"Don't Click This If You Like Sleeping" Creepypasta

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Frequent-Cat:   / a_girl_in_a_bright_yellow_raincoat_watches_me  
Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. 
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This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
It started with nostalgia. I hadn't read horror in years,
not the Internet kind, at least, no sleep creepy pasta
that whole era. I was deep into it in my
late teens. Something about the stripped down story telling, the
way people wrote with urgency instead of polish hit different.

(00:23):
Back then. They felt human, like a friend telling you
about this strange week. I used to read them in
bed earbut in lights off, not because I wanted to
be scared, but because it felt good, like being unsettled
was part of some weird ritual before sleep. A few

(00:43):
weeks ago I decided to chase that feeling again. It
was late, I was bored and feeling nostalgic, so I
figured it would be harmless to revisit some of the
old classics. There was something oddly comforting about it. The
stories that aged, sure, but enough time had passed that

(01:04):
most of them felt new again. I remembered just enough
to feel familiar, but not enough to spoil anything. I
tore through the big hitters, Ben Drowned, the Russian Sleep Experiment, Penpal.
I even found old screenshots from defunct forums of some
of the classics pasted into blog spot pages by digital

(01:25):
hoarders stories before the time of named authors, when people
posted anonymously to create an air of authenticity. That comfort
didn't last long. Once I ran out of the old stuff,
I dipped back into our slash No Sleep to see
what people were writing. Now. I wish I hadn't. Everything

(01:50):
felt off. The tone was too smooth, too neat. You
could tell half the stories were written to hit a
certain word count, or hit trending, or just a watered
down version of a popular horror movie. They were either
ultraformelaic or bizarrely disjointed all rhythm and no voice AI stories.

(02:13):
I muttered at my screen, staring at the end dashes
in robotic tone of the latest posts. I searched for
the authors. I remembered the Stephen Kings have read it. However,
their activity had dwindled. I looked up what they had
done recently and saw a barrage of stories removed on
the subreddit for arbitrary reasons. Reasons that would have had

(02:35):
the great classics removed if the rules were about then
even the comments were noted. Every other post was some
flavor of great story, opie, or you should expand this
into a series. Nobody talked about how it made them
feel any more. Nobody argued whether it was real. That

(02:57):
used to be half the fun. So I went looking,
not in the main channels I knew better than that.
I dug through old blogs, weird side forums, abandoned link trees,
anything that looked dusty and unmoderated. A lot of it

(03:17):
was trash stories written in all lower case, pasted from WordPad,
half of them ending with and then I woke up
Haunted dolls, glitching mirrors, forest disappearances, plenty of recycled garbage.
But every now and then one of them hit, not

(03:40):
because it was written well or because it was scary,
just because it fell off in the right way, like
it hadn't been written to entertain, but to unload something.
There was that sincerity to the tone that made the
sub genre special. That's what kept me going. Then I

(04:01):
found it in a forum that looked wholly unmoderated, a
thread with the title don't read this if you like sleeping.
It was wedged between two stories about haunted t V
static and an abandoned zoo. The username just said deleted
and the timestamp was from over a year ago. A

(04:23):
dead thread with no comments no up votes, no tags.
I remember hovering over it, thinking it was probably another throwaway.
But then again, some part of me, the part that
used to fall asleep with creepy audio echoing through my headphones,
wanted it to be real, just for a moment, so

(04:46):
I clicked the page, loaded in plain text, no formatting,
just a slab of words stacked in an unbroken block.
The tone was called detached, not trying to impress or scare,
just reporting. It told the story of a man who

(05:06):
stumbled onto a strange piece of Internet folklore. A girl
in a yellow raincoat. She would appear have do you
read about her? First, in the corner of your room,
watching motionless, her face hidden beneath the hood, eyes never visible,
but you could feel them on you. She never spoke,

(05:29):
she never blinked, She just stood there, dripping wet. The
story didn't build tension. There were no jump scares, no deaths,
no payoff. It simply explained that the girl showed up
once you knew about her, and that she would keep
showing up each night she came closer, the fear fed her,

(05:53):
and when she's gotten her fill of fear, she gets you. However,
there were no accounts of what she did, as no
one who has gotten that far survived. The more you
fear her, the wetter she gets. The tex said. That
line made me roll my eyes. The final line stuck

(06:15):
out only because it was bolded. If you reached three
forty one am and she's at the foot of your bed,
it's already too late. I snarted. It felt like one
of those chain emails from the early two thousands, the
kind that said you die in seven days unless you

(06:37):
scent it to ten people. It was so tonally flat
it had to be ironic. I backed out of the
thread and closed the browser. That was enough for the night.
I was hoping to end on a good one, but
it was already getting late that night. At two am,

(06:58):
I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth when I
heard something behind the door, A soft knock. Just once
my froze, the toothbrush hummed between my teeth. I turned
off the tap, waited nothing, just the creak of the

