3 Horror Stories of London's Forbidden Underworld

Want to hear brand new horror stories brought to life? Live? Join me every Sunday at 7pm Eastern Time on the Doctor No Sleep Podcast YouTube channel, where I narrate fresh, never-before-heard stories in real time. Just search Doctor No Sleep Podcast on YouTube and make sure you're subscribed with notifications on so you don't miss it. Doctor No Sleep Story 1. Brothers of the Robes As I hurry down the concrete steps, mindful not to slip on their simultaneous dusty grit and slickness, or trip over the hem of my robe, I hear the scheduled tube arrival at the station I just passed by. The screeching of brakes and droning of an impossible to understand voice, announcing the arrival mix with the constant hum and vibration of all those hundreds of people, queuing up to get the very best seat. I pity all of them. Their mundane worlds and workaday lives, their insistence to succeed, even if it kills them. What a sorry lot they are, these people, these normals, these doomed wretches of society. My feet slip into the gravel that surrounds the tracks, and I quicken my pace, knowing I shall be late if I do not put a little extra effort into my step. The brakes stop squealing, and I hear the hydraulic hiss of doors opening and the never-ending drone of announcement after announcement. So many rules these people live under, a constant thumb pressing down on them from, where, above, below? No, no, there's no outside source. They have done this to themselves. They are their own slaves, happy or miserable, to be ruled over by others of their kind who believe that their blood is better than the rest. What a strange belief system they have, allowing others to dominate them simply because someone's ancestors used brute force to crush someone else's ancestors, thus creating an invented hierarchy based on violence and subjugation. Not that I'm against violence. The sacrificial dagger I carry says otherwise. If blood need be spilled, then blood shall be spilled. It is that simple. I duck through a small opening in the stone wall and navigate a series of twists and turns, ups and downs, before I find the passageway I need. I can already hear them, my brethren, my family. Their voices lift high, piercing the very stone and concrete and dirt and mud and asphalt that separates us from those who live far, far above. A turn here, a turn there, and I arrive to see all of them circled around the candle. Our single candle. Our only source of light to fend off the darkness that surrounds us, always. Not that we fear the darkness. No. No. We are of the darkness. We blend and meld and become one with it. Except for tonight. Tonight we don our robes, we chant our holy words, we prepare our sacrifice. And oh, what a sacrifice it is. A tabby cat, skinny and mean. It stares at us, hisses at us, growls at us. But it cannot swipe. No. We have caught it and subdued it with so much twine. Even its dagger teeth and razor claws cannot cut through the amount of twine encircling the squirming, angry body. Cornelius, you have arrived! My great friend and brother, Anderly, announces. Anderly is our priest, our high holy one, our unelected leader since we brethren have no official leader. Despite the fact that his robes hood is drawn tight around his head, I know it to be him. His voice is deep and melodic, a standout amongst those of us with higher registers. Anderly moves from the circle and embraces me. Then he pushes me back and studies me. Any trouble getting here? When you did not arrive on time, we feared the worst. He looks me over once more. Do you have it, Cornelius? Were you able to obtain that which we need? I have, Anderly. It was a hard-fought bounty, but I extracted it from its owner with as little violence as possible. As little violence? To what you mean there was some violence, though, yes? I shake my head sadly and look down at the few spots of blood on my robe. Ours is a violent world, brother. Perhaps not as violent as the people above, but there are times when even we cannot hide from our baser nature. Unfortunately, you are correct, Cornelius. Anderly gripped my shoulder. Show it to me. With little fanfare, I opened my robe to show the long blade strapped to my waist. Anderly nods with appreciation and respect. Of all the brethren, he knew I was the one who could handle the job, who could risk life and limb to achieve our goal. May I? Anderly asks. I nod and unstrap the dagger from my body. It is heavy, I say as he takes it in his hands. He chuckles. Oh, my. Yes, it is. Then Anderly turns and holds