The Scariest “No Sleep” Stories That You Can’t Read Before Bed
There's nothing like reading a brief work of fiction that sends a legit chill down your spine. Should you read stuff like this when it's dark outside and you need to go to bed in an hour? Honestly, probably not — but these are the occasions when scary stories tend to hit hardest.
Enjoy this curation of stories from the Reddit community. They're all fictional, and they're all chilling. As a warning before we jump in, many of them deal with violence and upsetting content, and as such may be triggering for some readers.
"Nobody Wants To Go Near Me Anymore"
People used to sit beside me on the park bench, smiling and comfortable, bringing their kids to play under my shade. But ever since that awful murder, everything's changed. Now, they avoid me, crossing the street, glancing my way only with disgust. They know it's not my fault, but that doesn't stop the distance. I wish I could tell them how sorry I am.
I watched him die, hanged and abandoned before the life left his eyes. His desperate, terrified gaze haunts me, but I couldn't save him. My branches can only bend in the wind. I'm just a tree.
"I Keep My Son Inside a Chest"
Each morning, I open the chest where I keep my son's remains. I stroke his small, delicate skull and whisper "Good morning," though I know he can no longer hear me. I hope he doesn’t think I’ve abandoned him. I never will. When he died of a fever, I couldn't let go. He was just a baby, the last piece of my world. I turned to the rituals my mother had told me about, the old legends of resurrection. I forced my way into the underworld, found his pale soul, and brought it back, believing I had done the right thing.
But I didn’t restore life to him—I trapped him in his decaying corpse. He rotted while I watched helplessly, his screams eventually silenced by the decay of his throat. Now, his bones rattle inside the chest, a cruel reminder of my failure. I once longed to have my son back, but now, I would give anything for him to truly rest.
"I Did Not Kill A Man When I Was Eight Years Old"
My stepfather hated everything my mother loved, including me, her hobbies, and especially Apollo, our puppy. We brought Apollo home when I was five; he was a skinny, skittish creature who quickly became my best friend. While he tolerated my toddler antics, he worshipped my mother, and those early days were filled with happiness.
That changed when my stepfather moved in at seven. He couldn't stand joy and soon turned his rage on Apollo, kicking him for being "too loud." He even kicked me, learning only to hit when Apollo wasn’t around, because Apollo was fiercely protective. As his abuse escalated, I was forced to keep Apollo locked away during his beatings. Dogs can't open doors, but humans can. I didn't kill a man when I was eight years old. I just opened the doors.
"Someone Broke Into Our Home"
It was every family's nightmare. After a fun day out, my wife, son, and I returned home, only to find our front door wide open. A sense of dread filled me as I stepped inside, instructing my family to wait outside. The living room was a chaotic mess—broken furniture and disarray everywhere. Had someone ransacked our home?
As I moved toward the kitchen, I discovered the fridge emptied, dishes scattered. Then I heard footsteps from the bedroom. My heart raced as I approached the door. Pushing it open, I was stunned to find a young girl with curly blonde hair lying in my son's bed. She looked terrified, and I couldn't help but call my family to see. "Is that a human, Papa?" my son asked. “Why yes it is, Baby Bear. That’s dinner.”
"Rollercoaster"
"Mooooom, I don't like it! I want to get off!" My son’s fearful voice surprised me; he had always been so brave. Just moments ago, he had been excited, eagerly anticipating this ride. I never liked being so high off the ground, but I had hoped he would be strong for both of us. I squeezed his hand, trying to reassure him. “It’s okay! Remember the small rollercoaster at the park? This is just like that, but bigger. You might feel funny in your stomach, but it’s normal!” He nodded slightly, his watery blue eyes reflecting fear, while I desperately fought my own anxiety.
As we dropped and sped up, he sobbed, and I tightened my grip, wishing I could protect him from the terror of this ride. My mind wandered to his future—he would grow into a handsome man, marry someone special, and live a good life. I just wanted him to be happy. “Hey, close your eyes. I’m here. I won’t let go,” I whispered, focusing on his small hand in mine. Suddenly, screams erupted behind us, and fear gripped my heart. As I squeezed his hand tighter, I closed my eyes, feeling the heat of danger as the last thing I saw was the second engine on fire.
