This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/robulitski on 2025-07-17 11:37:33+00:00.

I had a feeling something bad would happen to me in Egglemore one day. Call it intuition, call it woo-woo, call it whatever. The moment I got the call to work an overnight shift in the city earlier this week, I had a harrowing feeling things were about to go wrong.

I can’t remember the last time I slept. Two days ago? Three?

My hands are shaking so bad I can barely type this, and every time I blink, I feel myself drift a little closer to the edge. But I can’t stop now.

If I sleep, I’ll change.

I’ve seen what happens when you do.

Working as an ICU nurse, I’ve seen the very worst of the worst. I’m talking detached limbs, brutal injuries, flesh so ripped up you can’t imagine how it used to look.

It was quiet on my shift. The usual influx of silly injuries; cuts from cooking, broken legs from skating accidents. That was until Bobby came in.

Thirty-six year-old male, no prior medical issues, huge gushing wound on his chest. He was rushed in and restrained, cuffed as he thrashed around frantically. I didn’t have time for a debrief. My colleagues and I worked fast, pressing sterile gauze into the wound, trying to get the bleeding under control.

That’s the first time I saw his eyes.

Milky yet bloodshot, a weird creamy film almost overlaid on them.

Full of rage, lucid yet distant in a strange way.

I almost didn’t feel it when he lunged forward and dug his fingernails into my arm. I was still stuck in his gaze, hypnotised by an affliction I didn’t have an explanation for. I thought back to all of my medical training, and was terrified to realise I was working in unknown territory.

Moments later, he was dead. It was a hopeless task, trying to stitch up a man who was thrashing so hard his cuffs nearly degloved his hands. Even when we called it, I couldn’t help staring into those eyes. They seemed just as angry, even with no life behind them.

A rep from Lifelong came to visit not long after. They explained that I needed to come with them and do some tests, routine stuff, even though I’d never encountered such a process.

Then they explained that I was going to die.

That was forty-eight hours ago.

It’s funny, how such a casual conversation can put things in perspective. They explained that one of their new sleep drugs, Noxidone, had caused an outbreak of sorts, and they were busy getting it under control. There would be a huge influx of patients to ICU, they explained, but I wouldn’t be able to go and help my colleagues.

The infection is spread through bites and scratches, entering a kind of latent period. The only way to stave off the infection, to keep myself from Bobby’s fate, is to stay awake.

If I go to sleep, the infection fully takes hold. And I’ve seen what happens when you do.

I’ve found myself staring at the mirror, looking at my eyes as closely as possible. They’re a little red from being so tired, but they haven’t changed yet. I keep studying them in segments, mapping every vein and fleck for changes.

Lifelong have provided me with a room to wait out the infection, to keep me safe and comfortable, but we all know the endgame here.

I’m infected, and as soon as I slip into dreaming, the nightmare really begins.

I don’t want that. I’m only thirty-two. I can’t die just for doing my job.

I need you guys to help me stay awake. Keep writing to me, keep sending messages of support.

I’m desperate to pull through, so please give me a chance.

And whatever you do, do not go to Egglemore.