Hello, I’ve written a horror story and I’d love to get your thoughts on whether it would be a good fit for nosleep. I’m interested in hearing whether or not it meets the plausibility guidelines and if there’s anything I could change to make it more suited for nosleep.

I watched from a distance while my grandma and grandpa fished on their lake in the backyard, but, one thing confused me—while Grandpa cast his line and watched his rod, waiting for the anticipating tug of a fish, Grandma's gaze remained fixed across the lake, her head tilted intently towards the dark fringe of woods. I never saw her look at the bobbing lures, she didn’t even seem interested in fishing at all. I thought that maybe she just simply enjoyed looking at the trees. But a nagging feeling persisted - there was more to her gaze than a simple love for nature.

It was summer break, and I decided to spend it at my grandparents' house in Colorado. They lived in a two-story house, recently built in 2018. It connected directly to a lake, with a dock jutting out on the far right side where my Grandpa kept his pontoon boat.

My grandparents were a sweet and quiet couple. They kept to themselves most of the time, living a peaceful life in their little corner of the world. Every summer, though, my visits became a tradition.

Grandma's invitation was always an automatic 'yes,' her warm smile and gentle voice a beacon calling me back. There were countless things to love about my grandma, her kindness and generosity at the top of the list. If I wanted something, it was usually an automatic 'yes' from her too. But one of the things I truly cherished most was her stories.

Unlike Grandpa, who mostly stuck to tales of his time in the military – exciting stories filled with bravery and adventure, of course – Grandma was a bottomless well of stories.

Whether it was a funny anecdote from her childhood, a heartwarming story about a kind neighbor, or a fantastical bedtime story that transported me to magical lands, Grandma always had one on hand. She was one of those special grandmas who could weave a story from thin air, her words painting vivid pictures in my mind.

Grandpa, on the other hand, was a man of few words. A quiet strength emanated from him, and the stories he did tell were always about his service. He'd talk about the places he'd been, the challenges he'd faced, and the lessons he'd learned. While not as fantastical as Grandma's stories, they held a different kind of magic – a testament to his resilience and the experiences that shaped him.

One of the things I always admired about Grandpa was his outdoor skills. He'd tell me most of his knowledge came from his military training, jokingly saying they prepared him for anything. He was a true outdoorsman, the kind of person I'd trust implicitly if we were ever lost in the wilderness. He knew everything about fishing – the best spots on the lake, the best techniques to catch different types of fish. Some of my favorite memories were spent on his boat, cutting through the cool morning water, the sun rising over the horizon, and the gentle hum of the motor a comforting lullaby.

Every night, Grandma dipped into her seemingly endless well of stories. I never quite understood how she did it. Her mind was like a sprawling library, shelves overflowing with stories to tell. One night, she'd tell me a story of brave knights seeking vengeance, their swords gleaming in the sun. Another night, she’d tell me a story of a land shimmering with magic spells, and cursed lands. Then there were the scary stories. Now, Grandma usually avoided them – she knew how they affected me. But the thing about those stories was the detail. Oh man, the detail. They were so vivid, so real, it felt like I was peeking through a crack into another world. A world where the monsters and creatures she described lurked. A world so terrifying, that I felt like falling through that crack would kill me.

