CreepyPasta Radio - The creepiest radiostation online

The Harvard Wormhole Experiment

Estimated reading time — 14 minutes

They gave me a million bucks to keep my trap shut, and I did, for fifteen years. But last night I was making the rounds, and I saw the professor again.

I had a heart attack three years back, and I tell you, when I saw him standing there in front of room 204, I felt another one coming on. He turned and smiled and it was like he hadn’t aged a day in fifteen years. “Hey there, chief,” he said, and that was it. I dropped my clipboard on the ground and high-tailed it out of there, never looking back.

What I’m about to tell you is liable to make me sound crazier than a three-horned goat. But I promise you, there’s crazier things out there.

The cops don’t believe me. The official story is that the professor and those students died 15 years ago. Room 204 just up and exploded, they said. Damndest thing. And there’s some truth there. That room did explode. But it wasn’t an accident. We knew exactly what we were doing. Or we thought we did.

* * * * * *

They call me an “assistant supervisor of maintenance,” but really I’m a janitor and always have been. (You might wonder why I’m still at it after getting that million bucks. That dough is for Junior, so he doesn’t have to go through the same shit that I did.)

The night this happened, I was assigned to the Astrophysics Center, a bit northwest of the main Harvard campus. Until that night, this was always my favorite beat. I mean, God help you if you wound up at one of the biology labs. Those goddamn dead, cut open animals all over the place used to give me nightmares. And really, thinking back, I’d take those nightmares of mutilated and scattered organs any night over the stuff that has haunted me ever since.

Anyway, I was there mopping the hallway on the second floor of the lab building when the door to room 204 opened up and this guy popped his head out. “Hey, you.”

I looked around, to make sure he was talking to me. “Yes? Can I help you sir?” I thought he was going to bitch about the room being a mess or something.

“How’d you like to make a thousand bucks, chief? An hour’s work at most. Easy money. Does that sound good to you?”

It sure did. Things were tight at home, as they always were. A thousand would knock off some of those long overdue bills. But I was also on a tight schedule. They didn’t give you much breathing room. Don’t want you standing around thinking about it all, I guess. “That sounds great, sir,” I said, “but I got to stick to my beat.”

The man laughed. “We’re about to make history, chief,” he said, “and you’re worried about emptying the bathroom trash? Come on, don’t sweat it, you won’t get in trouble. I promise. I’m a professor here. I’ll vouch for you.”

The guy did look like a professor, with carefully combed gray hair and big old glasses on his face. I shrugged, leaned my mop against the wall and said, “Sure. What do I have to do?”

“That’s fantastic! Come on in, chief! Come on in!”

I followed him into the room. One look, and I should have just turned around then and there and told him to keep his damn money. But I didn’t.

As soon as I stepped in, I felt the little hairs all over my body stand up. I don’t mean I was scared. I mean like there was an electrical charge in that room, and I had a guess about where it was coming from. There in the center of the room, on a round table, was a large glass globe, crackling with electricity. Like what you see if you go into a kid’s science museum. Like they somehow created a lightning storm in a glass ball. This one was sort of vibrating around on its stand and buzzing. And the lightning inside was black. I could feel the electricity coming from it, from across the room.

There were four kids there – students, I guessed – sitting in a row of chairs along one wall. More than sitting, they were strapped into those chairs, with metal things over their heads like those big bowl things you see at a hair salon. They all had their eyes closed.

“Uh…” I said. “What’s going on here? Those kids okay?”

“They’re quite fine,” said the professor. “As to what is going on, as I said, we are about to make history. We are going to open the first wormhole.”

“Wormhole?” I said. “Like in the movies?”

The professor laughed. “I suppose so, chief,” he said. “Now listen. We had a last minute cancellation, but that’s okay because it’s an easy job. We’re going to be kicking things off here shortly, and once they are properly kicked off, the wormhole will open. I will enter. If I am not back in thirty minutes, you are to pull that lever there, and this will close the wormhole.”

I looked to where he was pointing, at a big red lever attached to a giant, whirring machine that was hooked up to the metal bowls over the student’s heads. “But uh, won’t you be trapped on the other side of the wormhole?” I asked. Not that I had the slightest idea about what the hell was going on.

“Just so, chief,” said the professor. “We’ve got this down to two possibilities. One, the wormhole opens up to what we’re calling ‘the second Universe.’ The best way that I can explain this possibility is that there is a different reality that exists on the other side of this one… the other side of an invisible wall. The wormhole will provide a door in that wall.”

“And the other possibility?”

