CreepyPasta Radio - The creepiest radiostation online

Floor 48

Reading Time: 12 minutes

I was pretty tight for cash, and yeah, slightly drunk too. I entered that old hotel building on a bet with my friend Tommy, for an amount of money I’m ashamed to even say.

The story goes, that back in 1958, the hotel owner, who worked day in and day out, and even resided there too, went completely insane believing he was stuck in some sort of time loop. He apparently went missing for 13 months, then his mangled body was found in the side alley of the hotel, after presumably diving out of the 26th floor stairwell window. His face was fairly disfigured from the injuries, but the coroners pictures showing his insane grin stretched fully across his face, gave all the detectives nightmares.

Since his death, there’s been countless stories of ghost sightings, poltergeist happenings and even reports that several people went missing after staying in his executive suite on the 49th floor. It became something of an urban legend, even drawing in the customers, until it eventually closed and shut its doors in 1975 after a murder/suicide investigation plummeted sales and people just stopped going.

Now, I wasn’t one to believe in all this ghostly shit or time loop bull, and perhaps the fact I was a non believer is actually the reason why I’m stuck in this mess. Emphasis on the word was, because, I’m a believer now.

“Okay, so, pretty simple, bud: enter the hotel via the stairwell fire door…”

“Which is already broken and open,”

“…Which is already broken and open, yes, thank you, climb the stairs all the way to the top, and take a selfie of yourself stood next to the 49th floor, sign, thingy… Simple.” Tommy finished with a single clap of the hands and a closed lip grin.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. And when you get back with the photographic proof, or even a video if ya want, I’ll pay up.” He tapped the left breast pocket of his jacket indicating his wallet and money was there.

It was the middle of the night, like 2 or 3 in the morning, I’m honestly not sure, pitch black, deathly quiet and completely lifeless streets. I wasn’t scared, but lets just say basic human instinct took over (I can’t stop smiling) and I suppose I gave the impression I was scared.

“So, where, erm… where are you gonna be? I mean, like, where are you gonna wait for me while I’m climbing these million stairs and apparently warding off evil spirits?” I thought I’d managed to hide it under the humor, but Tommy saw straight through me and a smug smile began to form in the corner of his mouth.

“Hey, man, if you don’t wanna do it, or you need me to hold your hand, or want me to wait at the bottom of the stairs and keep shouting, ‘Are you okay?’ then the deal is off and no payment.” Again, he finished with a closed lip grin.

I exhaled loudly for pissed off effect, slapped Tommy on the shoulder and proudly walked across the road towards the alleyway, alone. Before being engulfed by the shadows completely, I turned to look over my shoulder at Tommy, again, human instinct I think (I can’t stop smiling), to see him attempting to keep his balance as he drunkenly slumps to the curb.

Okay, good. He’s not going anywhere any time soon.

I continued into the shadows in search of the broken fire door that leads directly into the building. Rumor has it that some teenagers jimmied the door a couple of months ago and the police, or whoever’s job it is, have never sealed it up again.

I was just getting my phone out of my pocket for a light source, when a loud and rusty creek from the right made my heart skip a beat or two.

Jesus!

A beam of light escaped through the narrow opening of the door. The fact that the hotel is abandoned and has absolutely no power didn’t even enter my slightly intoxicated brain at the time, I was just glad for some light. I poked my fingers through and quickly pulled the door open. The light was pure and ultra bright, it took me a moment for my eyes to adjust and stop squinting. I walked through the threshold with a smile, after all, I was expecting complete darkness.

The building didn’t seem creepy at all. Very clean and well decorated, perhaps a bit out of date but clean and smart all the same. As I ascended each platform and took note to what floor I was on, it progressively got colder, louder and slightly windy.

Must be a window open or broken somewhere.

23…24…25…26…

The 26th floor was particularly cold and windy. I didn’t like that floor. I swear someone touched me on the leg as I made my way up to 27. Just the lightest of touches, but I swear I felt it.

I’ll run down those steps on the way back.

32…33…34…

I was getting pretty tired by this point, and apart from a potential leg touching, no other signs of ghosts or demons or anything supernatural had happened, and I was feeling pretty good with myself for making easy money out of my drunken friend.

40.

Okay, yeah, pretty out of breathe by this point, but I’d come too far to fail now. I decided to take a quick 30 second break, lean on the window sill and peer out the window in search of Tommy.

I could very clearly make him out, but the guy sat next to him seemed kind of blurry. They were in full conversation, their arms waving and flailing in the air with drunken coordination, and continuously passing a bottle back and forth… Seemed harmless enough.

“Got a new friend there Tommy boy?” It was weird to hear my own voice echo and bounce off the walls. I sucked in some more oxygen, and continued my mission.

44…45…46…47…48…48…48…

What the fuck?

I stopped on the platform to catch my breath once more, leaning on my knees as if it would help my lungs absorb the oxygen quicker. I kept turning around and looking down the steps I had just scaled, looking up the stairwell to the steps yet to come..

“What the fuck?”

I climbed another set…48.

Another set…48.

I stopped and shook my head to myself. Surely I was just seeing things.

I climbed another set…48.

“Okay, that’s it. Fuck this shit.”

I swiftly whipped out my phone, took a strange looking selfie of me and the brass plaque stating I was on the 48th floor, and I began descending the fuck out of there.

At least down is so much easier.

48…48…48…48…48…48…48…48…48…

I went down 20 or 30 flights maybe, but at each and every level, the brass plaque still stated I was on the 48th floor.

I went up and down them stairs God knows how many times. I tried every single door at each level too, just in case one was left open and I could escape a different way. Not a single door opened though. They were all solidly locked; Dead-bolted, welded, cemented, who fucking knows, but them doors were not opening for anyone.

I can honestly tell you I had absolutely no idea what floor I was on when the idea of phoning Tommy finally entered my mind. I guess I should of kept count from the moment I saw the second 48th plaque, but I was far too freaked out by then to plan that part.

“YES!” My phone had full signal. I quickly tapped and flicked through my contacts until I reached Tommy’s number. I walked to the window as the phone began to ring. I could no longer see Tommy or his new found friend. The phone was ringing in my ear over and over. My eyes widened as I scanned the dark streets back and forth, back and forth. There was no sign of Tommy. No sign of anyone. The phone continued to ring as I pulled it away from my ear. The screen lit up showing me Tommy’s name and number, and the end call button. I swiped the red icon and cut off the call. That was when I realized the time and date:

16:23 09/05/2015

“Whoa…”

What the actual fuck?!

Okay, so, firstly, my phone is saying it’s nearly half 4 in the afternoon, yet it’s still pitch black outside, and surely I haven’t been in this building for over 12 hours? And secondly, how the hell is it 2015?

By this point, I’d sat down on one of the steps, my left hand supporting my head and my phone loosely held in my right.

I wanted to call the police but feared I’d be made a fool. I thought about it over and over, then finally concluded that I’d much rather be made a fool by officers than left stranded in an abandoned hotel and stuck on a never-ending floor.

I unlocked my phones screen to dial the three magical numbers when my heart skipped a beat again. I couldn’t believe my own eyes:

03:45 14/08/2013

WHAT?!?

I locked and unlocked the phone once more:

22:56 29/03/1959

“Nope, fuck off…” I dropped the phone out of my hand on purpose and let it crash to the floor. I heard the inevitable smashing sound as it hit the cement, screen down and I closed my eyes with pure regret. I stood up and paced in a circle on the tiny platform between levels.

Ba-ding!

I was pretty shocked my phone was still alive, never mind receiving messages. The moment I leaned over to retrieve my half broken phone, a loud and brain shattering crash echoed throughout the stairwell. Up and down, up and down, the sound reverberated back and forth against itself, which somehow made it louder, and I instinctively covered my ears.

The sound was harrowing, terrifying and disturbing in many ways that I just can’t quite describe. It was freezing cold and whipping around my body like some sort of sound-wind.

I had to climb 22 more flights of stairs before I could no longer hear the sound and finally feel my fingers again. It was much darker up here though but I set up camp anyway. This is now my floor.

By this point, I had already lost touch with reality and had absolutely no clue to what time it was. I sat in a slump and began to cry. Basic human instinct (I can’t stop smiling).

I’d been desperately crying for a while when the lights went out.

Fuck…..

The sudden darkness gave way to the beginning of my madness. I screamed for a very long time. I screamed and screamed and screamed. I screamed until my voice finally gave way. I imagined the inside of my throat as a chunk of raw meat that’d been rubbed with coarse sandpaper.

After my voice collapsed, I started on the walls. I didn’t want to use my hands so I kicked them instead. Over and over and over again, eventually breaking every single toe. When the adrenaline ran out and I could no longer stand, I fell into deep and agonizing pit of despair for what seemed like years.

Ba-ding!

Oh, my God… Stuck in my own madness, I’d completely forgotten about my phone.

I unlocked the phone full of hope. The light shot through my retinas like lasers and I attempted to let out a little scream, but nothing will escape my vocal chords now, so my mouth just draped open in anguish.

12:15 02/01/2019

This time, I just smiled.

I walked into this building on 02/01/2009.

My screen was only slightly smashed so I could still use it. First, I tried calling Tommy again, but there was no dial tone and the voice that spoke was not what I expected to hear. It was low and whispering. Raspy and fast.

“Take the leap to 49, Take the leap to 49, Take the leap to 49, Take the leap to 49…”

I hung up. Smiling.

I tried calling the police.

“Take the leap to 49, Take the leap to 49, Take the leap to 49, Take the leap to 49…” I hung up again.

My shoulders were swiftly moving up and down in accordance with my soundless laughter. It felt pretty good. Now I can’t stop silently laughing to myself.

I wanted to claw my own eyes out by this point and needed something to keep my hands occupied…so I decided to tell you all my story on here,. I thought maybe someone might get a kick out of it… Or maybe someone can even help me… I don’t know… I kind of want to take that leap if I’m honest. The thought just makes me smile. After all, it’s just basic human instinct.

* * * * * *

When my smiling face hit the floor, I thought it was finally all over.

The air felt warm as it rushed through my raw windpipe. Maybe it wasn’t warm, maybe I’d just been cold for so long. If you think you’d be able to keep your eyes open in free fall, then you’re wrong. I can tell you now it’s impossible. I can also tell you, that you will feel unbelievable agony. Is it worse than the spiral of insanity? Yes… Maybe.

Imagine the worst hangover you’ve ever had, and multiply that by a thousand. Then take a drill to your skull and repeatedly drill for 10 years. That would roughly match the immense pain of ones head smashing clean into the ground.

When the pain finally stopped and I opened my eyes, Tommy was waving the bottle of whiskey in my face.

“Hey…do you, hic, do you want any more or what?”

We were sat on the curb across the street from the hotel I’d just leapt from..

Huh?…What the fuck?

Tommy was persistently and drunkenly waving the glass bottle closer and closer to my face, until I finally grabbed it from him and pushed his drunken ass away from me.

I drank that whiskey like it was crisp and fresh water from the Swiss alps. I took in a deep breathe once I’d finished, expecting to vomit the whole thing back up again, but my stomach seemed to be handling it. Perhaps my brain told my stomach to hold it in: “Wait until the toxins at least reach me dude, then you can throw up all you want.”

My mind was running at half capacity and I could barely think. My memory was starting to become foggier by the second and I passed the bottle back to Tommy as I pretended to listen to his drunken nonsense of a story, but in reality I couldn’t hear a single word he was saying.

My eyes locked on to the person standing in the window peering out at us.

The silhouette could only just be made out. They were standing in darkness, directly in the center of the 1st floor window pane. It was unsettling feeling their eyes on us, watching us.

Tommy accidentally hits me in the face with his forever flailing arms and I bat him away once more.

“Dude! Ow! Fucking watch what you’re doing!”

“Aw, Sorry, man, but list-list-listen, I ….” I lost interest once more and returned my focus to the person in the window, that was now no longer there.

I squinted my eyes as if to zoom in on the window across the road. Nothing.

I could hear music. Tommy finally stopped talking, I guess he could hear it too. The music got louder as he pulled his phone from his jacket pocket.

“You’re, hic, you’re ringing me from, from your pocket again, dude.”

“Oh.” I patted my own jacket in search for my phone. I stood up and checked every pocket I was wearing…No phone.

Where is it?…

Wait…

I pointed at the hotel building across the road and confusingly looked back at Tommy;

“Did, I…did I already go in there?”

“Huh? What?” Tommy looked more drunk than confused and I realized I wasn’t getting a competent answer from him any time soon.

“Tommy, I think you should just go home mate, you’re too drunk and in need of a bed.”

I expected him to give more a fight, he normally does when he’s this inebriated, but he instantly nodded his head in agreement and slowly began to rise to a wobbling mess of a stance, and I watched him slowly sway down the street and eventually out of sight.