"IN EVENT OF NUCLEAR DISASTER"
With each passing day, it became increasingly clear that the war would not end peacefully. Across America, families received alarming letters from the government, accompanied by a pamphlet outlining steps for survival in the event of a nuclear disaster. The instructions were stark: Dig a fallout shelter in your yard or find a suitable spot elsewhere, even if it meant trespassing. If a detonation occurred, families were to wait two hours before emerging, ensuring the coast was clear.
In the following days, a strange transformation took place. Central Park was dotted with makeshift shelters, and every neighborhood saw frantic digging. As alarms sounded, people scrambled for safety, some forcing their way into others' shelters. In hindsight, it's impossible to determine how many genuinely believed the shelters could save them and how many understood they were merely digging their own graves. Wars are expensive, and every penny counts.
"24 Hours"
Yesterday, Todd made it his goal to sleep with as many women as he could, hitting an unbelievable 37 in just 24 hours. It wasn't a normal day, and who was going to say no to some fun with the world ending? Little did he know, six illegitimate children would soon come from that spree, something he would’ve avoided if he'd known the future.
Ann, meanwhile, snapped and killed her husband in full view of her neighbors. They shrugged and walked on. Business as usual. If only she knew she’d face murder charges. Because yesterday, everyone thought an asteroid would destroy Earth. Today? The asteroid missed, and chaos turned into regret.
"6,500 Languages"
I should have wished to be rich, but it felt too self-serving. I could have wished for fame, but I'd lose my privacy. World peace sounded noble, but one country’s peace might mean another’s poverty. Instead, I cursed the day I met the Wishmaster for the "perfect" wish I thought I had crafted: “I would like to become a master of language.”
The Wishmaster hesitated, asking if I meant every language. I nodded, convinced my wish was altruistic. But when I mentioned that mastering one language took about 10,000 hours of practice, I was whisked away to my study with a dictionary and a pen, the doors locked tight. “This is to give you the deliberate practice you need,” the disembodied voice explained. “After this, we can tackle Afrikaans.” I realized my wish had trapped me in an endless cycle of study, frozen in time. How many languages could there possibly be?
"Salami, Olives, Sausage"
The pizza place where I worked was nothing special—just greasy dough that tricked the taste buds into thinking it was good. My job wasn't glamorous, but it paid the bills, and with my rent due tomorrow, I felt my stomach churn as I anxiously checked my account balance. My tips tonight would determine if I could pay on time. When an online order for a small pizza with salami, olives, and sausages came in, I hurriedly prepared it and handed it off to Karl, the delivery driver, who scoffed at the short distance to the address.
Ten minutes later, Karl returned with the pizza, explaining that the customer hadn’t answered. "Wanna split it?" he asked, and I agreed, eager for something other than ramen. I enjoyed the salty toppings, but as I walked home, an unease settled in my stomach. My pace slowed near flashing police lights and an ambulance outside a house. An onlooker shared grim news about a hostage situation that ended in tragedy. My heart sank when I saw the house number beneath a smear of blood: 19 South Street—the same address that ordered my pizza. Salami, olives, sausage.
"I Don't Hate My Sister"
Most people think I hate my little sister, Renée, because of all the things I've done, but they're wrong. I didn’t let her cat out because I hate her—Muffins is safe. I’ve been feeding him behind the shed. I didn’t flush her medication out of spite. I was actually scared when I thought the toilet might clog. Unplugging her phone wasn’t about hate either; I just didn’t want Mom and Dad to call her.
I didn’t use that faulty outlet to hurt her. The fire didn’t kill Renée—she was at the library, safe, doing her biology report. Mom and Dad weren’t so lucky. I didn’t let them die because I hate Renée. I did it so she wouldn’t end up buried in the garden, like me.
"There Is No Off Switch"
EnerTech has unveiled its groundbreaking product: The WorkDay Chip, designed to let users work a full day while unconscious. This chip induces a sleep sequence in the brain and controls muscles to perform tasks automatically, freeing individuals to focus on hobbies, family, and friends without the burden of work. Initially, this innovation was a hit, with companies distributing it for free to boost productivity and alleviate employee stress.
