Horror Stories to Fall Asleep To
Aug 26, 2026 · 44 min · 9 segments
**Every Porch on My Street Gets a Strange Delivery.** **About the Production:**This is a fictional story written, edited, and produced by a human. Because I’m a a terrible narrator, I use high…
It was raining again.
Not the hard, driving kind, but a steady, cold drizzle that made everything look slick and unreal under the streetlights.
I'd come outside to check the mail for the third time, hoping maybe the job fair letter had shown up late.
It hadn't.
What was in the driveway wasn't mail.
It was a box.
A plain brown cardboard box sitting right there on the wet concrete.
The rain had soaked through the top, turning it a darker shade of brown.
I knew that box.
I'd seen it on my porch two days ago before it vanished.
I walked toward it, my boots making soft, wet sounds.
The label was face up.
My own handwriting stared back at me.
I don't mean it was similar.
I mean it was mine, the same slanted print I use on repair tickets.
It had my name on it and the date, October tenth.
Today was the ninth.
A low engine hum cut through the drizzle.
I looked up.
An unmarked white van was idling at the curb, maybe twenty feet away.
Both of its rear doors were wide open, showing nothing but darkness inside.
The driver's window was down.
A man sat behind the wheel, just watching me.
He didn't wave.
He didn't look away.
I'd seen him before, too.
Monday morning, the first time.
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It was raining again.
Not the hard, driving kind, but a steady, cold drizzle that made everything look slick and unreal under the streetlights.
I'd come outside to check the mail for the third time, hoping maybe the job fair letter had shown up late.
It hadn't.
What was in the driveway wasn't mail.
It was a box.
A plain brown cardboard box sitting right there on the wet concrete.
The rain had soaked through the top, turning it a darker shade of brown.
I knew that box.
I'd seen it on my porch two days ago before it vanished.
I walked toward it, my boots making soft, wet sounds.
The label was face up.
My own handwriting stared back at me.
I don't mean it was similar.
I mean it was mine, the same slanted print I use on repair tickets.
It had my name on it and the date, October tenth.
Today was the ninth.
A low engine hum cut through the drizzle.
I looked up.
An unmarked white van was idling at the curb, maybe twenty feet away.
Both of its rear doors were wide open, showing nothing but darkness inside.
The driver's window was down.
A man sat behind the wheel, just watching me.
He didn't wave.
He didn't look away.
I'd seen him before, too.
Monday morning, the first time.