As I walked into the shadows of the side alley, I fell over something metal that clanged and echoed throughout. It was a crowbar, I couldn’t see but I knew what it was. I felt around in the darkness for the door I somehow knew was there. I popped the crowbar into tiny slither between door and frame and jimmied that fire door open with one swift movement.

That was easier than I thought.

A beam of light escaped through the narrow opening of the door. I poked my fingers through and quickly pulled the door open. The light was pure and ultra bright, it took me a moment for my eyes to adjust and stop squinting…

Whoa…

Have I done this before?…

6…7…8… I take the steps two by two with my eyes constantly on the ground searching for my lost phone. Is it even in here?

23…24…25…26…

Was I expecting to find it? No. Did I find it? Yes, in the middle of the platform of the 26th floor. The moment I leaned over to retrieve my half broken phone, a loud and brain shattering crash echoed throughout the stairwell. Up and down, up and down, the sound reverberated back and forth against itself, which somehow made it louder, and I instinctively covered my ears….Okay…that’s a really strange feeling…have I actually done this before?

I curl into a ball and sit in the corner of the platform between levels. The sound-wind whipped around my face and body as I hid from reality behind my own arms like a five year old child.

Throughout the howling, I could hear approaching footsteps increasingly getting louder; someone’s coming up the stairs.I’m still slumped in the corner but I now bravely raise my head.

My mouth fell open in disbelief as the familiar figure came into view up the stairs: It was me.

I’m surprised I moved at all, but as I/he strolled passed me completely ignoring my presence, I reached out to see if I/he was real, but I/he was moving pretty fast and I only just manged to graze my/his leg. I say graze, it felt more like I went through him…me.

Do I follow him?…Yes. No… okay, I don’t know. Wait, send him a message!

I unlocked my phone, got rid of the current Reddit page it was opened to, and typed out a message to him/myself:

GET OUT! Honestly, I didn’t know what else to put.

Ba-ding!

I heard the phones tone vibrate down through the stairs. Surely he’d message back….Will he, though? Oh, my god, I’m getting so confused.

After waiting a couple of minutes and receiving no reply, I decide to take a different approach. I had no idea what was happening, but had to do something.

I figured If I couldn’t touch him/me, then I had to at least try and get his/my attention. I still had the crow bar with me and I acted on the sudden idea before I’d fully thought it through.

I flung the crow bar over my shoulder and swung it like a baseball bat as fast and as hard as I could at the window pane of floor 26. The single pane shattered into a billion pieces, flying in all directions, including my face and open mouth.

Hundreds of tiny shards fly to the back of the throat and I began to gag and grasp for air. I swallowed hard, lining my windpipe with sparkling diamonds, and I continued to swallow over and over to take away the agonizing sting. From my shattering blow, the sound-wind returned and whisked up and down through the stairwell once more.

I could now hear crying and whimpering in the distance….upstairs? Was it him?

He’d been desperately crying for a while when the lights went out.

Fuck…..

The sudden darkness gave way to the beginning of his screams. He screamed for a very long time. He screamed, and screamed, and screamed. I covered my ears but it helped nothing.

After he finally stopped screaming, I guess his voice gave in, I could hear him hitting the walls; Kicking or punching them over and over and over again. After what seemed like an eternity, the pounding finally stopped, and the atmosphere fell into a deep and agonizing pit of despair for what seemed like years.

I thought I’d try messaging him again. I sent the same message, and I heard the same ba-ding as before, but I still never received a reply.

As I waited, I decided to go through my phone and reopen the Reddit page I closed before.

I read the entire entry I’d apparently already written, and the insanity spiral hit me like a crumbling tower of bricks.

My phone lit up immediately, it was him…I mean me…I mean him.

My badly cut throat could only muster a low and raspy voice, and I said the only words I could think of:

“Take the leap to 49, take the leap to 49, take the leap to 49, take the leap to 49…”


Credit: T. Shaw (Reddit)

The post Floor 48 appeared first on Creepypasta.

0 views

Mr. Banana

Reading Time: 8 minutes

We’d been doing civics for the past month. I was teaching second grade at Witherspoon Elementary, struggling to teach the meaning of Gettysburg and the Battle of Princeton to a bunch of eight year-olds, especially without giving a diatribe about the evils of slavery and making them bring that shit home to their parents.

One day, I was stuttering through a lesson on a states’ rights speech by Jefferson Davis when, suddenly, Jimmy blurted out, Mr. Johnson, you look like a banana! The other kids laughed their asses off, latching onto the joke immediately. Yeah, a big, fat banana! A big, fat, stinky banana!

Alright, alright — I know my clothes are a little funny. I was wearing a yellow Ralph Lauren button-down and some bright, mustard khakis. Brown shoes, too — the stem, I guess. Just for today, you can call me Mr. Banana. The kids exploded after that. We didn’t accomplish much for the rest of the day, but I wondered if this whole Mr. Banana business might actually be good for them.

On the way home, I decided to buy some stuff from Greene Street: a couple of yellow button-downs, some yellow ties, a few pairs of pants. I signed the receipt Mr. Banana; the cashier didn’t notice, but I chuckled as I walked out the door.

Walking down Nassau, I had the sudden craving for banana bread, so I went to Wawa and bought some ingredients. Figured I would bake one for myself and one for the kids. When I got home, I mixed up the ingredients and put two loaves in the oven, then I pulled up an old episode of Sesame Street on YouTube. I was thinking a lot about yellow, I guess, but it had never occurred to me how magnetic Big Bird was: that lovable behemoth, always brightening everyone’s mood. There’s this one episode where he goes to school for the first time, and he tries to take his desk from the classroom because the teacher said it was “his.” I laughed thinking about having a giant bird in my classroom; everything would probably go to shit.

Anyway, once the banana bread was done, I sliced myself a big piece, squirting a little whipped cream on top. It was good but tasted a little strange. Figured I would change up the recipe if I made another batch.

The next day, I came into school in full-yellow garb; a pineapple tie, some pastel pants — even an old pair of shoes that I spray-painted yellow. Once the kids sat down, we went through our daily salutation, with a slight twist:

Gooooood morning, class.

Good morning, Mr. Banana!

Every kid got a piece of banana bread wrapped in plastic. Between the gluten and walnuts and eggs, I probably would’ve been sued if a crumb fell on the floor.

Somehow, we made some headway on the Civil War that day; I showed them segments from a documentary about Abraham Lincoln, and they actually sat still, fumbling the banana bread in their hands.

I started getting emails from parents a few days later:

Mr. Johnson,

Alice absolutely loves your class! She said you’re the funniest teacher she’s ever had — keep up the good work!

-Mrs. Goldman

It was nice to get that approval, like I was actually doing something important. Hell, maybe these kids would even remember some of the stuff I taught them.

So, I started to go all out, bringing in yellow streamers to hang across the classroom, typing up the weekly newsletter with a banana-themed border, taking showers with L’Oréal Banana Blast Shampoo. I spent hours on Google, just so I could do a “Banana Fact of the Day” for the kids. Turns out the scientific name for “banana” is musa sapientum, which means “fruit of the wise men.” Go figure.

I decided I would bring in banana bread every Monday — something for the kids to look forward to at the beginning of the week. I added a few sprinkles of cinnamon to the second batch, but the batter still didn’t taste right to me. I figured a few strands of my banana-infused hair might do the trick; so I chopped off a few stragglers from the back of my neck and sautéed them in some olive oil. The batter had a slight punch after that — definitely an improvement.

I met with Principal Dole the next morning. Felt a little ridiculous going to a meeting in a neon-yellow Jerry Garcia, but he didn’t seem to mind.

You know, Mr. Johnson, I’ve received a lot of positive feedback about your whole fruit-themed initiative. Seems to really keep the kids focused.

Anything to improve those test scores, right?

Hey, if it works, it works. Keep it up, and you might find yourself tenured in a few years.

I’m just happy to get through to these kids, sir.

It was almost June, and the mosquitoes were starting to come out. Turns out banana peels are a good cure for the bites. I asked anyone in class if they wanted to volunteer; Jimmy had a big, nasty bite on his arm, and he wiped the peel all over his arms in front of the class — on his face, too.

How does that feel, Jimmy?

Really cool, Mr. Banana!

Anyone else want to give it a try?

Everyone in the class raised their hand.

When I got home, I turned on a documentary about corruption in Chiquita Brands International — apparently they brought cocaine to Borneo on some of their ships. Treated the plantation workers like shit, too. I thought it would be nice to write a letter to the company about my initiative. Figured they might like to know that their product was more than just a topping for oatmeal. I spent the whole night writing, and it turned into a few thousand words about my theories on elementary education. I didn’t really think much of it, but I sent it with the subject “Bananas Are More Than Just Food” to info@chiquitainternational.com — it would probably be lost among all the shit from angry customers, anyway.

It didn’t cross my mind again until that weekend, when I got a phone call on the treadmill at Planet Fitness.

Mr. Johnson? This is Sophie from the Star Ledger. Just got an email from someone at Chiquita — do you have a few minutes for an interview?

Um, yeah, of course.

I was on the cover that week. It was a photo of me, dressed in full-yellow, pointing above the camera in the foreground with all the gape-mouthed students behind me: “Mr. Banana Peels Away the Doubters.” The local CBS station stopped by the school for a segment, too.

I watched my segment that Sunday: a few minutes of my awkward teaching voice, interspersed with interviews from me, Principal Dole, and a few parents. Apparently, some other elementary school teachers were starting to do it too; Mrs. Strawberry, Mr. Blueberry — I wondered if anyone else was doing the banana, too.

Once the special was over, I went to work on my third batch of banana bread. I sprinkled the cinnamon, sautéed some of my neck hair, but the batter still tasted a little flat to me. I looked down at my hands; it occurred to me that my skin was starting to turn a little yellow — probably from all the bananas I’d been eating.

I wondered if my skin had any of that flavor, too. I grabbed the tweezers and plucked a thin piece from the tip of my thumb; it was a little salty, but definitely had a fruity taste to it. I figured I’d try it out in the batter, so I took a bowl and plucked some skin off all ten of my fingers, then I mixed it in. Tasted great.

That morning, people actually recognized me in the streets. All those Princeton kids must watch the news; I couldn’t make it more than a few steps down Washington without being stopped for a selfie or a congratulatory handshake. It was nice, actually — I never thought wearing silly clothes would make people like me so much.

I threw up in the trashcan when I walked in the classroom. Figured I’d been eating too much potassium. It was pure yellow, of course: that bright, bile-and-banana mixture — must have been churning in my stomach for days. I was there early, just so I wouldn’t have to engage in that jealous, snarky small talk with the other teachers: So you’re some sort of teaching genius, huh? I wrote the “Banana Fact of the Day” on the blackboard, then sat at my desk, shaking, waiting for the kids to arrive.

I handed out the rations of banana bread after the Pledge of Allegiance. I wondered if the kids would still eat it if they knew they were eating a piece of me — figured I should keep it a secret for the time being. Plus it was my best batch yet; they didn’t need to know how it was made.

That night, I got another email from Mrs. Goldman:

Good evening, Mr. Johnson,

Congrats on your fifteen minutes! Alice just loves the idea that her teacher is famous! We really appreciate all of your effort — especially baking for the kids every week. Just a heads-up: Alice found a hair in her banana bread this evening — make sure you’re keeping things clean at home. We don’t want her to get sick and miss out on class!

-Mrs. Goldman

I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. Still dressed in my work clothes, it occurred to me that I was really starting to look like a banana. I gelled the top of my hair into a curved, pointed stem and turned sideways, arching my back. For a second there, my face in the mirror disappeared; I was perfectly smooth, perfectly curved, perfectly ripe. I almost cried thinking about changing into my pajamas. Instead of a delicious, yellowish pulp, I was just a freckled, overweight sack of blood and bones.

I peeled off my clothes and walked into the kitchen. Just to make sure, I took a kitchen knife and made a small incision on my forearm. The blood immediately oozed out, and dark, purple sludge began to drip onto the floor. I sliced the other arm to the same result, then sat down, watching the blood sputter angrily onto my thighs.

I woke up a few hours later, shivering, caked in a brown, metallic crust. I ate some breakfast, took a shower, then put on my full-yellow outfit. Figured I should wear long sleeves for the next few days.

On Friday, the students performed a little play about Appomattox Courthouse. Sitting in the back of the classroom, I wiped my eyes and typed an inquiry into Google: Did the confederate soldiers eat bananas?

I spent the weekend at home, lights off, watching the same episode of Sesame Street on repeat: Big Bird yanking, yanking, on the desk, the nails screeching from the force. You said it was mine! You said it was mine!

On Sunday night, I chopped off my left pinky and fried it in the skillet. I sliced it into tiny pieces and mixed it into the batter. The banana bread came out darker than usual — a little savory, but still delicious. I wrapped my left hand in gauze and went to bed.