Every night was the same routine: Nestled under a patchwork quilt in the guest room, I'd wait with bated breath. The soft click of the doorknob was my cue. Grandma, her face etched with a lifetime of stories, would enter, a gentle smile gracing her lips. She'd pull up a rocking chair, its rhythmic creak adding to the lullaby effect. Then, in a warm voice, she'd begin telling me a story.   One night though, tucked under the patchwork quilt, I waited for Grandma's nightly visit. The soft click of the doorknob announced her arrival.   “Ready for another story?" she asked, her voice a warm rumble.   I nodded eagerly. Nights at Grandma's were journeys to magical lands, each story more thrilling than the last. But tonight, I craved a different kind of story, a different kind of excitement.   “Can you tell me a scary story tonight, Grandma?" I blurted out.   A flicker of surprise crossed her face, followed by a thoughtful pause. Unlike her usual repertoire of action-packed adventures, her stories have always steered clear of scary ones.   She sat beside me on the patchwork quilt, her usual mischievous eyes replaced by a thoughtful gaze. Her eyes flickered towards the window for a moment before returning to me. Then, with a gentle smile, she began.   "Those woods outside your window,” she started, her voice a warm rumble.   I instinctively glanced towards the window, the familiar silhouette of the trees, outlined across the lake.   “There's something in those woods," she continued, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper.   A shiver danced down my spine, though the room remained pleasantly warm. Those simple words made me so uncomfortable that I was tempted to just tell Grandma to stop, but the truth was, I was hooked. Grandma did tell me scary stories on rare occasions, but they were always fictional, completely disconnected from the real world.   She continued, "Every seven years, it comes out of those woods; it emerges, a creature that’s been on this earth for thousands of years, it crawls on all fours. It hunts, a silent predator searching for its prey."   I began to tense up a little. The room remained quiet, but the air felt heavy.   “Its body is like a man, but twisted and contorted," she murmured, "and its limbs elongated, reaching out at odd angles. Its skin is black as coal, making it difficult to spot during the night."   I swallowed hard, my eyes instinctively drawn back to the window. The trees, once comforting, now seemed to writhe with unseen shadows.   “But the worst part," she continued, her voice barely a tremor, "is its eyes, multiple eyes, scattered across its head like a spider. They pierce the darkness, searching for an unsuspecting victim.”   She continued, her voice a hushed whisper, sending shivers down my spine. "Sometimes, if it has trouble finding prey, it ventures closer, closer to houses, searching for unlocked windows."   My breath caught in my throat. The image of eyes peering through the glass sent a jolt of terror through me.   “If it finds an opening," she murmured, "it will crawl inside, and snatch the closest person to it, dragging them back to the woods."   I squeezed my eyes shut, the warmth of the quilt a poor barrier against the sudden chill.   “It keeps its victims alive for seven long years," she whispered, "feeding off them slowly, until the hunger returns, and it's time to hunt once more."   My grip tightened on the blanket, and my knuckles were white. A cold sweat was dripping down my skin.   “But don't you worry," she said, her voice gentling, “as long as we keep the windows locked, we'll be safe. And don’t forget to do the same at your mom’s house.” She rose from the quilt, her smile strained at the edges. A smile meant to reassure, but one that couldn't hide the sliver of unease in her eyes.   Her movements seemed slow and deliberate as she walked towards the window. My eyes followed her, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.   She stared out of the window for a moment, as if checking to make sure the thing wasn’t around, and then she checked to make sure the window was locked.   Just as she was about to turn away, I blurted out, unable to contain the question that had lodged itself in my throat.   “Grandma, have you... Have you ever seen it?"   She paused for a few moments, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face before a reassuring smile crept onto her lips.   She didn't answer me. She simply leaned down and kissed my forehead, a gesture filled with a strange intensity. "Good night, darling," she whispered. Then, with a gentle click, she shut my door behind her.   I was awake for most of that night, staring at the darkened windowpane. The familiar silhouette of the woods outside now held a new kind of terror.

I kept wondering if I would see that face my grandma described—a face with multiple eyes staring back at me. Eventually, exhausted from fear and lack of sleep, my eyelids drifted shut, and I finally drifted off.   While I slept, I dreamt of its form shifting and writhing in the darkness. I ran, my legs pumping, but it was like I was running on ice. Panic seized me as the figure lunged, its long arms wrapping around my legs. It dragged me, a ragdoll, through the grass, the stench of damp grass filling my nostrils.   The woods grew bigger as the thing dragged me there, its jagged edges threatening to devour me whole. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. Just as the branches of the trees were about to engulf me, I jolted awake, gasping for breath.   Light streamed through the window, painting familiar shapes on the ceiling. The room held a peaceful stillness. It took several deep breaths to slow the pounding of my heart. Relief washed over me, chasing away the lingering dread.   Since that night, despite Grandma's steady stream of new stories, the creature in the woods has remained a constant shadow in the corner of my mind. Thankfully, the nightmares—those terrifying chases through endless woods—didn't last. Slowly, the story faded from memory.   A few years later, a different kind of darkness descended upon our family. Cancer, a cruel, selfish thief, stole my grandmother's health bit by bit. She fought for months, but in the end, the disease won. It left a hole in our lives, especially for Grandpa. Now, he lives alone, the silence of the house heavy with her absence.

Talking about her seems to bring a fresh wave of pain, etched deep into the lines on his face. Sometimes, he murmurs about just waiting for his turn to join her. It's a heartbreaking sight - a man transformed into a solitary figure, simply waiting to die. That year was a blur of grief, a dark tunnel we all had to navigate. But with the love and support of family and friends, we eventually managed to pull through.   With each passing year, the grief lessened, but Grandma's memory remained. Then, after another few years, during my senior year in high school, something happened.   I walked into the house after a long day. The familiar scent of an empty house greeted me. Mom had already left for work. Pulling my backpack onto my bed, I pulled out my books and settled in for an evening of homework, studying, and the occasional break to watch TV.

