Want to hear brand new horror stories brought to life?
Live?
“Join me every Sunday at 7pm eastern time on the Dr. Nose Leap Podcast YouTube channel where”
I narrate fresh, never-before-heard stories in real-time, just search Dr. Nose Leap Podcast
on YouTube and make sure you're subscribed with notifications on so you don't miss it. Story one, Brothers of the Robes, as I hurry down the concrete steps, mindful not to slip on their simultaneous dusty grit and slickness, or trip over the hem of my robe, I hear the scheduled tube arrival at the station I just passed by. The screeching of brakes and
droning of an impossible-dunderstand voice announcing the arrival mix with the constant hum and vibration of all those hundreds of people, queuing up to get the very best seat. I pity all of them. Their mundane worlds and work-a-day lives, they're insistence to succeed, even if it kills them.
“What a sorry lot they are, these people, these normals. These doomed wretches of society.”
My feet slip into the gravel that surrounds the tracks, and I quicken my pace. Knowing I shall be late if I do not put a little extra effort into my step. The brakes stop squealing
at a hear the hydraulic hiss of doors opening, and the never-ending drone of announcement
after announcement. So many rules these people live under, a constant thumb pressing down on them from, "Where?" above, below, no, no, there's no outside source, they have done this to themselves. They are their own slaves, happy or miserable, to be ruled over by others of their kind, who believe that their blood is better than the rest. What a strange belief system they have, allowing others to dominate them simply because someone's ancestors used
brute force to crush someone else's ancestors, thus creating an invented hierarchy based on violence and subjugation, not that I'm against violence. The sacrificial dagger I carry says otherwise. If blood need be spilled, then blood shall be spilled. It is that simple. I duck through a small opening in the Stonewall, and navigate a series of twists and turns, ups and downs before I find the passageway I need. I can already hear them. My brethren,
finally, their voice is lift high, piercing the very stone and concrete and dirt and mud and asphalt that separates us from those who live far far above. It turned here, it turned there, and I arrived to see all of them circled around the candle, our single candle. I
only source of light to fend off the darkness that surrounds us, always. Not that we fear
the darkness. Now, we are of the darkness. We blend and melden become one with it, except for tonight. Tonight we dawn our robes, we chant our holy words, we prepare our sacrifice. Pendo, what a sacrifice it is. A tabi cat, skinny and mean. It stares at us, hisses at us, grouse at us, but it cannot swipe. No, we have caught it and subdued it with so much twine. Even its dagger teeth and razor claws cannot cut through the amount of twine encircling the squirming
angry body. "Coonilius, you have arrived!" My great friend and brother, Andrely, announces, Andrely is our priest, our high holy one, our unelected leader, since we brethren have no official leader. Despite the fact that his robes hood is drawn tight around his head, I know it to be him, his voice is deep and melodic, a standout amongst those of us with higher registers. Andrely moves from the circle and embraces me, then he pushes me back and studies me.
Any trouble getting here? When you did not arrive on time, we feared the worst. He looks me over once more. Do you have it Cornelius? Were you able to obtain that which we need? I have, Andrely, it was a hard fought bounty, but I extracted it from its owner with his little violence
“as possible. As little violence? To which you mean there was some violence, though, yes?”
I shake my head sadly and look down at the few spots of blood on my robe. Hours is a violent world, brother. Perhaps not as violent as the people above, but there are times when even weak and not hide from our base or nature. Unfortunately, you are correct Cornelius. Andrely gripped my shoulder. Show it to me. With little fanfare, I opened my robe to show the long blade strapped to my waist.
Andrely nods with appreciation and respect of all the brethren. He knew I was the one who could handle the job, who could risk life and limb to achieve our goal. May I? Andrely asks,
I nod and unstrap the dagger from my body.
He chuckles. Oh my, yes, it is. Then Andrely turns and holds the sacrificial dagger above his head.