I woke up late the next morning — only had a few minutes to get ready. I slid into an Average Joes T-Shirt and a pair of yellow khakis, stuffed the banana bread into my backpack, and walked out the door.

The kids stared at me warily as they walked into the classroom. Once they sat down, Jimmy raised his hand.

Yes?

Mr. Banana, what happened to your hand?

Oh, this — just a little accident. Nothing to worry about.

I held up my hand for the whole class to see.

Were you climbing a tree?

No, Jimmy. Just an accident in the kitchen.

What are those scratches on your arms?

I looked down. My forearms were crusty with blood — must’ve opened up the cuts again, somehow. I hadn’t showered in days.

Don’t worry, kids. Let me run to the bathroom and clean up.

I rushed out of the classroom into the bathroom across the hall. I took the gauze off my left hand, then I pounded my fist against the hand dryer until every bone shattered.

I woke up to the sound of a faint whisper behind me. I stood up and turned around; it was a banana — slightly bruised, but a beautiful shade of yellow, with sharp lines protruding from the stem. He turned sideways, revealing his perfect curvature, and flashed me a big smile.

I walked toward him, closer and closer, until my nose was inches from the glass.

Then he reached up and grabbed the top of his stem, stretching it sharply to one side. Slowly, he pulled it apart, revealing that incredible white flesh inside: radiating, breathing, beautiful.

So I did the same: dragging my fingernails down my scalp, carving into my bones. The fresh, airy pulp coated my forearms, and clumps of yellow shrapnel fluttered to my feet.

And then I was naked for the first time, staring into my own eyes, my own flesh, panting, finally believing that I was something more. I pressed my lips against the glass, a cool breeze rushed to my core, and then I was gone.


Credit: R.K. Gorman (LinkedInReddit)

The post Mr. Banana appeared first on Creepypasta.

1 view

The Empty Apartment

Reading Time: 6 minutes

I moved into my apartment complex two months ago.

I started hearing things a week later.

It was subtle at first. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I would wake up to a faint scratching sound from somewhere behind the walls. I thought it could be mice. Or rats. I have lived through enough shitty one bedroom apartments in Manhattan to recognize the signs. Small little turds on the floor. Tiny holes in the plaster. An unending scratching that sounds like a thousand little feet marching to the beat of my headache.

My symptoms fit the bill.

It had to be a mouse.

And so I put out traps. I invested in a little steel wool. The Internet says the best way to catch a rat is peanut butter. I slathered spoonfuls of the stuff all over a fresh Tomcat trap. Amazon’s best. I went to bed with the expectation that a fat rodent would be dead in my living room by the following morning.

I laid awake eagerly awaiting their demise. But it rained a lot that night. After I turned off the TV, I tried to listen for the sounds of my furry friends falling for the bait. But the storm overtook almost every sound. Cracks of thunder shook the glassware on my kitchen counter. Water got inside through the cracks and spaces between the window’s framing. I had to put a towel down. The dripping started to annoy me more than the rats ever did in the first place.

But, somewhere, underneath it all; I heard something else. Something a lot more frightening than rats.

A voice whispering “Help me.

I never really believed in the paranormal. I told people that a lot. I never saw signs, or spirits, like everybody else. Part of my subconscious felt like maybe this was my come-uppance. The ghosts on the street had heard me talking shit and now they were going to come for me. Maybe just to show me who is boss, so to speak. And I had nothing for protection. Nobody to verify my experiences. I lived alone in the middle of a lightly occupied sky-rise. A demon or poltergeist could fuck with me all they wanted.

And so I pulled the sheets up to my chin, while the scratching started to overtake the storm, along with my rationality. The constant repetition of ‘help me’ floated further through the walls. She started to get louder. More urgent. My fear paralyzed mind told me that she was getting closer. I knew that was impossible, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I got out of bed and marched out of my apartment, nearly stepping on the unoccupied rat trap myself. The building kept a guard on desk duty throughout the night. He needed to know about the voice.

I hopped in the elevator with sweatpants and no socks. When it opened on the ground level, a surprised security guard waited for me behind the desk.

Sir? Are you okay?

Can you check if the apartment next to me is occupied?

The tall Hispanic man furrowed his brow worriedly as he eyed my evening wear with distaste. He wore an official looking blue buttoned shirt with black slacks with a radio clipped to the belt.

We really should not divulge…

Somebody has been screaming ‘Help me’ all night. I think they are in trouble. But I have never seen anyone go in there.

The man looked worried as he pounded into the small laptop placed on the desk.

Okay, what apartment number…

522.

We haven’t rented many units up there since we took over…

That’s what I said.

Yup, 522 and 524 are empty. You have one other tenant at the other end of your floor. Maybe you heard his television. The walls here are very thin, sir, and we are actively working on the rodent issue.

I think we need to call the police.

The man flashed a smile that made the goosebumps on my skin slide up like candy dots. Like he was prepared for the accusation. Like he knew something that I didn’t. His cool expression placated onto such ordinary features made my stomach turn uncomfortably.

Like I said, the apartment is empty. Would you like to go and see for yourself?

I would.

My willing response definitely took him aback. He punched again at the laptop nervously. I had no idea what he was typing. After a minute’s hesitation, he walked past me towards the elevator.

Let’s go. 522 first. I’ve got the key.

I followed the guard into the elevator. Something about his demeanor continued to make me cautious. He seemed confident. Excited, even. At the time I chalked up the oddity to over interest in the mystery before us.

It’s possible some kids broke in. But I doubt it. These locks are pretty secure. I still think you heard a neighbor…

I nodded wordlessly. When the doors opened again, we marched together down the hall towards apartment 522. I waited patiently while he opened the lock and beckoned me inside.

It was empty.

Our voices echoed across the recently finished floors and furniture-less void inside the studio apartment. I paced around and checked the nooks and crannies. I waited a couple minutes and listened for the voice. I even called out to it. But nobody answered. The only sound I heard were the steady ricochet of raindrops against the windowsills.

Satisfied?

We still have 524.

My new friend started to look a little less confident.

Look, it’s late, and somebody has to watch the desk. Do we need to do this now?

I know what I heard.

He stared at me and studied my demeanor for a moment. I shifted awkwardly and tried to appear intimidating.

Okay.

The guard once again flashed a friendly smile as he gestured me out into the hallway and locked up behind us. We passed my own apartment on the way towards 524. I thought about going back inside and locking the door. Something about the situation made me squirm. But I didn’t.

My name is Michael, by the way, what is your name?

Matt.

Well, Matt, I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances.

I nodded and waited while Michael opened up the door. His casual attitude continued to make me uncomfortable.

524 wasn’t empty. Boxes upon boxes were stacked on the floor with neat little labels on each. Spare kitchen chairs made the studio tough to navigate. Once again, Michael waited by the door, while I navigated the junk and tried to investigated the other rooms.

The small corner kitchen contained the usual boiler plate electronics. The drawers appeared untouched and empty. A thin line of dust formed over the counter tops.

I moved onto the bathroom and found a recently renovated shower head sparkling against a fresh paint job. I started to get jealous, and let my guard down a bit. This place looked nicer than my own. I bet they would be renting it out soon. I was prepared to write the entire thing off as an odd experience, before a voice spoke to me inside the bathroom.

Help me.

It was closer this time. In the same room. I nearly jumped out of my skin, but tried to keep my cool around Michael, who was still outside creeping in the hallway. There was a closet in the bathroom. I opened it.

Sitting inside was a teenage girl.

She wasn’t wearing any clothes. She pushed her knees up to her shoulders and linked her feet together in a sad attempt to remain modest. Sweat poured down her brow. It caused her pretty brown hair to become matted and tangled on her forehead.

I covered her mouth and mine after she whispered again.

It’s him. He did this.

Footsteps approached from the hallway. I raised a finger, as if to tell her to wait, and closed the door in the poor girl’s face. Then I rushed over to the toilet and flushed the handle.

The footsteps stopped.

Everything alright in there?

Yeah, yeah, sorry. Just had to tinkle. This remodel is nice. Gotta get you guys to update my apartment.

I opened the door and was immediately greeted by a very suspicious looking security guard.

You know, I’ve got a leaky window frame. Who can I talk to about that?

Michael stared at me for about thirty seconds. At first he looked angry. Then he looked confused. Finally the suspicion faded from his wrinkled features.

Property owner. Not me.

I laughed awkwardly and pushed past him. I walked out into the hallway in a rush, never bothering to look behind my shoulder as Michael followed anxiously after. I could hear him locking the door to 524 as I jetted towards my own apartment.

You don’t want to check anywhere else?

I called out something back. I don’t remember what. The adrenaline coursed through my veins so quickly that my futile attempts at being casual dissipated the moment I got to my door. I fumbled for the keys in my sweatpants pocket. I clacked them awkwardly against the metal lock. Finally they found a groove and the door handle turned willingly against my hand.

Anything else I can do for you tonight?

Michael had caught up to me. He looked suspicious again. I could sense that he might try to stop me. I had to come up with something.

Sorry, man, that last trip to the bathroom didn’t cut it. Too much chili last night. Gotta go.

Michael guffawed over my shoulder as I opened the door and slammed it in his face. I tried to wait a few seconds before applying the chain lock. I waited for his footsteps to fade away first. I didn’t want to spook him. Only then I released my hand from the handle and collapsed to the floor.

* * * * * *

The first responders arrived about ten minutes later. I have to commend them for the speed. Part of me worried that Michael would try to run. Part of me worried he would go back for the girl. Part of me worried he might try to come after me.

He didn’t.

Police rescued the girl from the bathroom closet. Her name was Molly. She was sixteen years old.

And she wasn’t the only one.

Seven other women were rescued from empty apartments throughout the complex. Each identified Michael as their abductor. Apparently, he kept them drugged and locked inside various rooms inside the building. He returned to visit them every night. Some were tortured. Some abused.

One was already dead.


Credit: Matt Richardsen (FacebookTwitter • Reddit)

The post The Empty Apartment appeared first on Creepypasta.

1 view

The Apartment Next to Me is Supposed to Be Empty

Reading Time: 6 minutes

I moved into my apartment complex two months ago.

I started hearing things a week later.

It was subtle at first. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I would wake up to a faint scratching sound from somewhere behind the walls. I thought it could be mice. Or rats. I have lived through enough shitty one bedroom apartments in Manhattan to recognize the signs. Small little turds on the floor. Tiny holes in the plaster. An unending scratching that sounds like a thousand little feet marching to the beat of my headache.

My symptoms fit the bill.

It had to be a mouse.

And so I put out traps. I invested in a little steel wool. The Internet says the best way to catch a rat is peanut butter. I slathered spoonfuls of the stuff all over a fresh Tomcat trap. Amazon’s best. I went to bed with the expectation that a fat rodent would be dead in my living room by the following morning.

I laid awake eagerly awaiting their demise. But it rained a lot that night. After I turned off the TV, I tried to listen for the sounds of my furry friends falling for the bait. But the storm overtook almost every sound. Cracks of thunder shook the glassware on my kitchen counter. Water got inside through the cracks and spaces between the window’s framing. I had to put a towel down. The dripping started to annoy me more than the rats ever did in the first place.

But, somewhere, underneath it all; I heard something else. Something a lot more frightening than rats.

A voice whispering “Help me.

I never really believed in the paranormal. I told people that a lot. I never saw signs, or spirits, like everybody else. Part of my subconscious felt like maybe this was my come-uppance. The ghosts on the street had heard me talking shit and now they were going to come for me. Maybe just to show me who is boss, so to speak. And I had nothing for protection. Nobody to verify my experiences. I lived alone in the middle of a lightly occupied sky-rise. A demon or poltergeist could fuck with me all they wanted.

And so I pulled the sheets up to my chin, while the scratching started to overtake the storm, along with my rationality. The constant repetition of ‘help me’ floated further through the walls. She started to get louder. More urgent. My fear paralyzed mind told me that she was getting closer. I knew that was impossible, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I got out of bed and marched out of my apartment, nearly stepping on the unoccupied rat trap myself. The building kept a guard on desk duty throughout the night. He needed to know about the voice.

I hopped in the elevator with sweatpants and no socks. When it opened on the ground level, a surprised security guard waited for me behind the desk.

Sir? Are you okay?

Can you check if the apartment next to me is occupied?

The tall Hispanic man furrowed his brow worriedly as he eyed my evening wear with distaste. He wore an official looking blue buttoned shirt with black slacks with a radio clipped to the belt.

We really should not divulge…

Somebody has been screaming ‘Help me’ all night. I think they are in trouble. But I have never seen anyone go in there.

The man looked worried as he pounded into the small laptop placed on the desk.

Okay, what apartment number…

522.

We haven’t rented many units up there since we took over…

That’s what I said.

