CreepyPasta Radio - The creepiest radiostation online

Monsters Are Better Than Nightmares

Estimated reading time — 12 minutes

I met my girlfriend’s nightmare on the night of our three-month anniversary. It might have just been that point in our relationship — the point when she had grown to really trust me — but it was probably the champagne.

We fell asleep together on her couch and I woke up to the sound of screaming. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was. The scream was so intense, so full of fear and horror, that it shot through me like an electric needle in my spine. I leapt over the back of Kaylee’s couch and I was standing ready for a fight when I realized that it was Kaylee screaming.

She was on the couch with her hands to her sides and her fists clenched. Her skin was ghostly white in the light from the TV and her mouth was open far enough that it hurt to look at. Her eyes were open too, but they were just staring upward, blank and black.

She was still screaming.

I jumped back over the couch to shake her awake and I landed on the empty champagne bottle. My feet went out from under me and I hit the hardwood floor with a meat-slab thud.

The bottle clattered and spun away across the floor.

The screaming stopped.

After a moment, Kaylee’s head poked over the edge of the couch and looked me in the eye. “Danny? What are you doing?” she asked.

“You screamed,” I explained.

She didn’t say anything, but she bit her lip and her head disappeared back over the edge of the couch.

I crawled to my knees and looked over the cushions at her. She was sitting scrunched in the corner of the couch and she was crying.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

She blinked at me and I watched her swallow the tears. “I have a nightmare,” she said, wiping her face.

Something told me it would not be a good idea to say, “So what,” so I kept my mouth shut. Instead, I sat down next to her.

When I took her hand, words started to pour out of her mouth: “In my dreams there’s this little man. He’s horrible — like little gnarled troll with shiny black skin and long, white hair. He crawls up the bed and sits on my chest.” She placed her hand on her sternum as she spoke. “I can’t move, I can’t even whimper. It crawls up to my mouth and — Danny, I swear it sucks out my soul.” She looked at me, her eyes glistening in the dim blue light of the room. “You’re not supposed to die in your dreams but I die every night. And when I die, when that thing kills me, that’s when I can finally scream.”

As I listened to her, the last three months started to make sense. Particularly why she’d never let me stay over. I’d been more than happy to give her space but this…

“Kaylee…” I whispered, “…You should have told me!”

“What?” she asked, wiping her eyes.

I turned and grabbed her shoulders so we were eye to eye. “Anything you need me to do, I can do. I can keep you safe. If you need me to sit up all night and make sure the monsters don’t come I’m your guy. Hell, I’ll sleep at the foot of your bed and be your guard dog.” I gave her a shake. “I’m your guy.”

She stared at me in silence, her dark eyes searching my face.

“Kaylee, I love you, I won’t let you be scared for one second more than I have to. I promise.”

And that’s what we did. I slept beside her that night, my arms curled around her protectively. I felt the rise and fall of her chest and I felt it slow until I knew she was asleep and it was safe for me to fall asleep too.

As I lay there falling asleep, thinking angry thoughts about what I would do if I could get my hands on that creature, I could have sworn I heard the scritch of tiny feet on the floorboards beneath the bed.

Kaylee and I had known each other for two years before we fell in love at first sight. I moved to Oregon in 2012 and got a job at a little factory. I’m not going to name names, but we make fruit baskets. She was a receptionist and the first person I saw on my first day. Every day, for six hundred days, I walked past her desk and we said hello and generally ignored one another.

A day of angry, pounding rain changed that. The road to the office had become a river. I saw a little, metallic-blue Honda abandoned on the shoulder and Kylee, drenched and wretched, hiking along the road with her head down and her dark hair a dripping sheet over her face. I had to pull over — I couldn’t leave her like that.

After work, it was natural to ask after her car and to offer her a ride when I learned it was in the shop for a week. The next night, it seemed just as natural to ask her to dinner first.

I’d started our relationship by protecting her, and I think that was why it was so easy to make the promise to protect her from her nightmare — but I didn’t know that it would be an impossible promise to keep. Every night, I lay beside Kaylee listening to her breath and waiting, then, just as the world started to disappear behind the swirls of purple and red behind my eyes, she would scream. Twice, I stayed up all night lying beside her and both times she slept through the night. But if I fell asleep for even a second I woke up to Kayle screaming.

Last week, I talked her into going to see a doctor. She didn’t like the idea at first. Her parents took her to doctor after doctor when she was a kid and nothing worked, so she reasoned that nothing would work now. It wasn’t easy, but I convinced her that maybe medical science had made some advances since she was in pigtails and PJs.

And I was right. We talked to this blonde psychologist with a permanently scowled face and horn-rimmed glasses. She gave Kaylee some pills that she said might help. Well, they helped…in a way. I guess — this is what the angry psychologist told us — everybody is paralyzed while they sleep. It’s something our body does to protect us from flailing about in our dreams. For some people, people like Kaylee, the paralysis lasts after we wake up. She would wake up and not be able to move and then her still-dreaming mind would conjure a little creature that was the cause of her paralysis.

The pills kind of turned the paralysis off, as I understand it, but they came with a warning. “Pills may cause you to move in your sleep.”

The first night she took the pills, she didn’t dream about the monster.

I did.

I woke up to a pair of swirling green eyes, peering at Kaylee out of the dark at the foot of her bed. He inched toward her and I saw a black shell that glistened in the dim light from the window. A mane of white hair stood up on top of a face that nearly human except for a hooked, witch’s nose. He reached out with a tiny hand and a clawed finger and touched Kaylee’s foot. She groaned and rolled over in her sleep and he jerked back in surprise.

Then those green eyes turned toward me. He crept forward slowly, inching his way over the foot of the bed. His claws snagged on the blankets as he moved toward me. I felt him touch my feet with a hand as cold as snake’s blood and I wanted nothing more than to jerk away, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t blink. I couldn’t twitch. I couldn’t shift or kick as he crawled up my leg. I wanted to scream as his claws caught the skin on my chest and I wanted to cry when he leaned over my face and grinned with a hundred little needle teeth.

Kaylee saved me. She rolled over in her sleep and slapped me in the face. I woke up midway through falling off the bed. All the blankets came with me and I fell in a tangled pile.

I stayed still for a moment, remembering the dream, until Kaylee’s head appeared over the edge of the bed.

“What happened?” she asked.

“You thwacked me,” I told her, feeling the side of my face. It hadn’t just been a light tap. It felt like she’d punched me. She apologized about a hundred times as I got back into bed. I told her it was okay but I was distracted.

I could have sworn I saw something under the bed. A pair of green lights that faded into the shadows almost as soon as I saw them.

The next morning, Kaylee and I had a fight on the way to work.

“– You don’t think I’ve tried to get help before?” she demanded.

I swerved around a little white sedan and pulled into the fast lane. The ancient, blue Chevy I drive doesn’t have much on maneuverability, but it’s imposing and people usually get out of my way.

“I don’t know — you won’t talk about it!” I said back — a little louder than was strictly necessary. “But I do know that you don’t quit therapy after one session.”

“Fine!” Kaylee yelled, much louder than me. “You want to know? You want to know how my screaming in the middle of the night would wake up my parents? How I slept with a nightlight until college? You want to know how my parents took me to the doctor and the doctor accused my dad of abusing me? That the doctor blamed it all on stress and the only way a little kid could be stressed out was if my dad was…I’ve had night terrors for a long time, Danny. I dream about a little creature that sits on my chest and sucks out my life. I feel myself die every damn night!”

She didn’t say anything else and I didn’t know what to say.

Kaylee looked at me and, very quietly, said, “Go ahead and do it Danny, we both know you’re going to.”

“Do what?” I asked. It was hard to keep the frustration out of my voice.

“Break up with me.”

I didn’t say anything. Instead, I pulled the truck over against the curb in front of the office. I put my hand on her leg before she could climb out and waited until she was looking at me before I spoke, “I’m here Kaylee. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. What the hell else do you want from me? I just…” I paused and looked my girlfriend in the eyes. “I feel like you shouldn’t be able to be that afraid when I’m there. I should be protecting you. I’m supposed to make you feel safe.”

Kaylee hung for a moment with her hand on the door handle. Then her face turned hard and she opened the door. “I’m sorry my being insane hurts your feelings, Danny,” she said as she jumped out.

There wasn’t much of a point in staying at Kaylee’s that night so I slipped by after work to grab a few things and went home. Kaylee was going to get a ride with one of the other receptionists. I found three messages on my phone when I got home. The first two were pretty standard apologies, but in the last one she was almost in tears. I started to call her back, but I didn’t have any idea what I would say to her so I turned off my phone and to bed early.

I woke up in pitch dark. I wasn’t sure why so I froze and listened to the room.

Something touched my toe just as I was about to fall back asleep. Something lifted itself over the edge of the bed and sat on my foot. Something that had claws like a rat — a two foot tall rat — touched my leg. I crushed every impulse to look at it, to jump out of bed or to scream like a little girl.

Keep still. Figure out what it is. Then kill it, my own voice said in my head.

One thought lay heavy in my mind. I remembered the sound of scratching and the eyes under the bed. What if Kaylee’s nightmare wasn’t a nightmare? What if it was a monster.

That would be good. Monsters can bleed.

The creature crawled up to my chest with agonizing slowness and I kept repeating to myself, You’re mine. You’re mine.

When the monster reached my neck, I moved.

I shot out of bed with the corners of my blanket in my hands. As I stood, I folded the blanket into a sack and something squirmed and thrashed around inside. I bunched the ends of the blanket in my hands, wound up like I was going for a home run and slammed the creature against the wall.

“You like that, don’t ya!” I screamed and I slammed it into the wall again. “Picking on people when they’re sleeping!” Again. “Messing with my girlfriend!” Wham. “You picked the wrong guy this time, didn’t you?” Thud. “Didn’t you?” Thud. “Not quite as heavy a sleeper as Kaylee, am I?” Thud.