“The holy word wasstoff stamped prominently on its blade. Brothers, it is here. Tonight,”
we make a sacrifice that will ensure our survival for generations to come. As our brothers before us have done, and our brothers after us will do as well. There is a mighty cheer from the brethren. Andrely smiles at me. Come, brother Cornelius, join us in the circle so the sacrifice may be complete. I nod and do just that, pushing in between Edgar and Cartwright. Andrely takes his prominent place, keeping the dagger held above him, making sure our eyes, our focus, our power,
are directed to it and only it. The cat hisses trying to distract us, but we need not let it. We are disciplined, we are forthright, we are destined. By this blade, we demand our freedom. Andrely cries. Our freedom. We echo. By this blade, we demand our power. Our power!
“By this blade, we demand our rightful place in the holy order. The holy order.”
Then we hum. A high and low murmuring that fills the chamber we are in. Echoing off the stone walls, drowning out the constant gripping of water, the ever-present roar and rattle of the tube. Oy, Oy! You don't have to do this, you know? Our chanting stops, and we all stare at the cat. You have something to say, serial killer? Andrely asks the captive feline.
Yeah, I got something to say, alright. You lot with your robes and your nicked pairing knife. You think you're special if something right? Well, you ain't. You're just a bunch of rats
living by the tube. That's all you is. Too many close calls to that third rail have got your
rat minds all scrambled. Got tell you what, you let me go, and we'll forget all about this little mishep. How's that sound? We got a deal? Andrely sighs. He lowers the dagger so we can pull the hood of his robe back and show the cat his magnificent snout, his wonderfully beady eyes, his long whiskers, and his sharp sharp teeth. No cat. We do not have a deal. Andrely says, "Do we brothers?" A resounding. No! He ruts from our mouths and solidarity with Andrely.
See, cat? Your sacrifice is destined. Call us rats. Call us vermin. Call us pests. Call us food.
If you will. Murderer. But never. Never call us stupid. I ain't calling you stupid,
you stupid rat. I'm just saying that killing me ain't going to do nothing for your kind. Us cats. We ain't your enemies. It's those people above that are coming for you. They try to kill us too. We should band together and kill them all. I can help with that. I know the right kind of cats you can make it happen. All you got to do is let me go. That's it. Then we really show them people what's what? Andrely laughs. We all laugh.
Cat. How sad it must feel to be nature's perfect killer. He had helpless before what you consider prey. Yeah, well, it ain't exactly warm and fuzzy in me belly right now. No. That is unfortunate. Andrely lifts the dagger again. The mighty will stuff blade and make certain the cat can see its sharp and deadly glory. I would ask if you have any
“last words, cat. But I believe you have used them all up. Awkwardly. Because the blade was”
not meant for rat paws. Andrely shifts the dagger around until he precariously grips the handle. The steel aimed directly at the cat's heart. Brothers, are we ready? We are ready! Ah! Come on now, blocs! Get out and have to! The dagger comes down swift and sure. The tabi cat dries and dies. One more murderer removed from the world. One more chance for our next generation to survive. When it is all over, we brethren pull back our hoods and grin our
rat grins at each other. I think that went well. Andrely says wiping the blade of the dagger on
his robe. A bit dramatic toward the end. But those are cats for you. Always full of drama.
Hungry? I ask Andrely. Starving. Great. Think a bob card on platform 16 just throughout last evening's rubbish. Oh, I would love a kabob. Andrely lifts his arms in the air. Brothers, let his feast on kabob's. Kabob's. Allow me to ruin the mood for just a second. You know that
Store-bought coffee sitting in your kitchen?
more lifeless. No sleep coffee is different. We use specialty-grade beans, roast them to order,
“and ship them out fast. So what hits your cup is bold, rich, and terrifyingly fresh.”
Stop settling for stale coffee. Head to no sleep coffee.com and grab a bag roasted just days
before it reaches your door. Be sure to use promo code no sleep 20 to get 20% off your first order.
That's no sleep coffee.com promo code no sleep 20. Story 2. Feeling small. Big man pauses. Placing his hand against the stairwell wall as he sucks in breath after breath. Boy, skinny pit. Hiss is from the landing above. Careful to keep his voice down. With brume eyes, big man glares down at his ever-so-thin partner. His lip curling up in a snarl of contempt and simmering anger. Why are we climbing down stairs
SP? What's an old hack doing this deep anyway? Big man asks, as he wipes the sweat from his broad forehead with a huge, meaty paw of a hand. Well, say she's supposed to be BM. A gingerbread
“cottage in the woods. Gah! No, not the woods. I hate hiking. Then where should she live?”