“That the wormhole will open to a place that man was not meant to go. Thirty minutes will give me enough time to get in, and out, if the first possibility is true.”

“And if it’s the second?”

“Then you’ll close the hole with that lever, and my students will destroy my work.”

This was all way above my pay grade, and my head was spinning. Why only two possibilities? How the hell did they come up with those two? And if this real, why the hell would the professor take a coin-toss chance of getting stuck in the “place that man was not meant to go”? I mean, those were just starter questions, among the swarm that was buzzing around my head.

“I see that you have some reservations,” said the professor. “I assure you that your only job is to pull that lever after thirty minutes. That’s it, chief. We’ll take care of the rest. And anything that happens isn’t on you. The documentation is quite in order.” He tapped a folder that was sitting on the circular table. “And here, I’ll write you a check now, before we proceed.”

As he wrote out the check, I wondered if it would still be valid if he got swallowed up by the wormhole. I actually had that thought, as crazy as it sounds. It was still all so weird and abstract to me at that point.

“Here,” he said, handing over the check. “Let’s do it, chief. As soon as I enter that hole, give me exactly thirty minutes. On the dot. That’s all you have to do.”

I took the check, mumbled a “thanks,” and watched as he walked over to the machine. He pulled the lever. There was a loud crackling sound, and I watched in unease as one by one, the students’ eyes shot open. There were no pupils there, like their eyes were rolled back in their sockets.

“Hey now,” I said, taking a step towards the machine.

“They are quite fine,” said the professor. “I assure you.”

Their jaws started to move like they were grinding their teeth.

The professor took a jar of neon blue liquid from a shelf on the wall. He unscrewed the lid and poured the stuff over the electric globe on the round table. The thing started going crazy, and then the globe shattered completely, bits of glass flying through the air as shoots of black lightning zapped out into the room. I ducked down.

I had had enough by then, and was ready to get the hell out of there. Then it happened. A fucking black hole appeared in the middle of the room, sucking in the bolts of electricity. It grew larger and larger, until it took up half the room. All I could hear was this rushing sound, like the world’s largest vacuum cleaner running at full throttle.

“Remember, chief!” shouted the professor, with a wild look on his face. “Thirty minutes exactly!” Then he stepped into the thing and was gone.

* * * * * *

At first my mind was a mess, staring at that whooshing back hole, that seemed hungry to suck everything in. I looked at the kids hooked up to the machine, their eyes rolled back – white holes, I guess they looked like – their jaws grinding away like crazy. It was too much to make sense of.

I looked down at my watch. 15 minutes and 31 seconds had gone by since the professor got swallowed up by the worm hole. My heart was pounding and I kept pacing back and forth, back and forth, trying to work out what the hell was going on. Then I started to zero in on it. I was getting pranked.

Not a prank like we used to do as kids, setting dogshit on somebody’s front steps and all that idiocy. I mean a prank like the sophisticated college folk do, where they tell you something’s going on but the whole point is to just observe your reaction. A psychological experiment. Probably cameras in here watching me right now. See what I do.

12 minutes to go.

I saw a trickle of blood come down from one of the kids’ nose. I leaned down to look at him closely. He was shaking a little bit, all over. If I throw that lever, this will all probably stop.

Maybe that was the test. I had to decide between trapping the professor in the black hole and saving the kids hooked up to the machines. None of it was real of course, but they didn’t know that I knew that.

But then, screaming in the back of my mind was that voice: what if it is real?

10 minutes to go.

The professor had promised me that the kids were alright. Another one started bleeding from the nose.

If it wasn’t real, it was a hell of a trick. Where did the professor go, if not through that black hole? I thought about touching it, but whenever I got close, I was filled with total terror. It sure seemed real. Like it really took you some place far, far away from here.

I walked over to the table and picked up the folder that was there. Just like the professor had said, the first page was instructions to shut down the machine and destroy it if he didn’t return within 30 minutes. I flipped that page over, and the next one had a photograph of one of the students. I read what it said. It was a consent form. “I, Jackson Stewart, acknowledge the possibility of my imminent death if I participate in this experiment. I am prepared to give my life to science.” I flipped that page, and there were three more just like it.

Now, I’m no lawyer, but there was no way in hell that this experiment was legal, if it was real, even with those consent forms. So it probably wasn’t real.

And if it was? Then the professor lied to me. He had said that the kids were fine. This folder was telling me something else.

2 minutes to go.

I took a deep breath and paced the room, watching each second tick by. My mind was telling me that none of it was real, but my gut was screaming in horror. I just looked at my watch. It would be over soon enough, one way or the other.

30 seconds.

