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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Extra_Evening9354 on 2025-08-28 02:55:57+00:00.

Part I

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A few of you asked me to start at the beginning, and I guess that’s fair. This story is going longer than my last one but that’s because it needs slightly more context. Meadow Lane wasn’t the first house I ever worked on—just one of the ones that left scars I still carry. The truth is, my first house wasn’t half as big or half as fancy. It was a foreclosure on Sycamore Street, small enough to disappear into the neighborhood if you weren’t looking. I thought it was going to be an easy job. I was wrong. That house was the reason I stopped laughing at ghost stories. It was the reason I started carrying extra things in my toolbox that had nothing to do with fixing houses.

It was also the first place I worked with my partner, Stanley. We weren’t friends then—my realtor just passed me his number, said he was short on work and good with his hands. Simple as that. But looking back, I know one thing for certain: without Stanley, I wouldn’t be here to tell you this story.

The home itself was a one story, 2 bed, 1 bath. It wasn’t anything fancy or grand, but just enough for a family of 2 or 3. If there’s anything I’ve learned though, the small houses where the average person lives—that’s where the trouble is. People trying to live day by day and make it through their life causes a lot of stress and anxiety. That usually lures spirits to the house. Eventually spiritual energy builds—enough to split the seams. A kind of door. I don’t know where it leads, but I know what comes through isn’t human. Although it takes decades or even centuries for doors to open, one did in that house. I wish I knew what I know now.

I pulled up to the house in my old beat-up sedan and parked it while the engine let out one last cough. In front of me sat a gray van with both back doors open. Tools lined the walls inside, hanging from screws drilled into a board, neat as a store display. Plastic bins held drill bits, screws, nails, files—everything a guy might need to take apart a house and put it back together. Someone was half-buried in the mess, leaning over a bag while rummaging around inside.

“Stanly?” I called out as I stepped out of my car.

The man turned his head as he stood up and squinted at the sunlight. He looked a few years older than me, brown hair and brown eyes with bushy eyebrows. He gave me a long look before nodding and walking towards me. “So, you’re Forrest?”

“Yeah.”

He grunted as he threw a bag over his shoulder and hopped out the back of his van. He reached his hand out and smiled as he started talking. “Pleasure to be working with you man.”

“Same here, have you ever done this kind of thing before?”

“Plenty—foreclosures, remodels, all sorts of stuff. It never hurts to have a steady stream of work.”

I nodded “Good, this should be pretty easy then. Mostly just cosmetic stuff, floors, paint, and patchwork.”

“Easy money.” He said grinning. We hauled out bags up the porch together. The wood creaked and groaned as if it was going to fall from under us. It seemed like the whole porch needed to be re-done.

I slid my key in the lock and the door swung open. The air was almost too thick to breathe, and it carried a heavy scent of something sweet, like fruit rotting for months—or like someone left a body under the floorboards. Stanly stepped back at the smell as he waved his hand in front of his face. “We should have cracked the windows or something first.”

I tried to laugh but it came out thin and fake sounding.

The living room wasn’t in terrible shape at first glance—carpet matted and stained, wallpaper peeling in the corners, and a few pieces of furniture carelessly abandoned. Normal. Forgettable.

But after looking around the living room, I swear the hairs on my neck started to rise. There was something about this place that felt off. There was something about this house that was different from the ones I’d done before.

I sat my bag by the front door as I made my way to tour the rest of the house. The kitchen was almost boring compared to the living room. Dust, grime, peeling wallpaper. Looking back, I think that was its way of lulling us into a false sense of normal. Pretending it was just another job.

The hallway was narrow enough that the walls felt like they were pressing in. One door stood at the far end, shut tight, while two others waited across from each other halfway down, as if the house had been built to funnel you into the middle room.

I opened the door in front of me. The bathroom was cramped, barely wide enough to turn around in. A cracked mirror hung above a rust-stained sink, its silver backing peeling like flaking skin. The tub was ringed in black mildew, and the shower curtain clung damp and yellowed to itself, even though there hadn’t been running water in years. The air here was different too—humid, like the room was holding its breath. There was one detail that stuck out like a sore thumb—that sticky sweet smell had returned. It smelt like death now and permeated throughout the entire house. The air grew thicker and heavier as my vision stretched.