I stopped. The blanket hung limply from my hand, the lump inside was still, but it made little squeaks of protest. I was breathing hard and there were dents in the wall. Blue stained the blanket in a few places.

“One more to grow on,” I said. I kicked the lump and it squealed in pain.

I tossed it on the bed and flipped the blanket back. In a flash of black, the nightmare tried to skitter over the side of the bed. I didn’t let it get away. I hauled it back by its tiny leg and pinned it down with one hand. We stared into each other’s eyes. The nightmare’s eyes were bright green and malignant beyond anything that I had ever seen. Its face was covered in black shell, but now blue liquid leaked out of cracks in its carapace and colored its white hair. The creature looked at me and I let my face slowly break into a grin. I opened my hand and dropped two chalky, yellow pills beside the creature’s cracked face. Kaylee’s pills. The creature’s green eyes followed them, uncomprehending. I punched it in the face as hard as I could. Its shell made a disgusting cracking noise like someone walking across a floor of cockroaches. Then the nightmare screamed. It screamed so loud that I flinched a little and I almost let it loose. But, it didn’t try to get away. It writhed on the blankets and it shrank and shriveled up like a piece of jerky. When it was just a twisted black thing the size of my thumb, it exploded into black dust and ash and, before I could react, the dust was gone too.

I stared at the space where the nightmare had been. I looked around the room at the dents in his wall and the blue goo on the blanket.

I went to the kitchen and got enough paper towels to clean the blue smears off the wall. I changed the blankets and tossed the stained ones in the dumpster outside.

The bed was nice and cozy and there was a smile on my face as I wrapped myself in new blankets.

…And I woke up.

My apartment was quiet and dark. I got up and found the light but when I turned it on…everything was normal. The blankets I had thrown out were still on my bed. The dents in the walls were gone.

My elation slowly drained away and was replaced with a cold pit of frustration.

It wasn’t a monster. It was a nightmare. You can’t kill a dream.

These days, I wake up from my dream where I fight the little monster about twice a week. Some nights I win. Some nights it gets away. Some nights Kaylee wakes up screaming and we fall back asleep together. You can’t kill a dream, but you can share one.


Credit: Jeff Grimm (Official WebsiteFacebookTwitterReddit)

The post Monsters Are Better Than Nightmares appeared first on Creepypasta.

0 views

The Forgotten Screams

Estimated reading time — 10 minutes

I’m a reporter in Southern Oregon. This is the story that you will never read in my newspaper.

It starts with Georgina Hicks.

Ms. Hicks lived in a trailer at the end of the pavement on Oak Street. Not the end of the road mind you, just the end of the pavement. That road goes on up into the mountains where it winds through lumber stands and clear-cuts until it splits into so many nameless stretches of gravel and mud that it may very well never end.

But the pavement sure as hell does — about ten feet from Georgina Hicks’ driveway. Even the rest of Oak Street — the paved parts — isn’t what you’d call urban. Oak Street is mostly private forestland, tree farms and huge houses nicer than anything we’ve got in town. Some of those houses are nicer than city hall.

That’s why there was a place in my heart for Georgina Hicks and her rundown little trailer at the end of the pavement, her gaudy flower beds and her grinning lawn gnomes.

Of course, Ms. Hicks was also the town kook. I regularly saw her name on weekly crime reports with claims of faces staring at her through her kitchen window, lights in the sky above her trailer and figures standing in her driveway at all hours. The local police force — five-man strong, including Jared, the police chief’s nephew, who just answers phones — had an understanding about Ms. Hicks; when those calls about ghostly stalkers and living shadows came through, one of them would head over to the local drugstore and make the trip up the road to deliver Ms. Hicks’ medication.

So, you can probably see why I was tempted to ignore the report when I heard that the police were headed up to Ms. Hicks’ place. It was seven o’clock on a Friday night. I really didn’t fancy driving all the way up Oak Street just to hear another crazy story that would never touch the newspaper.

Then my phone rang. On the other end was Officer Dale Scott, one of the officers who regularly took Ms. Hicks her medication.

“Hey, you’d better get up here. They’ve called out search and rescue. She’s reported a man screaming in the forest.”

I sighed and rubbed my temples. “Dale, you know how she is –“

Then he said something that made the skin on my arms prickle with imagined cold.

“I can hear him too.”

Nobody speeds on Oak Street. Not twice anyway. There are too many blind curves and too many deer. But I gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles as I made my way. The normally empty road was packed with traffic and I followed a pickup truck with five men in orange and neon-green sweaters most of the way up. One of them waved at me in recognition.

I’ve got to know the search and rescue volunteers pretty well in the last few years. Sometimes, I go out with them myself but usually if they’re busy in the woods I’m busy asking questions in town.

I waved back though and wasn’t surprised to see the truck stop next to Dale’s squad car. As I pulled in behind them, I watched them start to jump out of the truck and then, all at the same time, freeze in place and look at each other with horrified faces.

As soon as my engine shut off, I heard it too.

The scream…I’ve thought a lot about the scream and how to describe it. My business is describing things and I’ve never come up with anything to do it justice. It was an undulating, panting scream, like a hundred smaller screams woven together. It was loud. So loud that it sounded like it was coming from the trees right next to the road.

And it didn’t stop. Whoever it was, he never stopped screaming long enough to take a breath.

Dale was surrounded by searchers. The lights on his car played across the trees in surreal flashes. No one spoke. He saw me and shot a questioning glance through the windshield of my car.

Did I want to go on the search?

I shook my head no and watched him give orders to the men before I got out of my car and headed to talk to Mrs. Hicks.

The man’s screams didn’t change or lessen as I walked across the road. Now they seemed to come from every direction. They were joined by the yells of the search and rescue teams as they cried out for the man to tell them where he was.

I had to pound on the trailer door before Mrs. Hicks answered. She was wearing a faded, thread-bare pink robe and her left hand lingered inside the doorframe. I knew she kept a shotgun next to the door.

I’ll spare you the bubbly, saccharine questions I had to ask the woman to get her to speak with me. It’s all part of the job. What I learned was that the screaming had started at sundown. Apparently, she thought it was her “noisy neighbors” again and called the police. It had taken two hours and three more calls before Dale responded.

And there is one bit of the conversation that sticks out to me today. The last bit. Georgina Hicks hanging her head, her greasy, steel-wool hair drooping forlornly as she shook her head back and forth and said, “I know you. I read your stories. You never believed me either.”

I shivered, wondering if maybe there had been something out in these woods all along and that I and everyone else had just ignored it.

At sunrise, the screaming stopped as if it had been cut off. The searchers spent another hour coming the brush, then came back with haggard, stricken faces.

I got some quotes from a few of the searchers I knew before they disbanded and left me alone on the empty road with Dale. The forest seemed to hum with silence after the noisy night.

“Don’t write this down,” Dale told me. “I don’t think there was ever anyone to find.”

When I handed in the story, my editor just glared at me over her glasses and lifted an eyebrow. She asked me if I was feeling alright and I told her that Officer Scott and about a dozen search and rescue volunteers would back up the story.

She was already picking up the phone to call the police station when I left her office and headed home to have a nap before I had to come back in to work.

I wasn’t surprised to find my story heavily edited down into a blurb about search and rescue looking for an unknown man near Oak Street. All mention of the screaming had been removed except that Georgina Hicks had first been alerted to the man’s plight after hearing a scream. I decided that I was okay with the butchering my story had undergone and that, if I’d been more awake, I’d have made a lot of the omissions myself. A small-time local reporter doesn’t have much credit but he has to hold on to what he’s got.

At dusk, I got another call from Dale.

“He’s back,” he said.

I groaned and banged my head on my desk, then got up and found my coat. I was headed out the door when my editor caught me.

“I just got a call about someone else screaming,” she said.

“Dale just called me, I’m headed back up.”

“It’s from River Park,” she said.

Oak Street snakes up into the mountains west of the city. River Park is on the northern edge of the city, almost fifteen miles away.

It’s a small park nestled in a bend in the river mostly full of trailers and campers. There’s an old church just on the edge of the river and then there’s an actual park, the kind with swing sets and benches.

Cars lined the road next to the park and dozens of people stood in a loose clump on the side of the road. They were all hearing what I had heard last night, unending screams of pain and terror coming from empty air.

But it wasn’t a man this time. It was an old woman with a shrill voice cracked by too many years of cigarettes and alcohol.

It sounded like someone was torturing her to death.

I called Dale and asked him to go up to check on Georgina Hicks. He kept me on the phone as he knocked on her door and got no answer.

Georgina Hicks was gone and now there were two voices screaming into the empty night.

My article for the next day’s issue was more circumspect than the first and my editor seemed to be pleased with it, though I wasn’t sure how useful it would be as around thirty people had heard the screaming at the park and rumors were beginning to spread.

I was eating lunch at a little diner in the center of town when I heard the third scream. It began as a hollow noise, something that could have been the wind howling between the trees at the edge of town, but it built and built, fading into existence from a ghostly cry until it was a full, spine-stiffening scream.

This one was male again. It was a piercing, repeating whine, like an animal in pain, but definitely human.

Everybody in town heard it. What few shops and restaurants we had emptied as people came out into the street to look for the source.

There would be no tucking this sound away behind a story about a missing person. This would be big news. This would spread.

This would get picked up by nationwide news.

The newspaper office was only a few blocks away. I had about an hour to get something written up and convince my editor to put it out before TV news from the nearest city came stomping into town.

I had just pushed my way through the doors and was on a bee-line for my office when my editor intercepted me.

“There’s more screaming,” she said.

“I know; I just came from downtown — “

“Downtown? This was out at the high school.”

The local high school was about two miles outside of town because it had outgrown the original building — which is now a grocery store — there was no chance that they had heard the same voice that I had heard downtown.