However, three years later, disaster struck with the emergence of Red Flame Disease, which caused severe symptoms like coughing up blood and excruciating pain. The chips forced users to work despite their deteriorating health, with no off switch and even the ability to override barriers to get them to their jobs. Tragically, the disease was fatal, leaving the streets populated by lifeless workers trapped in a nightmarish routine, performing tasks for no one. Meanwhile, the wealthy elite reveled in their safety, unaffected by the chaos, while the WorkDay Chip continued its relentless cycle of labor, a grim reminder of the cost of convenience.
"Life Of A Traitor"
In a maximum-security prison, the worst punishment isn't death but solitary confinement, a fate reserved for traitors. When the world fell to dictatorship in 2086, capital punishment flourished, but the fear of being locked away in darkness was far greater. I spent two decades creating human-shaped coffins for the condemned, sealing their senses and sustaining them with machines for 80 years, while their stories were broadcast for the public's entertainment.
Last week, I joined their ranks, convicted of treason. Now I awaken in this hell, eyes and mouth sealed shut, trapped in total silence. My past haunts me: The 7,000 lives I took to end suffering, each death done while they slept. I wish for death myself, but here I am, living out the life of a traitor. I can only reflect on the horrors I've created and the unimaginable isolation I now endure.
"I Follow My Wife's Reddit Account"
It started innocently enough when I browsed the 'curlyhair' subreddit for ideas to help my wife with her frizz. I stumbled upon a selfie she posted, captioned, "The lion's mane behaved itself today." Sitting across from her, I clicked the award button, and her face lit up. Curious, I began stalking her profile, awarding her posts, and feeling the thrill of knowing her thoughts. This insider information helped me perfect her birthday gift—a blanket made from old t-shirts—and plan our anniversary dinner.
However, after I lost my job, her posts shifted. She began seeking advice in marriage and relationship subs. Soon, she posted about how terrified she was of me. The realization hit hard; I felt exposed. I attempted to mend things by cooking romantic meals and apologizing, which led to her sharing positive updates. But I knew things weren't truly okay. I started searching for subs she frequented, and now, as I type this, there's a knife hidden under my chair. Maria, if you’re reading this, it’s time to look up.
"He Stopped Calling Me Beautiful"
It happened gradually, but a woman always notices. At first, it was subtle—longer hours at the gallery, rushing through dinner, and no more late-night talks about our hopes and dreams. He stopped asking me to pose, leaving me to pore over old photographs, each a masterpiece telling a story. One day, he caught me admiring a candid from his early days and said, "You looked so beautiful, honey." The words felt like a dagger, spoken in past tense. Despite my efforts to stay trim, I knew I could never compete with the young models he now favored.
After the third girl went missing, police began visiting his gallery, interrupting photoshoots and preventing business trips. I caught him snooping through my things, desperately searching for proof of his innocence. But he isn't innocent—he's neglected me, cheating with every young face he captures. They’ll find forgotten belongings hidden in the gallery, and one day, even the bodies in the river, but the heads? I’ve tucked them away for my own project. They let you receive postcards in prison, right?
"To The Woman At The Bar Who Noticed My Body Language"
To the woman at the bar last night who noticed my body language: Thank you. You couldn't have known the specifics—maybe the guy being aggressive was my boyfriend, and we were just having a fight. Maybe you hesitated to get involved in a stranger's business, but you saw my nervous, intimidated posture and acted. Amid all the couples and groups, it took you, another woman alone at the bar, to recognize my struggle.
When we made eye contact, I twisted away from his touchy hands, silently pleading for help. The look you gave me said you understood, perhaps because you’d been through it yourself. You approached me, calling me a generic name, avoiding anything that might provoke him. "Hey, girl! It’s been such a long time!" you said, wrapping your arms around me in a lifeline. We danced together, leaving Rob behind. Little did you know, your genuine celebration of life would only serve my appetite. Thank you for being so gullible.