I shut the door quickly, maybe too quickly, as if I could trap the smell inside and keep it from crawling further into the house. The click of the knob sounded sharp in the silence, echoing longer than it should have. But the smell didn’t stay locked inside. It clung to me, thick and syrupy, stronger than before. It wasn’t the usual mildew or rot these places carried—it had a sweetness that didn’t belong, like fruit left too long in the sun. The house was full of it now, but unevenly, as if the walls themselves were holding on to the stench.

“Jesus Christ, that smells horrible.” Stanly coughed as he moved the collar of his shirt over his nose.

“It definitely doesn’t smell good.”

“You think it’s a dead raccoon under the boards or mice in the wall?”

“Probably—something’s dead though, that’s for sure.” At the time I still wasn’t sold on that theory. Dead animals had a certain sharpness to their stink, but this was heavier, slower, almost like it stuck to your throat on the way down.

“These are the 2 bedrooms then?” He looked at the 2 doors on our left and right before approaching the one on the left.

Stanly pushed open the door and the hinges let out a horrendous groan. The room was small, barely enough for a bed and wardrobe—green wallpaper sagging from the ceiling in long strips. Mildew clung to the air, wet and sour.

He stepped inside and the silence broke with a terrible crunch. The floor wasn’t moving—it was layered. A carpet of dead roaches, beetles, and silverfish coated the boards so thick you could hardly see the wood. Their shells had gone brittle with time, cracking under his boot like glass.

Stanly froze mid-step. “Holy shit,” he muttered, lifting his foot as if afraid the corpses might cling to him. I just stared. There must’ve been hundreds, maybe thousands, all dried and piled together in a kind of macabre ant hill.

While they were scattered across the entire room, they piled unnaturally thick in the center. Their brittle shells cracked and the floorboards groaned as Stanley shifted his weight. He turned to step out, but the crunch beneath his boot changed—softer, wetter, as if the desiccated bodies had given way to something pulpy beneath.

Stanly jerked his foot back. “That’s just disgusting—where’d they all come from?”

I didn’t answer. Because the smell was stronger now, syrupy and sticky, rising from the broken mound. And as I watched, I swore I saw the heap of carcasses settle—not slide or scatter, but sink, as though there was more beneath the floor.

I turned to Stanly as the smell hit me and threatened my balance. “I’m not going to lie, I’m not the biggest fan of this house.”

He gave a short laugh—didn’t sound too convincing. “Yeah, well still, it’s easy money. Rip up the carpet, remove the wallpaper, patch the walls, and fumigate the hell out of it, then we’re golden.” The way he shifted, careful not to step on the mound again, told me he wasn’t anymore comfortable than I was. He shut the door as he stepped out of the room and scraped his boots against the floor.

There was only one room left, thankfully, and at first glance there was nothing out of the ordinary. A bare bed frame slumped in the corner, wood warped from years of neglect. Above it, the wallpaper had faded around a perfect rectangle, the kind of mark you’d see when a picture hung for decades and was only recently torn down. The exposed patch was darker than the rest, almost bruised-looking, like the wall itself hadn’t seen light in years.

Stanly shrugged. “At least this room isn’t too bad.”

I wanted to agree, but my eyes kept drifting back to that stain. The rest of the wall was yellowed and peeling, but that patch stayed smooth, untouched, almost like that one spot hadn’t aged at all. I shut the bedroom door as I started heading for my bag. “Let’s try to get this knocked out before the end of the week.”

Stanly nodded, brushing his hands off on his jeans. “Kitchen first?”

“Living room. Might as well make it feel like a house again before we gut it.”

We hauled our bags back to the front. The stink was still there, stubborn and cloying, but once we started cleaning and then tearing up carpet and stripping wallpaper, it was easier to ignore. Hours passed like that—me on my knees with a scraper, Stanly cursing as he wrestled the ca…

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