Tag Archives: NoSleep

How to write a NoSleep Hit

Now, let’s get down to business. I guess I need this; to clear my conscience and clear my mind.

I lied to you.

I’m sorry. I think.

But this is the cure. The revelation. The big attempt to clean my samskaras as the Hindus would say. Clear your samskaras, your ballast, and you can free yourself from the eternal and painful cycle; the suffering; the punishment of rebirth.

This is how you write a NoSleep story. Or any horror story.

The first step is to have an idea. A concept, let’s say a man that appears behind your reflection.

You have to feel yourself into the moment. You have to stand in front of the mirror, with all your intention and all of your heart, and you have to stare at that empty space behind your reflection and you have to see him, there, with a straight nose and a perfectly symmetrical face and this smooth haircut, the hair, perfect, completely without hair loss, the way only actors in Hollywood can have it, combed to the side.

And you imagine him, standing there. Imagine what he looks like. How close does he stand? Does he keep his distance at the beginning, but then, over time, he steps closer?

A good horror story takes time. You cannot just churn it out in a few minutes. You have to feel it over days; you have to make the fear real – grow it, feed it, let it nourish and consume you at the same time. Continue reading

Floor 5

“You’re single?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “But hopefully not for too long.”

“That’s good,” he said. “Not that I mind, you know. But women smell too much.”

“Oh, I always thought men are more dirty.”

“Well, he said. “It all depends on your sense of smell.”

The apartment was large and sunny, solid wooden floors, a lift and large windows that I would soon grow to hate. In every respect a bargain.

“The only thing,” he said. “Is that you can’t use the stairs. They were too dangerous and we had to block them. So you have to take the lift and in case of a fire there is an emergency ladder that goes right to your bedroom window.”

“Five floors on a ladder?”

“Well,” he said. “You look pretty strong. I’m sure you can handle that.” Continue reading

A Mother’s Lullaby

No matter how hard I try to remember anything bad, my childhood was simply too perfect. I spent hundreds of hours thinking back to the time when I didn’t understand the world – and still, whatever I try to think of, every image and scene that I remember was always perfect.

Sure, my ‘parents’ were weird, but they never hurt me. My dad was overprotective and never even allowed me to play in the kitchen, but I can’t think of any other signs that my child’s mind could have seen. I can’t remember any screams or loud fights or slamming doors; among each other dad and Eliza never had any conflicts.

I hate those memories of the three of us sitting jointly at the dinner table with mom’s freshly cooked food right between us. I remember how ungrateful I was; how I gulped the food down without knowing how much my mother suffered to make it. Sometimes I even complained about the food and then Eliza went back to the kitchen and, a long time later, returned with a completely new meal.

I hate remembering the joy I felt on our camping trips to remote woods. Dad drove the caravan and Eliza sat to him while I slept in the back of the caravan. Even on those trips, while dad drove and I was falling asleep in the back of the caravan, I still had my lullabies. All the food and trips and holidays and TV nights and game nights and stargazing nights, all those were enjoyable, but even when I was small I knew that none of those acts compared to the wonder of a lullaby, hummed from a mother’s heart to the ears of her son. Continue reading

River People 3: Far from the River

Previous chapters:


You can also listen to this story.


The guards literally grabbed us and pulled us out of the room; four of them stayed inside and two of them forced Kristy and me to run down the corridor and towards the stairs.

I heard shots being fired behind us – a lot of shots – and then there was this loud shrieking noise; like chalk on a blackboard, just many times louder. By the time we were at the stairwell there were screams as well, but they ended pretty quickly. The guards nearly kicked us down the stairs, but honestly they looked more terrified than Kristy and me.

I still don’t know who those guards were. They must be working for a government agency because they work together with the police, but they weren’t wearing any badges or agency logos on their clothes. They were all dressed in black and had heavy flashlights and machine guns, and at least two had belts with a range of metal utensils. Continue reading