I walked over to the machine and put my hand on the lever. Goddammit, why is he cutting it so close? I watched the seconds tick by, and I didn’t know if I could do it. I didn’t know if I could risk trapping the professor wherever the hell he had gone off to.

5 seconds. My hand was shaking. 4 seconds. Sweat was pouring down my face, dripping into my eyes. 3 seconds. One of the students started to moan. The one that I saw was named Jackson in the folder. 2 seconds. Oh God oh God oh God. 1 second. Jackson started to shake. 0 seconds. Shit.

I tensed my muscles to pull the lever. One look at Jackson and I knew I had to pull it. He was violently jerking around now.

“WAIT!”

I snapped my neck around to see the professor’s head sticking out of the black hole.

“Wait dammit!”

Then his shoulders were through. I turned back to Jackson. Blood was pouring out of his eyes.

“I’m almost through!”

A second kid started to shake.

“One more second!”

I looked to see that the professor was through. He was back in the room. “Do it!” he shouted.

Two things happened after that, at the exact same time. I heard a wet popping sound, and I watched as the wormhole disappeared, as though it was never there. But I had never pulled the lever.

I slowly turned to look at Jackson. His head was gone. Judging by the bits of brain and splatters of blood on the bowl thing above his neck, his head had just exploded.

The whirring of the machine gradually died down, and then it was silent. The three kids who were still alive stopped shaking, and closed their eyes.

“A tragedy,” said the professor, pointing at Jackson, with the exploded head. “But not for nothing. I’ve been there. I’ve seen it! Chief, I’ve seen it!”

I hunched over and puked. It was weird, but my first thought was: what a mess I’ll have to clean up later. I don’t know. I guess my mind had sort of shut down and I was going on autopilot. I was the janitor. I cleaned up messes. That was all I knew.

Then it hit me, the reality of what had happened. “You sonofabitch!” I yelled. “You told me those kids would be okay!”

The professor put this sickening smug grin on his face. “He would have been, chief, had you pulled the lever at the 30 minute mark as instructed.”

“You told me to wait!”

“Did I?”

“Yes you fucker! I’m calling the police!” I had a walkie clipped to my belt. It wouldn’t get me the police, but it would get campus security. I reached for it and had it in my hand when I heard a groan behind me. I turned to see that it was one of the kids. They were waking up.

I went over to unstrap them from the chairs. The first kid’s eyes blinked open, and when she saw the professor, she started screaming.

“It’s okay,” I said, “shh, it’s okay, it’s all over.”

She kept screaming, then the second kid woke up. He looked right at me with wide, terrified eyes. “Get us out of here!” he shouted.

“I’m working on it, kid,” I said, fumbling at the straps. They were on tight.

The third kid woke up. “It’s here,” she said. “It made it through.”

“Everything’s okay now,” I said. “Your friend didn’t make it, I’m afraid, but it’s over. I’ll make sure the professor pays for what he did to you and your friends.”

The first kid was still screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Get us out of here!” shouted the second kid again.

The third kid looked me dead in the eyes and, in a totally calm voice, said, “That’s not the professor.”

“What? Of course it is,” I said. What I saw when I turned to look at the professor will haunt me forever.

The professor’s mouth was twisting around at odd angles, like something was moving the lower half of his jaw randomly, or like he was trying to get a hair out of his mouth that kept jumping around. The veins on his neck bulged, then sunk back down, then bulged again, so that they were thick as ropes. His wrists were rotating in ways they weren’t supposed to rotate, as his arms flailed around wildly.

I had the first kid, the screaming one, free. She jumped out of the chair and ran to the door. But her legs were wobbly, and she tripped over herself in the middle of the room. I went to work on the second kid, whipping my head around every second to look at the professor. It looked like there was something crawling around under his skin. Something big.

“Get us out of here!” the second kid shouted yet again. The first kid was still on the ground, screaming. I worked away furiously on the straps.

“If you believe in God,” said the third kid, with an eerie calm, “then pray.”

I took a glance at the professor, and that’s when the first bone burst out of his chest, through his suit. I call it a bone, but it was pure black, and dripping with green slime.

“As for me,” said the third kid. “I do not believe that there is a God. Not after what I have seen.”

The second kid was free and made a run for it. I scooted over to the third kid, but watched as the professor reached out an arm and grabbed the second kid by the top of his head. The professor gave one quick twist and let go. I heard a terrible snap and the kid slumped to the ground, dead.

Three more black bones came out of the professor’s chest, dripping. He laughed and bent down to the first kid, who was still screaming, as bones began to poke out of his back, like a fucking Stegosaurus from Hell.