Not this far down. That's all I'm saying. Skinny pit shakes his head. He's used to his partner complaining about walking, climbing stairs, going up or down, or just moving in general. But in their line of business, certain efforts have to be made. Skinny pit knows that big man
understands this because they always complete the task given to them, no matter how
strenuous. It's just big man's way, always complaining about something. Can you meet a carry you over my shoulders? Skinny pit asks. This punches big man's pride right in the bullocks. The huge man's glare intensifies, and after half a second, he starts moving down the stairs once more. So far down. Big man mutters as he suffers through the descent. Once they finally
“achieve their destination, big man sucks in a biomes worth of oxygen, then wipes the remaining”
sweat from his forehead, straightens his suit, and pounds on the door in front of him while Skinny pit stands off to the side. His hand in his own suit, ready with his pistol, if needed.
There's no answer. Big man looks sideways at Skinny pit. Skinny pit shrugs and frowns.
Big man roused low, then pounds on the door once again. It opens before he can withdraw his fist. A moment, if you will, gentlemen. An old woman says that she holds a rat in her hands. She smiles at big man, then leans in, whispers in the rats ear, and sets it on the ground. Tell your friends. The rat squeaks and scurries off to the stairs, heading deeper into the bowels of London, bounding down each step with an intensity that
startles big man in Skinny pit. "Did you just talk to a rat?" Big man asks, "I hate rats. Deal you now, and why would a beefy lad like you be so afraid of such a wee creature?" The old woman asks, "I didn't say I was afraid. I said I hate them, spreading disease and leaving little nasty pellets everywhere, and they're piss. Don't give me started on how bad piss smells." The old woman looks big man up and down,
then she leans forward and turns her gaze on SkinnyPip. "And what about you, spindle shanks?" The old woman asks, "SkinnyPip." "Huh, Mikran used to call me that?" "SkinnyPip replies. I go by SkinnyPip now, though. I wasn't asking your name boy. I was asking how you feel about the ratist norvecicus." SkinnyPip looks to big man for help. Big man only shrugs. "Yeah, I don't know nothing about no Norwegians. The old woman grins. I suppose you don't do
you." She steps aside and gestures for them to come in. "Well, I assume we have business to discuss. Can't think of why else two of Duchess's men would come calling on me otherwise?" The old woman laughs at the shocked looks on the two men's faces. "Oh, he don't think I know who your boss is. I've been waiting for this visit for a long while. Too bad he didn't come himself like a true man. Had to send a couple of stooges to do the work for him.
"Hey, oh, you call in stooges." Big man snorkels. "Watch your tongue, woman. This can be a civil visit." Big man moves in close, towering over the old woman. Or it can be an unseval visit. "Your choice, Hague." The old woman draws her head back at the derogatory term aimed at her.
The playful look and vibe she'd been projecting drops away.
space drops with it. Literally. Skinny pip moves up next to Big man. His breath coming out
“in plumes of steam. His hand goes to his partner's arm, but his eyes remain on the old woman.”
"How about we all keep our hair on, eh? No need for this to be confrontational?" Skinny pip says in a calm voice. "Dauchest is sending you two is already confrontational." The old woman says. "But you are here now, so you might as well come in so we can get this over with." The air warms again as the old woman turns and walks into her subterranean flat, waving a hand over her shoulder as she goes. "I was about to make tea,
but you two still just care for a cup." Big man snorkels again, and Skinny pip squeezes the man's arm as
hard as he can. It barely makes a dent in the large man's muscles, but it does force him to turn his attention to his partner. "Wedd missed a Dorchester say," Skinny pip asks. "Don't make the hag mad." Big man replies. "Exactly. Let's focus on that. Then we can get what we came for. That work for you be him. I don't like her tone, and she doesn't like yours. We'll call it a draw." Big man glares for a moment longer. Then shrugs his huge shoulders and shakes off Skinny pip's hand.
"All right. We'll do it the calm way." "Breathe it!" The two men walk inside the flat and close the door behind them.