"Take Her Swimming On The First Date"
Fake lips, fake eyelashes, fake brows, and fake curves—it's no wonder men struggle to trust women today. I ring the doorbell, and my date, Anthea, opens the door, looking stunning in her bandage dress. With her dark blonde hair and radiant olive skin, she's a Mediterranean beauty. But looks can be deceiving, and my mates and I know that well. The amount of foundation some women pile on is absurd, leading to the joke that if you don't want to wake up next to a 2, take her swimming first.
As we drive, Anthea asks if she’s overdressed. I suggest a walk by the shore, but inside, I’m planning a midnight dip for her—my ultimate gag. After a lovely evening, I set my phone to record her climbing out of the ocean. Just as I pull her into the water, I expect running mascara and waterlogged hair, but instead, she starts transforming. Her skin sheds into scales, fingers morph into claws. "We could have had so much more fun together," she hisses before dragging me under the waves. "I only take men drowning on the last date."
"Our Daughter"
Our daughter was born dying, diagnosed with childhood leukemia—just a cruel twist of fate. Her white blood cells, meant to protect her, attacked her instead, slowly decaying her from within. We named her Viv, short for Vivienne, meaning alive and defiant, but it became a bitter irony. We buried her on her fifth birthday, and instead of relief, the grief deepened, becoming an unending, suffocating presence.
Desperate to keep her memory alive, we turned to séances and Ouija boards. One morning, I noticed a heart drawn in the steam on the bathroom mirror, but my wife was still asleep. Soon, similar symbols appeared everywhere: in the snow, on a legal pad, and even arranged in string beans atop my dinner. I believed they were Viv's way of telling us she was safe. When I shared this with my wife, disbelief turned to anger, and in the heat of our argument, I felt a crushing pain in my chest, realizing Viv hadn't been saying she loved me—she had been warning me.
"My Girl Likes To Pretend"
I hate when she does this. I get the flirtation behind it, but sometimes I just want to relax without feeling like I have to earn her affection. Why does she enjoy pretending we're not together? I'm not insecure, but she makes me doubt myself. I arrive at the shop where she works and see her chatting with a man whose interest is evident. As I watch them, it becomes clear she's encouraging his attention. I remind myself it's just an act, even as jealousy creeps in.
After lingering outside, I burst in with a casual, "Hey baby." Her face scrunches up, putting on a show of fear. I find her acting embarrassing, yet I can't help but feel proud—she's getting better at this. As I reach for her arm, the wannabe hero steps in, and she insists I leave, calling for the cops. I back off, and two hours later, I see them kissing passionately through her window. I slip in quietly, and her shriek fills the room. "It’s my stalker!" she screams, and as I deal with the man, she asks, “Are you gonna hurt me, Mister?” I smirk; it’s always a little messy with her, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
"I Should Have Read The Reviews"
Three weeks ago, my girlfriend moved out, and my cat Ruk has been lonely, especially when I'm at work. His behavior got worse—ripping curtains, shredding toilet paper, and finally clawing a hole in the sofa. Desperate, I bought a pet camera so I could monitor him and even talk to him while away. It worked for a few days until tonight.
I got a notification and checked the camera, expecting nothing. Instead, I saw a tall man sneaking into my room, grinning into the lens, before crawling under my bed. I'm sitting here now, knowing he's still there. Please, read the reviews.
"I Think My Fiancé Has A Crush On My Sister"
I'll get straight to the point: I think my fiancé has a thing for my sister. She’s seventeen months older than me, but we look alike—though she’s always been the prettier one. I’ve hated her for it; she was the happy-go-lucky type who could do no wrong, while I struggled to measure up in grades, clothes, and everything else. Aaron is the first person I felt was completely mine, and when he said yes to my proposal, it finally felt like I was stepping out of Amy's shadow.
So, I wasn’t thrilled when Aaron surprised me with plane tickets to see my family. But as soon as we walked in, he fell for Amy, gasping at her like we didn’t exist. During dinner, he sneaked glances at her, even when my dad was grilling him. Later, in bed, he turned me down flat. I’m left wondering what else I can do to be seen. I’ve even carved her face off! (She’s still alive—don’t be weird!) Why can't anyone recognize me for who I am?
