51 Sleepless Night Horror stories | Scary Stories (Thriller Story)

 51 Sleepless Night

(Part - 15,16,17) 

Horror Stories | Scary Stories

Short Horror Stories:

"51 Sleepless Night"

The Final Question :

(Part - 15) 

There are lots of stories about how people die. Death is very intriguing, because it is something everyone will experience, and yet no-one HAS ever experienced, because as soon as YOU have undergone death, there is no more YOU to have experiences at all. But this isn’t the story of just anyone’s death.

This is the story of how you die. One of you will go like this, but it will be a similar story for the 

rest of you when your time has come. And there won’t be any bells or choirs, no light at the end of the tunnel. There won’t be any voice calling you home or crying ancestors welcoming you with open arms. I know because that’s not what happened when I died. Your death is going to go like this. A week after Valentine’s Day, you’re going to be killed when a drunk driver T-Bones your car at 65 miles per hour. You’ll know that’s how fast he was going, because you’ll hear the police reading his broken speedometer after they pronounced you dead. There will be a shard of glass that went straight through your right eye and out the back of your head. Contrary to most 

people’s opinion, discovering you are dead won’t be as traumatic as you might expect. It turns out being disconnected from endorphins and adrenalin and surging blood pressure and all that messy biological 

stuff makes everything quite calm.

But you won’t FEEL dead. You’ll feel… hollow. It’s like you’re sitting alone in a dark theatre, 

watching a movie of your own death. And the more time that passes, the dimmer and quieter the movie  will become. I don’t know if you will die right on impact, or whether this is the distorted senses of your oxygen deprived brain as you bleed out on the ground. I just know that pretty soon it will be dark and peaceful and quiet, and you’ll probably be okay if that was the end.

But it won’t be the end, and you won’t be alone. When all the light is gone, there will be 

something moving in the darkness around you. You’ll have no body or voice to scream with. You’ll just be a single thought, being pressed in on all sides by the suffocating presence of something that’s been  waiting for you your entire life. Oh and here’s a fun fact to look forward to. It turns out pain is more than a firing neuron – it’s an integral part of the conscious experience. And even when your body is gone, the consciousness that remains WILL still feel pain. The presence around you will crush you into oblivion until the pain becomes 

so intense you can’t even think. You’ll just have to wait for this part to be over.

And you’re going to be waiting a long while, because the perception of time is something you’ll have left behind. This pain is all there is, all there ever was, and all there ever will be. Because somewhere in the beginning that which existed was separated from that which does not, and the void has never forgiven you for leaving it behind. But when it does end – and it will, because I’m here now – you’re going to be asked a question. And you better be ready for it, because if you don’t answer the eternity is going to begin again.

Just one question that determines whether or not this will ever end. And if you answer right, you’ll get to go again. And you might even remember some of it like I did. And if you answer wrong, then nothing good you’ve ever done will spare you what’s coming. And the question is: “Will you bring more people to take your place?” And I said yes. And I have. And I’m not done yet.

The Confession :

(Part - 16) 

Forgive me father, for I have sinned. But even if He in all his glory finds the power to forgive me, 

how can I ever forgive myself?

I’m often asked how I bear the burden of listening to confessions. People assume my conscience 

is haunted by the personal Demons each man and woman struggles against, but that is not the case.

In truth, there is no thrill which compares to hearing a confession. The trust they are putting in 

me – the trust they are putting in God – is a beautiful moment to behold. They freely submit themselves 

to my power, begging for my absolution as though it were I who wielded God’s wisdom to judge or 

forgive.

But when it comes time to confess my own sins, I found I lacked the courage of my flock. I am 

more than a man to them – I am a symbol of the Divine. To admit my own failings is to weaken their 

faith that the Lord may shelter them if their belief is true. Or perhaps that is just the excuse I give to 

protect my pride.

All I know is that this Demon is too great for me to contain on my own, so I am writing this to 

beg the forgiveness of strangers in the hope I too may find peace again.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.”

He came to me like all the others and sat down in the other side of box. His voice was strange to 

me, almost like a voicemail compared to a human speaking in person.

“Speak and you will be forgiven, my son.”

I usually go in expecting infidelity. That is the most common curse which gnaws at our hearts 

with guilty teeth.

“I have killed a man. A good man. A man of God.”

The thrill only increases with the magnitude of the sin. I do not know who he is, but he is already 

telling me something which would allow me to destroy his entire life. I breathe slowly through my nose 

so as not to let the excitement enter my voice.

“Why did you do such a thing?”

“He was a murderer himself, and I was afraid he would kill again,” he replied.

Disappointing. When they have a reasonable excuse for their sin, they do not feel the same 

desperate need for my approval. I would have preferred he killed someone innocent.