They find the old woman in her kitchen pouring water into her kettle from the faucet. She smiles at
them, but there's no warmth in it. "Take a seat, boys." She says, nodding her chin at her small couch and two chairs in the windowless front room. She sets the kettle on its base and flips the switch. "Get comfortable." "We ain't here to get comfortable." Big man says. "Where here on business.
“Business you have with Mr. Dorchester. Business he'd like finished today. Today. How am?”
Bishop's subbing." The old woman says as she prepares three cups for tea. She walks to her fridge, opens it in size. "I'm all out of cow milk. I'm afraid. Will milk milk do?" Big man frowns and starts to say something, but Skinny pip points at him and says, "No milk for us. No tea, really. We can't say. I'm wash. You too are staying for tea. And that is that." The old woman says with a cackle that makes the partner's shiver. "Sit, sit." Skinny pip presses the air with his hands.
Big man shakes his head and protests, but then sits on the couch, taking up almost the entire space. Skinny pip plops down into a chair. The partner's weight is the old woman homes to herself while preparing tea. Just as big man is about to explode off the couch with impatience. The old woman carries a tray of three steaming cups of tea, along with the plate of lemon biscuits. "Made the biscuits, myself. But there are three days old I'm afraid. I hope they don't taste
stale." She sets the tray down on the small coffee table separating the couch from the two chairs. "Please eat and drink, boys. You deserve a little treat before we conduct business." "No thank you, man." Skinny pip replies, "Garnoring a harsh look from big man for the informality."
“"I think we've taken up enough of your time." "Oh, piss, posh, not a bother at all. Have some."”
"The old woman's day standing, arrives boring into skinny pips. I insist." "If it'll hurry this mess along, big man grows." He grabs a cup, downs the tea, takes two biscuits, and shovels them into his mouth, chewing rudely and loudly. After a moment, he swallows. "The tea and biscuits. The old woman maintains her stale on skinny pips." "And he used spindle shanks." The old woman asks. Skinny pip nods, smiles,
then takes his tea, sipping politely. "Have a biscuit." "The old woman insists." Skinny pip hesitates, then plucks a biscuit off the plate. He nibbles a bit and smiles again. "Yes, that will do fine." The old woman says and walks away. She moves to a bookshelf where she has a row of figurines set up. She lifts one off the shelf, a figurine of a short squat man. There's nothing fancy about the figurine. In fact, the squat man looks
like a regular bloke that skinny pip and big man would see every day. "This business of Duchess does." The old woman says, turning the figurine over and over in her hands, "I am sure he has filled you in, so please dental him, enlighten me."
Big man clears his throat.
in and his outfit. In exchange, he will allow you to conduct trade from your home here."
“Big man looks about the flat, frowning with disdain. "He also says that there will be no”
percentage taken. Mr. Don't just do believe that this is a fair agreement for all, so that business may be conducted in a peaceful manner." "A peaceful manner!" The old woman tackles so loudly that the figurines on the shelf shaken rattle. "That of would no peace if it be in the back." Big man begins to respond, but stops and coughs, putting a huge fist to his lips to keep the spittle from flying. Skinny pip eyes him with concern. "Oh dear, that doesn't sound
good." The old woman says, "That doesn't sound peaceful." Before skinny pip can say anything,
he coughs as well. In seconds, the two men are out of their seats and on all fours, their chest is heaving as their lungs struggle to take in air. "Yes, it is an unfortunate
“first step in the transformation." The old woman says, placing the figurine back on the shelf.”
"The lungs shrink fast, but terrifying feeling. I know, but it does have the added benefit of making men like you completely incapable of getting nasty with me before our business is done." Skinny pip falls onto his face, his arms coming out from under him all of a sudden. Same with big man. The partners look into each other's eyes. Both stunned as they watch each other shrink, shrink, and till they are barely the size of the teacups they had just drank from.