I never made it out to the high school. By two o’clock, there were a dozen voices screaming throughout the town. I was right that rumors of what was happening reached nearby news agencies. They descended on the town without even the politeness of locusts. News vans dotted downtown. Along with the out-of-town news came out-of-town police. Sheriffs, State Troopers and even a few cars from nearby towns and cities came to “lend a hand.” I’m told that the FBI even sent out a unit, though they never arrived. They were turned back when, just as everyone was arriving, just as TV cameras were setting up to record the sounds, just as other reporters were getting ready to deliver their news…it stopped.

All across town, at — or nearly at — the same time, the screaming just stopped. Heavy silence filled the air. People looked around in confusion and horror. Horror because, somehow, the sudden end of the phenomena was more disturbing that the screams themselves.

After all, someone who is screaming is almost certainly still alive.

My editor and I agreed not to publish the final story. A few news programs went forward with reports of the sounds being heard but with no film most didn’t make it to the evening news. Even when they did, the screaming had become “strange sounds.”

I was happy not to have my story published. It’s not the kind of thing that I want my actual name tied to. But, I’m not happy to leave the story untold, though I don’t have much of an explanation for what the town heard.

What I do have is this: Sixteen people were reported missing after the screaming stopped, including Georgina Hicks. I didn’t hear many of the voices myself, but that one I heard downtown, I’m pretty sure I know who that was. His name was Jason Bellforte and he was nobody. I’d spoken to him twice in my time in the town, once as a witness and once when he was arrested for having a pound of pot hidden under the seat of his truck when he was stopped for speeding. Jason was a local drug dealer. Nobody knew when he had come into town or where he had come from and nobody expected him to stay. Jason Belleforte was a man destined to disappear. Either something from his past would catch up to him or he would go running after something else. It could have been a coincidence that he disappeared on the same day that we heard the screams. It could have been that he heard those same screams and decided that now was as good a time as any to move on. But that voice. That whiny, shrill scream of pain and surprise. That sounded like Jason Belleforte. Jason, Georgina Hicks and the others…they were people with no one. People one step away from already being forgotten. I don’t know what caused it. I don’t know where they went. I just know that something pushed them that final step.

I don’t know why they were screaming. I don’t want to know. I suspect that if I did know, my voice would join theirs.


Credit: Jeff Grimm (Official WebsiteFacebookTwitterReddit)

The post The Forgotten Screams appeared first on Creepypasta.

0 views

They Just Won’t Move

Estimated reading time — 7 minutes

There’s three of them outside, hikers probably. Older maps usually show a route over the motorway behind my house but there isn’t one anymore. I don’t mind them usually, they just walk down and then walk back up a few minutes later and I go and explain the situation to them. I saw these three early so I hoped I could go out and talk to them before they walked down, save them the trip. They looked like a family, one man walking a little bit in front of two women, one just a teenager. The girls were looking at a map while he strode ahead, confident. It was late evening, the sun just barely falling behind the hill. Summer nights like this means the night comes late. I saw them from my window and walked around to my front door quickly. I put my hand on the handle and glanced outside through the glass.

Then I stopped. I stopped because so had they. For a moment, I thought they had just stopped walking to check the map or something but just the glimpse sent a chill through me. Like something was just barely off. Uncanny valley, right? I looked at them a little closer and saw that they had not just stopped, they had stopped mid step. The one at the front had their front leg raised in the air and the other two were weirdly balanced forward, a position that would be difficult to maintain. I assumed they had seen me and were doing some sort of performance, like those street performers that look like statues and maintain poses. Then I spotted it, the thing that had made my skin prickle.

Their map was stuck.

It was somewhere between the adult woman’s hand and the floor. Mid-air. It was not touching anything that I could see and was completely still despite the strong breeze. My mind raced through the options. Wires wouldn’t explain how it was so still. Maybe it was actually solid and only looked like thin paper. Either way, I let go of the handle. If they really were performers, no harm in staying inside and leaving them there. I had neighbors, so even if there was a problem then other people would be aware of it. I rationalized it to myself and turned away, unable to get rid of the throbbing cold in my stomach. I walked into my kitchen, made a mug of tea and sipped it, trying to warm myself despite my already perfectly heated house. I couldn’t help myself. I walked over to the window. They were still there, hadn’t moved an inch. But I was closer now. Looking back, I wish my window had been further away. I wish it was thicker and soundproofed. But is wasn’t. So I could hear them. The walkers were talking.

I could see it now, their mouths moving just a little to communicate enough. It was hard to make out words but the mother and father were talking in an attempt at a calm tone to their daughter. She was sobbing. I felt a pang of sympathy, shame for ignoring them and a rush of fear. I had ignored how wrong this felt before but this was too much. I desperately wanted to go help them, to hug the daughter and tell her was okay. But, I couldn’t. I couldn’t go outside, then it would happen to me. I’m not sure why but I had the overwhelming feeling that the exact same thing would happen to me. It was getting even harder to see them. They had stopped moving as the sun set and now they were only barely visible from the lights in my house. I remembered my neighbors and looked down the street. I could see Moreen next door, she was looking out the window like I was. I tried to get her attention but she was looking at the hikers. I usually avoided calling her, she was nice but always had some new drama going on. She’s just old and bored so she tends to talk a lot but we’ve been vague neighborly friends for a few years. However, I quickly picked up my phone and dialed her number. I saw her turn and walk out of sight before picking up.
“Hello?”

“Hi, Moreen. It’s just me.”

“Patrick, are you at home right now? Do you see those people outside my house? They’ve been standing out there for hours.” It had only been minutes. An exaggerator as always.

“Yeah, I see them. Please don’t go outside.”

“I wasn’t planning to. Bloody travelers would probably beat up an old woman.”

“I think they’re just hikers. No need to be worried. I think they are just…” I couldn’t think of a good reason for why they were acting like that but wanted to assuage her fears. “Well, let’s just try and figure out what they’re doing and if they need help. Just don’t go outside, okay?”

“I heard you the first time. You don’t need to worry about me, Patrick. I’m going to call Albert to see if anyone further down the street saw where they came from.”

“Okay, thanks, Moreen. Talk to you in a bit.”

“Bye, dear.”Click. I looked back out at them, almost impossible to see now. It was only because I knew they were there that I could even make out their shapes. And I could still hear them. They were louder now. I could make out a couple words. Then just one, over and over. Help.

I suddenly cursed living alone, wishing I could at least talk to someone. Maybe if there were houses on the other side of the street, I could at least communicate with the person across the street from me. But it was just open fields. I used to like that view. I looked down the street again. And again, my spine felt like it was crawling out of my body. Maybe I have some sort of ability to spot things that were out of place in just a glance. But something else was wrong. The lights from the houses were out. The only lights that were on were the three closest houses on the right. I looked the other way and they were all on, all the way down the street. That’s how it usually was until much later in the night. I looked back and tried to see details in the blacked-out houses. Probably a power-cut. But why was it just those ones? Weren’t we all on the same grid? Then a flash. The furthest house’s lights just went out. All of them at the same time, like a fuse had blown.

I frantically reached for the phone and tried to call Moreen again, damning myself for not knowing the numbers of any of the further neighbors. It cut straight to an automated voice; the line was in use. I hung up and started pacing, looking out at the two remaining lit houses and glancing at the hikers outside. I couldn’t see them but I knew they were there. The voices were quieter but they were talking still. Could they see me? I had no way of knowing. It was too late now, I should have tried to talk to them earlier. I let out a shriek as my phone burst into life. It was Moreen.

“Moreen? Is that you? Are you okay?”

“No need to shout, I’m fine.” A sigh of relief. Cut short as the corner of my vision flashed. The next house had gone dark. It was only Moreen’s house lit on the right side.

“Did you talk to Albert?” I tried to keep my voice level. I didn’t want to panic her. Maybe it was just a power-cut.

“He picked up but then started talking nonsense. He said his arthritis was acting up, worse then usual. He couldn’t move. Something about a power-cut. He wanted me to call an ambulance, but you know how Albert is. Hypochondriac. I think we should go check on him an-”

Her lights went out.

“Moreen? Moreen! Are you still there?” I could hear her breathing.

“Patrick, something’s wrong. I can’t turn around.”

“It’s okay, Moreen. Just a power-cut. You’re just scared.”

“There’s something scratching.”

“What?” My voice sounded like a child who just heard the monster under their bed talk.

“On my door.”

“That-that’s just your cat.”

“The door is ope-” Then, she screamed. I pulled the receiver away from my ear as the loud, piercing shriek filled the air. I could hear it from the phone and from the house directly.

“Moreen?” I sounded distant from myself. Click.

I’m not sure if I hung up or she did. I looked out my window, trying to see the hikers. They were quiet now. They probably heard it too. I felt like I was in a daze. I stumbled over to my sofa and sat stiffly. My laptop was open next to me, half-finished work on the glowing screen. I deleted it and started typing. I’m not sure why. No one saw this coming; maybe I could warn someone. I typed frantically, fingers moving faster than in all the work I had ever done. Then, a flash, and my lights went out. The only light was the glow of the screen. My fingers could still move, but I couldn’t stand up. I could talk. I know because I screamed.

I dare not make any sound now. My laptop is still plugged in and getting power. This isn’t a power-cut. I haven’t heard the hikers since the scream. I hope they’re okay.

The only thing I can hear is the clicking of the keys. And the scratching at my door.


Credit: Paddy Barrett (Reddit)

The post They Just Won’t Move appeared first on Creepypasta.

0 views

I Never Should Have Cured My Tinnitus

Reading Time: 8 minutes

Tinnitus: a nightmare of a disease affecting millions of people, myself included. How could I best describe this condition? An incessant, nail on a chalkboard screeching that goes on for every minute of every day.

Just imagine never experiencing the true bliss of utter silence.