the sacrificial dagger above his head. The holy word Wusthoff stamped prominently on its blade. Brothers, it is here. Tonight we make a sacrifice that will ensure our survival for generations to come. As our brothers before us have done, and our brothers after us will do as well. There is a mighty cheer from the brethren. Anderly smiles at me. Come, brother Cornelius. Join us in the circle so the sacrifice may be complete. I nod and do just that, pushing in between Edgar and Cartwright. Anderly takes his prominent place, keeping the dagger held above him, making sure our eyes, our focus, our power are directed to it and only it. Vakad hisses, trying to distract us. But we need not let it. We are disciplined. We are forthright. We are destined. By this blade, we demand our freedom. Anderly cries. Our freedom. We echo. By this blade, we demand our power. Our power. By this blade, we demand our rightful place in the holy order. The holy order. Then we hum. A high and low murmuring that fills the chamber we are in, echoing off the stone walls, drowning out the constant dripping of water, the ever-present roar and rattle of the tube. Oi, oi, you don't have to do this, you know. Our chanting stops, and we all stare at the cat. You have something to say, serial killer? Anderly asks the captive feline. Yeah, I got something to say, all right. You lot, with your robes and your nicked parry knife. You think you're special or something, right? Well, you ain't. You're just a bunch of rats living by the tube. That's all you is. Too many close calls to that third rail have got your rat mines all scrambled. I'll tell you what. You let me go, and we'll forget all about this little mishap. How's that sound? We got a deal? Anderly sighs. He lowers the dagger so he can pull the hood of his robe back and show the cat his magnificent snout, his wonderfully beady eyes, his long whiskers, and his sharp, sharp teeth. No, cat. We do not have a deal. Anderly says. Do we, brothers? A resounding, no! He rups from our mouths in solidarity with Anderly. See, cat, your sacrifice is destined. Call us rats, call us vermin, call us pests, call us food, if you will, murderer. But never, never call us stupid. I ain't calling you stupid, you stupid rat. I'm just saying that killing me ain't gonna do nothing for your kind. Us cats, we ain't your enemies. It's those people above that are coming for you. They try to kill us too. We should band together and kill them all. I can help with that. I know the right kind of cats who can make it happen. All you got to do is let me go. That's it. Then we really show them, people, what's what. Anderly laughs. We all laugh. Oh, cat, how sad it must feel to be nature's perfect killer. Yet helpless before what you consider prey. Yeah, well, I didn't exactly warm and fuzzy in me belly right now, no. That is unfortunate. Anderly lifts the dagger again. The mighty Wustov blade, and to make certain the cat can see its sharp and deadly glory. I would ask if you have any last words, cat. But I believe you have used them all up. Awkwardly, because the blade was not meant for rat paws. Anderly shifts the dagger around until he precariously grips the handle. The steel aimed directly at the cat's heart. Brothers, are we ready? We are ready. Ah, come on now, blokes. You don't have to. The dagger comes down swift insure. The tabby cat cries, then dies. One more murderer removed from the world. One more chance for our next generation to survive. When it is all over, we brethren pull back our hoods and grin our rat grins at each other. I think that went well. Anderly says, wiping the blade of the dagger on his robe. A bit dramatic toward the end. But those are cats for you, always full of drama. Hungry, I ask Anderly. Starving. Great. A kebab card on platform 16, just throughout last evening's rubbish. Oh, I would love a kebab. Anderly lifts his arms in the air. Brothers, let us feast on kebabs. Kebabs! Allow me to ruin the mood for just a second. You know that store-bought coffee sitting in your kitchen? It was roasted months ago, and every day it gets a little more lifeless. No-sleep coffee is different. You use specialty-grade beans, roast them to order, and ship them out fast. So what hits your cup is bold, rich, and terrifyingly fresh. Stop settling for stale coffee. Head to no-sleep-coffee.com and grab a bag roasted just days before it reaches your door. Be sure to use promo code NOSLEEP20 to get 20% off your first order. That's no-sleep-coffee.com. Promo code NOSLEEP20. PART 2 Feeling Small Big Man pauses, placing his hand