Don’t Fall Asleep

It started three nights ago. Not the insomnia—I’ve had that for years. It was the dream. The one that wasn’t mine. I closed my eyes for just a second… and woke up in a hospital room. But it wasn’t a hospital—it was too quiet, too staged. The window showed a hallway instead of the sky. And the man sitting at the edge of the bed? He looked exactly like me. But older. Tired. Scared.

“They’re testing you again,” he said. “Don’t fall asleep in here. If you sleep in the dream, you wake up somewhere worse.” Then the lights flickered. Alarms rang. I blinked—and I was somewhere else again. A classroom. Full of faceless people, chanting in reverse. I could hear my name being said over and over again… but not by anyone I recognized.

Every time I try to wake up, I land in a new layer. And every layer feels more real than the last. There are rules in this place. If you sleep too deep, you start to forget what’s real. You forget your body. You forget your name. I found a note taped to my chest in one of the layers. My own handwriting: “You’re not dreaming. You were admitted voluntarily. This is treatment.”

But here’s the twist. I found surveillance footage in the last layer—of me watching a screen, typing these same words. I’m not the patient. I’m the experiment. They’re watching what I do when I forget who I am. The real me? He’s asleep, somewhere deep. This version of me is a puppet. A projection of consciousness layered into simulation after simulation.

And the worst part? I can feel it happening again. I’m starting to forget who’s real. I’m starting to forget if I ever left the hospital. Or if the hospital ever existed at all.

So if you’re reading this, remember one thing: Don’t fall asleep. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

Read More Chilling Tales

The Man Behind the Mirror

I’ve lived in this apartment for five years. Nothing strange. Quiet neighbors. Decent view. But the bathroom mirror—something’s always felt off about it. It’s not crooked. It’s not cracked. It’s just… too clean. Too perfect. Like it’s not reflecting the room—just mimicking it.

I started noticing things. When I blinked, my reflection didn’t. When I left the room, I’d hear faint breathing behind the glass. I assumed it was stress, paranoia—until the night I saw him. Not my reflection. Him. Standing inside the mirror. Same face. Different eyes. Watching me.

I tried to smash it. Hammer. Brick. Crowbar. Nothing even scratched the glass. That’s when I realized it wasn’t a mirror—it was a window. And I wasn’t the one looking in. I was the one being watched.

Every night since then, he gets closer. He moves when I move. Talks when I talk. But there’s a delay. Like he’s practicing. Rehearsing. Waiting to replace me.

I left town for a week. Came back. Everything looked untouched—except the mirror. He was gone. No reflection. Just blank glass. Like I no longer existed.

Then the knocks started. From the other side of the mirror. Rhythmic. Patient. Getting louder. I tried covering it. He burned the sheet from the inside. I tried ignoring it. He started whispering my name.

Last night, he spoke clearly for the first time: “I’ve been practicing long enough. Your life fits me now.”

I don’t sleep. I don’t look in mirrors. I don’t trust anyone who blinks out of sync. Because if he steps through… I’m not just losing my reflection. I’m losing reality.

Enter the Darkest Corners

It Was Always You

I started journaling after the third break-in. Police said there was no sign of forced entry, but my stuff was moved. Personal things. My toothbrush was wet, food missing, clothes I didn’t remember wearing now in the hamper. I thought someone was stalking me. Watching me sleep. Living in the walls.

I set up cameras. Microphones. Traps. Nothing ever triggered. Except one night… I caught footage of someone walking through my apartment at 3:37AM. Moving silently. Calmly. They looked familiar. Same build. Same walk.

I paused the frame. Zoomed in. It was me.

The therapist called it disassociation. Sleepwalking. PTSD. But I felt fine during the day. Clear. Rational. Until I started finding notes I didn’t remember writing: “Stop digging.” “You’re not supposed to know.”

Then the bodies started showing up. All strangers. No connection. Except they all had my name on scraps of paper in their mouths.

I went back through my journals—hundreds of pages, all in my handwriting—but the stories weren’t mine. They spoke of anger. Hatred. Revenge. Dark rituals. I thought I was documenting the intruder. Turns out… I was leaving reminders for myself.

I wasn’t the victim. I wasn’t being watched. I was the one watching.

They call it a psychotic break. I call it waking up. Because now I see the truth: I’m not haunted. I’m not cursed. I’m not sick. I’m just the part of me I tried to bury… clawing my way back to the surface.

And the scariest part? No matter how far I run, how long I stay awake, or how many mirrors I shatter… I can’t escape myself.

Face the Monster