“What is that thing?!” I asked, as I fumbled at the straps of the last kid.

“It does not belong here,” said the kid.

“No shit,” I said, getting one strap free. “But what is it?”

“It comes from a terrible place. A place where there is nothing save pain. Endless pain, incomprehensible to our minds.”

“Great,” I muttered, as I noticed with a sinking heart that the screams from the girl behind me had stopped. Then I heard a wet crunch. I couldn’t help it. I looked to see the professor tearing into that poor girl’s throat with long black fangs, dripping in green slime.

I turned back to the kid, almost done with the straps. Just a few more seconds. “What’s your name, anyway, kid?”

“Claire.”

“Claire,” I said, my mind trying to stay focused. “When I get you out of these straps, I want you to pick up this chair and throw it at that thing, okay? I’ll do the same thing, okay? Then we make a run for it. Do you understand? Can you do that?”

“I understand,” said Claire. “I do hope it works.”

I did hope it would work, too. “We have to make it work, Claire,” I said, yanking off the last strap. “Come on.”

We stood up together and I reached over to pick up a chair. I hurled it at the professor with all of my strength, and it shattered against his boned back. I heard a terrible shriek then, and watched as Claire’s chair followed behind.

I grabbed Claire’s arm with one hand and reached for my pocketknife with the other. The only way out of that room meant passing by the professor. We started running as I pulled the knife out and flicked it up. The professor stood, still shrieking, as the green slime mixed with the red blood from the kid’s throat and dripped down his chin.

I took a wild stab at the professor’s neck, and connected. I kept running with Claire, leaving the knife stuck in the professor’s neck, and made it to the door. I had my hand around the knob when I felt Claire pulling away from me. I looked back, helpless, as I saw the professor reach long black claws into her gut. I threw the door open and left her there.

Good God, I left her there.

* * * * * *

I made it outside the lab building somehow. I don’t remember how. My mind just sort of shut down as I ran like hell I guess. I did have the presence to go around and lock all of the doors from the outside. Then I got on the radio to campus security.

“You guys need to get the police over to the Astrophysics Center fucking ASAP. There was a fucking massacre in there.”

The front door started to rattle, and I heard the godawful shriek again.

“Repeat,” said a voice over the walkie.

“Look,” I said. “Call up Lawrence Summers, right now.” That was the president of Harvard at the time, and I had seen his signature on the papers in that folder with all of the consent forms. “Tell him that the wormhole experiment has gone way the fuck South.

The rattling at the door stopped. I only prayed that that thing didn’t figure out it could just break a window and crawl out that way.

“This is the janitor, right?” said a different voice on the other end of the walkie. “Is this a joke? The ‘wormhole experiment’? Have you been drinking?”

“Call Lawrence Summers. If you don’t, I promise you that you’ll never be able to live with yourself. Do it now.”

There was a horrible pause. I heard the professor trying the side door now, shrieking once again.

“10-4.”

* * * * * *

A fleet of black SUVs pulled up two minutes later. A team of heavily armed men jumped out and ran past me, breaking though windows and jumping inside. I heard a stream of gunfire. And screams. So many screams, and the professor’s horrible shrieks. After a while, it was quiet, and a second team of men jumped through the broken windows. I didn’t hear any more gunfire.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and whipped around. A man was standing there. I don’t remember a single thing about what he looked like. But I remember our conversation.

“Tell me what happened,” he said.

I told him the full story, the same one that I’ve told you.

“We are prepared to give you a lot of money to sign a NDA.”

“NDA?”

“Non-disclosure agreement. It means that you can never tell anybody about what happened here tonight.”

“How much?”

“A million dollars.”

“And a promotion.”

The man paused. “You mean… you still want to work… work here… after tonight?”

“Somebody’s gotta clean up the shit,” I said.

“Fine, of course.”

“And one more thing.”

“And what’s that?” asked the man.

“I want to know that this will never happen again. I want you to blow all of that shit up, and burn all of the notes.”

“Of course.”

“And I want to watch.”

“Of course,” said the man.

* * * * * *

And so I thought it was over. But it’s not. Last night, I saw the professor again. He looked me right in the eyes, flashed that smug grin, and said: “Hey there, chief.” That’s when I ran the hell out of there.

The police don’t believe me. I’ve sent a dozen e-mails to Lawrence Summers’ assistants. I’ve called every number that I’ve found listed for him. I haven’t heard anything back. I don’t know who else to turn to.

I’m afraid the professor is going to open the wormhole again. And I’m afraid this time, he might bring his friends back with him.