(07:19):
ceiling vent. I opened the door. The hallway was empty.
I was half way back to the sink when I
noticed the carpet by the threshold damp. I stared at
it for a while, then shrugged it off. I figured
I must have spilt something while brushing, or maybe I'd

(07:41):
tracked in rain from earlier and I couldn't remember. I
shut the bathroom light and went to bed. I woke
up to the sound of my own pulse. No noise
in the room, no nightmare to shake off, but my
heart was pounding like I'd been running. I didn't move

(08:01):
at first, just stared at the ceiling and waited for
the feeling to pass. Eventually, I glanced at the clock
three forty one a m A weird chill ran through
my chest. What were the odds If a million people

(08:24):
read that story, at least one was bound to wake
up and see that time, and I just happened to
be that one. That was the only way I could
explain the coincidence. I sat up slowly, eyes adjusting to
the dark. The room was still, no creeks, no humming electronics,

(08:44):
no cars outside, just silence. But I felt watched, not scared, exactly,
more unsettled, the kind of uncomfort you felt when someone's
reading over your shoulder. I didn't see anything out of place.
The window blines were shut, the door was cracked open.

(09:06):
Nothing stood in the corner, but the carpet by the
door was wet again. I got up and checked it,
running my hand across the fibers. Damp, no question, not
enough for a leak, just enough to feel wrong. Back

(09:27):
in bed, I poured my laptop over and opened the browser.
The forum was still up, still ugly, still ancient. I
went to the thread. It was there, still titled don't
read this if you like sleeping. No comments, no up votes,
nothing added since I clicked it. I checked the user profile, deleted.

(09:51):
No way to send a message. I checked the model list,
but there was only one listed, and there he hadn't
been on about as long as the dead thread I
had read. Still, I made an account and posted a
reply to the thread. Was this a joke? Any one
else read this? A few minutes passed with nothing. I

(10:15):
refreshed once twice. On the third refresh, I gave up hope.
The forum was barely active as is. To get an
instant reply would be unlikely, let alone from an old
thread that wasn't noticed. At some point I drifted off.

(10:36):
I don't know how long I was asleep, but something
pulled me out of it, A feeling sharp and immediate.
My eyes opened and went straight to the corner of
the room. She was standing there, small, motionless. The yellow
raincoat clung to her in wet folds. Her hood was up.

(11:00):
I couldn't see her face, just the shape of it,
tucked deep in the shadow. Her head was tilted slightly,
not naturally, just enough to feel wrong. She didn't move.
I screamed and snapped. The light on the corner was empty,

(11:20):
just an impression on the carpet, a dark shape in
the fibers where water had soaked through. The next few
nights were a blur of broken sleep and mounting dread.
She always came at the edge of waking, in that
space where the room feels too still. The first night

(11:41):
after the scream, she stayed by the door, same place,
yellow raincoat, soaked, sleeves, hood pulled low, no face visible.
The next night she stood in the corner, closer, still, silent,
still unmoving, kept the lights on, slept in shifts, slept

(12:02):
during the day, but each time I opened my eyes
she was a little nearer. I stopped screaming, but adrenaline
kicked in each time. By the third night, she waited
in front of my closet. This time I could see
more of her. Her raincoat was old, still whole, but

(12:25):
weathered in a way that felt impossible from normal use.
The plastic was bubbled and misshapen in places, stained with
dirt and streaks of something black. Her arms hung stiff
at her sides, fingers barely visible beneath the cuffs. The
water pooled under her bare feet now, even though the
hardwood should have soaked it up. She never moved while

(12:49):
I was looking at her, and she never showed up
on camera. I tried to catch her with phone recordings, laptop, webcam,
and even an old handheld I found in store forridge nothing.
The footage was clean every time. For reflections that was different.

(13:12):
I first noticed it in the bathroom. There was nothing
behind me when I turned, but in the mirror her
figure filled the hallway, skirting the edge of the bathroom light.
I backed out slowly, never turning my head. After that,
the mirror stayed covered. I stopped trying to reason through

(13:33):
it and started researching if this was a curse. I
wanted to know how deep it went. If it wasn't,
I needed to know the rules. The forum was a
dead end, but I dug deeper. Archived blogs, dead whiperings,
screenshot compilations from old horror spaces. I started pulling from

(13:56):
sights that hadn't been touched in over a decade, US
live journal juries, MySpace bulletins, even BBS message dumps. She
was there, always the same pattern, a story, a citing,
then nothing from the poster ever again. Most were deleted,

(14:19):
missing context, or scrubbed clean by spambots, but one entry
stood out. Dated two thousand and six, a user named
lockjaw Mile had written a short post titled Narrative Leech.
It said, she is a parasite that spreads through narrative.