against the stairwell wall as he sucks in breath after breath. Oink! Skinny pip, hisses from the landing above, careful to keep his voice down. Quit lagging, will ya? With roomy eyes, Big Man glares down at his ever-so-thin partner, his lip curling up in a snarl of contempt and simmering anger. Why are we climbing downstairs, SP? It's an old hag doing this deep anyway. Big Man asks as he wipes the sweat from his broad forehead with a huge, meaty paw of a hand. Where else is she supposed to be, BM? A gingerbread cottage in the woods? Gah, no, not the woods. I hate hiking. Then where should she live? Not this far down, that's all I'm sayin'. Skinny pip shakes his head. He's used to his partner complaining about walking, climbing stairs, going up or down, or just moving in general. But in their line of business, certain efforts have to be made. Skinny pip knows that Big Man understands this because they always complete the task given to them, no matter how strenuous. It's just Big Man's way, always complaining about something. You need me to carry you over my shoulders? Skinny pip asks. This punches Big Man's pride right in the bullocks. The huge man's glare intensifies, and after half a second, he starts moving down the stairs once more. So far down, Big Man mutters as he suffers through the descent. Once they've finally achieved their destination, Big Man sucks in a biome's worth of oxygen, then wipes the remaining sweat from his forehead, straightens his suit, and pounds on the door in front of him while Skinny Pip stands off to the side, his hand in his own suit, ready with his pistol if needed. No answer. Big Man looks sideways at Skinny Pip. Skinny Pip shrugs and frowns. Big Man growls low, then pounds on the door once again. It opens before he can withdraw his fist. A moment, if you will, gentlemen. An old woman says as she holds a rat in her hands. She smiles at Big Man, then leans in, whispers in the rat's ear, and sets it on the ground. Tell your friends. The rat squeaks and scurries off to the stairs, heading deeper into the bowels of London, bounding down each step with an intensity that startles Big Man and Skinny Pip. Did you just talk to a rat? Big Man asks. I hate rats. Do you now? And why would a beefy lad like you be so afraid of such a wee creature? The old woman asks. I didn't say I was afraid. I said I hate them. They're spreading disease and leaving little nasty pellets everywhere. And they're piss. Don't get me started on how that piss smells. The old woman looks Big Man up and down. Then she leans forward and turns her gaze on Skinny Pip. And what about you, spindle shanks? The old woman asks Skinny Pip. Huh. Me gran used to call me that. Skinny Pip replies. I go by Skinny Pip now, though. I wasn't asking your name, boy. I was asking how you feel about the ratus Norvecicus. Skinny Pip looks to Big Man for help. Big Man only shrugs. Yeah, I don't know nothing about no Norwegians. The old woman grins. I suppose you don't do you. She steps aside and gestures for them to come in. Well, I assume we have business to discuss. Can't think of why else two of duchess's men would come calling on me otherwise. The old woman laughs at the shocked looks on the two men's faces. Oh, you don't think I know who your boss is? I've been waiting for this visit for a long while. Too bad he didn't come himself like a true man. Had to send a couple of stooges to do the work for him. Hey, who you calling stooges? Big Man snarls. Watch your tongue, woman. This can be a civil visit. Big Man moves in close, towering over the old woman. Or it can be an uncivil visit. Your choice, hag. The old woman draws her head back at the derogatory term aimed at her. The playful look and vibe she'd been projecting drops away. And the temperature in the underground space drops with it. Literally. Skinny Pip moves up next to Big Man, his breath coming out in plumes of steam. His hand goes to his partner's arm, but his eyes remain on the old woman. How about we all keep our hair on, eh? No need for this to be confrontational. Skinny Pip says in a calm voice. Doughtchester's sending you two is already confrontational. The old woman says. But you are here now. So you might as well come in so we can get this over with. The air warms again as the old woman turns and walks into her subterranean flat, waving a hand over her shoulder as she goes. I was about to make tea. Would you two stoogeous care for a cup? Big Man snarls again, and Skinny Pip squeezes the man's arm as hard as he can. It barely makes a dent in the large man's muscles, but it does