Credit: Nathaniel Lewis (RedditAmazon)

Check out Nathaniel Lewis’ dark horror comedy, The Electric Boner, now available on Amazon.com.

The post The Harvard Wormhole Experiment appeared first on Creepypasta.

0 views

The Artist

Estimated reading time — 9 minutes

There’s this painting my wife loves, called “Death and Life”, by Klimt. I don’t know what she finds so fascinating about it. I made all the right noises when she showed me her beloved framed print when we were first dating, “oohing” and “ahhing” and making up some bullshit about warm and cold color schemes and the specific choice of angles and line. She was an artist, our first few dates involved long walks through museums, starting in Picasso’s blue period and ending in heavy petting and blue balls.

I took an art history course as an elective when I was finishing up my doctorate, I remembered enough of the lingo to charm my fantastically gorgeous future wife and lure her back to my stupidly filthy apartment. We’re talking me as the foul bachelor frog, sitting on a lily pad made of empty take out containers surrounded by pond of enough unwashed clothes to keep a laundromat in business for a cool six months.

I remember scrambling to find two of any sort of cup-like container for the bottle of wine we had brought back while she was in the bathroom. I rinsed out a couple of coffee mugs and ran into the bedroom to try to clean up the condom wrappers that had been sitting on my bedside table since 2003. On the bed, neatly laid out against the rest of the chaos, were my wife’s dress, bra and panties. She came out of the bathroom completely nude aside from a pair of high heels, took the wine from me and took a swig straight from the bottle. I fell totally, completely and irrevocably in love.

I have no head for artistic things – I work in finance, I get creative with numbers, not paint – but I fucking love her stuff. She’s made a name for herself over the past few years, critics call her the American Damien Hirst. One of her first exhibits was composed of a dozen oil paintings of rotting pastries, surrounding an actual cake filled with thousands of dead ladybugs being fed to a mummified tarantula dressed up as Little Miss Muffet. I have no idea what it meant but it was sick, successful and catered by Balthazar so I ate about 20 croissants. They did not have bugs in them. I checked.

She was amazing. She had the body of a Laker girl and the face of a Modigliani model, and still does. She’s charming, charismatic, deep – the kind of person people flock to, want to be around constantly. She fucked like she had something to prove, she had a twisted sense of humor. As soon as I hooked a job with enough figures to keep a girl like her satisfied the way she should be, I proposed, bought her a historical brownstone in the city with a garden full of roses and hardwood mahogany floors. And for the first few years, she seemed happy. We were the kind of couple you see in New York Magazine and scoff at because they’re just too damned lucky.

But we had a rough spot, like all married couples do. She was still the superficially the same woman I fell in love with – looked amazing, people always asked me when she was going to host the next dinner party, she still had an amazing eye for art. I knew, though – I knew she was miserable. I could see it – the misery – in the corners of her eyes and the curve of her mouth.

It happened gradually. First it was the shower curtain. She bought three or four from a small boutique downtown, brought them home so we could choose one out together. We decided on one, pale blue, made of material that was impractical and way too expensive for a drapery in a bathroom but we had the money and it made her happy so why the hell not. A few days later, I was shaving and realized she still hadn’t put the curtain up. It wasn’t until about a month after that I caught a glimpse of it hanging up in her studio, cut to shreds and dyed till it was almost unrecognizable.

I chose to ignore it because I had learned it’s usually not the best course of action to call an artist out on their creative license, unless you want to start an all-out war with no discernible end.

A year after that, though, I had no choice. She had been so on edge it was like she was standing on a razor. She usually had a show every 3, 4 months or so, and if anything she had too many ideas, the galleries always asked her to trim down her collections. When the year passed without so much as a single finished painting, I started to worry, both about her well-being and our bank account. We were extravagant spenders, and each of her shows would bring in a cool $20,000 that paid for a few months of European beaches and ski trips in Aspen.

The final straw, though, is when she burned down the roses. It turned out she had finished dozens of projects over the year, she had hated all of it and had either destroyed or painted over everything. While I was at the office, she flew off the handle, doused about 16 canvases in lighter fluid, and set the yard on fire. When I got the call from the fire department, I rushed home to find her sitting in the back of the ambulance, covered in ashes, blonde hair singed at the ends. She was smoking a cigarette. I looked over the burnt flowers, the skeletons of her paintings, the ruined limbs of broken sculptures, and asked her what happened and why. She took a drag of the cigarette and said, “It was mine to burn.”