Yup, 522 and 524 are empty. You have one other tenant at the other end of your floor. Maybe you heard his television. The walls here are very thin, sir, and we are actively working on the rodent issue.

I think we need to call the police.

The man flashed a smile that made the goosebumps on my skin slide up like candy dots. Like he was prepared for the accusation. Like he knew something that I didn’t. His cool expression placated onto such ordinary features made my stomach turn uncomfortably.

Like I said, the apartment is empty. Would you like to go and see for yourself?

I would.

My willing response definitely took him aback. He punched again at the laptop nervously. I had no idea what he was typing. After a minute’s hesitation, he walked past me towards the elevator.

Let’s go. 522 first. I’ve got the key.

I followed the guard into the elevator. Something about his demeanor continued to make me cautious. He seemed confident. Excited, even. At the time I chalked up the oddity to over interest in the mystery before us.

It’s possible some kids broke in. But I doubt it. These locks are pretty secure. I still think you heard a neighbor…

I nodded wordlessly. When the doors opened again, we marched together down the hall towards apartment 522. I waited patiently while he opened the lock and beckoned me inside.

It was empty.

Our voices echoed across the recently finished floors and furniture-less void inside the studio apartment. I paced around and checked the nooks and crannies. I waited a couple minutes and listened for the voice. I even called out to it. But nobody answered. The only sound I heard were the steady ricochet of raindrops against the windowsills.

Satisfied?

We still have 524.

My new friend started to look a little less confident.

Look, it’s late, and somebody has to watch the desk. Do we need to do this now?

I know what I heard.

He stared at me and studied my demeanor for a moment. I shifted awkwardly and tried to appear intimidating.

Okay.

The guard once again flashed a friendly smile as he gestured me out into the hallway and locked up behind us. We passed my own apartment on the way towards 524. I thought about going back inside and locking the door. Something about the situation made me squirm. But I didn’t.

My name is Michael, by the way, what is your name?

Matt.

Well, Matt, I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances.

I nodded and waited while Michael opened up the door. His casual attitude continued to make me uncomfortable.

524 wasn’t empty. Boxes upon boxes were stacked on the floor with neat little labels on each. Spare kitchen chairs made the studio tough to navigate. Once again, Michael waited by the door, while I navigated the junk and tried to investigated the other rooms.

The small corner kitchen contained the usual boiler plate electronics. The drawers appeared untouched and empty. A thin line of dust formed over the counter tops.

I moved onto the bathroom and found a recently renovated shower head sparkling against a fresh paint job. I started to get jealous, and let my guard down a bit. This place looked nicer than my own. I bet they would be renting it out soon. I was prepared to write the entire thing off as an odd experience, before a voice spoke to me inside the bathroom.

Help me.

It was closer this time. In the same room. I nearly jumped out of my skin, but tried to keep my cool around Michael, who was still outside creeping in the hallway. There was a closet in the bathroom. I opened it.

Sitting inside was a teenage girl.

She wasn’t wearing any clothes. She pushed her knees up to her shoulders and linked her feet together in a sad attempt to remain modest. Sweat poured down her brow. It caused her pretty brown hair to become matted and tangled on her forehead.

I covered her mouth and mine after she whispered again.

It’s him. He did this.

Footsteps approached from the hallway. I raised a finger, as if to tell her to wait, and closed the door in the poor girl’s face. Then I rushed over to the toilet and flushed the handle.

The footsteps stopped.

Everything alright in there?

Yeah, yeah, sorry. Just had to tinkle. This remodel is nice. Gotta get you guys to update my apartment.

I opened the door and was immediately greeted by a very suspicious looking security guard.

You know, I’ve got a leaky window frame. Who can I talk to about that?

Michael stared at me for about thirty seconds. At first he looked angry. Then he looked confused. Finally the suspicion faded from his wrinkled features.

Property owner. Not me.

I laughed awkwardly and pushed past him. I walked out into the hallway in a rush, never bothering to look behind my shoulder as Michael followed anxiously after. I could hear him locking the door to 524 as I jetted towards my own apartment.

You don’t want to check anywhere else?

I called out something back. I don’t remember what. The adrenaline coursed through my veins so quickly that my futile attempts at being casual dissipated the moment I got to my door. I fumbled for the keys in my sweatpants pocket. I clacked them awkwardly against the metal lock. Finally they found a groove and the door handle turned willingly against my hand.

Anything else I can do for you tonight?

Michael had caught up to me. He looked suspicious again. I could sense that he might try to stop me. I had to come up with something.

Sorry, man, that last trip to the bathroom didn’t cut it. Too much chili last night. Gotta go.

Michael guffawed over my shoulder as I opened the door and slammed it in his face. I tried to wait a few seconds before applying the chain lock. I waited for his footsteps to fade away first. I didn’t want to spook him. Only then I released my hand from the handle and collapsed to the floor.

* * * * * *

The first responders arrived about ten minutes later. I have to commend them for the speed. Part of me worried that Michael would try to run. Part of me worried he would go back for the girl. Part of me worried he might try to come after me.

He didn’t.

Police rescued the girl from the bathroom closet. Her name was Molly. She was sixteen years old.

And she wasn’t the only one.

Seven other women were rescued from empty apartments throughout the complex. Each identified Michael as their abductor. Apparently, he kept them drugged and locked inside various rooms inside the building. He returned to visit them every night. Some were tortured. Some abused.

One was already dead.


Credit: Matt Richardsen (FacebookTwitter • Reddit)

The post The Apartment Next to Me is Supposed to Be Empty appeared first on Creepypasta.

5 views

Dead Arm

Reading Time: 9 minutes

I’ve been completely clean for about two years, now, and I owe it all to the last drug I ever took. It apparently goes by many names, and it’s not easy to get your hands on it. The people who use it only give it to close friends, or people who they mean to do harm. Nothing can prepare you for the experience, not even smack.

Myself, I did Dead Arm when I was a senior in college. Finals were getting rough. I had a group of buddies that I took things with. Not exactly the type of friends your parents hope you’ll make – none were students like me, just townies, all different ages from seventeen to almost sixty. None of us were alike in any way, except for the one thing we had in common: what we were putting in our bodies. We’d veg out, high as kites. Escaping the world. Escaping our problems.

The more pressure I felt in my “normal” life, the more I turned to smack to help me through it. I would never even associate with these other folks before I started using, but they were slowly becoming my only friends. There was this one dude whose house we went to that we only knew as “Moses”. He had a two-bedroom apartment but somehow we fit almost fifteen of us in there to chill at “parties” that he threw.

I hardly ever spoke to Moses but he took a liking to me for some reason. He’d share some of his extra-potent shit with me, at times buy me pizza and beer, and generally just acted cool. He must’ve been forty-something but never had a stick up his ass or anything. Very laid back.

One day I hit up Moses after failing a final and asked him if he was having a get-together that night. He texted back “No”, so I started making plans with other people. Like ten minutes later, he texts me again:

“Actually, yeah. But can u just come? dont bring anyone else”

Naturally, I head over to his place because I want to get fucked-up, regardless of who else is there. I knocked on his apartment door and he let me in. The place was empty.

“Woah, man. Where is everyone?” I asked.

Moses looked at me seriously, a look I had hardly seen on his face before. “Hey, [my name], listen. You’ve been pretty chill and level-headed at my parties, and I want to offer you something. I’m going to this dude Ted’s house tonight, he’s got some of this new shit that he’s super-exclusive with. He’s down for you to tag along, but you have to really keep it on the down-low. You in?”

“What is it that he’s got, exactly?”

“I…it’s just…you’ll see. But trust me, it’s out of this world. You in?”

Bitch, you serious? You might as well have just described a Thanksgiving feast to a starving man. Ten minutes later we had arrived at Ted’s apartment complex.

It was the dingiest shithole I had ever seen. Trash was lying around the front of the building, broken glass was scattered about, and the place just had a certain stink to it. Although I wanted to leave, my itch to get high was stronger. We went up to the third floor, where Ted’s apartment was. Moses had a brief conversation with whoever opened the door before we were let in, assuring him I was cool.

Ted’s apartment was even more disgusting than the rest of the building. Almost no furniture, just dirty blankets and towels thrown on the floor with like ten people laying around on them, still as corpses. In the corner, someone was having sex with another person who looked barely conscious. All of them were moaning in such a bizarre way, almost like a death rattle from The Grudge but a lot louder. It was freaking the fuck out of me, but I figured I wouldn’t care about it at all soon enough.

The doorman came to me and Moses.

“You guys ready? You know the deal, it’s a hundred-fifty for a hit.”

“I’ve got it covered,” Moses said, pulling out a small wad of cash. He gestured to me. “It’s this kid’s first time doing Dead Arm. Get him first.”

He handed the cash over and the doorman grunted in approval. He took a belt from off the only table in the place and from its drawer he conjured a syringe. It looked to be full of a brown substance that looked to me like liquid dirt. He wrapped the belt tight around my arm. Moses made conversation as the doorman got the needle ready.

“Where’s Ted at?” he asked.

The doorman replied, “In his room. Don’t fuckin’ bug him.”

“Fair enough. No Ben tonight?”

“Nope. Remember what happened to his arm last week? He’s too embarrassed to be seen like that, I guess.”

“Shoulda just cut it off.”

“No doubt, brother.”

The doorman approached me with the needle. I nodded at him and he stuck it into one of the protruding veins in my arm. I watched the brown liquid leave the syringe and make its way into the bloodstream.

As soon as the needle was out, I immediately and unwillingly dropped to the floor. My knees just stopped working. Everything stopped working. I couldn’t move my head, arms, legs, even my mouth was hanging open. Completely numb, completely paralyzed. My head started ringing terribly. It was terrifying. I started to try and call out, but all I could do was moan, and I realized with a jolt that the noise I was making was not at all unlike the noises everyone else in this room was making.

Then, suddenly, the ringing in my head stopped and was replaced with such a deep relaxation that I cannot even describe to you through words. It was unlike anything I had ever felt, almost otherworldly carelessness. My paralysis suddenly did not matter, my finals did not matter, nothing mattered. My muscles felt like they were being lightly tugged in every direction. It felt like my body was dissolving into a puddle onto the floor, and it was incredible.

Not long after, I saw Moses fall to the floor by my side. The doorman stepped over us both and put the syringes he had used on us away. Then he went back to standing by the door, playing on his cell phone.

An hour passed. Nothing but pure bliss and silence, apart from the moaning and the humping in the back. Soon, though, that latter noise stopped and suddenly, this bare-naked dude was standing above me, the guy who was doing the banging. He crouched down to me, this hungry look in his eyes. I didn’t care – I couldn’t care. All that mattered was that I was lying down, with my muscles being deliciously pulled by whatever this shit in my veins was. Unable to move. Unable to think. Only existing at bare minimum.

The naked stranger started whispering something to himself and licking his lips. He got closer to me, his face mere centimeters from mine.

“Hey!” the doorman yelled. The naked stranger was yanked off of me and thrown into the apartment wall. The doorman raised a fist to him threateningly. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You paid for that one in the back, not this one.”

“Come on, man! Let me have this!” the naked man screamed.

“Is this going to be a fucking problem? Do I have to bring Ted in here?”

I heard the naked man whimper in fear. He shook his head, hustled to grab his clothes, and then ran out of the apartment with them.

And still I was on the floor without a care in the world. Almost raped by a stranger, and couldn’t be bothered to give the slightest shit.

I lay there for another hour. Slowly, I felt myself coming back down to Earth a bit. Although I still couldn’t move or think straight, I started becoming a bit more aware. I wondered how long I would be like this. I wasn’t worried about it, it was just genuine curiosity. I also started to ponder about where this Dead Arm stuff could’ve possibly come from and what was in it.

Call it my inner conscience, call it God, or call it voices in my head, but something answered my bemusement:

Don’t worry about where I’m from. Just keep yourself still. You belong to me right now.

I could live with that.

Another hour gone by.

Discomfort started coming into my lower back. I still couldn’t move, but it was a bit of a relief knowing that my body was starting to respond to the things around it. Shit, even the relief itself was a relief.

Some of the other people around me who were on Dead Arm started to come out of it and stumble out of the apartment, thanking the doorman as they passed. By then it was like 2 AM.

At probably around 2:30, the doorman got off his phone and went out of my sight. I heard him knock on a door – most likely to one of the bedrooms – and call out, “Yo, Ted! I’m out, man. You still got six or seven out there so just a heads up.”

Although I could hear noises in response, I couldn’t exactly tell what was being said.

The doorman spoke again: “Yeah, alright, man. Have a good night.”

The doorman came back into my view, stepped over me, and walked out of the apartment.

Another hour passed when I heard one of the doors in the back open. At the same time someone came walking out. One of the people who had been high on the floor started coming to – a woman.

