This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Extra_Evening9354 on 2025-10-25 17:24:29+00:00.

You ever meet someone who can’t say no? Not because they’re polite or shy, but because it’s like they don’t have the ability to disagree at all. You could tell them the sky is green, and they’d nod and say, “Yeah, it does kind of look green today.”

Everyone knows someone like that. The agreeable one. The go-with-the-flow person. Always nodding, smiling, adapting to whoever’s in front of them like a mirror trying to keep everyone happy. Most people think it’s harmless. I used to think so too.

Then my friend said yes to something he shouldn’t have.

His name was Evan. We went to high school together here in Ohio. He wasn’t the kind of kid who stood out—quiet, average grades, polite to everyone.

He had this soft voice that never rose above a whisper and this weird way of always agreeing, even when you were wrong. Teachers loved him. Friends liked him because he was “easy to be around.” Nobody really knew him, though.

I remember once during sophomore year, someone dared him to pour milk into the class fishtank. It was just one of those stupid hallway dares. Everyone laughed, assuming he wouldn’t actually do it. But he just smiled, said “Okay,” and did it. He didn’t even hesitate. The fish died, he got suspended, and when the principal asked him why, he just said, “Because they told me to.”

I thought that was weird back then, but I brushed it off. We were kids. I figured he just had poor judgment.

After graduation, I didn’t see him much. He stayed in town for a while, then moved away for work. I didn’t keep up. Then last March, I saw his name on the news.

A family had been murdered in their home—a husband, wife, and their two kids. Evan was arrested at the scene.

According to the police report, he broke in during the night and killed them all, then sat at their kitchen table until the sun came up. When officers arrived, he didn’t fight or run. He just said, “They asked me to.”

I couldn’t get that out of my head.

A week later, I drove back to our hometown. I told myself I just wanted to check on his parents, see how they were holding up. But really, I needed to see where he came from. Maybe find a reason—anything that could explain how someone like him could do something so brutal.

Evan’s mom opened the door when I knocked. She looked hollowed out. Her eyes were red, skin pale, and she moved like she hadn’t slept in days. When I said who I was, she just nodded like she’d been expecting me.

She led me inside. The house was clean but silent. His dad sat in the living room staring at a muted TV, the same channel looping the same local ads. He didn’t look up.

We talked a little. Mostly small talk. I told her how sorry I was, how I couldn’t make sense of it either. She said Evan had been quiet in the weeks before the murders—more than usual. She said sometimes, late at night, she’d hear him whispering to someone in his room. When she asked who he was talking to, he told her, “Just someone who understands.”

She said that was the last time they spoke before he moved out.

At some point, I asked if I could see his old room. She hesitated, like she didn’t want to, but eventually said yes. “It’s just how he left it,” she whispered. “We haven’t touched a thing.”

The stairs creaked under my weight. His room was at the end of the hall. The door was half-closed, the air behind it colder somehow.

It was like stepping back in time. Same twin bed, neatly made. Same desk by the window, lamp turned slightly askew. Dust covered most of it, but the space felt… aware. Like the moment I walked in, it noticed me.

I don’t know why I started looking through his stuff. Guilt, maybe. Curiosity. I opened drawers, flipped through old notebooks, and found pages filled with strange sentences written over and over again:

Yes to all things.

To say yes is to serve.

To serve is to hear.

His handwriting was neat but shaky, like he was forcing himself to copy something.

Then I saw it—a thick, black book wedged between the bed and the nightstand. It was too large to be a Bible but shaped like one. The cover was plain except for the title pressed into the leather in faded gold:

“The Books of Enoch.”

Books?

I’d heard of it in passing. Some old apocryphal text, something not included in the Bible. But this wasn’t like any printed copy I’d seen online. The pages were thick, yellowed, and handwritten. No two pages looked the same. Different handwriting styles, different inks, even different languages. Some of the margins had small drawings of circles and symbols that looked like eyes, or maybe suns.

As I flipped through, I saw notes scrawled in English—words that looked newer than the rest. I recognized the handwriting immediately. Evan’s.

Obedience is the first act of creation.

To say yes is to open the ear that hears.

Say yes, and it will know your name.

There were streaks of something dark on the edge of the page. At first, I thought it was old ink—but when I rubbed it with my thumb, it smeared wet.

Not fresh enough to drip, but fresh enough to be sticky.

I looked at my fingers. It was blood. Not dry, not old—fresh.

That’s when I heard it.

A whisper. Not from behind me, not from the hallway. From inside the book.

I froze. It was soft, too faint to make out at first, but definitely a voice. I pressed the pages tighter together, thinking maybe I’d imagined it—but the whisper got louder. Breathier. Like someone’s mouth was pressed right against the paper.

I dropped the book and stumbled backward. The whisper stopped instantly.

When I picked it up again, the words on the open page had changed. I swear to God they had. The line that had read “Say yes, and it will know your name” now said:

Say yes, and you already have.

I don’t remember leaving the room. I don’t remember driving home. But I can still smell that metallic scent on my hands.

It wasn’t until I got back to my apartment and turned on the light that I saw it—faint letters written across my palm in dried red lines, like something had pressed against it.

Three letters.

Y E S.

That was two nights ago.

I don’t know if I’m posting this because I want help, or because part of me just needs to get it out before it gets worse. But every time I close my eyes, I hear it again—that whisper, coming from somewhere behind the words.

I’m seeing shadows, feelings things touch me when nothings there, and I don’t know what to do.

I think it’s still waiting for me to answer.