100 Scary Stories That Would Send Chills Down Your Spine

Story 3: “The Sleep Experiment”

In 2019, a clinical trial opened for volunteers willing to participate in a sleep study. The offer was enticing: $7,500 for just two weeks of observation. All you had to do was sleep.

Sarah needed the money. She was a broke college student, drowning in loans, desperate for anything that didn’t involve flipping burgers or selling plasma. So she signed up.

The facility was clean, sterile, and windowless. Room 204 — hers — had a twin bed, a camera in the corner, and a single vent humming cool air. A monitor above the bed tracked her vitals and sleep patterns. The researchers told her everything would be recorded, and she'd be observed but never disturbed.

The first few nights were normal. She drifted off easily. The lights dimmed at 10 p.m. sharp. She woke up at 7 a.m. to breakfast and a daily check-in.

But on the fourth night, things began to change.

She woke up gasping — heart racing, palms sweaty — with no memory of dreaming. The monitor above her bed showed flashing red bars. Her oxygen had dipped. Her heart rate had spiked. But the researchers said nothing. Just smiled too much.

“It’s normal,” they said. “Some people react this way.”

That night, Sarah couldn’t fall asleep.

Not because she wasn’t tired. But because every time she closed her eyes, she felt watched — not by the camera, but by something else in the room. Something just out of sight.

She turned to face the wall and pulled the covers over her head.

But she could still hear it.

Breathing.

Shallow. Raspy. Right by her ear.

She jerked up, flipping the lights on. No one there.

The monitor beeped erratically again.

The next morning, she demanded answers. One of the researchers, a tall man with a crooked smile, finally told her the truth.

“You’ve reached stage two,” he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

He handed her a tablet.

On the screen was footage from her room — recorded two nights prior. It showed Sarah sleeping. Peaceful. Until the timestamp hit 3:33 a.m.

Then her eyes opened.

Except… they weren’t her eyes.

They were black. Fully black. No whites. And she sat up with unnatural stiffness, turned to face the camera, and smiled directly into the lens.

Then she stood.

And walked to the corner of the room — where there was nothing but blank wall — and whispered something inaudible for over two hours straight.

Sarah dropped the tablet.

“That’s not me,” she stammered. “That’s not—”

The researcher only smiled. “Stage three begins tonight.”

She didn’t sleep at all that night.

But at 3:33 a.m., her body moved anyway.

She was fully conscious — paralyzed, horrified — as her limbs pulled her from bed, walked her to the corner, and began whispering again. But this time, she understood the words.

They weren’t hers.

They were instructions.

"The flesh is not enough. You must wake what sleeps beneath."

She couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t cry. All she could do was watch from behind her own eyes.

The next morning, she awoke in the corner, blood under her fingernails and a strange sigil carved into the wall.

The researchers were gone.

Room 204 was locked from the outside.

No food came. No voice over the intercom. Just static.

And the breathing.

It came from inside the vent again.

She tried to scream. But no one answered.

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