I heard her say to someone softly, “Oh! Hey, Ted. Thanks for the hit. Do you think you could help me to the door? My legs are still a little numb.”

The noise that replied almost completely killed my high. It was a mix between a scream and wet gurgle. If I had heard it a couple hours ago, I wouldn’t have cared, but I could feel myself coming down and I was suddenly absolutely terrified…but still couldn’t move.

Two pairs of feet started making their way towards the door. One after another, two people came into my line of sight: the first was a thirty-something blonde woman. She was stumbling a bit, using the wall as support before making her way out the door. Couldn’t recall exactly what she looked like.

But the second person I will remember until the day I die. He was a man, but unlike any person I have ever seen, before or since. His body looked like it had been stretched, pulled every which way like elastic. His arms were so long that his fingertips were touching the floor. His jaw was so wide open that the entirety of his mouth had to be at least a foot long, and it was full of jagged, broken and yellow teeth. The skin under his beady eyes was black and sunken. The hair on his head was grown in uneven patches. Brown patches were all over his face, arms, and legs, and they were disgustingly leaking a similar-colored liquid onto the floor – it looked quite a lot like Dead Arm.

This man was practically inhuman. Nobody in the human race, regardless of our breakthroughs in cosmetics, looked like that or was ever supposed to look like that. It was a fucking monster standing over me.

And even still I could not move.

All I could do was scream, and even then not very loudly. When I did, the wet, beady eyes of the monster-person looked down at me. The thing’s head cocked slightly and a look of confusion came over its face – as if it couldn’t understand why the fuck I was screaming at the sight of it.

It shook its head and walked out of my view, which terrified me more. I didn’t want to look at it, but I also didn’t want to be unaware of what it was. My mind was racing furiously, wondering what I should do, if maybe somehow I could roll myself to the door…

No. No. Just relax. You belong to me for now, remember? It’s not so bad. Just look at Ted.

That fucking thing was Ted?

I tried to fight the overwhelming urge to just lay there, but found myself just as helpless as before. The straining to move at least one of my muscles was fruitless and started paining me greatly. Suddenly my muscles weren’t relaxed, they were flaring up. It hurt so badly I didn’t even scream – I just passed out.

When I woke up, I was myself again. And I immediately started screaming as the memory of what went down last night came rushing back to me.

Moses, who looked like he had just woken up himself, was crouching next to me instantly.

“Dude! Get a hold of yourself!” he yelled. “Relax!”

I told him everything that had happened – from the naked stranger to the voices I had heard after taking the Dead Arm and the oozing monster that had come out of the back room. Throughout my explanation, Moses’ face fell.

He said, in a low voice, “You need to leave right now. Ted’s insecure enough as it is, and you’re not gonna help by calling him a fuckin’ monster. Thankfully for you he’s asleep right now.”

“What the fuck? Dude, he was stretched out, he didn’t even look like a person!”

“Side-effect of the Dead Arm, man. Ted knows how to party.”

“Are you fucking telling me that we could end up like that if we keep using that shit?”

“Dude, don’t you remember how good it felt? Are you telling me it’s not worth it?”

By the time he finished his sentence, I was already out the door. I got out of the apartment complex and turned my head. From one of the windows on the third-floor, I saw a glimpse of Ted, the monster-person, staring down at me with those tiny eyes, the impossibly-wide jaw still agape in a permanent state of relaxation.

I screamed and sprinted away. I couldn’t help it.

Ever since that night, I refused to touch another substance. I never spoke with Moses or the old crew again. And I never even once walked near Ted’s house. Not long after my night there, he was gone and I never got the invite to come back, and part of me was glad. He’s what I was afraid of the most.

Because I know someday I’m going to end up just like him.

I’m off drugs now because nothing can compare to Dead Arm. Nothing at all. I’ll find it again and will use it. This is one addiction that no amount of rehab can help. The relaxing helplessness, the stillness of the mind…

Oh, and that soothing voice, too. I hear it even today, all the time, whispering to me.

You’re still mine and I know you’ll come back.


Credit: Thaddeus James (FacebookReddit)

The post Dead Arm appeared first on Creepypasta.

2 views

I Found a Letter From My Stalker

Reading Time: 12 minutes

I found this note, nailed onto a tree on my front lawn. I really don’t know how to describe it. I’ll just let you read it yourself.

[Note start]

I saw you today. It was your birthday. You didn’t see me, you hardly ever do these days.

Your skin looked so nice and healthy, and your eyes, they were the most beautiful I’d ever seen them.

You’ve grown so much. I remember how you different used to look when you were younger.

I remember the day I first met you.

It was four years ago. I was sitting on my desk, head down, listening to the teacher rattling off names for attendance. The teacher called out a name I didn’t recognize, and a stranger’s voice answered behind me. Was there a new student?

The teacher didn’t pause for a second, just continued calling out name after name. I turned my head to where the voice had come from.

I saw you, a pale thing, so thin, your eyes so red, at a seat that should have been empty.

I saw the fireflies flying around you, flickering. Dozens of them, never straying far from you.

I saw them going through you, and coming out through your skin, like you were a mist to them. Can you believe I thought you were a ghost?

No one else seemed to acknowledge the new stranger sitting at the back of the class. Class after class, hour after hour passed as I waited for something to happen. For someone to notice you, for you to leave, for you to let out a ghoulish scream and claw at me like in the horror story I was certain I was in. But nothing happened.

Teachers came and went. My classmates laughed and slept, and you just sat there.

The bell rung for recess. The other kids ran to their mundanities for the day, leaving me and you together in the empty classroom. You stood up and pulled a chair from the desk next to you, making it face your desk. You turned your head to me and spoke

“Well, you’re slow today. Come on. Ask me your questions.”

I don’t know why I didn’t run away screaming at that moment. Probably would have turned out better for me in the long run, but let’s not speculate.

I guess, at that point in my life , I was pretty bloody lonely. I figured there was only a 50-50 chance you’d eat me and the other 50 was that someone wanted to talk with me. Kid priorities don’t make sense to me either these days.

So I went along with the flow. I walked over to your desk, sat down on the chair you pulled for me, and asked my question. What were you?

You told me you didn’t know.

You said that once you were a child, just like me, with parents and friends. You used to go to the same schools as me.

Then, one day, one ordinary day, when you were ten, you just woke up and you were like this, covered in fireflies and no one could remember you the moment they concentrated on anything else. No one, not even your parents.

You told me of how I’d notice you, every day. How I’d think of you until recess every day.

How I’d come to you every day. How we would talk, every day. How we would meet for the first time, every day, for the last three years.

About how I’d forget the instant I walked out of the room.

How everyone would forget you. How the fireflies would make them. How for the last three years, you’d been alone.

Your story was very hard to believe. So I didn’t. I asked what reality prank show I was on. You looked, well, unimpressed, and asked me to continue telling my story.

I was caught off guard by the non sequitur. You said last time I was here, I was telling you a story, a horror story about a haunted house.

As you detailed the story, goosebumps prickled my skin. It was a story I’d been making up in my head. A story I hadn’t told anyone yet.

At that moment, a million reactions were open to me, all simultaneously adequate and inadequate . But the only thing that seemed proper was to finish the story for you. So I did.

Halfway through, you interrupted me to ask if my mother had recovered from her sickness yet. I had to shake my head, a bit ashamed at the fact that I shared this private matter to a stranger. The story ended a few minutes before recess.

My next class was in another room.

You told me to go. Your steadiness took me back. You seemed so… accepting of your fate. Like you’d already gotten used to the idea of being forgotten forever.

I was a kid back then. I wasn’t a particularly smart kid, and I was probably on the onset of a crush. So you can excuse what I did next as an example of my childhood stupidity.

I grabbed my scissors, pressed it against my arm’s skin, and dug in. As it drew blood, I pushed it forwards, till the cut forms the shape I wanted.

Letter by letter, I carved your name onto my arm.

Just so you up know, I don’t regret that. Don’t get me wrong, kid power might have made me do it, but it sure as hell didn’t make the pain go away. It was one of the most painful experiences of my life.

But even then as a kid, I thought what was happening to you was unfair.

I remember how your eyes looked when you saw that. The confusion. How strange it was for you, that anyone would want to remember. I remember that look so clearly.

When I woke up the next day and saw your name on my arm, I remembered you. I didn’t forget.

That day, for the first time, we had a conversation that wasn’t so one-sided.

You said no one had ever done anything like that before and suggested I might have a mental illness . I won’t deny it, that drew a little blood. As we talked, a creeping thought came into my head: Did you prefer it when I didn’t remember?

That night, I was sitting up on my bed, staring at your name on my arm, wondering if I should cover it up so I couldn’t see it and give you back your privacy, when I heard a crash.

I looked up to see my bedroom window shattered and a dirty rock on my floor. I looked out of the cracked window, to see a dark figure on my lawn.

You were outside yelling, about how we should hang out.

It took me a while to get used to how bad you were at talking to people. Years without practice, made you a quite a bit rusty.

That was all right. We had a lot of time.

For the next two years, we spent the most of our free time together. Most of the time, we talked. You’d tell me an aspect of your life and how you lived.

You still stayed in your old house. Your parents never noticed the food gone missing, never noticed the extra room, and you’d stolen the extra keys.

One night, I confided in you, that I was beginning to think you were a part of my imagination, Fight Club style. After all, what could you do to me that I couldn’t do to myself?

You spent the next month or so trying to leave bite marks on my ear or neck, to prove a point. I still have some on my ear, so I guess you did.

Looking back, I could see the warning signs even then. Your skin seemed to get worse and worse, paler and paler, and you’d rub your eyes raw.

It was in winter we had our wakeup call.

The morning began like any other. I woke up, brushed my teeth, and started searching for clothes to wear. It was a winter morning, and my room was dark, so I didn’t see your name on my arm.

The cold sent shivers through my body, and pulled out a long sleeve jacket. A small bell rang in my head. Don’t you usually roll your sleeves up? Yeah, and why did I? That was annoying.

I finished tidying up and headed to school. On the school bus, I felt oddly content, like something I’d been worrying about had just… disappeared.

I walked up the school stairs, down the hall, through my class door, and sat down on my desk. The same feeling of a burden forgotten hounded my mind. What was I forgetting?

When recess came, I started came, I just sat at my desk, while my class mates ran out. It felt like a ritual , but I didn’t know what for. I was contemplating just walking out to join them, when I heard it.

It was something small in the wind, like a whisper, but it came over and over, incessant. It sounded like my name. I knew this was strange, that this was worth my attention, but I felt oddly calm. Everything would be alright, everything would be fine, just ignore it.

I sat there on my desk, my mind a war zone between two conflicting, contradictory, voices, when I felt a force tugging on my sleeve. The moment I noticed this, my jacket sleeve tore open. I saw your name on my arm, and then your hand that had ripped my jacket open.

You’d been yelling at me for over 20 minutes.

I think that was the moment we realized how on edge our friendship really was. One accident away from complete erasure.

We spent the most of the next year in the town library together, trying to find out what the fireflies were.

It wasn’t really a problem for me. Because of my mother’s treatment, my family couldn’t afford to go on any trips, and our house didn’t have heating anymore, so I was happy to spend my time with you.

Trying to find information was a puzzle in and of itself. After all, how would I read about people I couldn’t remember and how would you find out who was special when no one could even remember enough about them to record them?

We found out old family trees and records. Individually, we’d write down the name of everyone in the book on two lists and then we would compare. The names I hadn’t remembered to write down, but you had, would become the focus. They were the names who were under the curse of the fireflies.

We compiled a list of “suspicious” books. Books we though could help us, because they were written by or were about the people we were searching for.

I’d read the books, with the list of names side by side, reading it again for every page of the book. You’d sure the internet on the library computers , for articles about the people.

Our search would lead us to the first glimpse we got of what was really happening to you.

It was late at night when you found the picture. I was a bit drowsy at that time, and almost about to nod off when I heard a sharp intake of breath. I turned to see you standing up, pointing at the screen.

I didn’t see anything. Well, anything noteworthy. On the screen was a picture of a clearing somewhere in the woods

You held up your piece of paper where you’d marked out two names.

Susie Applebee-Reagan, 13

Terry Applebee-Reagan, 12

Siblings

For a moment, I saw the paper and the screen side by side.

Side by side.

And then I saw them.

Two figures, emerging from the woods, towards the camera. They were almost humanoid, but all five limbs stretched to nightmarish proportions. Blank white skin, pure albino, that looked more like tree bark than anything on a mammal. A cloud of fireflies surrounded the duo.

The shorter one looked emaciated. I could see the rib cages around which their… their eyes! God, their eyes! So small, so red.

The longer one with their white hair, didn’t look alive anymore. They were just skin wrapped around skeletons. Their empty eye sockets had fireflies swarming out of them. Both reaching for the camera man.

