my divorce. Forty-seven acres of rescued animals, a cabin behind the office, and a woman named Sarah on the radio if anything went wrong. For three nights, nothing did. On the fourth night, every animal on the property stopped moving and faced the same direction. Then they turned — all of them, at the same time — and Sarah told me to get inside and lock the door. Something crosses the valley every few weeks. The animals always know it's coming. The crossings are getting more frequent.

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Author - https://www.reddit.com/user/gamalfrank/

Original story - https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/1qs7t5r/the_most_important_rule_at_my_job_is_to_never/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

Original story title - The most important rule at my job is to never create a physical record. I found what the last person in my position wrote, and I think I'm in danger.

The job seemed simple. Study a photograph for eight hours. Memorize every detail. Watch it burn. No records, no questions, no exceptions. The salary was more than my parents made combined, and I was desperate enough not to ask why they needed someone with a photographic memory to stare at old images until they were ash. I told myself it was archival work. I told myself the dreams were just stress. I told myself the man I recognized from a 1970s photograph — the one who ran when he saw my face — was a coincidence. The notes I found hidden in my colleague's locker say otherwise. They're getting out.

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Dr. Elena Marsh spent fifteen years applying scientific rigor to the world of folklore, but northern Ontario in January does not care for PhDs. Deep in the frozen bush, she tracked a legend that the local Anishinaabe warned was born of pure greed. Now, sixty miles from civilization, the temperature has dropped to minus thirty-two, and the weight is falling off her bones despite everything she eats. The forest has gone silent, the trail cameras are moving on their own, and the voices of the dead are calling her name from the tree line. Every window in the cabin reflects a face that is no longer hers. There is no more room for documentation because the hunger has finally begun to feed on the researcher. Someone is screaming outside, and the worst part is realizing it sounds like an invitation.

You'll notice gameplay footage running under my narrations now — recorded by me exclusively for this channel. I hope it adds to the viewing experience.

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You'll notice gameplay footage running under my narrations now — recorded by me exclusively for this channel. I hope it adds to the viewing experience.

The silence of a suburban house at 3:00 AM is a heavy, suffocating weight. For a new mother, the baby monitor is the only lifeline, turning a nursery into a grainy, green landscape of shadows. But three nights ago, the white noise cut out, replaced by a wet, clicking whisper that spoke of snapping bones to fit into small spaces. On the screen, the crib is empty, yet the rocking chair moves with a rhythmic, ghostly creak. Something is unfolding from the corners of the ceiling, a jagged shape with too many joints and a hunger that cannot be sated. My husband is at the door, smiling and wearing his favorite shirt, but his shadow on the pavement is long, broken, and wrong. He is turning the key now, and I realize that some things don't need an open door to get inside.

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Welcome to Skully's Sinister Stories Vol. 4

Some calls should never be answered.

In this volume of Skully’s Sinister Stories, we follow law enforcement into places that don’t want witnesses. A back road that erases memory. A district that feeds on the forgotten. A town that only exists when someone is there to observe it.

Three police horror stories. Three calls that changed everything.

You'll notice gameplay footage running under my narrations now — recorded by me exclusively for this podcast. I hope it adds to the viewing experience.