Speaker 1: Three months ago, I got a job offer from a
Speaker 1: company I'd never heard of. No interview, no background checked,
Speaker 1: just an email. Dream research assistant needed quiet night work,
Speaker 1: high pay, must be discreet. I thought it was a scam,
Speaker 1: but I clicked it anyway, and I was two months
Speaker 1: behind on rent and tired of grinding delivery apps and
Speaker 1: night shifts at a gas station. Two days later, I
Speaker 1: was standing in a windowless room at the back of
Speaker 1: a warehouse on the edge of town reading a non
Speaker 1: disclosure agreement that might as well have been written in blood.
Speaker 1: You will not share any details about the work, equipment
Speaker 1: or subjects. Any breach will be met with legal and
Speaker 1: appropriate consequences. I signed it. They shouldn't have. The room
Speaker 1: I worked in had two chairs, two monitors, and one machine,
Speaker 1: a dome shaped thing about the size of a watermelon,
Speaker 1: covered in metallic wires and nodes. The label read MIMRR
Speaker 1: Neural Sync Unit. They said that it could interface with
Speaker 1: RAM wave activity to let us observe and catalog dream
Speaker 1: visuals in real time. I didn't ask how it worked.
Speaker 1: I just did what they told me. Every night, from
Speaker 1: eleven PM to five am, I came in, put on
Speaker 1: the headset, and watched people's dreams play out like grainy,
Speaker 1: half finished films. My job was to log what I saw, tags, colors, symbols, emotions, distortions.
Speaker 1: Most of them were forgettable, bizarre, disconnected messes, like the
Speaker 1: mind dumping its trash into the subconscious. I watched a
Speaker 1: woman relive her wedding as a loop where her groom's
Speaker 1: face kept changing into her dead dog. A man had
Speaker 1: a recurring dream about drowning and cereal. One guy just
Speaker 1: sat in a red chair in an endless desert for
Speaker 1: six hours. I didn't care. I just tagged and logged.
Speaker 1: The pay was good, The work was quiet until shift
Speaker 1: twenty seven that night. The dream opened with a man
Speaker 1: walking through a long white hallway. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
Speaker 1: He wore a dark hoodie. I couldn't see his face.
Speaker 1: Steps echoed. The hallway had doors, each with numbers Room eleven,
Speaker 1: from twelve, room thirteen. He stopped at room sixteen. He
Speaker 1: opened the door and stepped inside, and I felt cold.
Speaker 1: I wasn't just watching anymore. It felt like I was
Speaker 1: in it, like my thoughts had shifted into his. The
Speaker 1: room inside was familiar, too, familiar, cracked, white, walls, humming
Speaker 1: mini fridge, a ceiling fan with a broken blade, a
Speaker 1: desk with an old laptop, and a blue chair. My
Speaker 1: room down to the scratch on the window frame, and
Speaker 1: the photo of me and my sister at the carnival.
Speaker 1: This was my apartment, the one I lived in. Right
Speaker 1: now on the desk was my journal, the the one
Speaker 1: I kept locked in the dream. The man opened it.
Speaker 1: One line was written over and over in a shaky
Speaker 1: block lettering, they're watching you two. I ripped off the headset,
Speaker 1: hit the emergency alert button, first time I ever used it.
Speaker 1: No one came. The next day, I demanded answers. I
Speaker 1: found doctor Calder, the lead researcher. What the hell was
Speaker 1: that last dream? I asked him? That was my apartment,
Speaker 1: that journal that I've never shown anyone that. She didn't
Speaker 1: blink id number six one sixty. I said, who is that?
Speaker 1: She stared at me for a long time, then said, calmly,
Speaker 1: you were told not to ask questions. But that's me,
Speaker 1: isn't it? On the subject? You've been watching me? A pause,
Speaker 1: a smile. No, she said, you're just the receiver. Then
Speaker 1: she walked away. After that, things got worse. The dreams
Speaker 1: weren't random anymore. They all started in the hallway that
Speaker 1: the same man, the same doors, Room seventeen, Room eighteen,
Speaker 1: Room nineteen. Every night he'd open the next door, and
Speaker 1: each time it was another place from my past. The
Speaker 1: classroom where I wet my pants in first grade, the
Speaker 1: church basement where I found my uncle passed out drunk,
Speaker 1: my sister's old bedroom the night of the accident. Sometimes
Speaker 1: he just stood there and stared. Other times he'd whisper things.
Speaker 1: Once he looked directly into the dream feed and said,
Speaker 1: why did you lie? I stopped sleeping. I'd go home,
Speaker 1: lie in bed and feel like I was still being watched.
Speaker 1: The black van across the street, the flicker of the
Speaker 1: hallway camera, even though no one passed. I started having
Speaker 1: dreams outside of the lab. Dreams had felt like the
Speaker 1: ones I saw at work, same angle, same man, except
Speaker 1: now I wasn't sure who was dreaming whom. Then came
Speaker 1: shift forty two. The hallway ended, no more doors. The
Speaker 1: man stood at the last one, Room twenty three. Inside
Speaker 1: it was pitch black. For a long time. He just
Speaker 1: stood there, and then he stepped in and the feed
Speaker 1: went dead. The message appeared on the screen the mirror
Speaker 1: sync terminated accessing deep core files. Another screen popped up
Speaker 1: a split feed. One on the left, a live camera
Speaker 1: view the break room where I sat on lunch twenty
Speaker 1: minutes ago. On the right, an old video, grainy, black
Speaker 1: and white footage. I was watching myself, sleeping years younger.
Speaker 1: Electrodes on my head. Someone whispering to me off camera,
Speaker 1: you're going to forget this. It's better if you forget.
Speaker 2: I threw off the headset, ran down the hall. The
Speaker 2: door I thought let outside was gone. In its place
Speaker 2: a white hallway with numbered doors. Room one, Room two,
Speaker 2: Room three. I don't know how long I've been here.
Speaker 2: Now some nights I think I've escaped. I wake up
Speaker 2: in my bed. The world looks normal until I spot
Speaker 2: the man in the hoodie across the street. Until I
Speaker 2: turn on my phone and see a recording of my
Speaker 2: dream from the night before. I think the job was
Speaker 2: never real. I think I never left the lab, and
Speaker 2: maybe I never applied in the first place. I just
Speaker 2: wanted a paycheck. What I got was a front row
Speaker 2: seat to my own breakdown. And if anyone's reading this,
Speaker 2: if this shows up on your feed, ask yourself, when
Speaker 2: was the last time you really woke up, because I'm
Speaker 2: starting to think that some of us, some of us
Speaker 2: are still dreaming.
Speaker 1: Either kids.
Speaker 3: It's me, mister Kreepasta, and I just wanted to tell
Speaker 3: you thank you so much for watching tonight's video or
Speaker 3: for listening to tonight's episode of the podcast. It's a
Speaker 3: brand new year, which means a brand new time for content.
Speaker 3: We're doing our best to bring you the newest things.
Speaker 1: I know.
Speaker 3: In twenty twenty four, I had released less videos than
Speaker 3: I ever had any year in the last fourteen years.
Speaker 3: But hey, as things start to piece themselves back together,
Speaker 3: so do I. So I will be seeing you guys
Speaker 3: a bit more in this year, I promise you. And
Speaker 3: as always, I want to give a very big thank
Speaker 3: you to everybody who supports me over at Patreons patreon
Speaker 3: dot com slash mister Creepypasta. I cannot thank you guys enough.
Speaker 3: Thank you guys so much for being supporters. That goes
Speaker 3: for everybody who is down in the description, as well
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