I looked at the article surrounding the picture. It was a blog post by hiker, twenty years after the two kids had been written about last. The picture was a mystery to the camera man as well. He’d been wanting to go to the woods pictured for a while now, but he never actually remembered going there. The picture had just appeared in his camera one day, out the blue.

For a moment, I looked at your face. Your thin pale face, with those red veined eyes. Would that be you when my scar faded? Just a walking horror I’d glimpse, then forget?

We worked through our reading list at a much faster pace starting from that moment.

Maybe we should’ve gone slower. At least every book, every website we’d left untouched promised hope. The books we finished and tossed aside promised nothing but the clearing in the woods as your future.

And we tossed aside a lot of books.

I believe I tore through three fourths of my reading list before I stumbled across the journal. Oh God, that horrible, horrible journal.

The journal used to belong to a mental patient, named Joey, who claimed to be a serial killer. He was locked up in an asylum when the police discovered his supposed victims never existed. He was ‘diagnosed’ with a need for attention, and shoved away.

They should have electrocuted him. They should have fried him until his flesh melted and his hair burned.

In the journal, he talked about how he carried out his killings. He knew things, bizarre and disturbing things no one else knew. He knew of strange creatures that lived in the woods. Of them, his favorite were the fireflies.

I’m not going to tell you how he summoned these things. I trust you, I trust you more than anyone, but a thing like this belongs to the ground more than it ever will to the human mind. It’s sufficient enough to know that, these things were not fireflies.

Joey would start his ritual by taking a kid. Any kid, anyone he’d liked. He could take them at any time, the dead of night in their own homes, or in broad daylight on their front yards.

It didn’t matter if he was seen. He’d take them to his house and drag them to a room. Usually, an Amber Alert came up around now. He didn’t care. Like I said, it wouldn’t matter soon.

He’d drag them to a special room in his house. Here the fireflies would come and latch onto them. Now, nobody was searching for the kids. Not the police, not the parents. Nobody.

From then on, he could do whatever he wanted to the kid. He’d get bored of them after a day or two, after the child had broken. And then the kid would go too. Hacksaw, kitchen knife, anything would work.

He detailed a large pit of bodies he kept in the woods, swarming with the bugs.

I guess he got bored of that too one day, so one day he went right to the police station and turned himself in. Not of guilt, no, no, no. He just wanted someone to know about the stuff he was doing. Sick bastard.

Oh, don’t get the wrong idea. He never stopped killing kids. The asylum doors didn’t stop him from doing what he liked. It just made him improvise.

He made a new way. He modified the flies, so they could survive without a host, just in a dormant state. When a child (he specified the age) would approach the swarm, it would latch on and begin its effect. Over the years, the child would warp horribly into the things we saw in the woods.

I wish I could hate him in peace. I wish I could say the world owed him nothing. But that wouldn’t be true. He detailed a way out. On the final page, was an exact explanation on how to get rid of the fireflies.

You must have seen something in my face, at that moment you asked if had I found anything.

I said no and closed the book.

A few minutes later, you shut down the computer. You picked up the last book and went through it yourself. When you reached the end cover, you tossed it aside.

I asked what we should do now.

You said it was alright. I could go home. We’d talk about it in the morning.

I stood up and walked past the shelves of books. I headed for the library entrance, but stopped right outside the door and waited. I waited until I heard the sniffling sounds.

I sneaked back to our table, where you were quietly sobbing.

You had your head in your hands. I sat back down, as you raised your eyes to me.

You said you wished you’d never met me. How happy you were when you had nothing to lose. How I ruined your life.

You’d never really gotten better at talking to people. That was the worst love confession I’d ever heard.

I remember how we kissed that night. I remember your hands gripping my hair. I remember that kiss.

I wish it could’ve been just a kiss.

I’m sorry I ruined that moment. When my arms were around you, I was close enough to steal a firefly without you noticing.

I remember holding the fireflies in my hand. I remember how it struggled, until it didn’t. Until it was a part of me.

The fireflies shifted. They came over me, and left you.

I remember the familiar look in your eyes. The confusion. I never wanted to see that confusion in your eyes again. You deserved to be loved and you deserved to know that.

I wasn’t really living anyway.

You reached for me. I pulled away, as the last lights of recognition faded from your eyes. And then you were just staring at a stranger, walking away into a crowd of strangers.

That was a year ago.

You’ve gotten so much better since then. You have so many friends now. So many people at your birthday party. You also look so much healthier. I haven’t been as fortunate.

My skin’s gotten a lot paler, and my eyes hurt all the time now. I couldn’t go to school like you did all those years. I haven’t wasted my time though. I found Joey’s pit.

The bodies, there were so many bodies. There’s a grave for those children now.

Without me, my mom could afford her surgery. She looked so happy. Just yesterday, I saw her playing with my baby brother.

I saw you crying yesterday. You were with your friends, laughing. For a brief moment, your eyes met mine, and then, they were so wet.

I think I’m going away. For good I think. You’re not going to be happy if I stick around.

I’m so happy I met you, even if you don’t remember me.

[Note end]

Sometimes I go through depressive episodes. I feel so lonely, even with my friends. I don’t know what’s going through my head during these times, and sometimes I’d end up in a bath tub, a knife in my hands and my wrists bleeding.

Up till now, I thought I was cutting my wrists. I wasn’t. The cuts… they’re letters.

I’ve been carving a name onto my arm.


Credit: MinisterofOwls (Reddit)

The post I Found a Letter From My Stalker appeared first on Creepypasta.

1 view

I Hope I Never Dream Again

Reading Time: 7 minutesDreams are supposed to be a magical place, a place where we can escape from our everyday lives, where our imagination can run free.

I have often heard my friends complain that they don’t dream enough, or that their dreams are too dull, but not me. Ever since I was young I have had dreams very frequently, and I used to enjoy them.

However, nowadays my dreams are a bit different.

I’ll start at the beginning, because where else would I start? I have always had quite a mundane life, living in a small town with next to nothing to do.

Friends weren’t exactly my strong suit growing up, so I relied on my imagination for my own entertainment. Although I think this is quite a common thing for most kids to do anyway.

As I said, I would dream very frequently, almost every night if not every other night. Nothing ever stood out from these dreams though, in fact most would be forgotten by the time I crawled my way to breakfast.

Unfortunately, these forgettable dreams couldn’t last forever.

I am currently 22 years old, and the “new dreams” began around two years ago.

It was a night like any other, nothing abnormal happened during the day, I was simply ready to go to sleep, and so I did.

Once I did I found myself in a world of grey, it wasn’t necessarily dark, just bland. There were grey houses, grey streets, grey grass, essentially an atypical neighborhood, but everything was a shade of grey.

Looking around I saw almost nothing of note, until I spotted a woman sitting on a bench, a woman I did not recognize.

From what I’ve read, the brain does not simply invent faces, we can only dream of what we’ve seen.

So, perhaps this woman was someone I had walked by in a crowd once, or seen in the background of a TV show, someone I had seen just long enough to conjure their face in my dream.

The woman looked to be in her mid 30’s with long grey hair, small grey eyes, grey lips, and her clothes were well you guessed it grey, she had typical soccer mom look, that is if soccer moms had no color to them.

She stood there completely still, like she was simply a prop to this world. Then, after a long stare down, she began to raise her right arm. She began to point at something, the direction she was pointing was close to me, but not directly at me.

As I began to turn to look at what she was pointing at I… I was ripped from my dream, I found myself lying in my bed on my side, my heart was beating incredibly fast, yet I had no clue why.

Thoughts were racing through my mind, who was that woman? What was she pointing at?

My mind was moving so fast it took me a few moments to realize I couldn’t move, I was completely frozen laying on my side, with my head facing my wall.

That’s when I heard my bedroom door open, my eyes were wide open, but I was not in a position that I could see who was at my door.

My mind began to rationalize the situation, it must have been my younger sister, perhaps she had a nightmare and she had come to my room for comfort.

I began to hear footsteps approaching my bed, the closer they got, the more I thought how heavy these footsteps were for a small child to have, but despite my suspicions I could not move, the only thing I could do was wait as my eyes were glued to the wall, just out of sight of my intruder.

Eventually, the footsteps stopped at the foot of my bed.

The next sound would be the creaking of the springs in my mattress as someone began to slowly crawl on to my bed, I could feel the mattress begin to sink where my feet lay.

In my position, this person was still completely unseen by me, and they continue to climb until they were directly behind me.

I began to feel light breaths down my neck, yet I still could not move, this went on for what seemed like hours.

Then the breathing stopped, as I felt a cold hand go across the mid-section of my back.

This was finally enough, I regained control of my body, as I flipped over and let out a monstrous scream.

Yet, there was no one there. Nor was there any sign anyone had ever been there, no impressions had been left in my bed, and my door was still shut like it always was when I went to sleep, there was nothing.

Most people probably have probably already decided that what I experienced was sleep paralysis, and I agree. I have done extensive research on sleep paralysis since that day, and it matches up almost perfectly to what I experienced.

However, there is one problem.

The spot on my back where the cold hand touched me now holds a scar. It’s a small line that stretches horizontally across the mid of my back. Before that night I had no wound there, nor any previous scarring on my back. As much as I wished it was just a terrible case of sleep paralysis, even then I knew it had to be something more.

Life returned to normal for a short while after this, I no longer dreamed at all, which did not bother me.

I did begin to sleep with my bathroom light on for extra light, as I could no longer stand to be in a room that was too dark to see.

I also began sleeping on my back, so even if I was experiencing sleep paralysis I would have a clear view of my whole room.

After about a month I had almost convinced myself that I was delusional, I even chalked up the scarring to something that I must have missed at some point, perhaps it had always been there.

That was until the second dream came.

Once again I found myself in the grey world. It was much the same as last time, this time an almost empty street and of course with no color.

Only now it was not a woman that stood in front of me, instead it was a man. The man was older, probably in his 70’s if not older, but once again it was a face I could not recognize. The previous woman had had no expression, in fact the only part of her that even moved was her arm when she began to point.

This man however was wearing a smirk, as if he knew something that I did not, but other than this he too was completely motionless. I guessed what would happen next, and sure enough the man began to raise his arm.

Only he did not begin to point anywhere in my direction, instead he extended his arm all the way to his shoulder and extended his thumb as if to say “behind me.”

Despite what happened last time, I was too curious to not attempt to see what he was pointing at. I began moving towards the man, I placed my right hand on the man to push him aside, and as I did…

I once again found myself in my bed, this time I realized instantly that I could not move.

My eyes darted towards my door, anticipating another visit like last time. Only it did not come.

Instead I noticed a shadow on the edge of my bathroom wall, reflecting off the light that I had left on. The shadow seemed to have been waiting for me to notice it, because once I did, it began to raise a hand and held it there, almost as if it was giving a still wave.

After a few seconds it put down its hand, and it slowly began to inch its way across the wall, stretching in to my room.

I wanted to run, scream, or do anything to get away from this shadow, but I couldn’t, my body refused to move as this shadow slowly crept along the wall towards me.

After a few agonizing moments, the shadow finally reached the wall next to me, and it paused, as if to study me. Then after a few seconds it overtook me.

The moment it happened I once again regained control of my body, and once again I let out a scream that could terrify anyone.

My whole body felt like it was on fire, it was a much more intense sensation than the cold touch I had felt last time. It only lasted a few seconds however, and as I looked down at myself I noticed I was fine, covered in sweat, and possibly some other bodily fluids, but otherwise fine.

That is except for the new scar that adorned my right hand, the same hand that I had touched the old man with.

At this point I was more confused than ever. The dreams had come from nowhere, along with the living nightmares. The grey world obviously had to have some connection to what was happening to me, each dream the figure had pointed somewhere, and each time I attempted to look I was brought back to reality, or at least I think it was reality.

I want to believe it is just a combination of odd dreams and sleep paralysis, but the scars staring back at me make me question everything.

It took almost an entire year for the next dream to come, and in between I had had no other dreams.

Of course when it came where else would I be but the grey world. This time I was inside a house, and empty and colorless house.

I began to move from room to room, until I spotted it, a child sitting on the floor. I say “it” because this child was essentially androgynous; I could not tell whether it was a boy or a girl.

They were around eight years old, I’d say, with mid-length grey hair, and no facial characteristics that would imply a gender.

The child was sat upon the floor coloring, well if you would consider a grey crayon drawing on a grey piece of paper coloring that is.

Without even looking up the child began to raise its arm that didn’t have the crayon and began to point to the side.

“I won’t look,” I said.

This caused the child to stop drawing and look up at me “But you have to look,” it said.

“Why? Every time I do I wake up to something terrible,” I responded.

“If you don’t look, he’ll get angry,” the child said, ignoring my question.

“Who is he?” I beckoned.

The child let out a sigh before saying, “Just hurry and look, you’re running out of time.”