(14:41):
Once you learn her, she learns you back. She feeds
on the fear, She creates your thoughts, give a shape.
I read it three times. It didn't make sense, and
yet it explained everything. I stopped sleeping, not just from fear,

(15:05):
but my body simply rejected it. Every time I started
to drift off, I jolted awake, heart pounding, lungs empty.
The girl was always there, waiting in the static behind
my eyes. I boarded up the windows because I couldn't
stand seeing her in the reflection of the glass. I

(15:26):
stripped the apartment bare, mirrors, screens, anything that could show
her during the day gone. But this did little to
save me from the night. The lights stayed on around
the clock, every bull I had. When one burned out,
I replaced it instantly. My friends thought I was losing it.

(15:50):
I stopped answering calls, ignored text. One of them came
by and knocked for twenty minutes. I didn't move. I
heard them mutter something about a wellness check, but no
one followed through. I didn't care if they saw me
like this, a broken mess, but I worried about them

(16:10):
learning about her, cursing them in to this fate. It
didn't matter what I did, though, she kept coming. I
never saw a move, but she always got closer each night.
It shaved inches from the space between us, first across
the room, then almost at the foot of my bed,

(16:33):
and beside it. The hem of her soaked raincoat was
dripping inches from my mattress. The water spread with her cold, heavy, wrong.
It warped the floorboards, lifted them at the edges, not
in a way that looked rotten, but in a way
that made me think the building itself was trying to

(16:55):
reject her. Reality pushed back, but she always one. I
kept searching obsessively. I had to believe there were others,
someone else who had seen her named her, fort survived.
I dove through dead subreddits, password locked blog back ups,

(17:17):
and defunct lin hubs. Every horror story felt close for
a moment, A ghost in the hallway, a drowned girl,
a warning about mirrors. But none of them lined up.
None of them ended with anything but silence. Too many copycats,
too much noise, creepy past. The clones laid on top

(17:39):
of each other for twenty years. I started thinking maybe
that was the trick. Maybe she built herself out of
all of it, a single fear stitched from thousands of
half remembered posts. I was losing time. Whole day's vanished

(18:00):
in front of screens, my body ached, my eyes stayed bloodshot.
Sleep was a trap now anyway, a slow roll toward
my demise. And then, without warning, a message appeared same forum,
an icon at the top showing a private message was received.

(18:23):
I stared at it for a long time, dreading what
it would say. The username was a string of numbers,
no profile, no history. The message read I was the
one who originally posted the story. She came to me
after reading about her same as you, but I survived.

(18:48):
For the first time, hope dripped into my heart. I
read on, hoping for a way out based on when
you left your comment, you don't long left. I wrote
the story and the foreign moderator must have read it.
He deleted my account, thinking I was the one haunting him.

(19:09):
But he got it wrong. It wasn't me. It was
the story. She is fiction incarnate. Write her story and
pass her on. The implication was daunting. I messaged back instantly,
begging for more information, hoping there was another way to

(19:32):
pass on. What I was going through sounded like a
Cardinal sin murder with intent, but was quietly dying a
better alternative. No activity afterward, just the message sitting there
waiting to be believed. I sat back from my screen

(19:53):
for the first time in weeks. I wasn't just reacting.
I was thinking, not just about what she was about
what I could do. This wasn't about surviving the night,
not any more. This was about ending it. The decision

(20:16):
sat on my chest, heavy than any nightmare she ever brought.
I had the message, I had the rules, I knew
what had to happen. Still I hesitated. If I posted this,
if I wrote it clearly. If I told her story right,
some one would read it, some one would think about her.

(20:39):
Imagine her picture, the yellow raincoat, the water, the way
she stands so still, with her face tucked deep into
the dark, and that would be enough. They wouldn't mean
to invite her in. They'd just be reading a scary
story before bed, tracing the same rush I once loved.

(21:02):
But she'd come and I'd be free. I sat at
the desk for hours. The apartment around me was silent,
lights dim to a soft amber glow. My body was shaking,
but not from fear, from the weight of the decision.
I had written every word carefully. The thread was ready.

(21:26):
Every detail was here, the sightings, the rules, the message,
the choice. Everything. Someone would need to understand her and
maybe just maybe escape. But the truth was sharp. Some
one else would suffer. That was the cast. That was

(21:50):
the shape of her hunger, A curse not lifted, but
passed to another one, Sleepless mind traded for the next.
I kept telling myself I wasn't damning them. I was
giving them the same chance I was given more even
I put in the information to get out. If they

(22:11):
were strong, maybe stronger than me. Maybe they'd find a
way to end this, maybe they'd be the last. But
the guilt didn't fade. The cursor blinked over the word post.
My finger hovered above the mouse behind me. The air changed,

(22:31):
the temperature dropped, my skin prickled. I didn't turn around.
I didn't need to. I saw her in the monitor's reflection,
distorted slightly in the black glass, a wet smear of yellow,
standing inches from the back of my chair. Her hands
twitched at her sides, dripping under the floor. The smell

(22:56):
of stagnant water flooded my nose. I glanced at the clock,
three forty one a m. I clicked post