"My Family"
I died eight years ago. It wasn't tragic—just a car accident. The man who hit me was rushing to the hospital because his wife was in labor, and black ice sent his car spinning. I don't blame him. I had no family, few friends left, and only my boss and the family who killed me came to my funeral. Afterward, I followed them home. Their newborn daughter, Lily, couldn’t sleep without someone rocking her crib. I helped.
Over time, they realized I was there, but they weren’t afraid. They welcomed me. Now, Lori’s ex is trying to break in. He’s going to hurt them—my family. But I’m stronger now, and I won’t let him.
"Our Teacher Doesn't Call Us By Our Name, But By Our Future Potential"
My teacher, who's generally well-liked, has a strange quirk: He never calls students by their real names, instead labeling us by our supposed futures. During roll call, he shouts "Potential murderer!" and Callum raises his hand, accustomed to the title. “Potential burglar!” follows for Brian, and “Potential psychopath!” for Emily. When it’s my turn, I reluctantly put my hand up as “Potential cannibal.” Initially, it was amusing, but I just want him to call me Joshua.
One day, the teacher surprises us by calling Callum by his real name, shocking everyone. When I ask why, Callum reveals he actually killed a homeless man to force our teacher to stop calling him “potential murderer.” He then suggests I take a bite of the corpse and cook it so I can earn my true name. I did, and the next day, when my teacher calls the roll, he finally calls me Joshua—because I’m no longer a potential cannibal, but a real one.
"The Email Address"
There's an email address that allows you to choose how you want to die. Nobody knows its origin or how it works; you simply send your wish, and it will be granted within five days. You don't need to provide any personal information—just your request. Once sent, there's no turning back. People die in various ways: A stabbing in their bed, heroically saving others, or in bizarre circumstances.
I longed for an escape, so I opted for this mysterious service. I typed, "I want to die painlessly and not have anyone weep over my death." As the days passed and I remained alive, I began to doubt it was real. On the fifth day, at my brother's party, while others celebrated, I felt a sinking dread. Then, a notification popped up, and I went pale—my wish had come true. I glanced at my family, blissfully unaware, as the words "BALLISTIC MISSILE" burned in my mind.
"Porcelain"
Growing up, I always knew my brother was different. It wasn't exactly a secret but more a deep family shame. My parents refused to acknowledge his struggles, leaving him without the help he so desperately needed. I kept a dark secret from everyone, even him: The true extent of his deviancy didn’t fully surface until his early teens. It all began as an accident in my mom's study when I broke one of her porcelain figurines. While our mother yelled, my brother stood in eerie silence, his gaze fixed on the shattered pieces.
Days later, our neighbor, Mrs. Zielinski, reported her dog, Maja, missing, and I discovered pieces of the poor Dalmatian scattered nearby. I tested my theory further by breaking another figurine, observing my brother's unblinking reaction. Soon after, a boy named Billy O’Donnell disappeared, and his body was found mutilated. I realized the horror of my brother's actions and vowed to keep his secret, believing I could become the help he needed. I began breaking figurines intentionally, leaving them for him to find—each one representing someone I despised. They wouldn’t be missed; they were just broken porcelain.
"I Like To Steal My Husband's Hoodies"
I love stealing my husband's hoodies, sweaters, and t-shirts. At barely 5 feet tall, his clothes feel like cozy blankets enveloping me. My favorite is a dark grey hoodie with his old college emblem, faded and cracked from years of wear. It carries his scent—woody cologne and the incense he lights in his man-cave—making it feel like a piece of him.
But something's off about the hoodie lately. After a wash, it’s soft but carries an unfamiliar odor, reminiscent of pavement scrapes and sweaty coins. The sleeves have taken on a subtle, rusty brown hue, with faint splotches across the front. I’m puzzled why my husband no longer lets me into his man-cave, why he cranks up the volume during football games, or why he insists on grocery runs alone, returning with an odd surplus of cleaning supplies. The look he gives me as I wear his hoodie makes it clear: I don’t think I want to know the reason behind it all.
