My Sleep App Recorded 4 Hours Of Talking Last Night. I Live Alone.

​I’ve been waking up tired for months. It’s not just the grogginess of a short night’s sleep; it’s a deep, bone-weary exhaustion that feels like I’ve been running a marathon in my dreams. My throat is always raw, my jaw aches, and I have these splitting headaches that scream behind my eyes until noon.

​I finally went to see a specialist last week. Dr. Evans shone a light down my throat, hummed thoughtfully, and told me what I expected to hear: Sleep Apnea. He explained that I was likely stopping breathing in the night, gasping for air, and ruining my sleep cycle.

​"Before we schedule a sleep study in the clinic," he said, handing me a pamphlet, "download a sleep tracking app. Let’s get some baseline data."

​I downloaded "SleepCycle" yesterday evening. It’s a popular app; it tracks your movements and, crucially, records any sound loud enough to trigger the microphone—snoring, coughing, or talking.

​I live alone in a studio apartment on the third floor. My security is tight. I have a heavy deadbolt on the door, and I check the window latches every single night. It’s a habit. It’s just me and a goldfish named Buster. Total isolation. Total safety.

​Or so I thought.

​Last night, I set the phone on my nightstand, plugged in the charger, and drifted off. For the first time in weeks, I actually thought I slept well.

​This morning, I woke up, grabbed my coffee, and sat at my small kitchen table to check the results.

​Total Sleep Time: 7 Hours 12 Minutes.

Sleep Quality: 45% (Poor).

Recordings Captured: 142.

​I laughed, taking a sip of hot coffee. "142 recordings? I must sound like a tractor," I muttered to myself.

​I started clicking through them.

11:30 PM: The sound of me rustling the duvet.

12:15 AM: A light cough, followed by rhythmic breathing.

01:45 AM: The sound of a car alarm going off in the distance outside.

​Everything was normal. Boring, even. I was about to close the app and email the results to Dr. Evans when I noticed a strange block of data.

​Starting at 02:33 AM, there was a continuous block of recording that lasted for nearly an hour. The sound wave visualization wasn't the rhythmic pattern of snoring. It was spiky, erratic, and loud.

​I frowned. Did I leave the TV on? Did I talk in my sleep?

​I pressed play.

​It wasn't the TV. And it definitely wasn't me.

​At first, there was silence. Then, a distinct, wet sound. Smack. Squelch. Smack. It sounded like someone chewing with their mouth open, or licking their lips excessively.

​Then, a voice whispered.

​It cut through the silence of my apartment like a razor. It was raspy, genderless, and sounded incredibly dry. But the worst part was the proximity. The audio was crisp. Whoever—or whatever—was speaking was right next to the microphone. My phone sits inches from my head while I sleep.

​"He looks... ripe tonight," the voice whispered.

​I froze. I dropped my mug. Ceramic shattered, and hot coffee splashed across my bare feet, but I didn't even flinch. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped the phone.

​I rewound it. I had to be hearing things. Maybe it was a radio interference?

​"Look at the way his eyes move under the lids," the voice continued, smooth and predatory. "He is dreaming. Delicious."

​I could hear my own breathing in the background—deep, heavy, oblivious sleep breathing. And directly over it, this voice, analyzing me like a piece of meat at a butcher shop.

​Then, a second voice answered. This one made my skin crawl. It was higher-pitched, giggly, and sounded like it was coming from the foot of the bed.

​"Should we take a bite now?" the second voice asked. "I’m hungry, mother. I want the fingers."

​"Not yet," the first voice (the one by my head) replied. "The skin needs to soften. Let him sweat a little longer. Fear makes the meat tender."

​I felt bile rise in my throat. I stood up and scanned my apartment. The closet was open. Under the bed? Behind the shower curtain? I grabbed a steak knife from the kitchen counter and tore through my 500-square-foot apartment.

​Nothing. The deadbolt was still engaged. The windows were painted shut. There was no way anyone had entered. There was no way anyone had left.

​I went back to the phone, terrified but needing to know how it ended. I skipped to the final recording of the night.

​Time: 05:59 AM. (Exactly one minute before my alarm went off).

​I pressed play.

​The voice was back, but now it sounded agitated. Disappointed.

​"The sun is coming," the raspy voice hissed. "The light burns. We have to go back inside."

​"Inside the closet?" the second voice asked.

​"No," the first voice replied. "Inside him. He is waking up. Open his mouth.

​On the recording, I heard a rustling sound. Then, I heard a choked gasp—my gasp—as if I was choking on air. There was a wet, sliding sound, like raw meat slapping against concrete. Then a loud, audible gulp.

​Then silence.

One minute later, on the recording, my alarm began to ring.

​I am sitting in my car now. I’ve been driving for two hours with no destination. I can’t go back in there. I can’t sleep in that bed again.

​But as I sit here, gripping the steering wheel, I realize the apartment isn't the problem. The lock on the door doesn't matter.

​My throat is incredibly sore today. It feels stretched. And I have this strange, heavy feeling in my stomach... like I ate something huge that isn't digesting.

​I just looked in the rearview mirror. My mouth feels weird. I opened it wide to check my throat.

My tonsils are fine. But deep down, past the uvula, I saw movement.

​I’m waiting for the sun to go down. I can feel them getting restless in my stomach. They are waiting for me to fall asleep so they can come out again.

​And I am so, so tired