“To take a life for any reason is a great crime against God,” I replied. That seemed like what I 

was expected to say. Confession is not the time to remind them how much blood God had demanded 

over the years. “It is not your place to judge them.”

“And it is yours to judge me?” There was accusation in that voice. It sounded familiar, but I 

couldn’t quite place it. Did I know this man?

“Only God may pass judgment for such a sin.”

“Then I won’t waste my time with you.” I heard his door open and then slam shut like a petulant 

child going to his room. What an unfulfilling sinner he was. The rush I usually felt was utterly absent.

The next week, I heard the same voice on the other side of the box.

“Forgive me father, for I have killed another man.”

“Was he a murderer too?”

“Not yet, but he could have become one,” the voice said. Infuriatingly familiar – perhaps he was a relative, or simply one of my regular congregation. “All men have the capacity for evil. Does that give you a right to kill anyone?” I asked. There was nothing as satisfying as leading them to condemn themselves. Finally I would hear the real confession I was waiting for.

“Yes.” I could not have prepared myself for that answer. By the time I got home, I knew who he had killed. My father had been choked to death in his house last night. I still remember the first beating he gave me when I was four years old. The scars from the lashes on my back have never healed to this day. Lord knows I had thought about ending him myself a hundred times, but actually hearing the news was unimaginably painful. The guilt of my own evil thoughts against him was almost enough for me to seek confession myself, but there was no sense dirtying my image when I had resisted my evil temptations. If anything, I was thankful to my father. I never would have joined the Church if I wasn’t trying to get away with him. His cruelty had paved the way for my mercy.

I didn’t anticipate the killer to ever return after how closely he struck me. He couldn’t have 

expected my forgiveness after so personal an attack. A month passed and I had come to terms with my father’s death when the voice spoke through the wooden grate again.

“Forgive me father, for I have killed another man.” My breath caught short. My fists clenched. How dare he. He never received absolution for either 

of his previous visits. That’s when it occurred to me. He wasn’t here for absolution. He was here to taunt me. The death of my father – the manner he composed himself – the blasphemous disregard for my authority. This was all a personal attack. “Why did you do such a thing?” I forced one word to follow the other. I couldn’t slow my breathing this time. I couldn’t allow this monster to continue.

“Because he made a fool out of everything I believe in.” That was exactly what HE was doing though. That was proof – he was only here to torment me. I don’t know what I have done to this man to deserve such abuse, but I am still a man with blood 

pounding in my veins. I was not going to idly take it any longer.

“Get out of here,” I said. “Both this Church and Heaven will be barred to you forever.”

“You’re a fraud,” the voice said. “You don’t speak for God – Hell, you probably don’t even 

believe in him. You just get off on the power you feel from pretending.”

“I’m warning you –” I was shouting now.

“Or what? You’ll send me to Hell? I thought only God could judge me.” I was shaking so bad I 

had to stand to expel some of the extra energy. “I killed your father with my bare hands, and all you can do about it is preach something you don’t even believe. You’re pathetic.”

That was too far. I flung open my side of the confession booth and raced over to his. I threw the second door open with enough force to tear it off the hinges.

As though his insults weren’t enough, the man was wearing a rubber mask of Jesus.

“Take that damn mask off and leave,” I shouted. I didn’t give him time to respond though. I was already lunging at him, trying to pull the mask off. He fought back – his hands clasping around my throat. Those hands. The same hands which had choked the life out of my father. It was all a blur after that. I tried to pry them off, but the grip was too strong. It wasn’t until I got my own hands around his neck that he began to lose hold. The thrill of confession – the power I held over people – it was nothing like this. There is no power over someone like having their neck in your hands. I finally understood why my father beat me. I never felt closer to the divine than that moment when this Demon convulsed beneath my hands before finally falling limp.

Finally. Now I could see who hated me so much that they would go to these extreme lengths to torment me. His cold dead hands – so alike my own – were helpless to prevent me pulling back his mask. I stared at my own dead face. Vomit coating the sides of my mask. My dead tongue lolling 

grotesquely from my mouth. That is how I came to terms with who I am.

Forgive me father, for I have sinned.

I have killed a man of God.

I have killed my father.

I have killed the man who made a fool of everything I believe in.

And I have never felt more alive. 

Children Collector : 

(Part - 17) 

Do you know this game? It’s my favorite.

All you have to do is lie very quietly – that’s it – just like you were made of stone.

Don’t blink. Don’t even breathe. And whatever you do, don’t tell them you’re playing a game.