"Birthday Girl"
"Good morning, sunshine! Time to wake up!" Nurse Judy chirps as I open my eyes. I sit up, roll up my sleeve, and feel the sting of the needle as she administers my morning injection. "Good girl! You can go have breakfast with your friends," she says, smiling. Friends? My real friends are miles away, living their lives, not stuck in this psychiatric ward like me.
I walk into the canteen, greeted by a loud "Surprise!" The patients are gathered around a cake with the candles "1" and "7." It's my 17th birthday—yay. The cake tastes like soap, and I pocket the candles. Later, when Nurse Judy brings me my afternoon meds, I confront her. "I’m 17, right?" She looks at me gently, rearranging the candles. "Robin, it’s seven and one." Seventy-one.
"Dual Sensory Loss"
In my old age, I've been grappling with hearing and vision loss. Thankfully, my children have come to care for me after my husband Richard passed away a few months ago. "I can barely hear a thing," I tell them, frowning. My daughter, Gemma, is especially attentive, bringing me hot soup and spoon-feeding me, while my son, Roger, helps around the house. As a nurse, Gemma administers my pain medication, and I often retreat for a long nap after lunch. “I’m blind as a bat,” I chuckle, though I haven’t seen my children in years.
Roger installs grab bars in the bathroom to prevent falls, but I still end up with a nasty bruise after a near mishap. Gemma worries aloud about our family’s struggles while Roger sighs about their financial strain. “I can barely hear a thing,” I assure them, yet I catch snippets of their conversation. After they leave, I open one eye to see Gemma approaching with a pillow, and I wrap my fingers around the knife hidden under my pillow. Let her try to get me, too.
"Everyone Has A Number"
The Numbering, as historians call it, occurred 52 years ago on July 7, 2024, at 1:16 a.m. GMT. In an instant, everyone looked down to see a unique number assigned to them, the highest being 7,574,299,371. Scientists quickly discovered the numbers followed strict rules: Each person had a different number, which transferred to newborns upon death. A rare phenomenon called "renumbering" occurred when a murderer claimed the deceased's number. No method could remove the numbers, and there has never been a recorded person with the number “1.” This shift rearranged society's hierarchy, empowering those with low numbers while ostracizing billionaires.
I hoped there would never be a number “1,” but my sister’s daughter, Sofia, was born with it. Brotherhood members locked us down for two months to protect her, but I escaped with my niece, certain she’d be a target. I left her, just two and a half months old, hoping an animal would care for her. My hopes were misplaced, for now, the number “1” is branded on my arm.
"The Star Children"
The scientific community dubbed them Star Children, and at first, the sight was breathtaking. Each star in the night sky had a perfect double, visible yet undetectable by astronomical instruments. My fiancé, Jane, and I spent magical nights lying in our yard, gazing at the mirrored sky, with our daughter conceived under the enchanting double light. But soon, news outlets warned us to stay indoors after dark, claiming the Star Children could cause blindness. As theories swirled, a nationwide curfew was imposed, and we were confined to our homes, forbidden to look at the stars.
Life continued normally as Jane navigated her pregnancy, experiencing morning sickness and cravings. We eagerly awaited our daughter, Lucy, cherishing the ultrasound image by our bedside. But when labor arrived, it was a nightmare. After sedation, I was taken from the room, and though they incinerated the twins, I glimpsed the aftermath—a tragedy born of the Star Children's strange light. Tonight, grief-stricken, I broke curfew and stared up at the moving Star Children, their slow dance towards the natural stars a haunting reminder of our loss.
"The Blind Child"
"Stabbing," Sylvia whispered, pointing a trembling finger at my brother Arthur. Her milky, sightless eyes gleamed in his direction. His wife, Agnes, shifted uncomfortably while my husband hastily escorted Sylvia away. The mood soured, and two weeks later, Agnes was found stabbed to death in a parking lot. Arthur insisted Sylvia wasn't to blame, but I could sense his lie.
It didn’t stop there. Sylvia’s teacher called, disturbed by her whispering "electrocution" during lessons. Days later, an electrician, the teacher's partner, died in a freak accident. Sylvia's quiet prediction felt like a curse. When she muttered “fire” to my husband, I grew paranoid. And then it happened—just not to us.
