This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/VisitMundane on 2026-08-11 16:20:23+00:00.

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Having been in the medical field for fifteen years, I have seen it all. Or at least I thought I had. Sometimes I look back on that day and wish I had expanded my views of what constitutes as scientific.

Maybe it would have been smarter to accept that there are just some things outside of the current realm of understanding. Maybe then I wouldn’t be in the situation I find myself in now.

Regardless, I have seen a lot of sick and anxious people. In fact, I had been known in our town for being “the gentle doctor”. The one parents would send their kids to when they’d graduated from pediatrics and were rounding the bend towards college age. To ease into the transition between childhood and adult healthcare.

I even took on those with a history of psychiatric problems and developmental disabilities. My aim was always to create a comfortable environment, knowing full well that some of my patients wouldn’t seek out a doctor otherwise.

So when I met one particular patient (we’ll call him Theo), I was not at all caught off guard by his demeaner. The boy sitting in the nylon chair in the corner of the room was squirrelly and anxious.

A waifish plume of red hair stuck out over his eyes, the whites of which looked bloodshot and strained. His skin was blotchy and he wore a hoodie pulled up over his face and neck.

I suspected he was covering something up with it. Perhaps the rest of the apparent rash or worse. I greeted him kindly, introducing myself. I did not attempt to offer a handshake considering he did not give the impression of wanting to be touched.

At this point in my career, I knew better than to catch anyone off guard. Especially someone in such discomfort. As I watched the boy shaking in his seat, I was prepared for the possibility that he might work himself into a panic attack or bolt from my office entirely.

When asked if he could remove his clothes while I waited in the hall, he refused. He told me that the hoodie needed to stay. We compromised in that he could wear it over the johnnie, as long as he could lift it up enough for me to check his heart and blood pressure.

I reassured him that, at first, we would only have a simple conversation. At his own pace, he could take me through his symptoms and concerns. I even asked him if he would prefer a male doctor, given the concerns about showing his body.

He shook his head stiffly and insisted that he only wanted to get the appointment over with. Still, I continued to inquire about his support system. Did he have someone who might be able to come in with him to keep him calm? Perhaps a family member or trusted friend.

“My stepdad,” He ground out, teeth chattering. “He’s waiting in the car. But he won’t come. He just wants to make sure…”

He shook his head abruptly, as if convincing himself to cut off any further explanation.

“We just haven’t been seeing eye to eye lately.”

I started going through possibilities in my head. Maybe it was substances that brought him here and he didn’t want to admit it. Or show the evidence on his skin. Or a myriad of other stressors that college life brought on. But he hadn’t disclosed it during intake.

“I see.” I nodded. “Well I must remind you that you are an adult and you need to give your own consent to be treated. You understand that right?”

He nodded, but I noticed the clench of his jaw escalating to a grind. I wondered if I was too out of my depth. If he needed to speak to someone in the mental health field before he’d be comfortable enough for an exam.

“While you did sign the forms, I wouldn’t feel comfortable providing treatment if it’s causing you such distress. Perhaps we should reschedule at a later date when you can come back with a fami-“

“No.” He cut me off, voice an abrupt exhale. “Just… check my heart. Please.”

I quirked a brow, surprised at the emphasis on his heart. Perhaps there was something he wasn’t telling me about his condition. I had assumed that his main concern was the rash (likely contact dermatitis) or something a bit less extreme. He’d been tight-lipped about most of the symptoms. Until now.

The sudden urgency struck a chord with me and I agreed, setting up my tools to begin the exam. But Theo soon began to screw up his face in disgust. Confused, I asked him what the matter was.

“The smell.” He gagged. “What is that smell?”

I paused before approaching him further. The only smell I could think of that could be different was the rose perfume I was wearing. I tensed, hoping I had not somehow given the boy an allergic reaction.

He retched suddenly, his hood falling to his shoulders at the sudden jolt and exposing a nasty infection. Purple veins crawling outward from a wound. Or rather… two wounds. They were dark with dried blood and yellowed at the edges.

Concerned for my patient and worried I was making things worse, I removed myself and went to the nearest bathroom. I scrubbed my pulse points where I always applied my perfume, catching the dazed expression on my face in the mirror. My heart rapped against my chest feverishly.

The wound on Theo may have been a snake bite or something of the sort. Some animal. It wouldn’t have been the first time I’d seen it.

I shook off my silly fears of what it might have been and hurried back to my patient. It was possible that the shaking and odd behavior were a result of shock and I needed to take his concerns seriously, now more than ever.

His head was once again tucked into the hoodie, but he allowed me to examine his chest with the stethoscope.

As I shifted the end around to find the spot I had located in every patient before him, I found myself perplexed. I could feel the muscles tense underneath his skin as if he was also becoming gravely concerned.

The shaking had grown more excessive and I tried to reassure him that at times these things could be tricky to locate. Something I was also trying desperately to convince myself of as well. But as I held my breath, the only sound I could hear in my expectant ears was the hollow sound of empty ribs.

I hadn’t noticed it before, but where the side of my hand settled on his skin her felt as cold as stone. It was emanating. Just the same way that the sun could draw heat to your skin, he could pull it away just as easy. I began to stiffen, wondering incredulously if I had begun to hallucinate.

There was a shift then. It felt as if the tension had built so strongly in the space between us that before either of us moved, something would snap. A magnet whose pull I no longer had control over.

The sinking realization set in that my silence was a confession. I had heard the physical confirmation of what we both knew to be true.

It was then that his mouth opened, incisors gleaming. Before I could process the feeling I was on the ground being torn away at like one of those anatomical models I used to play with as a child. First carotid, then jugular.

Where I’d expected it to spurt, my blood was being siphoned away. It was as if some sucking mechanism was tucked inside him that I hadn’t seen. Along with so many other anomalies I had missed.

I helplessly pawed at the young man, trying to scratch at his acne-ridden face. But the force of his feeding frenzy was too strong, the pressure on my larynx silencing any scream that could’ve fought its way out of me. At last, my vision swam with black and my strength left me as I became limp and bloodless.

When I awoke, I tried to scream through the bloody gurgle of what was left of my throat. But the vocal chords must have been destroyed. They rushed me to the hospital and sewed me up. My voice hasn’t been the same since.

I’ve heard that around the office, they still talk in hushed tones about the man who had a mental break and maimed a staff member. They’ll never know the full story and I won’t tell them.

Even when my throat fully heals and my voice box knits itself anew, I will agree with them. I will recount the story as another occupational hazard. I will smile and pick up new clients and try to go on as usual.

I switch the news off, knowing that this false story is better. Better for me to know and the public to believe they’re safe. Except for you. There you are. Now you know. Reading my story while I remain anonymous.

I suppose I just had to get it off my chest. After all, I lie to my own doctor quite a lot these days.