She took big, fancy pictures of the inferno. A family of bunnies suffocated in the smoke, she had them stuffed and mounted in size order on a baking soda volcano like the kind you see in middle school science fairs. She gathered up a few of the charred bits and pieces, wired it together, and made some warped, pained-looking kind of phoenix thing weighing in at 400 pounds and easily over eight feet high. She called the whole thing “From the Ashes”, and the reviews in the Times called it “…incendiary. Her first foray into becoming a true artist.” Someone bought the phoenix. I pity the person who wakes up every day and looks at that strange thing, suspended in constant agony.

We were both drunk, at a random, expensive, vaguely Dante’s Inferno-themed bar in San Francisco when I finally got a chance to ask her what was bothering her. We had been making dark jokes all night about the beautiful irony of her show and our current locale. At first she vehemently denied anything was wrong, angrily pointing out that we had made four times as much off of her last show as anything before it, that it had more than covered the damages, that it had paid for the vacation we were on. I stayed silent. She tossed her newly cropped hair, and looked like she was going to open up for a second. I saw her soft blue eyes fill with tears, then she took a shot of whiskey from a glass that had a bull’s head and smirked.

“Well, for starters,” she slurred, nonchalantly dangling the glass from the bull’s nose ring. “I’m fairly certain I’m pregnant.”

She let the glass drop from her finger and it shattered on the floor as she slid out of her seat and stumbled to the exit. I sat there for awhile and drank more, feeling furious, confused, and miserable. I remembered her face when she showed me that Klimt painting. I remembered how she wore glasses back then, and how she pushed them up the bridge of her nose when she smiled as I talked about the fucking warm and the fucking cold colors and the fucking angles and lines.

We converted her studio into a nursery. Rather, I did, while she stayed in San Francisco and did God-knows-what with her artist friends. I had a landscaper come in and replant the roses. I worked a lot of overtime, drank myself to sleep while I skimmed through parenting books. She came back when she was almost full term; I came home from work one night to find sonogram pictures posted all over the fridge of two healthy-looking twins, big baby girls. I walked into our bedroom and saw her dead asleep on top of the covers, belly swollen, smelling faintly like pot and paint thinner. She had a rainbow of dried paint on her fingertips. I loosened my tie and walked to the nursery.

She had been busy.

The canary yellow I had chosen was covered in a layer of translucent blue, and she had covered one wall in Klimt-esque patterns and curlicues. The creamy plush carpet was covered in paint splatters – she had worked furiously to finish. She had cut a swathe from one of the new rose bushes and made a giant bouquet, shoving them so tightly in the vase that some had escaped and made their way from their perch on the changing table to the floor. She had scattered them in the bassinet, on the windowsill. It was chaotic and beautiful. The next few years were peaceful, for the most part. We bonded over raising the girls. Despite my wife’s less than careful prenatal preparation, they were wickedly smart and beautiful. They both looked like her, with long, curly blonde ringlets and blue eyes. Sometimes, when I put them to bed, I wondered if any of my DNA was in them at all. They were like miniature versions of her.

My wife agreed to see a psychiatrist for a little bit. She took some medication for awhile, Xanax, some mood stabilizers. Eventually she and her doctor decided her crisis had been hormonal and temporary. We started having dinner parties again, soothed the gossip that had infected our social circles.

She stopped painting and took up teaching at a university. She seemed content again, even happier than she was before. Every once in a while I would catch a look in her eyes like repressed artillery fire, like she was ready to explode at any second, but it never lasted for longer than a few seconds before they went back to the soft cornflower blue I knew so well. And who doesn’t get a little agitated every once in a while?

I rose through the ranks at work. I loved the feeling of power that came with promotions. I loved my girls. And by God, I loved her. My crazy, disgusting, beautiful, hateful and loving, extraordinary wife.

Then came today.

Today, I came home from work early.

Today, my wife took the day off to be a chaperone on a class trip to the MET. They were after her for months because of her expertise in the art world, they wanted the children to experience the culture in the most sophisticated way possible. I thought it was ridiculous, they were one to three-year-olds in a private daycare; they saw more beauty in Cheerios than in Monet’s water lilies. But they wore my wife down, and she was given a gaggle of toddlers and wide-eyed teachers to tour around the museum.

I came home for lunch because I had forgotten my iPad that had notes on it for a presentation I was giving that night. I walked through the rose garden and noticed a tiny piece of sculpture left over from the Ashes exhibit from so long ago. It was half of a tiny bird – it had the kind of exquisite detail that my wife used to be so famous for. I was pretty sure it was an actual bird that she had cast in clay. I thought I could see a small piece of feather in one of the cracks. I idly wondered why I hadn’t noticed it before.