Maybe it’s not too uncommon to hear a vague ringing, especially for people like me, who had grown up to become an obnoxious teenager with no regard for volume control. Understandably, my parents were not happy about my blasting loud music at all hours, but what kind of teenage rebel would I have been if I listened to my parents?

Ultimately, my punishment would be given years later when I started hearing a faint ringing. At first it was a rare occurrence, but at present day I can’t even fall asleep without the aid of a loud white noise-producing machine. Even then, my quality of rest is debatable at best.

During the early days I was willing to try anything to stop the God-forsaken noise: rainstorms while sleeping, earwax removal, even a small dose of anti-depressants.

Nothing worked.

You’d be amazed how many help groups you can find online, forums for anything; Veterans with PTSD, how to cope with losing a pet, or in my case, how to deal with tinnitus.

I’d looked over the top suggestions on several occasions. Most I had already tried while visiting my doctor, while the rest were mostly scams, better suited for multi level marketing campaigns.

I used to call myself an optimist, so naturally I would return to the forum every other week in hopes of finding a miracle cure. On one particular day I decided to scroll a bit further down and see the less popular suggestions. Among the obvious troll posts and scam cures I found a more click-baitey post that read:

“A weird trick to cure tinnitus.” Nothing more, nothing less.

I sighed and started reading, preparing myself to be disappointed yet again. Still, the instructions were simple enough.

  • Place your palms over your ears and direct your fingers to the back of your head.

  • Put your index fingers on top of your middle fingers and try to snap them, like a drum.

  • Repeat 50 – 100 times.

There were no comments below, as the post was relatively new. Worst case, I would look stupid sitting there by myself and drumming the back of my head.

So I tried it out, snapping my fingers and causing a little drumming sensation.

45… 46… 47… 48… 49… 50… That ought to do it.

I removed my palms from my ears and listened intently.

Nothing.

For the first time in years there was just the pure bliss of silence.

For minutes I just sat back in awe, not believing what I was hearing, or more accurately, not hearing. Had the trick actually worked?

I decided that, rather than enjoying my newfound silence, I would give my brain a well-deserved silent rest. And that’s exactly what I did. I slept like a baby that night, until around two in the morning. I tend to wake up randomly during the night, so it caused little concern.

To my disappointment, but not surprise, the screeching had returned. At best, I had half-expected the solution to be a temporary one. I simply performed the witchcraft-like trick again, and once more the ringing was gone without a trace.

With a sigh of relief I settled back into bed. The sound that had haunted me for so long had been easily defeated by a helpful anonymous person online, and I was content.

Only then did I realize that I wasn’t enveloped in complete silence. Rather, there was something else cowering in the dark, only making its presence known by a soft thump. Could it be my own heartbeat? After all these years, would I now be haunted by a new sound?

I held three fingers on my neck and felt a pulse. It didn’t match the sound in the darkness.

Although I tried, placing the sound proved to be a challenge. With each passing thump I tried to pinpoint its origin a bit more precisely. I went so far as to open every cupboard in my apartment, checked in the hallways, and lastly, placed my ear against the wall.

No sooner did my ear touch the wall before the sound stopped. My heart raced alongside my logical mind. There had to be a simple explanation. Maybe it was been a busted pipe, or one of my neighbors being a prick late at night. No matter the cause, it was time for bed.

In the morning the ringing returned. I figured I could put the noise at bay by performing the trick every six hours. It quickly became a routine of mine to stupidly tap my head when no one was looking, and it worked.

Everything was great, apart from my nightly routine of waking up around two and hearing the same thumping, softly keeping me company in the darkness. Most nights I simply ignored it, but other nights curiosity got the better of me, and I pursued the sound.

Each night I once again failed to locate the sound. I simply couldn’t place it, and I couldn’t be bothered to stay up long enough to figure out when it started and when it ended. I tried to talk my neighbors into investigation, but they scoffed at the idea of waking at such late hours.

Rats were another possibility, but after a quick visit by pest control they assured me there were no rodents living within the walls. In fact, after looking at the building plans, they insisted that it would be impossible for rats to live inside these walls.

As a last resort I decided I would record myself sleeping. I’d heard there were a bunch of apps that only record you if there’s a noise, so I figured it would be ideal for the situation.

I downloaded a free app and went to bed. Just like every night before, I woke up around 2 AM, but decided I would ignore the sound and let my phone do it’s work. I had some ear plugs that came in handy, and without further troubles I fell asleep.

After waking up the following morning, I brewed myself a much-needed cup of coffee and sat down, figuring I could run the recording through audio-editing software to look at the amplitude of the sound waves rather than listening through it all.

The thumps started around midnight, and kept going for several hours. Aside from that, I mostly found sounds of myself shifting around in bed.

However, at 3:30 AM there was a short pause consisting of complete silence, as if every sound had been erased from existence. It was not more than a minute before the sound returned, but it was no longer a soft thumping. It sounded more like whispering, just incomprehensible voices talking to no one in particular, raspy and tired.

I couldn’t make out what was said on the recording; my phone wasn’t exactly a technological wonder. In fact, I had no interest in finding out. If anything, I would have preferred to leave the apartment and forget about the whole thing, but being a poor student without any nearby family I had no other option than to stay put. Besides, I still thought there might be a logical explanation.

After some hesitation I came to the ridiculous conclusion that if I could hear the actual whispering, I could probably locate the culprits. So when night came, I went to bed, fully expecting to be awoken at the usual time, and from then I would search for the source of the noise.

2 AM rolled around and I was awoken by the familiar, eerie thumping. Where it had once been a welcome, intriguing part of my nightly routine, it had now become a dreaded enemy. It was relentless, not stopping for a single second, and as before, I had trouble identifying the exact location it was emanating from. Like an auditory illusion, it seemed to echo throughout the room, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.

At precisely 3:31, the sound abruptly came to a halt. I held my breath in anticipation, waiting for the mysterious voice to start talking.

As expected, the whispers began. Unlike the thumps, however, I could immediately discern their origin. They came from the wall directly behind my bed. I knew there couldn’t possibly exist anything behind the wall. No apartment nor crawlspace, just a concrete barrier separating my room from the outdoors. I crawled onto my bed with caution, as if approaching a wild animal, and carefully pressed my ear to the wall.

The whispers started to become more focused, morphing into a single understandable phrase.

“We know you can finally hear us.” It sounded like several broken voices merged into a singular entity.

I jolted back on my bed, where I remained frozen in fear.

“Thank you for letting us in,” the voices continued before falling silent.

I began to feel faint, and it took me a while to realize I hadn’t been breathing for quite some time. I forced a gasp, bringing air into my lungs, and tried desperately to calm down.

While trying to come up with a plan the thumping returned, only this time I heard exactly where it came from. The soft steps turned into loud tearing along the inside of the wall.

It moved with each step, working its way towards the hallway outside my bedroom. I could vaguely make out a shadow beneath the door as it moved past it.

I always keep my bedroom door locked, a habit formed during my time spent living with intruding family members, but I knew that wouldn’t stop whatever abomination I had let lose simply by acknowledging its presence.

The creature started knocking on the door, a playful thump with each knock, one I had become accustomed to over the past few weeks. It spoke to me with its now familiar, broken voice.

“It’s too late to lock us out now,” they said.

“W-what do you want?” I stuttered back. “W-w-what are you?”

“We are the Acolytes. We just wanted to be heard. We’ve waited so long.”

It struck the door, and small cracks appeared around the hinges.

“We have always been here,” the voices cried in unison. “Why are you afraid?”

Another violent punch, and the upper hinge broke off the doorframe.

I would have called the police, or anyone for that matter, but had inconveniently left my phone in my jacket pocket. So I threw on whatever clothes I had lying on the floor and clambered out the window, and down the fire escape. I wasn’t taking any chances with whatever was on the opposite side of my door.

As I made my descent, I heard my bedroom door splinter.

“Where are you?” the things yelled. “We have come for you!”

I never looked back.

After my escape, I made my way to a nearby gas station and used their phone to dial the police. I told them, without going into specifics, that there had been an intruder in my apartment, and explained how I had fled down the fire escape. When they checked the apartment, however, there was no one to be found. The door to my bedroom was shattered, but there were no other signs of forced entry, and no indication that anything else had been damaged or stolen. To make matters worse, my apartment’s overall state of disrepair made it difficult for the police to accept my story at face-value.

They had to break down the front door to get in, and I knew my landlord would be pissed, but I didn’t care about that. After a very brief investigation, which involved checking the security camera footage to confirm that no one could possibly have entered my apartment, I was let off with a warning not to prank call the police again. Another cop offered me the number for a local psychiatric facility.

While the police were there I grabbed a bag and filled it with the bare essentials. I left that night to return home to my parents, intending to spend the rest of the night at the train station.

I’m never returning to that place. I’ve called my landlord and explained that they can keep my deposit, along with whatever stuff I left behind.

A few days passed after I left the apartment behind. Before long, my tinnitus returned, louder than ever… and at first, I couldn’t have been happier about it. By allowing myself to hear the entities, I had inadvertently let them in. I accepted my condition as a bittersweet blessing, as it hid the things that go thump in the night. And if I couldn’t hear them, they couldn’t find me either.

Unfortunately, my relief proved to be short-lived.

As it turned out, the ringing was no longer enough to silence the voices.

Last night, I woke up to a strange sound at 3:31 AM.

“We found you.”


Credit: Richard Saxon (FacebookReddit)

The post I Never Should Have Cured My Tinnitus appeared first on Creepypasta.

0 views

I’ll Never Listen to ASMR Again

Reading Time: 6 minutes

The last few weeks have been a nightmare. A terrible, terrible nightmare. I’m still pinching myself every now and then, hoping to wake up. Sadly, it only leads to the skin of my arms being extremely red.