force him to turn his attention to his partner. When Mr. Doughtchester say, Skinny Pip asks. Don't make the hag mad, Big Man replies. Exactly. Let's focus on that. Then we can get what we came for. That work for you, BM? I don't like her tone. And she doesn't like yours. We'll call her to draw. Big Man glares for a moment longer, then shrugs his huge shoulders and shakes off Skinny Pip's hand. Alright, we'll do it the calm way. Brilliant! The two men walk inside the flat and close the door behind them. They find the old woman in her kitchen pouring water into her kettle from the faucet. She smiles at them, but there's no warmth in it. Take a seat, boys. She says, nodding her chin at her small couch in two chairs in the windowless front room. She sets the kettle on its base and flips the switch. Get comfortable. We ain't here to get comfortable. Big Man says, We're here on business. Business you have with Mr. Doughtchester. Business he'd like finished today. Today? How ambitious of him! The old woman says as she prepares three cups for tea. She walks to her fridge, opens it in size. I'm all out of cow milk, I'm afraid. Will oat milk do? Big Man frowns and starts to say something, but Skinny Pip points at him and says, No milk for us. No tea, really. We can't say. Hungwash! You two are staying for tea, and that is that. The old woman says with a cackle that makes the partners shiver. Sit, sit. Skinny Pip presses the air with his hands. Big Man shakes his head in protest, but then sits on the couch, taking up almost the entire space. Skinny Pip plops down into a chair. The partner's weight is the old woman hums to herself while preparing tea. Just as Big Man is about to explode off the couch with impatience, the old woman carries a tray of three steaming cups of tea along with a plate of lemon biscuits. Made the biscuits myself, but they are three days old, I'm afraid. I hope they don't taste stale. She sets the tray down on the small coffee table separating the couch from the two chairs. Please, eat and drink, boys. You deserve a little treat before we conduct business. No thank you, ma'am. Skinny Pip replies, garnering a harsh look from Big Man for the informality. I think we've taken up enough of your time. Oh, pissposh, not a bother at all. Have some. The old woman stays standing, her eyes boring into skinny pips. I insist. If it'll hurry this mess along, Big Man growls. He grabs a cup, downs the tea, takes two biscuits, and shovels them into his mouth, chewing rudely and loudly. After a moment, he swallows. There, tea and biscuits. The old woman maintains her stare on Skinny Pip. And he ooze, spindle shanks. The old woman asks. Skinny Pip nods, smiles, then takes his tea, sipping politely. Have a biscuit. The old woman insists. Skinny Pip hesitates, then plucks a biscuit off the plate. He nibbles a bit and smiles again. Yes, that will do fine. The old woman says and walks away. She moves to a bookshelf where she has a row of figurines set up. She lifts one off the shelf, a figurine of a short squat man. There's nothing fancy about the figurine. In fact, the squat man looks like a regular bloke that Skinny Pip and Big Man would see every day. This business of duchess does. The old woman says, turning the figurine over and over in her hands. I am sure he has filled you in. So please, gentlemen, enlighten me. Big Man clears his throat. Mr. Duchess would like you to cease all hostility toward him and his outfit. In exchange, he will allow you to conduct trade from your home here. Big Man looks about the flat, frowning with disdain. He also says that there will be no percentage taken. Mr. Duchess believes that this is a fair agreement for all, so that business may be conducted in a peaceful manner. A peaceful manner? The old woman cackles so loudly that the figurines on the shelf shake and rattle. That oaf wouldn't know peace if it bit him in the butt. Big Man begins to respond, but stops and coughs, putting a huge fist to his lips to keep the spittle from flying. Skinny Pip eyes him with concern. Oh dear, that doesn't sound good. The old woman says, that doesn't sound peaceful. Before Skinny Pip can say anything, he coughs as well. In seconds, the two men are out of their seats and on all fours, their chests heaving as their lungs struggle to take in air. Yes, it is an unfortunate first step in the transformation. The old woman says, placing the figurine back on the shelf. The lungs shrink fast, a terrifying feeling. I know, but it does have the added benefit of making men like you completely incapable of getting nasty with