After everything I had experienced I had no reason to trust what the child was saying. So, instead of looking I Instead closed my eyes, and I began trying to will myself back to reality, and after a few seconds, it worked.

I found myself back in my bed, and this time I was fully capable of moving. Nothing came for me that night, no mysterious figure climbing in to my bed, and no shadows approaching me. Had I beaten the grey world? Was it just that simple as to not trust the people there?

That brings it back to current day.

Over a year later I’d like to think that it is all over, that I will never have to see the grey world again, but my normal dreams have not returned. In fact, I haven’t dreamt a single time since my last night in the grey world.

I still have so many questions.

Who were those people?

What were they pointing at that they wanted me to look so bad?

But most importantly, who was the child referring to? Could this possibly be the person, or entity, that is responsible for what has been happening to me?

I’m not sure. If I never dream again I would be satisfied, but I fear that won’t be the case.

I’m terrified that one day the grey world will return, but I’m even more terrified of what I’ll find when I wake up.

Will “he” be waiting for me?


Credit: Devin Hoover (TwitterReddit)

The post I Hope I Never Dream Again appeared first on Creepypasta.

1 view

White Noise

Reading Time: 5 minutes

I noticed it almost immediately.

The phenomenon began one day while I was still an undergrad in college. My alarm went off, and I grudgingly let it ring for few seconds before ending it, yanking the covers off my body, and pulling myself out of bed. I had only gotten a few hours of sleep. My muscles were stiff as I shivered in the morning cold, and my footfalls were heavy as I made my way to the bathroom. That’s when my brain registered something odd.

It was the sound. The sound of my lumbering footsteps across the carpet of my second story apartment—the annoying whines of the aging floor I was so used to hearing every morning—it was off, by just a beat. As if there was a lag in the deliverance of the noise, short enough for me to almost dismiss it, and long enough so that I didn’t.

When I made it to the bathroom, I did my business and flushed the toilet. Again, the sound of rushing water came maybe half a second after the water in the bowl had started swirling. The same occurred with the sink faucet.

“Am I that tired?” I mumbled to myself through a mouthful of frothy toothpaste.

I suddenly lurched back.

“What the hell?” I thought, staring at the frightened, wide-eyed version of myself in mirror.

It happened to my voice. There was a haunting delay in it too, like listening to the sound of your echo come back to you after shouting off the top of a mountain, or like an eerie vocalization mimicking your words in the same exact voice. My words were late, and they didn’t feel like my own.

Quickly I rinsed my mouth and struggled to wash the worry from my face. Surely, it was just a case of morning jitters. I was just tired from the lack of sleep, and was registering everything late. Yeah, that seemed like the most reasonable explanation. I got dressed and ready as fast I could, trying my damned hardest to ignore the plethora of jarring noises that were occurring at just the wrong moments. Closing the closet. Zipping my backpack. Locking the door. All of them off, by just a beat, and I couldn’t fucking ignore it.

When I was outside heading to my car, I decided to measure how long the delay was. In one hand, I had my phone with the stopwatch application on screen, and in the other, my car remote. I pressed the button to unlock my car the same time I started the timer. I stopped it once I heard the sound of the beep beep of my vehicle, and saw that the noise was off by 0.53 seconds. I did the same thing when I shut my car doors, inserted the keys into the ignition, and listened for the engine roar.

The times averaged to 0.5 seconds.

I rolled down the windows as I sat in my car. I wondered about the other noises I usually ignored on a daily basis that I was paying attention to now. Were the birds chirping overhead singing late too? What about the man using a leaf blower on the sidewalk, or the car that just drove by? Are all the noises being delayed, or is just me?

I wracked my brain for answers, and came to the conclusion that this physically cannot be possible.

Then I wondered what would happen if I was isolated in an area completely devoid of sound and I made a noise. What, then, would I hear in that half a second before my own voice reaches my eardrums? Nothing, right? I should hear nothing.

“This is some, ‘If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?’ type of shit,” I thought to myself, and decided to test out my earlier thought. At that rate, I was okay with being late to lecture.

So I rolled up my car windows, and sat in silence inside my car.

“Hello,” I mouthed at nothing.

Car crash.

I faintly heard my voice under the alarming screech of rubber tires suddenly grating against pavement. I looked to the intersection beside the parking lot just in time to see a minivan, coming at full speed, connect with the side of a sedan.

I covered my mouth with my hands before I could let out a small, “Holy shit.” The impact had thrown the driver of the minivan out of his seat and through the windshield, where his mangled body laid strewn across the asphalt along with car debris and glass shards.

Drivers from the surrounding vehicles alongside witnessing pedestrians rushed to the wounded two. Half attended to the body of the man that was still limp on ground, while the other half frantically pried at the crumpled car door of the sedan. The other person was crushed underneath, and I couldn’t tell if he or she was still alive.

Sirens.

I turned my head in the direction of the ambulances and police cars that were approaching in the near distance. Half a second later, I noticed faces in my peripheral vision do the same, when the sirens flooded the air around us.

Dread coagulated in the middle of my throat, and I struggled to swallow it down. After that moment, confirmed by many others that followed, I realized it wasn’t my brain that was processing noise slower than other people. No, that simply wasn’t the case. For some reason, on some supernatural happenstance, the speed of sound had just become slower for me—a lag in its velocity by just a beat—and in those 0.5 seconds of delay, there was a new voice in my head. After the first time it spoke, it never left. Whispering things that shouldn’t have been known, telling me everything that was going to be heard.

I never adjusted to it.

It was a perverted rape of my consciousness that haunted me like a curse in the following years. I knew my sister had miscarried before the doctor announced it. I knew my brother-in-law had killed himself before we heard the gunshot. I knew my fiancé was inside another woman before she even moaned.

So when I was finally driven mad, mad enough to the point where scissors were pressed against the entrance of my ear and I was ready to drive the blades straight into my brain, the voice whispered something different. It wasn’t an announcement, nor a narration. It was a command.

Live.

The next thing I remembered was waking up in the hospital with bandages covering the entirety of my head. I remember looking up and seeing a nurse that was tending to my IV. I asked her what had happened, but I never heard my voice come out. She mouthed something at me.

“I can’t hear anything,” I tried to say, and she looked at me with wide brown eyes filled with pity. She saw the pen and paper that was placed on the tray beside me, and she wrote something down. I looked at the message, and was overcome with complete and utter joy.

I had succeeded. The dreadful voice, the disgusting curse, the intruder in my consciousness was no more. “I’m finally free,” I thought to myself, feeling warm, wet tears stream down my face. “I’ll never hear it again!”

The nurse stared at me with a frightened, confused expression as my body convulsed from uncontrollable laughter.

Scream,” the voice spoke through her lips, just a beat before I drove the pen into her throat.


Credit: Catshapedvoid (FacebookReddit)

The post White Noise appeared first on Creepypasta.

3 views

Obey the Pattern

Reading Time: 12 minutes
I’m writing this while I still have control of my body. There needs to be a record of what’s happening to me, so if it happens to you, at least you’ll know—you’re not alone. I can’t explain what’s going on. I can’t offer any answers. But I can give you this warning—OBEY THE PATTERN. If it comes, whatever the pattern tells you—do it. Or you’ll end up like me.

It began one morning. My eyes opened to the sound of my alarm. The sun hadn’t risen yet. I tried to hit snooze, but my body didn’t cooperate. Instead, I sat up and swung off the covers. Instinctually, I tried to shut my eyes and rub them, but my hands wouldn’t obey. My eyelids wouldn’t obey. At once, by the volition of some alien will, my body hopped out of bed and walked to the kitchen.

Am I sleep walking?

My body flicked on the lights and proceeded to make coffee. I watched my hands maneuver the grinder, the jar of beans, the kettle, as if watching a silent cooking show shot in first person. The tumbling crunch of the grinder cut the stillness. My eyes stared out the window.

Watching the dark reflection of my face, I thought about lucid dreams—where the dreamer becomes conscious of the dream, and assumed that was happening to me. I caught myself sleepwalking and for some reason my body kept carrying out involuntary movements as though my consciousness didn’t matter.

It breathes for me, beats my heart to pump blood around for me. All kinds of complicated cellular transactions go on without any input from me—in fact, within me there exists a complete biological economy running smooth as clockwork—so why should it be so weird for my body to make coffee now and then?

But with each passing moment it became more difficult to convince myself of this. For one, I’d never had a lucid dream before and as far as I know, I’d never sleepwalked before either. No doubt my son or my ex (both light sleepers) would have mentioned it. Sure, there’s a first time for everything, but for a dream, this felt astonishingly real.

At the breakfast counter my body ate a hot bowl of porridge, sipped coffee and read the morning news on my phone. A spoonful of grey sludge slid into my mouth for my teeth to chew. My tongue dislodged a sticky lump and swallowed. This sensation struck me as too odd, too surreal. And I began to panic.

I couldn’t scream.

Desperate, I attempted to will myself awake, yelling wake up in my head, as if trying to force a balloon to pop by filling it with loud thoughts. Ignoring me, my body showered and shaved. As my hand scraped a razor across my face, I searched my eyes for clues. Clues for what, I don’t know. Signs of something strange maybe—a signal this wasn’t real.

My familiar reflection stared back at me, expressionless and vacant, reminding me of what a plain looking guy I am. Mr. Normal. No especially unique features of any kind—an office worker haircut, neat, tidy, boring—like the rest of me. Not tall, not short, not handsome but not ugly—always in the middle. Middle summed me up. Middle aged, middle management, middle class.

Dressed for work, my body got in the car and drove beneath an overcast sky to the concrete government records building my colleagues and I call The Bunker. Walking through the maze of cubicles hung with fluorescent lights (the kind that suck the juice from your eyeballs) my body said hello to everyone, sat at the desk in my office and began working. As it worked, I remained imprisoned, unable to do anything but watch data created and edited by my possessed hands. Into my ears came the click-clack of typing as my nose drew in the suffocating smell of humid, musty air.

During our ten o’clock coffee break, Alison, one of my staff, laid out a tray of chocolate cupcakes she’d baked the night before. The first Wednesday of the monthWhat kind of dream would recreate Alison’s cupcake day? God, even my dreams are boring. But this is too real to be a dream…and too strange to be real…

Every motion, every choice my body made, mimicked what I would do, except for one thing—it spent the day without slacking off. The amount of work it got done was astounding, not deviating onto social media or random websites like I did. When we got home, my body prepared noodles and fried vegetables, sat down in front of the couch and watched garbage TV until I fell asleep, exhausted.

The next morning, I flexed my fingers, watching them move before my eyes like little aliens.

So it was just a crazy lucid dream after all.

I rose from the couch, went to the mirror and felt my face. The sensation made me smile. But my elation was immediately erased by a single corrosive thought—what if yesterday was real? I checked the date on my phone. Wait, what day was yesterday? I couldn’t remember. I must have been so discombobulated by the dream, I forgot.

There’s got to be a way to check if yesterday really happened. Then it struck – Alison’s cupcakes.

* * * * *

“Is Alison in yet?” I called no one in particular as I rushed into The Bunker. A few shook their heads.

I paced my office and checked my phone every few seconds until, finally, the bunker door opened and Alison’s voice traveled over the cubicles, greeting everyone. She hadn’t even put her bag down when I commandeered her to my office.

“So sorry I’m late.” She stepped in. I motioned for her to shut the door. She swung it closed, deliberately averting her gaze from mine. “Damn cat got out. I had to chase it two blocks with a broom.” She forced a smile.

“I don’t care that you’re late.”

She turned to me, her sheepishness unchanged.

“I need to ask you something.” My heart rate climbed. “Those chocolate cupcakes you brought in yesterday, do you have the recipe?”

“Oh, you liked them?” She smiled. “I don’t use a recipe—it’s all up here.” She touched a fingernail to her head.

The blood drained from my face.

Her eyes widened. “I can write it down.”

I shook my head. “No…that’s…um…ah…”

“Are you okay?”

I nodded. “That will be all.”

Dumbstruck, Alison left my office and as soon as she closed the door I fell to my knees and gripped my head in my hands. What…what happened to me? I pulled my hair until it hurt.

Once I composed myself, I told my staff I wasn’t feeling well and took the rest of the day off. I couldn’t focus. Couldn’t think. I searched my symptoms online but no condition described what was happening to me. Nothing except insanity.

As I sat at home in front of my computer, mind blank—my hands suddenly moved on their own. My right hand grabbed the mouse, opened a new document and they both started typing:

Obey the pattern.

My hands went limp. I had control back. For a long time I stared at the three words and considered what to do. My chest felt constricted with barbed wire. Finally, I typed:

What pattern?

My hands were commandeered again:

Each day you will go to work, come home, watch TV, eat and go to bed. You will not deviate from this pattern. Allowances will be made for grocery shopping, gas and other necessities for survival, but no more. If you don’t obey the pattern I will take time away from you.