I guess I’ll just start by introducing myself. I’m a father of two, a husband to a lovely wife. That may seem like a great life to some, but to me, even though I love them dearly, it’s been incredibly stressful. You see, I’m a construction worker. I never went to college or high school because I wanted to pursue a career in music (which didn’t turn out so well, obviously). 9 years ago, I married the love of my life. 8 years ago, we had our daughter. 5 years ago, we had our son. 2 years ago, my wife, who used to be a high school teacher, lost the use of her legs in a car accident that killed her sister. She was driving from her mother’s birthday party, which I didn’t attend because I was taking care of the kids (my wife doesn’t trust babysitters ever since that one episode of The Simpsons). It was late at night, both her and her sister had a bit too much to drink and, well… the doctor said she could never fully recover.

The medical bills have been insane, and I haven’t been able to pay them with my income. I can just feed my family every day, but only just. I’ve been stressed out the last 2 years. I do get panic attacks sometimes when I think too much about it. I’ve also been sleeping very badly the last 2 years.

A friend and colleague of mine knows this about me. He’s a great guy, helping me and my family out whenever it gets too rough. He knows I’ve been dealing with a lot of stress. He says he can see it taking a physical toll on me. One day, he came with a recommendation. A new phenomenon he read about, or so he said (he probably is too embarrassed to say that he just enjoys listening to it in his downtime). ASMR, short for “autonomous sensory meridian response,” though he just called it “tingly goodness.” He told me that it was a great stress-reliever, that it worked for him too. He gave me simple instructions: go to YouTube, question myself what has given me the “tingles” before, and search for it. That night, I decided to do as he said, because I’m pretty desperate for stress relievers.

I thought about what gave me those “tingles” before. I remembered my grandmother, who used to whisper in herself as she got older (God knows why), which gave me those “tingles” my friend described. So I typed in: “Whisper ASMR.” I clicked the first video and it worked its magic. Tingles all over my body. I searched for more videos, and more, and more, until I got addicted. And the next night, I did the same thing. I listened to ASMR until I got a bit desensitized. I kept clicking videos, but they were having no effect on me anymore.

At least, until I found a video by a channel called “Heavenly Whispers ASMR.” The video consisted of a girl with her strange microphone with two ears on each side, who was wearing a black top, had black hair, and didn’t reveal the part of her face above her red lips. Her whispers were magic, although unintelligible. I probably sat there for hours listening to the videos of this mysterious girl. Luckily, she had a lot of videos on her channel. The tingles were intense. I was in heaven, floating away from all my troubles. I almost fell asleep behind my PC. I got up and went to bed once I saw that it was 1 AM already.

Lying in bed, I was ready to go to sleep. I closed my eyes. Now, normally, there’s silence once you’re the last in your home to go to sleep. However, once I closed my ears, I heard whispers. Unintelligible whispers. Confused, I opened my eyes again. The whispers were gone. I was pretty convinced that I heard those whispers, just as I heard them when I was listening to that girl’s videos. Closed my eyes and heard the whispers again. I tried to ignore them this time. Who knows, maybe there was a logical explanation. There had to be.

The next morning, the whispers were gone. I really longed for them again, however. So, on my way to work, I put in my earphones and listened to her videos. I was really addicted and listening to them a lot didn’t lessen the tingles. The 50th video was still as effective as the first. On my way home, I listened to it again. It got me in a pretty good mood, actually, which was something my wife noted when I came home. I just felt so incredibly happy.

That night, I listened to some of her videos before going to bed again. These ones were a bit different. A lot of “sss” sounds, almost snake-like. They were incredible, but I couldn’t help feeling pretty uncomfortable when I went to sleep. Pretty paranoid, for some strange reason. And once again, when I closed my eyes, I heard the whispers. However, when I opened them again, they didn’t go away. It was pretty scary, looking around the room but hearing those unintelligible whispers right in my ear. They didn’t disappear the next morning either. I was eating breakfast, not hearing my wife or kids through the whispers in my ear. At the construction site, they blocked out the loud noises of the machine. On my way to and from work, I put on the loudest rock music I could find, but the whispers were still louder. I was getting pretty annoyed. I remember having a pretty short fuse once I got home, which scared my children and caused my wife to be worried about me. That night, I tried to flush out these whispers with different kinds of ASMR: fabric cutting, tapping, and such stuff. However, I had no success. The whispers in my ear where still there, all through the night, and the next morning too.

The next day, something happened that gave me goosebumps. I came home from a long day of work, annoyed with the whispers, when my kids came out to hug me once I got out of my car. We went inside, I cooked dinner (as usual), and then I went to my PC again to look up some solutions for the whispers. That’s when my son came to me with a question that really confused me. He looked at me, very confused, and asked, “Daddy, who was that woman in your car?”

Now, that’s a pretty weird question since there was no woman in my car, so I asked him what woman he was talking about. “The one with the black hair,” he responded.

I was pretty confused, but I assumed it was just some weird game or whatever. He just kept asking, however. “Daddy, the woman with black hair and the red lips.” I got goosebumps once I heard him say that, but I just responded by saying that there was no woman in my car and that it was his bedtime.

That night, I was trying to sleep despite the whispers, when I heard the door to my bedroom open. Curious, I raised my head and looked in the direction of the door, where my daughter stood.

“Hey sweetie,” I said quietly, “what’s the matter?”

She just stood there, however, and I could see that she was crying.

“What’s wrong?” I asked again.

“There’s… There’s someone in my room,” she responded.

“Everyone’s asleep honey, there’s nobody in your room.”

“There is. A woman. She’s been saying things.”

“What’s she saying, sweetie?”

“I don’t know. She’s whispering.”

Now, if you ever wanted to see a grown man almost shit his pants, that would have been your chance. I couldn’t sleep that night. Not just the whispers interrupting the silence, but the whispers reminding me of what both my son and daughter told me today. I’ve never felt so strange. I felt like I was a kid again, afraid of the dark and the monsters under my bed. I got goosebumps all over my body, especially my legs.

That night was horrible. I called in sick that day, because I didn’t sleep at all and was feeling ill because of it. I’m pretty sure I would have fallen asleep behind the wheel if I drove to work today, or that I would have killed someone with some tools because I was so frustrated at everything and everyone. I asked my neighbors to take the kids to school, while I was in bed all day, trying to get some sleep. But my thoughts were clouded with confusion and fear.

I can’t remember when exactly, but I finally fell asleep. In my dream, the whispers continued and I saw her red lips and black hair. I woke up, sweating. It was dark both inside and outside. Downstairs, I could hear my neighbors talking, probably helping out while I was trying to get some sleep today. I heard my wife talking and laughing, which was strange, because I could feel an arm on my chest. I could feel a warm breath in my neck. I could hear the whispers coming from the same direction as the breath.

I looked into her dark face, with her red lips, and her blue eyes. I screamed and ran out of the bedroom, downstairs, almost falling of the stairs. I really couldn’t explain what happened to the neighbors, my wife, or my kids. It was pretty embarrassing, but I didn’t feel embarrassed. I was scared.

It’s been six days now since this occurred. I can still hear the whispers. I’m not sure if I’ll ever get rid of them. And I’m pretty sure I’ll never get rid of that feeling that I’m never alone. There’s one thing I’m sure of: I’ll never listen to ASMR again.


Credit: Robert Boelhouwer (Reddit)

The post I’ll Never Listen to ASMR Again appeared first on Creepypasta.

2 views

Listening

Reading Time: 14 minutes

I didn’t know my uncle too well. Which I guess is why I couldn’t shed even a single tear at his funeral. I had only seen him for a few occasions in my life, and most of them was when I was six. He seemed like a nice guy, but even back then, I could see something… different in his eyes. I just didn’t know what it was.

When I was fifteen, I could clearly see that loneliness had consumed him. Which eventually lead him to taking his own life. Alive one day, gone the next. Nothing but a pale face and an empty bottle of pills lying on the floor of his living room was found.

My dad says it was because of the divorce, but my mother persisted that it was because neither she nor the rest of my uncle’s relatives ever cared to check on him for several years, even on the holidays. Almost like he didn’t exist.

I felt guilty myself, but I knew that there was nothing I could do.

Mom cried a lot that day. After the funeral, she would go and visit her brother’s grave every chance she got. Often bringing flowers and candles to pray for his peaceful passing to whatever was waiting for him.

I had to join her after school most of the time. I didn’t know if I liked going to the cemetery everyday, but I respected my mother for trying to make amends over past mistakes. At least, enough to ignore everyone that called me the “Cemetery Girl.”

After a week or so however, I did see someone who’d better fit the role of “Cemetery Girl.”

One sunny afternoon, I spotted someone who was doing… something by the gravestones. I didn’t know what she was doing at first, but already, she was giving me an odd first impression, mostly because of the long stuffed and striped rabbit ears she had on the hood of her jacket. I never did get how fashion worked, but I knew something like that wouldn’t slide easily.

I didn’t pay her much attention until the following week later. She was a lot closer to us now, and I could clearly see what she was doing. Beside the tombstone, she was placing her head down on the ground to one side, as if she was listening for something. She didn’t care if the graves had concrete slabs or simply bare dirt.

Every time I saw her, she would place her ear on a different grave, and each time, a lot closer to my uncle’s. I got a better look of her, clearly seeing the rabbit ears were just one part of her surreal wardrobe. Her jacket bore the same pink and white stripes, and I also noticed the over-sized green button in between the two ears, looking almost like an eye of a doll or something. I could clearly see a happy smile lining up on her face, like she was enjoying whatever it was she was doing.

I tried not to think too much of her, but as time went on and she got closer to us, I couldn’t help but notice her presence more and more.

One day, I decided to talk to her myself.

I constantly switched from looking at my mom and to the strange girl ahead; now only about six graves beside us. My mother was still busy with setting up the candles. The lighter she used wasn’t cooperating.

“Hey, mom, can I… go look around the place for a bit?” I asked, not really sure if I should mention the strange girl or not, even though I knew she had been seeing her as well.