me before our business is done. Skinny Pip falls onto his face, his arms coming out from under him all of a sudden. Same with Big Man. The partners look into each other's eyes, both stunned as they watch each other shrink, shrink, shrink, until they are barely the size of the tea cups they had just drank from. The old woman towers over them, a geriatric giant. She bends down and picks them up, smiling at their size. You will feel ill for several days as your body hardens, she says, walking the two miniatures over to her bookshelf. But after that, you shall feel absolutely nothing at all. Her cackles sound like thunder to the two men's ears. They are roughly set next to figurines, which they both quickly recognize as former colleagues of theirs. Men sent to conduct business with the hag. Men never heard from again. I can't wait to see who dodges the sins next. 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Head to quints.com slash dns for free shipping on your order and 365 day returns. Now available in Canada too. That's Q-U-I-N-C-E dot com slash dns for free shipping and 365 day returns. Quints.com slash dns. Story 3. Cruel Sumner, Hungry Sumner. The hunched form of what was once a man clambers over broken concrete to peer into the pitch blackness of the old shelter. There's no light, yet the creature can see almost as clearly as if it were day down in the depths below London. He's been here a long while, Sumner has. So a bit of pure inky blackness is nothing for him. Smells the dead, Sumner does. Sumner mumbles to himself. Old spirits, bad gay stays and ghoulies. Sumner lifts his head and sniffs long and loud. Oh yes, yes, many a haunt still in there. Many a, many a. Shoving the shelter door wide, Sumner climbs inside on all fours. He had given up standing straight many, many, many years earlier. No point down in the dark. Bump your head, Sumner would. So Sumner crawls, one hand in front of the other. One foot after the other follows behind as feet are wont to do. Hello, Sumner calls. Horns and bass stays, shows yourselves to Sumner. Sumner is a friend. Sumner won't hurt you a bit. Not a wee bit, Sumner promises. Nothing appears, but Sumner can smell them. Yes, he can. Smell them hiding in the corners, hiding under the rubble, hiding in the broken cabinets and the crushed milk crates. Little spooks, where is you? Do not hide from Sumner. Sumner does not add that to hide from him will only make him mad. And the ghoulies and spooks and haunts don't want Sumner mad. No, no, no, they do not. He crawls toward an upended desk. What was this place? Sumner wonders. A place not for business. Because why bury the business below the old grand city of London? Business is for the above. No, no. Sumner knows this place was made not for business, but for war. And with war comes death. And death means phantoms and wraiths. Where are you ghoulies? Come on out me little spooks. Sumner moves. Nothing reveals itself. Nothing takes the bait. Not that Sumner needs bait. He only calls out because it makes it so much easier. So much more convenient if they come to him instead of him going to them. Sumner's patience is thin. He mumbles as he reaches the upended desk. Sumner tired of hide and seek. He angst open a drawer, sending the desk tumbling over. The crash is so loud that Sumner clamps his hands over his ears while screaming. No for the noise. Why Sumner do that? Stupid haunts make Sumner. But then a faint blue light appears from the broken and tumbled desk. Sumner hisses with approval. Happy to know his discomfort has borne fruit. The light floats in the dusty air, lifting higher and higher. Just as it is about to reach the ceiling of the old shelter, Sumner leaps up and snatches the light in one gnarled hand. He stuffs it in his mouth and chews with delight. Oh, wondrous! Sumner cries around his mouth full of spirit. Great joy! Sumner pleased with flavor. He swallows and belches, then pats his stomach. Oh, oh! Sumner sees the life. Sumner hears the life. Sumner feels the life. The creature that is Sumner coos and moans with pleasure as the spirit's history drifts through Sumner's mind. A history filled with schoolboy antics and family picnics. A history full of longing and romance. A history cut short too soon with the collapse of the area around the shelter, trapping all of those inside. A history of panic and fear. A history of desperate violence. And then death. What delights? Sumner says, then whirls around to face the desk once more. What other delights are there for Sumner? Sumner tears the desk apart, ripping out drawers