I went inside and poured myself a glass of orange juice. The fridge had pictures that my daughters’ drew – happy, crooked stick figures that looked nothing like the beautiful horrors their mother used to churn out. I was happy about that. I hoped they would fall in love with numbers like I did.

It was absolutely silent, and I sipped the sweet citrus and enjoyed the nothingness. Then I thought I caught a vague scent of fresh paint in the air.

Curious, I walked into the living room. And there was my wife, sitting on the leather couch with a bottle of wine, looking like an angel of death.

She was covered head to toe in blue-gray body paint, with a special concentration underneath her eyes. She was wearing a revealing patchwork blue dress, covered in crosses of various shapes and sizes. Not a dress, I realized, but the shredded shower curtain from so many years ago. I could see most of her still-perfect breasts, the curve of her waist. The bottle of wine was elongated and painted a strange shade of orange. The smell of paint was stronger in here, an overwhelming smell of lighter fluid, and something else I couldn’t place. She had shaven her head.

I stared at her for awhile – minutes? An hour maybe? Eventually she took a swig of wine from the bottle, swirling it around in her mouth. I noticed paint, deep blues and even deeper reds, around her fingers. I sat down in the arm chair across from her, unable to think of what exactly I wanted to ask her.

Maybe because I knew.

Maybe because I didn’t want to know.

I noticed a camera on the table between us, I went to pick it up and she rested her gray hand on mine before I could, softly, gently, with all the familiarity of years of marriage. She opened her mouth to speak, soft pink lips made pallid by the paint.

“They were mine.”

And I’ve been sitting here, knowing what’s behind the door to my daughters’ room, with the Klimt wall we never repainted. Knowing why my phone keeps ringing with calls from the school, from the NYPD. Knowing why I couldn’t find my sleeping pills last night. Knowing what that smell is. Seeing in my peripheral the red pooling and staining the carpet from underneath the door, the pile of clothes neatly folded next to my wife on the couch. I can picture that thick wire she used to fit all of her subjects where she wanted them, what a perfect, detailed recreation it must be.

Because she’s so perfect.

I see the phoenix in my mind’s eye.

I hope, when she flicks that cigarette she’s about to light, we both fucking burn.


Credit: C.J. Henderson (Official WebsiteReddit)

The post The Artist appeared first on Creepypasta.

0 views

A Beginner’s Guide to Blood Portals

Estimated reading time — 28 minutes

A few days ago I got a text message from an unknown number reading “I got your proof.” I stared at the words for a bit, thinking it was a wrong number. Then I remembered the last time I’d spoken to Jeremy.

Jeremy, my younger cousin, was a character, to say the least. He was always an eccentric rebel, the black sheep of the family who’d dabbled in drugs and acquired a criminal record, bouncing from job to job and always teetering on homelessness. He’d been the first to get tattoos and piercings, and was into really into noise and industrial music, and the few friends of his I ever met straight gave me the creeps. He’d introduced me to weed before he moved on to much harder stuff as the years passed. He was also a total conspiracy theorist, convinced of chemtrails and UFO’s etc. You name it, he drank the Kool-Aid. The last time I’d spoken to him was after Thanksgiving dinner a few years ago.

We’d smoked a bowl after dinner at my Uncle’s house about 3 years ago before the argument. He’d been driveling on about alternate planes of existence. He’d tried to convince me that all religions were based on what he believed to be cracks in this plane of reality. Jeremy was the type to try and heal a broken ankle with crystals before snorting a Xanax, mind you, so I was used to tuning him out. He kept pressing on, ignoring my rebuttals of scientific facts and basic physics. He kept pushing my buttons, calling me ‘close-minded’ and ‘shallow’, and I just snapped at him.

“Yeah? Prove it then instead of just ranting on like some delusional, burnout failure!” I’d yelled out. I bit my lower lip and cringed. I’d immediately apologized, but it was out there. He’d looked at me with a dark stare of from under a veil of greasy, black bangs and I saw the twinge in his eyes. With a conviction that rattled me, he said “I will, Mike. I will and you will see just how ignorant you are.” I tried to apologize, but he’d stormed off into his car, slamming the door and driving off. In the following months, I emailed him a few times in an attempt to mend it, but he never responded. Not until this.

“Jeremy?” I typed and soon got a response.

“I got your proof right here,” came the reply a few minutes later. A picture arrived and I opened it while a feeling of unease sat cold in my stomach.