She made a weird face, which was understandable. “Okay, just… don’t do anything stupid. And don’t go too far,” she told me.

I nodded, and headed off.

When I got up to the weird girl, she still had one ear on the ground. Once she took notice of me, she immediately stood up. “Hi, there!” she said gleefully, throwing her arm in the air.

“Yeah… hi,” I replied, giving her a wave with less than half of her enthusiasm.

There was a brief moment of silence between us, an uneasy feeling washing over me as the awkwardness settled in.

“So… what are you doing here, exactly?” I finally managed to ask.

“Oh, nothing special. Just listening in. It can be pretty boring sometimes, but it’s fun when you hear them!”

I was confused to what she had just said. “Hear who…?”

She didn’t say anything. She only knelt down on the ground again, and motioned for me to do the same. I hesitated…but eventually I did. I felt the wet soil soak through my jeans, making it all even more uncomfortable to move.

Her ear was pressed against the ground of a “Wilbur Whately, Sr.” tombstone. The look on her face kept changing constantly; changing from bored to looking like she was really close to bursting out laughing.

…and she eventually did, raising her head in the process.

“Ha, ha, ha! Sorry, sorry, I don’t think you’d wanna hear this, he-he…” she vaguely stated. I did not understand her at all, and I was beginning to think that it might’ve been a bad idea approaching her.

She stood up again, dusting off her skirt. “Come on! I know a better place for you to start!”

“I… I don’t know,” I said, standing up myself. “I’m not supposed to wander around too much.”

“It ain’t that far from here, I can promise ya that. Right about…” she spun around, putting her hand above her eyes, almost like a sailor scanning the sea for dry land. “There!” she pointed to another grave I couldn’t quite distinguish. True to her word, it didn’t seem too far from us. I didn’t think it would land me in trouble at least…

“Okay, if you say so.”

She led the way, passing by three different rows of concrete slabs with the names of the deceased etched on the headstones beside them, and moving on to the one at the far left corner of our block. From where we were, I could see my mom, kneeling down and still busy praying.

I looked at the tombstone that stood beside me. The name was slowly fading away, “Mitchell” being the only thing I could clearly make out of it.

“Mitch here can be a real wallflower, but when he starts talking, you won’t believe how kookie his stories can be!” she remarked before kneeling down.

I did the same right as she bent her head down on the concrete slab. She listened in for about half a minute, before sitting back up right with a giggle.

“Yup! That’s Mitch, all right! Okay, it’s a little tricky at first, but it’ll be worth it! Trust me.”

“Sure, okay… what should I do exactly?”

“Just get your good ear out and listen! Oh, and uh… just make sure there isn’t anything that can… you know, crawl into your ear and stuff. Believe me, you do not want that, heh…”

This was probably my last chance to get up, make up a lame excuse and run away, but I still decided to press on.

Staring down at the concrete, I asked myself a question, a boatload of questions, really. Was I really going to do this? Listen in on someone’s grave for some currently unknown reason? With my own curiosity being the only thing that drives me to do so?

And then there was that one question…

What was I going to hear if I did?

I placed my two hands on the cold slab and slowly lowered my head, putting my left ear down. Hearing the same bubble-like sounds you’d hear when you cover your ears.

I stayed like that for a few minutes, hearing nothing out of the ordinary.

“I can’t hear anything,” I said, taking my ear off the slab.

The girl in front of me looked a little confused. “Maybe… give it another try?” she suggested, tilting her head to one side.

I did just that, and still there was nothing. “It does sound hollow, though… but I guess it is a grave after all.”

She didn’t look upset. More like she was thinking of something that might help; arms crossed and her right index finger on the tip of her chin like something a cartoony detective would do.

“Maybe you’re not using your good ear?” she suggested, pointing to my right ear.

I shrugged. “I’ll give it a shot, I guess.”

Pressed down with my right ear this time, I listened in again. I took the time to focus my hearing on that side, blocking out anything the other side picked up.

“I’m… still not hearing anything,” I said, my head still on the slab. “Sorry.”

“Try giving it a little more time. Maybe that’ll help.”

I followed her request. I wasn’t really aiming to find out if there really was anything to hear anymore. It was strange, but I was somewhat enjoying my time with her. She was odd in many different ways, but she was undoubtedly friendly despite my being a complete stranger.

Another few minutes pass, and still, I heard nothing. I lifted my head up and shook my head. I could see she was back to her thinking stance. She had a puzzled look on her face, a slight hint of disappointment mixed in. A kind of face that I’ve seen a lot from my mother these days.

“Hey, what’s your name anyway?” I asked, snapping her out of the trance she was in.

“Oh, I never told you?”

I shook my head again, which in turn made her comically bonk the side of her head. “Ah, sorry! He-he, guess I got too caught up in the moment.”

She stood up on her two feet and extended her hand out to me.

“The name’s Amy! Amy Dall!” she exclaimed.

I got up myself and shook her hand with mine. “My name’s Charlotte, Charlotte Harris.”

As soon as I said my name, her face lit up with awe. “Ooh! Ya got a pretty name there, Charlotte!”

“Heh, t–thanks.” I wasn’t used to hearing compliments, at least not anymore. It felt a little embarrassing to hear one out of the blue.

“Hey, uh… do you wanna be friends?” I found myself asking out loud.

She looked a little confused at first, before a cheerful look returned to her. “Aren’t we already?”

“I mean… I suppose so,” I said sheepishly.

“Then I’m pleased to have met ya, Charlotte!”

She held her hand out towards me again, this time with only her thumb raised in the air. I couldn’t help but laugh a little at how silly she was, and yet, I did the same thing myself. “Nice to meet you too!”

“Welp, might have to call it a day, unfortunately,” she suddenly stated, turning around and starting to walk away. “I get a little busy at this time of the day. Thanks for talkin’ to me, Charlotte! I really appreciate your company. Be seein’ ya!”

“W–wait!” I said, stopping her in place.

“Hm? What is it?”

“I, uh…” I didn’t know why I even thought of it. But I did, and eventually I said, “Maybe… I could try listening in again?” I pointed my finger down on the grave we were messing with earlier.

A large grin spread across her lips. “Ha, ha! I knew you’d be up for it!”

She walked back towards me and knelt beside the tombstone once again. I did the same on the opposite side, and positioned myself.

I didn’t really expect to hear anything that time around either. But nevertheless, I still felt a familiar twinge of fear running through my system. Leaving me to ask myself again, was I really going to do this?

“Weeeeell? Come on and face the music, honey! We’ll never know if ya hear anything if we don’t try!” Amy announced, and she was sadly right.

My eyes darted back and forth from my new companion to the slab in front of us. I highly doubted that anything different would happen, yet the sense of dread inside me was still there, further expanding as I hesitated.

I placed my two hands on the concrete again.

I took in a deep breath, and finally lowered my head down.

Five whole seconds passed… nothing.

Ten more seconds… nothing.

Eight seconds…

Five more seconds… still no–

My eyes opened in astonishment.

I… I heard something. At first, it just sounded like something was moving on the slab above with me, but after letting what I heard sink in, I had a weird feeling that told me it was coming from below me.

I heard it again, a sound along the lines of a faint muffled scratch below. How is this even possible? I thought to myself. I was hearing something from below a grave. A grave that probably had several layers of concrete or dirt below the slab, and I was hearing something? And it sounded like it was getting… faster?

I couldn’t tell what I was hearing. It sounded like random scratching, but even that I wasn’t sure of. It was too far away for me to tell.

Beads of sweat went down my forehead and onto the slab. I could feel every single hair on the back of my neck stand on end every time I heard the strange noise that seemed to have come from below me.

What was happening?

What was I hearing?

And how the hell does someone like Amy knew about this?

It took me a little while, but soon I realized that this sound was indeed getting closer. Getting louder.

The scratching…

No… it wasn’t so much like a scratching noise anymore.

Faintly, I could make out what sounded like… words? Words that formed a sentence I couldn’t quite decipher just yet. It was… a voice. A very hoarse one at that, like someone had been screaming for the past hour or so.

Doonn…sssst…errr…eyy,” was all I could understand at first. But as it got closer, more of the words started to clear up.

Doooon…err…ssst…rrrr…away…don’t…rrr…ssst…err…

…don’t…rrr…ssst…errr…rrr……away…rrrnnn…away…

…awaydon’t…rrr…ssst…errr……run…away…

My blood ran cold hearing the last two words.

Run away? Run away from what? From… from who?

…run…away…don’t…trr…sssst…errr…run…away…

It was getting closer.

Dooon’t…rrr…ussst…errr…run…away…run…away…run away…

It was getting louder, more frantic, more angry.

…run away…run away…run away!

The voice felt like it was only a few inches below me, as if a man pressed his face against the slab and whispered the words up above. Whispering the words into my ears, as I began to understand each word he was telling me:

Don’t…trust…

Just as I was steeling myself for the worst, the voice abruptly stopped. I couldn’t hear anything anymore, not even a hint of the mysterious scratchy voice that was coming from below me.

I listened in for a good long while, but still, there was nothing. The voice was gone.

Frustration made me sit upright, seeing Amy again after what felt like an hour. I forgot that she was even there, and seeing a girl who apparently knew about what I was hearing, and one who had a huge excited grin on her face, only added to the mix of confusion and anger that was boiling up inside me.

“Sooooo?! Did ya hear it? Huh? Did ya? Did ya?!” she asked frantically before I could say anything, biting the tip of her thumbnail afterwards.

“What… what the hell was that?” I asked, in a tone that was far more hostile than intended.

Rather than being offended, she gasped in astonishment, clapping her hands together in joy. “You did! You heard him! That’s so awesome! That is soooo awesome!” She suddenly stood up and began trotting around in circles, constantly repeating what she just said a few seconds ago, doing all sorts of wavy dance-like motions with her arms and legs.