The old woman towers over them. A geriatric giant. She bends down and picks them up, smiling at their size. "You will feel ill for several days as your body heartens," she says. "Walking the two miniatures over to her bookshelf." "But after that, you shall feel absolutely nothing at all." Her cackles sounds like thunder to the two men's ears. They are roughly set next to figurines, which they both quickly recognize as former colleagues of theirs. "Men
sent to conduct business with the hag. Men never heard from again. "I can't wait to see who
Duchess this ends next." The old woman says, walking away, leaving big men and skinny pip to gasp and rye as they fruitlessly fight against their new diminutive stature. "Blaidly I've been trying to wear things that feel great, look clean, and actually last,
“that's why I've been loving quince. They use premium fabrics and make everyday basics feel”
luxurious without the huge markup. I recently tried their mesh performance training tea, and it quickly became a favorite. It's soft, comfortable, and breathable, perfect for my daily workouts. It feels like one of those premium performance shirts you'd expect to have an $80 price tag, but quince has them for just 30 bucks. For this level of quality, it's unbeatable. Same goes for their 100% European linen shorts starting at just $34. Relaxed,
comfortable, and polished enough to wear anywhere. Everything is priced 50 to 80% less than typical luxury brands, but the quality is actually the same, or even better. Refresh your everyday with luxury you'll actually use. Head to quince.com/dns for free shipping on your order and 365 day returns. Now available in Canada too. That's q-u-i-n-c-e.com/dns for free shipping and 365 day returns quince.com/dns. Story 3. Cruel somener hungry somener.
The hunched form of what was once a man clambers over broken concrete to peer into the pitch blackness of the old shelter. There's no light yet the creature can see almost as clearly as if it were day down in the depths below London. He's been here a long while somener has. So a bit of pure inky blackness is nothing for him. Smells the dead somener does. Somener mumbles to himself. Old spirits, bad gay stays and gullies. Somener lifts his head and sniffs long and loud.
Oh yes yes, many are hot still in there, many uh, many uh, shoving the shelter door wide. Somener climbs inside on all floors. He had given up standing straight many, many, many, many years earlier. No point down in the dark. Bump your head, somener would. So somener crawls. One hand in front of the other. One foot after the other
Follows behind has feet are want to do.
yourselves to somena. Somena is a friend. Somena won't hurt you a bit. Not a wee bit. Somener promises.
Nothing appears. But somener can smell them. Yes he can. Smell them hiding in the corners, hiding under the rubble, hiding in the broken cabinets and the crushed milk creates. They'll spooks ways you. Do not hide from somena. Somener does not add that to hide from him. We'll only make him mad. And the gruelies and spooks and haunts don't want somener mad. No, no, no, they do not. He crawls toward an upended desk. What was this place? Somener wonders. A place not for
business. Because why bury the business below the old grand city of London. Business is for the
above. No, no. Somena knows this place was made not for business. But for war. And with war comes
“death. And death means, phantoms and rates. Where are you goolees? Come on out me little spooks?”
Nothing moves. Nothing reveals itself. Nothing takes the bait. Not that somener needs bait. He only calls out because it makes it so much easier, so much more convenient if they come to him. Instead of him going to them. Somena's patience is thin. He mumbles as he reaches the upended desk. Somena tired of hide and seek. He angst open a drawer, sending the desk tumbling over. The crash is so loud that somener clumps his hands over his ears while screaming. No for the noise.
Why somena do that? Stupid haunts make somena. But then a faint blue light appears from the broken and tumbled desk. Somener hiss his with approval. Happy to know his discomfort has borne fruit. The light floats in the dusty air. Lifting higher and higher. Just as it is about to reach
“the ceiling of the old shelter. Somener leaps up and snatches the light in one gnarled hand.”
He stuffs it in his mouth and choose with delight. Oh. One dress. Somena cries around his mouth full of spirit. Great joy. Somena pleased with flavour. He swallows and belches. Then pants his stomach. Somena sees the life. Somena hears the life. Somena feels the life. The creature that is somena coos and mones with pleasure has the spirit's history drift through somena's mind. A history filled with schoolboy antics and family picnics. A history full of
longing and romance. A history cut short too soon with the collapse of the area around the shelter, trapping all of those inside. A history of panic and fear. A history of desperate violence. And then death. What delights. Somena says then whirls around to face the desk once more.
“What other delights are there for somena? Somena tears the desk apart.”