They’ll want to play with you, but you mustn’t let them. Because when they join in, it won’t be a game anymore. Every year I visit my father’s grave in the veteran’s cemetery. He was a war hero – or so I was told. He died when I was five, so I hardly even remember him. I’m not even going for sentimental reasons – I just like having a quiet place away from the world where I can put everything in perspective.

Last weekend I knelt to place flowers there and open my mind to the clear air. I was alone 

except for two young girls (couldn’t have been more than ten) visiting the adjacent grave. I heard them talking softly with some lady, but I didn’t really pay any attention. I was here for me. Yes dealing with car insurance or taxes is exhausting. But compared to him dying for our country, how could I allow myself to become frustrated with the minor annoyances of my daily life? I found resolve in the stillness of the dead air, and each time I left I would be ready to face each new challenge life had to offer.

I didn’t notice until I started down the hill that the two children were leaving alone. Who could they have been talking to? I mean, it was an open grassy hill, it’s not like the lady with them could have just vanished. But then I heard the voice again – like a middle aged woman whispering from a long way away.

I walked over to the grave they had been sitting by and felt the gusty rustle of the words 

through the grass around me. It was getting stronger, and I swear it was coming straight from the ground.

Bring me my children. I miss my children.

The gravestone said Dory Malthusa. I couldn’t tell you what else the voice said, because I got the Hell out of there. And yeah I laughed at myself for being freaked, but there wasn’t anyone else around 

to impress by acting brave. A girl has got to take care of herself, you know?

Well maybe it was a trick, or my imagination, or the kids buried a walkie-talkie as a joke. I’d 

forgotten about it until that night when I turned on the evening news. Two girls, ages 9 and 11, were found dead in the same cemetery. Their throats were cut from the front. The police say it must have been from someone they know, because there were no signs of a struggle. Their names were Rachel and Elizabeth Malthusa.

I’m going back to the cemetery this weekend. If the voice talks to me, I’m going to answer it this time. And if it doesn’t – if this is all just my mind playing tricks on me – then I could still use a little more tranquility after that unsettling experience.

I returned to the grave of Dory Malthusa yesterday morning. Beats going at night at least, right? The freshly dug graves of her children were keeping her company now. It still seemed ludicrous that she somehow killed them, but I knew I would rest easier knowing they were at peace.

“Hello Dory.” I felt like an idiot talking to a grave. And in the quiet of the cemetery, I felt even stupider expecting a response. This was all nonsense. I must have just been so emotional from sitting beside my father’s grave that I imagined her voice before. But I came all the way here, wasting my Sunday off when I could have been sleeping in or 

catching up on Game of Thrones, so here goes. “You need to let your regrets go, Dory. I’m sorry you miss your children, but you can’t force 

them to be with you. If you really loved them, you would want them to be at peace. There’s nothing left to keep you here, so it’s time for you and your children to rest.” I held my breath. The wind rushed through the grass on the hill like a crashing wave. It whistled between the bare headstones. I guess that was what peace was supposed to sound like. The wind died down as I stood to leave, but the sound of the whistling didn’t cease. I don’t know where it was coming from, but it almost sounded like a giggling child. But we don’t want to rest. We want to play. It was unmistakable this time. The voice of a little girl. I stood frozen in place. Playing sounded innocent enough, at least.

Then you shall play, little darlings. I will give you everything you ever wanted, my beautiful 

children. It was Dory’s voice this time, the same I heard during my last visit.

“There’s no one to play with,” I replied. “Go to sleep.” The wind was picking up again, and I pulled my shawl tighter against the sharp tongues of 

morning air. We want someone to play with! Another voice from another little girl. Can’t we go to school 

anymore, Mom?

No, and it is my fault for taking you away, she replied. I’m such a wicked, selfish mother. But I will make it right again. I will bring you all the children from your class, and you can stay with me forever and never be lonely. Bring the children? That could only mean one thing. She brought her own children to her by 

slitting their throats. I had to do something. I had to warn them, or their parents, or Hell I don’t know. I 

had to tell someone.

“The other children don’t want to play,” is all I could think of. Shit, I wish I’d said something 

better now. There weren’t any more words that time. Just the giggling wind which whistled through the 

headstones.

I couldn’t just wait for children to start disappearing. I also couldn’t imagine the police taking my 

lead as exactly credible. I considered going to my local Church, but there had already been an awful 

scandal going around there, so I thought it best to not get tangled up.

If I was going to do this, it was going to be on my own. After a little research, I was able to pull 

up the children’s obituaries and found the address they used to live. That allowed me to Google the 

school districts and trace which elementary school the girls had gone to.

That’s good. That’s a start. Now I just had to warn the children somehow. A crazy stranger 

ranting about ghosts threatening their kids though – that sounds pretty sketchy. I know I wouldn’t let 

someone like me near kids. The only thing I could think to do was infiltrate the school and wait for 

something to happen.