“I… I couldn’t understand it” I commented, still trying to make sense of it all.

She stopped midway of her dance, one leg and two arms in the air as if she had been frozen in place.

“Oh?” she said, turning back to me. She then returned to her thinking stance from earlier. “Hmm… try listening again,” she said nonchalantly.

I was taken aback at how calm she was. Was this what she was hearing on every grave? “I–I don’t know, I don’t know…” I hesitated, my anger soon melting back into a state of fear to the unknown.

“Aw, come on, Charlotte! If ya stop now, you’re gonna up feeling like ya wasted an opportunity of a lifetime!” she exclaimed. “You’re gonna be stuck with this mystery for the entirety of your life! And you’ll never be able to go back!” She started jumping around again, throwing her arms up in the air.

“Unless,” she stopped, holding up her right index finger up like a man who was striking a bargain with someone.

“Unless… what?” I asked, quivering under the weight of the whole scene.

“Unle-eeee-ss, ya put yer ear back down there, and listen again!” she said ominously, pointing to the grave and then tilting her head to one side, cupping her own ear with her hand.

Earlier, I would have laughed at how silly her statements and actions were. But during those moments it felt like she was leading me into doing something that was far more twisted and sinister.

Twisted or not, I couldn’t say that she was wrong.

I stared back at Amy one last time, a look of great anticipation written all over her face, and placed my head back down on the slab. Closing my eyes yet again, I listened in, my entire body shaking from both the ache from straining the neck for so long and the fear that was building up as the silence drove on.

I clenched my teeth, biting at nothing as I heard… nothing. There was nothing. No voices. No sounds. Nothing.

There was no sound for two whole minutes, until finally…

“Charlotte? What the heck are you doing?” I heard my mother ask from behind me.

“M–mom?!” I blurted out, head still down on the slab. I opened my eyes and could faintly see her white pant leg at the edge of my vision.

“Get away from that grave! God knows what sort of people stepped on that,” she scolded me, but I still couldn’t move, a sudden wave of panic and confusion petrifying me on the spot.

“Don’t worry, miss! The graves here are a hundred percent clean!” I could hear Amy say to her.

“Still, get your head off of that. It’s a little disrespectful to the dead, don’t you think?”

Even if I wanted to listen in, I knew my mother wasn’t going to let me. I wasn’t even sure if I really wanted to find out about what the voice was saying. Really, I was glad that she was there to stop me, to drag me back into the normal world.

But just as I was about to pull my head off of the concrete surface, I heard it again…

This time, I heard what he said very clearly.

I jumped back, falling down on the grass as I tried to stop a shout of terror from getting out. “Charlotte! What’s gotten into you?!” my mother exclaimed.

“I–I–I heard… I–I heard it!” I practically shouted out of fear.

My mother, of course, looked utterly confused. “Heard what?” she asked me, her confused stare slowly turning to a look of concern.

“It was… it was…” I was left speechless. There was no way in hell that she would’ve believed me if I told her. I was having a hard time believing it myself.

Giving Amy a hard glare, I expected her to at least help me in the situation. But she only gave me a shrug.

My mother helped me in getting back up. “Well? What is it?”

I could feel my lips still quivering. I didn’t know what to do.

“It’s… it’s nothing,” I said, defeated and disappointed at how things were turning out.

“Okay, well, I just wanted to let you know that we can go home, unless you wanted to do something else with your friend here.”

“No!” I found myself shouting out loud. Realizing what I had done, I felt my face heat up with embarrassment. “I–I mean… we can… we can go, it’s okay,” I muttered a little too fast.

“Uh… alright, so… who’s this new friend of yours again?” my mother asked me, obviously eyeing the strange get-up of the girl in front of us. I wanted to say then and there that she was most definitely not someone I would consider as a friend after what she put me through, but I stayed quiet.

There was a very unsettling and awkward silence for a while, before Amy took the chance to introduce herself. “Amy Dall, dear madame! Just a humble teen trotting along in this journey we call life!” She gave her a soldier’s salute, though she was using her left hand instead of her right.

My mother couldn’t help but laugh at her gleeful antics. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Amy.”

“Likewise, miss Charlotte’s mom!” she replied.

“It’s Charmaine, and I admire your enthusiasm, he-he.”

My mother’s eyes soon darted back to me. “Anyways, we should get going. You need a ride, Amy?”

I was immediately terrified of the thought of her riding along with us, but by some stroke of luck she declined my mother’s offer. “Oh no, no, no! I couldn’t, and besides, I’m more of a running-type’a gal, miss Charmaine! Don’t worry about me!”

“Good to see that you’re still fine with the idea of exercising everyday, unlike some people,” my mother shot me a look, clearly implying the statement was meant for me. But I didn’t care anymore, I just wanted to get out of there.

“Still, be careful around these parts. Get home before dark,” my mother told her, which prompted Amy to give another wrong-sided salute.

“Will do, ma’am!”

It took a while, but we soon said our goodbyes and went our separate ways. Inside the car, my mother kept asking me what I was doing with my “new friend” before she got there. I tried my best to avoid the question altogether, only telling her a half-baked lie that didn’t really make that much sense, one that I can’t even remember anymore.

That whisper…

That one sentence…

What that voice told me still kept swimming around in my thoughts, paranoia building up more and more whenever the memory resurfaced. It made me constantly shiver in my seat the whole ride, up until we got home. Even on the next day, it still had me jumping at shadows.

I tried convincing my mother that I should try to get home by myself. Sometimes it worked, other times it didn’t, forcing me to return to that cemetery with her.

Amy was still there, almost like she never leaves. She would wave at me, the stuffed rabbit ears on each side of her hood bobbing up and down as she did. I tried to ignore her as best as I could, only to fail whenever my mother would see her and eventually wave back.

She never got close to us anymore though, giving me a good reason to never talk to her again. I didn’t know if I should be happy about that, but deep down in my mind I knew I wouldn’t be that lucky for too long.

Over the next few weeks of my life, I still felt an uneasy feeling of dread building up after each passing day. Everything was normal, and sometimes it felt normal, but my life was never the same again. All because of one moment in my life, one sentence that I could never forget.

Mere seconds before I had decided that I’d had enough and stood up, the voice shouted into my ear with utmost clarity:

Don’t trust her! Run away! RUN AWAY!

Hearing that below a grave was bad enough, but my own thoughts gave it a much more horrifying image, one that stuck with me up until I started writing this.

I never really found out who exactly he was referring to as “her” in that cemetery.


Credit: Strange Storylines (FacebookTwitterReddit)

The post Listening appeared first on Creepypasta.

2 views

He Won’t Stop Tapping

Reading Time: 11 minutes

I live in an attic, a small renovated space in a house that’s older than most.

I always pay my rent on time, keep quiet after 9 PM, and am unfailingly polite when I run into my neighbors, which isn’t often.

Every night now, I hear him at my window.

My bed is tucked away into an alcove, and it’s the only place in my studio apartment where you can’t see the single window in the room.

It used to make me feel secure, that there were so few entry points into my home. Childhood trauma had made me weary of large spaces, where not everything could be seen. After I first moved in, I used to comfort myself by thinking of escape routes.

If someone was at my door, I would grab the knife that I kept to the side of my bed, put on the shoes, coat, and purse that I always kept close by, and be out my window in an instant. The screen was easy to remove, and there was an old oak tree I could use to traverse the three stories to the ground, and my car.

In my mind, escape would be relatively simple if it came down to it. I wasn’t expecting it, exactly, but I liked to be prepared.

It never occurred to me that I should have been worried about someone coming from the outside. Stupid of me, really.

To preface and partly explain why it took me so long to realize what was happening, I should you give some backstory. I grew up with a severely mentally ill parent; my mother is not someone I demonize or blame, but I recognize that her rapid mood swings and moments of total dissonance, interspersed with periods of intense anger, gave me quite a few issues.

I am wary of loud noises, and am easily anxious. I’m in my mid-twenties now, but throughout my entire life, I have been prone to bouts of fear and paranoia. Feelings of being watched, and hunted. I could never explain the sometimes overwhelming fear that someone, or something was trying to kill me. Often I would experience very mild and nondescript hallucinations. The sound of footsteps in an empty room, or a vague shadow in the corner of my vision. Things I’m sure everyone notices from time to time, although without the intense fear that follows.

I had become so used to this fear that when it started, I just assumed it my own anxieties. I try to always be logical, and for most of my life, it has suited me well.

But not this time. I can hardly stand to let myself think about what happened.

My therapist said writing about what’s going on in my life might help– I don’t tell her much, and what I do tell her is throwaway stuff. Things that happened to me when I was younger that sound terrible, because it was, but they’re also things I internalized and dealt with a long time ago. I never talk about the current fears and worries I still struggle with. However I figured her advice couldn’t hurt in my situation. If anything, at least it leaves behind concrete evidence of what’s happening.

It’s why I ignored the tapping at first. It was never frequent, and often would only happen every week or so, at least that I noticed. I suffer from insomnia, and often wake up multiple times in the night. As I type, it’s 2:47 AM and once again, I am unable to sleep. Who knows how many nights I slept through the sound, unaware of what was happening only a few feet away from me.

On the nights when I was awake to hear the noise, I would become almost incoherent in my worry. In my head was the constant mantra of, “It’s not real, it’s in your head. It’s not real, it’s in your head.” I would put on the noise canceling headphones my best friend had given me, pull the covers over my head, and try to relax with the knowledge that it was just my anxiety acting up again.

The bad nights were the ones where I would change the channel on my TV that was constantly on– the background noise helped distract me. I knew if I put on something bright and loud, I wouldn’t have any hope of getting back to sleep, so I reserved doing this for the nights when the feeling of dread was so overwhelming I could hardly string a sentence together.

