This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/MuratXvls on 2025-07-16 18:52:44+00:00.

I moved to New York three months ago. Got a job at a finance company. Typical 9 to 5. You know how it is.

I’m from Portland, Maine. Packed what I could fit in a suitcase and rented the cheapest place I could find. Sixth-floor walk-up. Tiny windows. No sunlight. Just a small apartment that smelled like dust and old paint. The kind of place you tell yourself, “It’s just temporary,” but you end up staying anyway. Because if you keep looking for other places to stay, the stress will end up eating youfrom inside out.

The first few weeks were normal. Boring. Wake up. Shower. Put on the same shirt. Coffee doesn’t even taste like anything anymore. Go to the big office in the big city. Sit at my desk. Answer emails. Smile when people walk by. No one asks how I’m doing.

FaceTime with my girlfriend after work. She’s still in Maine. “How’s the new place, love? Are you getting used to it?” “It’s fine.” “You sound tired.” “Doing my best. Still can’t grasp the concept of office work.” “Don’t burn yourself out, okay?” “I’ll try.”

The apartment is small. It’s cold, even in summer. The walls don’t make any noise. Which was weird for New York, I guess. The smell of dust was getting heavier.

One day on my day off, I decided to clean the whole place. Mopped the floors. Scrubbed every corner. Got rid of all the dust. For a while, the air felt better.

But then came the smell of rot. I checked the fridge. Nothing rotten. No leaks. No mold. Then it went away.

At work, people started stepping back when I got in the elevator. At lunch, Mark left a bottle of deodorant on my desk. I asked him why. He didn’t answer. Just stared at the floor.

FaceTime again. “Nick, you look pale.” “Probably bad lighting. I feel fine.” “Are you losing weight?” “I don’t know. Don’t have a scale in here.” “Do I look like I’m losing weight?” She bit her lip. “Do you go outside?” “I go to work.” “That’s not the same.” I looked at the screen, but I couldn’t answer. She started whimpering. I think she was crying, but the Wi-Fi cut out before I could be sure.

That night, I saw it for the first time. Long legs. It was hunched over because the ceiling was too low. It kind of looked like me trying to crawl near my bed—that damn incline near the roof floor.

I stared at it. It stared at me with its white eyes. I realized it had no feet. Just floating an inch off the ground. Neither of us moved. I was too scared to move.

Got up at 4:12 AM I couldn’t sleep. The smell was gone. It was too. But my toothbrush tasted like blood. I checked my gums. They were fine.

At work, they stopped sitting near me. In the break room, someone said: “Smells like he’s rotting.” I turned around, just to see them smiling at me.

FaceTime again. “Nick?” “Yeah?” “Have you been sleeping?” “I don’t think so.” “Are you… Feeling alive?” “I’m trying to be.” She didn’t answer.

It got closer. I could see it better. Its arms… they were a part of its chest. Folded in… no stitched there or melted shut. It was smiling. But its eyes were terrified. I drifted back to sleep. I was used to it being there by then. I woke up and it was by the bed. Still smiling. Still terrified. It whispered: “Rot suits you.”

I stopped showering. I was feeling tired and I felt like it didn’t matter anymore. My arms felt heavy. Like they weren’t cooperating. I practiced moving my fingers in front of the mirror. They were slower.

After a few days, someone got fired at work. It was my fault. My mind was full. I don’t know what I was thinking. I remember it being like full static in my head. I misplaced some files and someone took the blame for it. I was sitting in the meeting room alone. My manager knocked but didn’t come in. “You doing okay, bud?” I didn’t answer just nodded even without looking at him “Good.” He left.

She called again. “Nick, sniff your shirt.” I laughed. “Please.” So I did. Rot. I smelled like death. I gagged. Almost puked but managed to hold it in. That was the first time I could smell it, really smell it. She paused. I tried to ask her, “How did you know?” But before I could finish, she said: “I can smell it too.”

It stood by the bathroom door. When I brushed my teeth, I saw it behind me. Its voice was soft, like it was telling me a secret: “You can’t help.” It was right.

I couldn’t lift my arms today. They just hung there. Like useless flaps of meat. I opened my mouth in the mirror. There was something behind my teeth.

They moved my desk away from everyone else. I thought “im surely getting fired soon.” Everyone gave me weird looks throught the day. Mark walks by but doesn’t look at me. I asked him how his day was. He didn’t even answer. Then he left.

I didn’t answer her call tonight. She left a voicemail. “I saw you in my sleep today. You looked like you were smiling. But your eyes weren’t.” She told me to get out. Take a break. Call my parents. Find a therapist. But it was too late.

After hearing her message, I looked in the mirror. My eyes were whiter and my pupils were gone. Just like his. And i was smiling. But i couldn’t feel it.

I tried to pack my bag. My fingers don’t close right anymore. He appeared behind me while I tried. His breath smelled like death. “You .”

I don’t think this thing is a ghost. I think it’s me. Or at least, it’s what I am becoming.

I knew I was doing wrong. I knew I was letting everything rot—my life, my job, my relationship. I could’ve stopped. Even if people didn’t offer any help, I could’ve sought it. I didn’t. I kept going.

Now it’s closer than ever. I decided, fuck my stuff, I just need to get out of here. But I couldn’t leave. I mean that literally.

When I reached for the door, the smell hit me so hard I puked. My hands wouldn’t work right. Then I fell down. I heard my feet break. When I looked down, all I saw was a pool of blood and thousands of bone shrapnel trying to escape my skin and muscle tissue. But I don’t know if I can compare it to the pain of my teeth breaking from the inside out and rapidly rotting and cutting the insides of my mouth.

Nobody helps. They see you breaking, and they look away. That’s fair. I would’ve done the same. Back in Maine, my grandfather used to say: “If you let rot sit long enough, it grows teeth.” Now I know what he meant.

If you’re reading this, don’t bother messaging me. I’m probably not here anymore. Or if I am, I’m not leaving this apartment. My fingers started to look like they’ve melted in acid while I’m typing this. The screen is all bloody. I can’t move my arms right. But I feel like I had to post this. All I want to say before I hit post or before I die is: I’m sorry. To myself.