How much time?

As much as necessary.

What do I do on weekends?

Sit and watch TV, periodically go for walks to maintain reasonable fitness, consume the necessary sustenance for survival and sleep.

Why are you doing this?

Because the pattern must be obeyed.

Why?

The answer would have no meaning for you. All you need to remember are three words—obey the pattern.

How long do I have to do this?

There is no end.

Who are you?

I am the pattern.

I couldn’t type. Power over my hands returned but I had nothing left to ask. Nothing I could think of. My head felt as if it had just been struck with a hard object. Under my shirt, sweat had coalesced. When I pulled at the collar, a straight line of cold ran down my spine.

* * * * *

Waiting in the doctor’s office, I cupped my palms over my knees, shut my eyes and rehearsed various chains of words and sentences, but every one broke reason or twisted logic, inevitably betraying my sanity. The doctor, a gaunt woman with round glasses, entered and we greeted each other.

“How can I help you today?” she said, looking not exactly at me.

“Okay,” I rubbed my legs. “This is going to sound weird, I realize, but…”

My mouth contorted and my words turned into mumbles.

Tilting her head to the side, the doctor waited.

I tried to speak the words, but my mouth didn’t cooperate. I’d lost control again.

My body coughed a fake cough and then said, “Ahh…sorry. I…I’m actually fine. I’m wasting your time. I have to go.”

My body got up.

No, I thought. That wasn’t me! Please help me! It’s not me!

Conjuring will power from deep inside, I attempted to speak, to shout for help. But the Pattern had taken over and decided to leave the room. The doctor asked something and my body shut the door, cutting her off, and we exited the building. Hurried, the Pattern took me to work.

Why? Why are you doing this? I thought.

Casually, it greeted Alison and my other colleagues with a broad smile. “The traffic today!” it said, twirling into my office like a jackass.

Who the hell do you think you are? My mind screamed. Give my body back! Right now!

Ignoring me, my body carried out the day as normal—even despite my internal screams, my mental cries, my deluge of derogatory insults and violent threats. At the end of the day, apparently satisfied with its work, it bid goodbye to the remaining staff and went home to repeat the same pattern of healthy eating and TV watching as before.

The pattern didn’t relinquish control. Another day went by, then another. A toxic thought poisoned my mind—what if it never returns control? If I could have cried I would have. The days passed, hour after hour, minute after minute, second after second. It became excruciating, not only because of my imprisonment but the sheer boredom of viewing my life being lived.

God my life sucks, I thought, as another round of data entry, bland food, bad TV and banal small talk passed by. The monotony of my job and the depressing state of my life hit me with full force. My body went home to no one. Nothing was waiting for me except the TV, which I sat in front of ad nauseam.

My life accumulates to nothing, I realized. I have nothing. No one would notice if I never got my body back.

At that moment, in the corner of my eye, out of focus, I caught a framed photograph of my son and I on the sideboard. It provided an interval of happiness amidst the misery.

* * * * *

Waking to the sensation of my head turning to the side, I opened my mouth and made a long incoherent sound.

Wait..I did that, I thought. I have control!

Rolling out of bed I ran up and down the hall, jumping and hollering. The ecstasy—my toes curling against the wooden floorboards, my fingers through my hair, my lips against my skin. God it was good. I smacked kisses up the length of my arms and all over my hands, I stretched and breathed and repeated, “I’m back…I’m back!”

At work I wrote an email I felt utterly unable to send. It was to Ben, my son, who I hadn’t seen in seven years. For the most part, my ex raised him. A long time ago they moved to the other side of the country and as a result, I only saw Ben on holidays, but since he turned twenty-or-so, and moved out on his own, we’d grown apart. The last time I tried to arrange a visit, he told me not come and that if I did, he wouldn’t see me anyway. That was seven years ago. We’d exchanged emails for birthdays and holidays but for seven years that’s the only contact I’ve had with Ben. And this morning I’d written him an email asking if I could visit.

The email sat in my drafts folder all day. I opened it and hovered the mouse over the send button.

If the pattern takes over my body permanently I’ll never see Ben again, I thought. With a rush of blood to the head, I pushed ‘send’.

It took two days for Ben to reply, but when he did I was overjoyed. He wanted to see me and in his email he explained how bad he felt that we’d become so estranged. He wanted a new start. A positive start.

I booked everything right away.

At home that night, at my computer, my hands were taken over by the Pattern again:

What are you planning?

I want to see my son.

When?

Soon. Maybe later this month. I’d like to fly there and meet him. I’d need some time off work.

No.

Why not?

It deviates from the pattern.

So what?

If you deviate I will take more time.

How about this—when I get back I’ll follow the pattern for as long as you want. I just want to see my son.

No. Unacceptable. You will follow the pattern as normal.

Why are you doing this to me?

Obey the pattern.

Why?

I stared at the screen. There came no reply. Hitting the keys harder, I typed ‘why?’ over and over, but the Pattern remained silent. Tears streamed down my face. I attempted to comprehend the gravity of the Pattern’s words. Screwing my eyes shut, I bared my teeth, clenched my fists and made a guttural sound. In a flash of rage, I punched the screen.

* * * * *

All the preparations were made. At 8:47 PM my son would be picking me up from Vancouver airport. Packed luggage waited in the trunk of my car. It was nearly time to leave work and catch my plane. Even though I’d booked the cab and packed, the Pattern didn’t give me any trouble. I still retained full control, and this caused a hopeful bubble of excitement to rise in me. Maybe it felt bad for me and changed its mind, I thought. After all, if it knows if I’m happy, I’ll obey the pattern. I’ll do anything it wants when I get back.

Arriving at the airport I checked my bag, claimed my ticket and sat near my gate. Nothing’s happening. I watched the airport staff get ready to board passengers. Suddenly they called my section. I approached the entryway. A film of moisture formed on my hands and they trembled so badly I dropped my ticket. Smiling, with an open hand held towards me, a stewardess picked it up and greeted me. She scanned my ticket and handed it back. I think I thanked her, but can’t be sure—my mind was a wreck. Let me go…please let me go, I thought as I walked down the ramp, a thud of passengers following behind. The door to the plane came into view. An airline host smiled as he saw me coming. My heart jackhammered, my mouth twitched.

He grabbed my ticket and inspected it. I could’ve puked.

“Just down on your left,” he said with a guiding gesture.

I nodded.

“Actually,” I said, “I changed my mind.”

The host threw me a confused look.

For a moment, I didn’t grasp what happened. I said something. But it wasn’t…

My body turned around.

No! I screamed, but no words came, only a feint mumble.

Leaving the plane, my foot halted mid-step. Exerting full mental power, somehow, I gained control over my eyes and when I slid them to the side, saw the edge of the door. My hands grasped it. Impatient passengers shoved past and boarded.

My body froze, immobilized by the tug-of-war in my mind. I refuse to obey. I’m going to see my son. I’m getting on this plane. Let go of me. Let go right now!

The Pattern didn’t relent. As I stood contorted, hugging the side of the airplane door, staff began to ask if I was okay, but only garbled words and low moans emanated from my mouth. Eyes pushed out, muscles shot—it felt like being ripped in two. The airplane staff called security.

If only someone, anyone, would rescue me.

“Helllpp…” I uttered weakly. Tears squeezed out the corners of my eyes when I thought about Ben, because I knew I couldn’t fight any longer. The Pattern was too strong. Exasperated, I let go.

* * * * *

That was a year ago.

Yesterday, the hell I’ve been in finally ended. When I woke up, I involuntarily rolled on my side and did a double take of the room. Watching my fingers curl into a fist by my own will, I cried. Hugging myself into a ball under the blankets, I ran my hands over my arms, legs and chest, sobbing and writhing. Shakily, I swung my legs off the bed and touched the floor. On the first step I fell hard. From a pile of limbs, I unfolded myself, and, with a hand running against the wall, walked up and down the halls of my house, reorienting myself in reality. Having regained my balance, I rushed onto the front yard. Arrested by the brush of wind on my skin, I closed my eyes and felt the sensation of pure freedom. My face couldn’t decide whether to smile or wince. Jolts of laughter burst from me. On my knees, I ran my hands through blades of grass, shut my eyes and extended my body.

After a while, I clenched patches of grass, bent over, and lowered my head.

“I will obey the pattern,” I said, and repeated these words through broken sobbing until the tears would come no longer. A woman jogged by. As much as I craved physical contact, I managed to restrain myself from running up and hugging her.

Day in, day out for a year— I viewed the boring tedium of my life—unable to speak, to move, to feel. The fact I maintained some semblance of a sane working mind is a minor miracle in itself. During my incarceration, the dull monotony suffocated my intellect. I felt dumb. Every cubic inch of my head crammed with stale thoughts.

The Pattern didn’t see or contact Ben—not once. An image of him standing at the airport, waiting for me to emerge from the plane, never left my thoughts. He’ll probably never speak to me again. I’ll probably never see him again. The Pattern won’t allow it. Now I have nothing.

* * * * *

This morning, back inside The Bunker, I sat at my desk stewing over everything that happened and contemplated the rest of my life. A dangerous idea took hold in my mind.

I called Alison into my office.

She greeted me as I shut the door behind her. I took a seat behind my desk and looked her in the eyes with and intense seriousness.

“If I told you something about me, something very strange, will you promise not to judge?”

Silence prevailed and her face transformed from welcoming to expressionless.

I decided to keep talking. “Something is happening to me that I can’t explain. I might be killed just for telling you this.” A wave of nausea hit. “For the past year my body has been possessed. Something called the Pattern, took control of me.” Why is the Pattern letting me tell her this? I searched Alison’s face for understanding, but there was none. She continued to look through me, as if staring at the wall behind me.

“I feel like, very soon, I’m going to lose my mind. Before that happens I wanted to tell someone, anyone. You don’t have to believe me. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be punished for this, probably for the rest of my life. But at least you know. At least someone knows.”

Still, Alison’s face remained totally dispassionate.

“Do you believe me? Haven’t you noticed something off about me during the past year?”

More silence.

“Please, say something.” A shiver went up my spine and shook my whole body.

Alison got up from her chair, turned and walked to the door.

I got up. “Do you believe me? Don’t you have anything to say?”

Opening the door, Alison, with her head turned toward me, looked at me and said in a low voice, “Obey the pattern…”

She shut the door behind her.


Credit: S.R. Underschultz

The post Obey the Pattern appeared first on Creepypasta.

1 view

You Find Yourself in a Tunnel

find yourself in a tunnelReading Time: 2 minutesYou find yourself in pitch darkness. You don’t entirely know where you are, how you got there, you simply don’t remember. Neither, you thought to yourself at that moment, do you care. Your main priority was just to get out of there.

You start feeling your immediate surroundings for something to grab onto — that nauseating feeling of vertigo from wandering in the dark without any surfaces from which you are able to orientate yourself is getting really unbearable. Your hands made contact with a chilly, wet wall, slightly arched at as you move your arm higher. Involuntarily, you let out a sigh of relief; you finally get a sense of direction, a guide.

“Which way, though?”

“You still have one more choice to make: proceed forward, or take steps back?” it said.

You proceed forward.

The voice has been with you for your whole life, but generally, you don’t pay attention to it. However, now that you have nothing else to pay attention to, it becomes all the more pestering, annoying.

As you walk, still with both hands pressed firmly against the wall, what was initially a mere trickle of water transformed into a raging waterfall, gradually though, perhaps too gradual for you to care. You almost felt like you had to continue walking forward, you feared the presence of uncannily human-like demons approaching from the other direction. Water poured on the floor you stood with a loud thud, yet you felt no impact of it on your heels, not even your foot. For some reason, they were numb to it.

“Life is but a walking shadow; a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” it lamented.

“Oh shut it. Even shadows cannot be cast without light.”

It must have been a few hours by now. Days perhaps? You have completely lost track of time. You have been walking in the same tunnel, with the same limited sensations for what feels like an eternity. You are practically stumbling around aimlessly, lost if not for that water soaked wall. Your only purpose was to find the exit, abandon this already abandoned, rotting and constrained tunnel.

Suddenly, as you round a bend, you see a bright beam of hope, a light at the end of the tunnel.

“Do you really want to do this?”

“I’ve walked this far, what else would I want to do?”

“You have cold blood on your hands.”

“Is it wrong if it belongs to no one else?”

“So you really are just going to step into that abyss?”

“It’s extremely bright from where I can see it.”

“You really don’t care, do you? Do you care for them?”

“Who? The things behind me?”

“Don’t act ignorant! You know more than anyone else who they are, and how much they’ll suffer.”

“I know even more that this is my light.”

“Even shadows cannot be cast without light.”

With that, you took the final step off the top floor of your apartment building.

CREDIT : Pointless Sentience

The post You Find Yourself in a Tunnel appeared first on Creepypasta.

1 view