There were even a few times that I would text my friend in the middle of the night to tell him that I felt like something was watching me. I wanted to know that if I was murdered, or I disappeared, someone would be aware something was wrong. I don’t know what difference it would’ve made, really. But it was a comfort to me that someone else knew that I was scared, that I thought something was after me.

It went on like this for months, and in all that time I never actually checked the window.

I was so convinced that what was happening was in my head. I didn’t want to play into my delusions. There are so many excuses I could use; in the end though, I think I was simply afraid to know that I might be right.

At first, tapping seems pretty innocuous. It wouldn’t be too difficult to actually break into my apartment, the window latched, but as I said it’s an old house, and the latch wasn’t the most secure, although I always made sure it was locked. It was that thought, and the fact that I was on the third story, that kept me from actually looking around the small divider wall separating my bed from the window in order to confirm that I was just hearing things.

In retrospect, I blame myself for what I let happen, even though I know that my paranoia saved me in a sense.

I also know that it killed someone, and that’s something I’ll have to live with myself for the rest of my life, however short that may be.

My day-to-day life continued normally for quite awhile, with my nighttime worries were contained solely to those times when I would hear that strange noise.

It wasn’t a tap on the glass, you understand, but an odd little clack. I would convince myself that it must be one of those strange sounds that old houses make when they settle. Maybe a squirrel from the tree that was feeling curious and had jumped onto the some-two feet of slanted roof that was in front of the window, or perhaps a leak in the gutter above.

Curiosity was certainly involved, but it wasn’t a squirrel making the sounds.

One night, the tapping happened to coincide with when I needed to use the bathroom. Usually the nights where I heard the repetitive noise were ones where I was content to stay in bed under my covers. My apartment gets very cold at night.

As I finished washing my hands and started to leave the room I froze when I began to hear that very faint, but distinct tap. It was always very rhythmic, in a way that would be soothing if it wasn’t so out of place. For every second that passed, there would be a quiet little tap that accompanied it.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

You might think the noise would’ve driven me crazy, but it was almost indistinguishable from the hum of my refrigerator, and the soft sound of my television with the volume turned low. The noise would only ever last for a few minutes at most, another reason why I never bothered to investigate it.

However much I could justify not leaning over the three feet it would take to discover the source of the noise, it seemed silly to stay trapped in my bathroom when it was the middle of the night, and I had to work early in the morning. At that point I had convinced myself thoroughly that nothing was actually happening.

Those moments before I learned the truth of what it was are bitter to me now. I was comforted by my own ignorance.

One thing you should know is that when I get up at night to use the restroom, I don’t bother to turn the light on, it’s connected to my room, so the light of the TV is usually enough to navigate by. And as I mentioned earlier, my bed is completely hidden from view of the window.

So after a minute of psyching myself up to leave my bathroom, years of ingrained habit led me to cautiously peer around the edge of the doorjamb.

What I saw, I will never forget.

Instead of the clear view of the night sky that I was expecting, there was a man crouched outside my window, perched on the slanted bit of roof.

As I watched, he repeatedly opened and closed his mouth, his eyes locked on the blank space of wall that I would be behind if I was in bed. The rhythmic motion caused a slight sound as his teeth clashed together, his face a rictus of ecstasy.

Through the pane of glass, the sound was muffled enough that it could be mistaken for a very faint tap.

I think I went into shock in that moment, I certainly froze. I still don’t know if I should be grateful for that, or regretful after the events that followed.

You see, the man never actually saw me as I remained still as a statue, just beyond the door of my bathroom. He must have thought I was still in bed, as I always am.

I think what disturbed me most, beyond the obvious, was his expression of hunger. It was so rapt that I felt a pang of empathy. Something was very wrong with his expression; it reminded me of when my mother would ‘go away’ so to say, and her normal personality would disappear for awhile, in her place would be someone who knew her thoughts and emotions, but it was as if everything positive and sane had left the building. She would twist you up until you felt as bad as she did. She was almost absent-minded in her cruelty, her desire to bring you down to her level.

It was that association that gave me pause, because I had really only gotten a glimpse of his face. I was too scared to look again, and beyond the shadows of his expression, and that terrible chewing motion, his figure had been indistinct in the darkness. I had seen figures in the shadows of my fear before, and I wanted to be absolutely certain that was I saw was real before I made a fuss about it.

I had never liked to draw attention to myself, and after all, if it really was happening, he had never actually made a move to harm me.

My therapist says I normalize things that aren’t healthy or necessarily safe due to my upbringing. Dealing with my mother also made me extremely open-minded when faced with people who seem to suffer from mental illness, including those that came across as disturbing. All my explanations of why I made the decisions I did feel like excuses; it’s a sour taste in my mouth.

One thing was certainly true of his expression; whoever this man was, if he was even real, he wasn’t all there.

So I waited until the tapping, which I now knew to be clacking, stopped. I waited an additional ten minutes before peering around the frame of the door, although I felt little relief when I saw he was gone.

I ran to my bed and immediately texted my best friend, the only one I ever confided in about the noises I would hear, and settled in to wait out the remaining four hours until sunrise. I felt safety in the pattern that had been established, and indeed nothing happened to me that night.

Writing it all down like this makes me feel like an idiot as I think of my choices. At the time though, I knew the police wouldn’t be able to do anything without actual evidence, and I still wasn’t convinced that it wasn’t in my head.

Still, I should have gotten out, found a place to stay for a few days at least while I figured it all out.

Instead, I begged my friend to stay the night. I figured we could stay up and keep out of sight in my little alcove and play tabletop games until the noise started. By this point the noise of his gnashing teeth was happening so frequently that I knew there was a good chance that if it really was a stranger climbing up to my window, it would happen again that night. If it was in my head, I would finally know for sure. If not, knowing how calm my friend was, I thought that maybe he could snap a picture of the man and we could at least get some proof that I wasn’t losing my mind.

By this point, my friend thought I was just hearing things, given my past paranoia, and agreed to stay the night in order to assuage my fears.

He was my best friend, my family. That was the last night I ever saw him.

We played games late into the night, but he was unused to being up at odd hours, and ended up falling asleep at around midnight.

I stayed up and waited, and finally at 3:03 AM I heard it. I had never felt so tense as I shook my friend awake and indicated he should keep quiet.

I knew the moment he heard the tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. The faint sound of teeth clicking together through my closed window.

His face went through a series of expressions– disbelief, worry, and then finally determination. He grabbed his phone and stood up, stepping around the small wall that partitioned off my bed without any sign of hesitation.

I’ll never forget the sound that the man outside the window made. It was a shriek; of agony or excitement I don’t know. It certainly took my friend aback, and before he could bring up his phone to take a picture, the sound abruptly cut off. I rushed over to the window and saw that the man was gone—he must have cut across the side of the house, because I couldn’t see a sign of him, and although it was a long fall, he could’ve easily jumped down to the porch awning below and from there dropped the ten odd feet to the ground.

I would know, I had thought about getting out that way a million times before.

I could tell how shook up my friend was, he never thought this was real. Something about his expression was off, and no matter how many times I questioned him, he refused to tell me what he saw, other than confirming that he had seen a man on the other side of the glass.

We decided to wait it out until daylight seeing as we didn’t have a lot to go on, and in the morning, we would go to the police and tell them what we knew, which was not a lot. Honestly I didn’t even know if what was occurring could be considered a crime.

Once the sun had risen and the stranger had remained out of sight, seemingly gone for the day, my friend declared he was going to go home to change and let his work know he would be late, then he would head back over and pick me up and we would go down to the station.

He lived close, so he said that it would be thirty minutes at most.

He was never the punctual type, so after thirty-five minutes I wasn’t too concerned. After forty with no word, I began to call, and after an hour with no response I had dialed 911.

I must have seemed hysterical on the phone, but the tired operator still tried to treat me with sympathy. She told me that unfortunately there was nothing they could do until my friend had been gone at least twenty-four hours, and that without any evidence of actually being stalked, they wouldn’t be able to do anything for me. She did ask for my address, and told me that she would have patrol cars pass by more frequently for the next few nights.

It was a cold comfort.

At that point, I knew the man must have somehow gotten to my friend. His car had been broken into before, it was one of those older models, and I knew that if I was really being watched, it would have been easy to see my friend pull up at the start of the night. A lot of people, especially guys, don’t tend to look in their backseat every time they get into their car.

We all think we’re safe, until we aren’t.

I called out from work and spent the day driving around the city, going to my friend’s apartment, his job, anywhere I thought he might be. I ended up circling around the city for hours in search of his car, but I couldn’t find anything.

And once the sun started setting, I headed back home.

I don’t know if you could tell, but I don’t have the best relationship with my mother. As soon as I could, I moved away. I never kept many close friends, and after dealing with some medical bills, I don’t have a lot of money to my name. I’m sure I could have figured something out, maybe found a quiet spot to sleep in my car, or even reach out to one of the countless Facebook friends I saw around but never really got close to.

He was the only real family I had left though, and I am angry. I don’t have much else to live for, and I just get so tired of being so afraid. It’s exhausting, to live your life mistrustful of the darkness that lingers in the corner, to feel as if at any moment, something seeks to do you harm.

He disappeared yesterday, and as I wait here in my dark apartment, the TV playing softly in the background, I try not to think of what happened to my friend and the part I played in it. Or of the pained hunger in the man’s face as he stared at where he knew I would be asleep. Most of all, I try not to think of the horrible, distorted quality that his jaw had. I thought it was just my paranoia, but I could’ve sworn that in the darkness I saw his mouth stretch wider and wider with each clack of his teeth, a grotesque maw set against a shadowed face.

Finally, after hours of waiting, I can hear it. It’s a very faint metronomic sound, and if I didn’t know what it was, I would almost think it was soothing.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

I left my window unlatched.


Credit: Collette Akile

The post He Won’t Stop Tapping appeared first on Creepypasta.

1 view