and throwing them every which way. No more light appears. No more spirit trying to reach the above. Sumner's attention turns to a pile of bricks in the corner. He can smell the bones beneath. And where there are bones, there are spirits. Sumner knows this. One brick, two bricks. Sumner hums to himself in a scratchy sing song voice. Three bricks, four. Sumner will pick up bricks until there's no more. He throws the bricks over his shoulder, prepared for the noise they make, happy with the cacophony. An amber glow flickers from under the last layer of bricks. Sumner claps his hands, thrilled that his effort has produced results. Sumner, see you! He snatches the source of the glow with one hand. It's a lively spirit, one that tries to wriggle and squirm out of Sumner's grip. But Sumner never loses his grip. What be they? He shoves the squirming, amber spirit into his open maw and clamps down with his sharpened teeth. There is no true substance to the spirit. Yet it still feels firm as he chews. Perhaps Sumner is inventing the feeling? So desperate to choose something corporeal that he imagines at all. He swallows and belches again. This time, the history that fills his mind is too intense. Too much, even for Sumner. The creature spins in circles, batting his fists against the sides of his head. Out you! Get out of Sumner! Evil history! Nasty history! Horrible sights! Get out! Get out! Get out! Bright pain flashes through Sumner's skull. The history is nothing but blood. So much blood. Sumner likes blood. Rebels in it at times. But not so much that he feels it shall spill out of his earholes. Out! Out! Out! Sumner cries. Then he hits himself a little too hard, and the darkness is filled with stars and sprites and then...true darkness. When Sumner awakes, he scrambles into his crouch, looking about the shelter, wary. Stinking specters, he mutters. Kissing in Sumner's head like that. Bad specters. Then Sumner realizes that this shelter isn't all pitch blackness, but glows with a red light. Slowly, so slowly that Sumner almost forgets what he is doing, Sumner cranes his neck, turning his head to see what stands behind him. Oh, you is a right nasty ghost, ain't you? Scaring Sumner you are! The ghost, a man dressed in Victorian clothes, stands at the far wall of the shelter, his black eyes focused on Sumner. Watch you looking at ghosty. Turn away from Sumner. Turn now or be! The ghost reaches its hands out and rockets towards Sumner, sending the creature scrambling backwards, fleeing hand over hand over foot over foot until he reaches the shelter's door and asks to scramble once more over the rubble, and now he is in the tunnel. The tunnel end, but no, he is not in the tunnel. Sumner has been grabbed by the ghost, the man in Victorian dress. No, ghosty! Sumner shouts, wriggling in the phantom's grip like the amber spirit had wriggled in Sumner's. I ate you! Ghosties don't eat Sumner! The ghost pulls Sumner in close, mashing its ethereal face against Sumner's squashed and offset nose. What be you? The ghost asks, you see but cannot see, you talk but only of yourself. What be you? Thing? Let go of Sumner! The creature screeches, set Sumner free! Sumner! The ghost asks, tilting its spectral head to the side. Oh yes, Sumner! I have heard your name. A spook amongst spooks. A horror amongst horrors. The eater of us all. The Victorian ghost chuckles. Then flings Sumner across the shelter. The creature hits the wall and scrambles once more toward the door. This time, the ghost does not follow, does not grab him or restrain him. Sumner makes it out of the shelter in crawls and crawls until he feels safely away from the horrible phantom. Not fun for Sumner! No go there again! Sumner, shaking his head, takes several turns within the catacombs and tunnels until he is on more familiar territory. Once he sees the rats, he knows he is safe. The rats never tread where they're behaunts and ghoulies. Bad back there. Sumner says to the group of rats dressed in strange robes. Don't go there! Sumner says it bad. Listen to Sumner! The rats don't listen. They scurry by, too busy chasing a terrified tabby cat through the tunnels to bother listening to old Sumner. Sumner doubts the rats will travel far enough to find the horrid shelter and the awful Victorian ghost anyway. Rats stay close to their nests. Sumner knows this. Not that Sumner cares too much. No, no. Sumner is hungry. Sumner is bored again. Wear more treats for Sumner! The creature wanders as it wanders, destined to be a denizen of the tunnels and catacombs for eternity. Sumner tummy growls.