This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Grpzy on 2024-12-27 22:29:39+00:00.

When I was 19, I almost died. A car accident left me pinned under the wreckage, my lungs collapsing as metal sliced through my side. I remember the faint sound of sirens, the warmth of blood pooling under me, and the icy grip of fear. But more than anything, I remember the voice.

“Do you want to live?”

It was deep, reverberating like it came from within me, but no one was there. The voice repeated itself, louder this time: “Do you want to live?”

“Yes,” I choked, barely able to whisper.

The pain stopped instantly. The sirens faded, replaced by complete silence. And then the voice returned, calm and commanding: “You’ll live. But you will never escape me.”

I woke up in the hospital, miraculously unharmed. The doctors couldn’t explain it—my injuries had been catastrophic, but by the time I arrived, there wasn’t a scratch on me. They called it divine intervention. I should’ve felt grateful, but all I felt was dread.

For years, I tried to forget the voice, convincing myself it was a hallucination brought on by shock. Life went back to normal—or as normal as it could be with a lingering sense of doom. But on my 30th birthday, it came back.

I was blowing out candles when the room went silent. No clinking glasses, no music, just a deafening absence of sound. I froze, gripping the edge of the table, and then I heard it.

“Time to pay.”

The voice. The same one from the accident, but this time, it sounded closer—like it was standing behind me. I turned quickly, but no one was there. My friends laughed, oblivious, as the world spun around me. I didn’t sleep that night.

From that moment on, things started happening. Shadows lingered in the corners of my vision, twisting unnaturally. Doors creaked open on their own. Mirrors warped, showing things that shouldn’t be there—an extra hand, a face that wasn’t mine.

Then the whispers started. Quiet at first, like static, but they grew louder over time. At night, I’d hear my name, repeated over and over in a low, guttural chant.

Last week, I woke up to find my reflection staring at me, even though I wasn’t standing in front of the mirror. Its lips moved, forming words I couldn’t hear. I smashed it, but when I looked down, my reflection stared up from the shattered pieces.

I tried everything—priests, psychics, even therapists—but nothing worked. No one could help me.

Two nights ago, I saw it for the first time. A figure, tall and shadowy, standing at the foot of my bed. Its eyes burned red, and its face twisted in a permanent grin. I screamed, but it didn’t move. It just whispered, “You’ll never escape.”

Last night, it got closer. I woke up with its face inches from mine, its cold breath on my skin. It didn’t speak, but its grin widened as it raised a single, skeletal finger to its lips, silencing me.

Now, I’m writing this because I know tonight is the end. I don’t know what it wants or why it waited this long, but I can feel it. It’s in the room with me as I type this.

To whoever reads this: don’t make deals. No matter how desperate you are. Death isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you.

Trust me.