Ripping out drawers and throwing them every which way. No more light appears. No more spirit. Trying to reach the above. Somena's attention turns to a pile of bricks in the corner. He can smell the bones beneath. And where there are bones. There are spirits. Somena knows this. One brick, two bricks. Somena rams to himself in a scratchy, sings on voice. Three bricks for somena will bake God bricks until there's no more.
He throws the bricks over his shoulder. Prepared for the noise they make. Happy with the cacophony. An amber glow flickers from under the last layer of bricks. Somena claps his hands thrilled that his effort has produced results. Somena see you. He snatches the source of the glow with one hand. It's a lively spirit. One that tries to wiggle and squirm out of somena's grip.
But somena never loses his grip. What be they? He shoves the squirming, amber spirit into his open
mall and clamps down with his sharpened teeth. There is no true substance to the spirit. Yet it still feels firm as he choose. Perhaps somena is inventing the feeling. So desperate to choose something corporeal that he imagines at all. He swallows and belches again. This time, the history that fills his mind is to intense, too much, even for somena. The creature spins and circles, batting his fists against the sides of his head.
"Out you, get out of somena, evil history, nasty history, horrible sights, get out, get out!" Bright pain flashes through somena's skull. The history is nothing but blood,
Much blood.
shall spill out of his earholes. "Out, out, out, out!" Somena cries. Then he hits himself a little too
“hard and the darkness is filled with stars and sprites and then chewed darkness.”
When somena relates, he scrambles into his crouch, looking about the shelter, wary. Stanking specters. He mutters. Pissing in somena's head like that. Bad specters. Then somena realizes that the shelter isn't all pitch blackness, but glows with a red light. Slowly, so slowly that somena almost forgets what he is doing.
Somena cranes his neck, turning his head to see what stands behind him.
"Oh, you is a right nasty ghost ain't you, scaring somena you are!" The ghost, a man dressed in Victorian clothes, stands at the far wall of the shelter,
“his black eyes focused on somena. "What you looking at, ghosty,”
turn away from somena, turn now a bee!" The ghost reaches its hands out and rockets towards somena, sending the creature scrambling backwards, fleeing hand over hand over foot over foot, until he reaches the shelter's door and asks to scramble once more over the rubble, and now he is in the tunnel. The tunnel end. But no. He is not in the tunnel. Somena has been grabbed by the ghost, the man in Victorian dress. "No ghosty!"
Somena shouts, wriggling in the phantom's grip, like the amber spirit had wriggled in somena's. "I hate you, ghosty's don't eat somena!" The ghost pulls somena in close,
“mashing its ethereal face against somena's squashed enough, said no's, "What be you?"”
The ghost asks, "You see, but cannot see, you talk, but only of yourself, what be you thing? Let go of somena!" The creature screeches. "Set somena free!" Somena? The ghost asks, tilting its spectral head to the side. "Oh yes, somena! I have heard your name, a spook amongst spooks!" A horror amongst horror! The eater of a soul! The Victorian ghost chuckles, then flings somena across the shelter. The creature hits the wall
and scrambles once more toward the door. This time, the ghost does not follow, does not grab him, or restrain him. Somena makes it out of the shelter in crawls and crawls, until he feels safely away from the horrible phantom. "Not fun for somena! No go there again!" Somena shaking his head, takes several turns within the catacombs and tunnels, until he is on more familiar territory. Once he sees the rats, he knows he is safe.
The rats never tread where there be haunts into ghoulies. "Bad back there!"
Somena says to the group of rats dressed in strange robes, "Don't go there! Somena says it bad! Listen to somena!" The rats don't listen, they scurry by, too busy chasing a terrified tabby cat to the tunnels to bother listening to old somena. Somena doubts the rats will travel far enough to find the horrid shelter and the awful Victorian ghost anyway. Rats stay close to their nests. Somena knows this. Not that somena cares too much. No, no. Somena is hungry. Somena is bored again.
"We're more treats for somena!" The creature wonders as it wanders, destined to be a den as in of the tunnels and catacombs for eternity. "Somena tummy growls!" Thanks for tuning in. If you enjoyed the story, be sure to follow or subscribe and share share the show with a fellow horror fan. I'll see you in the next one.