I don’t have any kids of my own (thank God), but I tried calling about signing up as a substitute 

teacher. They said I needed to pass a class and gain a teaching certificate for that, but I didn’t know how 

much time I had before the Malthusa girls wanted company. I agreed to set up the certificate training 

and managed to get myself invited down to the school for an interview.

Mrs. Neggels, the home teacher, is the sweetest old thing I’ve ever seen. Imagine a sugar plum in a home knitted sweater. She’d been in remission for four years, but lately her doctors have suspected her breast cancer might be coming back. She anticipated needing to miss quite a few classes for the testing, and was so happy I was there that she brought me straight into the classroom to meet her children. I had to buy as much time as I could. I don’t know when they will strike – if they’ll strike at all – but it seemed like Dory killed her children the same day she was speaking with them. If she was going to try and collect the rest of the class, then it would have to be during school hours.

I made up every excuse I could to stay. I sang with the children in their music class, and 

volunteered to supervise recess. I helped the cafeteria lady prepare lunch, and even picked up trash with the janitor. By the afternoon, it was clear that they were trying to get rid of me, but there was still no sign of the ghosts. I was sitting in the art room when Mrs. Neggels finally asked me to leave. The children were just filing into the room from their math class. I immediately volunteered to help them painting their wall, but they already had a guest artist who was going to help out. It was getting late though – maybe they would be alright until tomorrow. I started packing up my things, and that’s when I heard the Malthusa  girls.

Come and play with us.

The voice was coming through the air conditioning vent. It was as soft as death which visits in a  deep sleep.

“That’ll be all. We can take it from here. You may go now.” Mrs. Neggels was using her stern 

voice – the one which made children with the attention span of a rabid squirrel jump into line with  military precision. I walked as slowly as I could for the door, desperately looking for any excuse to stay.

Can we paint the wall too, Mommy?

Of course you can, my darling. What colors do you think will go there?

Umm… yellow. And orange. Like leaves.

There! A can of paint sitting on the edge of Mrs. Neggels desk. I gathered my purse, swinging it 

carelessly behind me.

“Watch out!” Mrs. Neggels was too slow. I hit the can hard, sending it spinning across the room 

to burst against the far wall. Red paint EXPLODED all over the carpet, and the shrieks and giggles from 

the children drowned out the whispering voices.

“I’m so sorry!” I said. “Here, let me help.”

“You’ve done quite enough, thank you!” Mrs. Neggels snapped. “Don’t step in it now – hey! 

Stop that!” The children were running wild. Shrieking – laughing – red foot prints everywhere. Red hands on the walls. If one of them was cut right now, would I even notice? I had to get them out of here.

“Let me at least watch them outside to give you space to clean up,” I said.

“Fine – just go! Get everybody out.”

“Do you know this game? It’s my favorite.”

We were all sitting in the recess yard. I managed to get them all sitting down in a circle around me, but I was at my wits end. I don’t know how to keep them safe.

I want to paint more, Mommy. The voice was getting louder. The kids were looking in all 

directions, trying to find where it was coming from. “Who said that?” one asked.

“Please children. Please please listen to me. We’re going to play a game. All you have to do is lie 

very quietly – that’s it – just like you were made of stone.” I’m going to paint something for you now. It’s going to be bright red – even brighter than the 

paint.

“Don’t even blink. Don’t even breathe. And whatever you do, don’t tell them you’re playing a 

game.”

The children were all lying down. Their eyes were closed. At least if they were to die now, they 

wouldn’t see it coming.

I want to paint with them! Why aren’t they painting?

“They’ll want to play with you, but you mustn’t let them.” I was on the verge of tears. But I 

couldn’t break down, or the children would know it wasn’t a game. And if it wasn’t a game to them, they 

would begin to cry too. And if they cried…

Mommy, make them paint with us!

“Not a word. Not a sound. Still as stone.” I held my breath. The children were all quiet. There 

was nothing left I could do.

They’re boring. Mommy make them stop being boring.

Play! Play with my children!

A few eyes opened to peek for the voice. A few hands began to rub the drying paint on their 

skin.

“Still as stone. First one to move is out.” I said. The hands stopped moving.

Mommy, this is stupid. Let’s go back to the park.

Don’t you want your class to come with you?

No, they’re all boring. Let’s go see the ducks.

Of course, my darling. Let us go watch the ducks together.

I’m a full time teacher at the school now. I haven’t heard the voices again since that time, but I 

don’t feel right leaving the children alone. If the Malthusa girls ever do get lonely and decide to come 

back, I’m going to be here ready to play a game. It’s very easy to play. All you have to do is lie very 

quietly, just like you were made of stone.