 I shut off the TV, changed into my pajamas, and crawled into bed. Sleep, however, remained elusive. My mind was a tangled mess, tossing and turning over the events of the day. Finally, I peeked at the clock on my desk, its green glow reading almost 3:00 am. Just then, a sound shattered the silence—a sharp tap that echoed through the room. My eyes flew open, snapping towards the window. A wave of ice washed over me, freezing my blood solid. Memories of Grandma's story flooded back—the creature, the woods...   There, pressed against the glass, was a form that blocked most of the moonlight from filtering in. If not for the sliver of moonlight peeking in around what was blocking it, I wouldn’t have been able to see it at all. Its human-shaped body pressed against the window, and across its head, I could have sworn I saw movement—a flicker, like multiple tiny insects scurrying across its flesh.   Then, a horrifying realization dawned on me. They weren't insects. They were eyelids. Eyelids flickering open and shut, scanning my room with frantic urgency. My breath hitched.   Was this a dream?   Just then, a shadowy limb, long and impossibly thin, snaked out towards the base of my window.   Had I locked the window?   The sickening sound of the window, as the glass began to slide up, hit my ears. Terror choked and screamed in my throat. There are woods behind my mom's house too, and a sickening realization dawned on me. This wasn't just a story. It was real, and it was here.   Adrenaline surged through me, and my flight or fight responses kicked in. I threw myself out of bed in a desperate scramble. My feet pounded the floor as I bolted towards the door, flinging it open, but my escape was cut short. The door slammed shut in my face, the force of it throwing me backward. A strangled cry escaped my lips as a wave of terror washed over me. My body locked up, and every muscle seized in a silent scream.   Somehow, it was now in my room, that fast, it was no longer at the window; it was now above me, above my door. One of its grotesquely long limbs, tipped with a hand like a spider's claw, pressed firmly against the door, pinning me inside. Another seemed contorted at an unnatural angle, its fingers splayed against the wall in a grotesque parody of a grip.   The head—if you could call it that—twisted on its neck in a way that defied human anatomy, almost spinning completely around. A chorus of eyes locked onto me. Trapped and alone, I stumbled back, my mind scrambling for any flicker of hope.   The second floor was an escape route, but a leap out the window would likely result in injury, leaving me in a vulnerable position. Besides, that's where it probably wanted me.   Right next to the door stood my wooden baseball bat. In a desperate lunge, I grabbed it, the wood rough against my grip. With a yell, I swung the bat with all my strength, connecting with a sickening thud. Splinters of wood rained down as the impact sent a tremor through the room.   The creature recoiled slightly, its multiple eyes flickering in what might have been surprise. But the silence that followed was the most unsettling part. No roar of pain, no growl—this thing moved with an unnatural quiet; even as it moved, it made no noise. It descended to the floor, its grotesque form dwarfing the space in my room. As it loomed closer, lowering its body in a predatory crouch, I swung the mangled bat wildly.   The bat connected with a sickening thud, splintering wood raining down as the blow landed. The creature recoiled, its grotesque form momentarily faltering. Seizing my chance, I bolted past the thing, flung open the bedroom door, and slammed it shut behind me with a resounding bang.   Adrenaline pumping, I raced down the stairs, each step echoing in the sudden silence. Reaching the living room, I fumbled for the light switch, illuminating the space with a warm glow. Panting, I gripped the broken bat like a lifeline; its splintered end pointed towards the top of the stairs, towards the thing in my room.   Suddenly, a new sound pierced the tense silence—the creak of the front door opening. A silhouette emerged from the doorway, the dim porch light casting long shadows across her face. "There you are!" My mom's voice, laced with exhaustion. "What the hell are you..."

The sentence died on her lips, completely cut short. Her eyes widened, but neither she nor I had time to react. In a sharp and quick moment, a shadowy, distorted limb, tipped with a spidery claw, shot out, wrapping around my mother's waist. It snagged her, sinking its talons deep into her flesh, a sickening tear echoing in the sudden silence.

A strangled noise bubbled in her throat, cut short before it could form a scream. But then, I heard her scream fully formed as the thing dragged her away, away to the woods. I ran with all my effort, but the thing was fast, too fast. All I could do was keep running, watching, as my mom screamed with her arms folded around the creature's arm in a desperate attempt to escape. It had her, though, exactly where it wanted her – out in the open. Now it had food.

I fell face-first into the grass, a sob wrenching its way out of my chest. Warm tears streamed down my face, blurring my vision as I watched in horror. Mom's screams turned into bloodcurdling shrieks, then faded into a horrifying silence as they disappeared into the indistinguishable maw of the woods.

The police came, but what could they do? What could I tell them? I told them exactly what I saw. They looked at me like I was crazy, but what else could I say?

For hours, I sat in a sterile interrogation room, the harsh overhead light blurring my vision. They questioned me over and over, dissecting my story, searching for inconsistencies. But all I could do was repeat the horrifying scene, my voice cracking with each retelling.

There was no evidence to tie me to my mom's disappearance, nothing but my frantic pleas and the raw terror etched on my face. Finally, they seemed to reach a reluctant conclusion. With a sigh and a dismissive glance, they released me.

Now, a search party combs the backyard, venturing into the dense woods behind our house. Bloodhounds sniff the damp earth, their mournful howls echoing through the trees.

In my room, the silence pressing down on me like a physical weight. As the harsh light of dawn breaks, I stare at the window. A large handprint—a grotesque, splayed imprint of multiple fingers—clings to the outside of the glass. A cold realization settled over me, suffocating. Now I know that at least one of my grandma's stories is real.