Jeremy faced the camera, his intense eyes staring in at me. He looked jaundiced, gaunt and under-slept, but my concern soon shifted to the crimson bands glazing his forearm. He was holding a razor blade in his other hand, dripping red with blood. It appeared he’d slit his wrist.

“Jeremy, oh fuck, what did you do?” I asked aloud, choked with tears. I dialed him. No answer.

I ran to my coat and slid it on, listening as panic built while each ring went unanswered. I’d found the email from years ago that contained his address, and soon jogged to my Nissan and hopped in, plugging the address in and trying him repeatedly. 28 minutes away. I steered wide out of my driveway and drove dangerously fast towards his house.

I kept texting him and ringing him to no response, following the turns dictated aloud by the GPS as I sped up a hilly incline on the outskirts of his town. I prayed no cop would pull me over, and that it wasn’t too late. I’d lost a friend early in the year from an OD, and my cousin was not leaving me with this guilt trip. After about 20 minutes, I was at the edge of his town. Tall pines gave fractured glimpses of dilapidated homes built in the ’60s and long since neglected. Sagging roofs missing tiles and peeling paint peeked out as if ashamed of their condition, and soon his came into view.

I’d never visited his home before. If I had I might have bit my tongue that Thanksgiving when I’d lashed out. It was a depressing shack of a place, smaller than all the other worn-down homes on the street. I pulled into the short driveway, regarding the dozens of stacked boxes and rusted bicycle parts littering the lawn and ran out the car to the wooden steps.

I pounded on the flimsy screen door and shouted “Jeremy! I’m here, let’s talk!” but received no reply, just the swaying branches of tall pines whispering in the wind. I tried the door. Open.

I ran in and immediately covered my mouth and nose from the stench. It was like an outhouse had been overturned, the sour, ammonia stench of piss and rotting food was overwhelming.

“Jeremy!” I shouted and squeezed past the pillars of water-damaged magazines wafting out spores of mildew and mold from room to filthy room. Old microwave dinners grew fuzzy and green in teetering stacks and I saw cat food cans littering the hovel, but no signs of a cat. Then I heard a wet, sickening slapping sound coming from upstairs. I rounded the corner to see the filthy carpeted stairs, no sign of what the original color had been beneath the tar-like grey buildup that had fused with them.

They creaked loudly as I ran up. I almost expected the bending wood beneath to buckle in and snap, but I made it to the top and followed that aqueous sloshing sound towards the room glowing yellow from a solitary bulb. I ran in and stopped dead in my tracks.

There was Jeremy, soaking red and wet with blood in a black t-shirt in the floor. Not on the floor, inside of it. I first thought him to be sliced in the half, blood spilled out in all directions like a crimson mirror, and he was bisected diagonally from his upper right hip to his left armpit. But he was sinking down, into the floor. I was stunned, too stunned to do anything but weakly mutter his name “Jeremy?” with a shiver as I watched him smile. Lower he sank into the red pool of what was likely his own blood.

Soon only his shoulder and head remained with a solitary arm dripping red. I ran over and grabbed his hand, feeling the warm blood slip from mine as I watched in absolute disbelief as he sank in then vanished completely. I stared in bewilderment and horror, my brain refusing to comprehend what was completely impossible. Then I saw that book.

A worn hardcover book lay near his cellphone, wallet and other personal effects. “A Beginner’s Guide to Blood Portals” was written in a flowing font from the 60’s on a purple, marbled cover that looked stained by blooms of dried blood itself. I was in shock, And I walked with legs drained of strength to the book, picking it up in my shaky hands. I flipped it over to read the synopsis, none, then I opened it up to the print details, none. No author, no date, just an index of the chapters.

1. Knowing

2. Preparing

3. Surveying

4. Tethering

5. Returning

I flipped the page and read the first two paragraphs:

Chapter 1

Knowing

There is an imperceptible tissue separating the connecting folds between realms of existence. Our proteins and cells are just one of the millions of locking mechanisms that tether us to our current plane. By manipulating the frequency, and adjusting the vibration of the content of our own bodily content, synchronization can be achieved.

A 3-foot blood pool represents about 1.5 liters shed blood on a non-porous surface should be sufficient in size. Coumarin or dicoumarol should be mixed at 0.5 parts per liter in order to prevent coagulation, which can lead to temporal warping within and the sealing of windows prematurely (See footnote on severed pathways, p.143). The electronic stimulation of a Poynting vector is needed in order to maintain an open vortex via an assisting magnetic field. An oscillating frequency of 800mh needs to be maintained or shifting occurs (See p. 68).

I closed the book with one hand and tugged the hair from my scalp with the other, Trying to convince myself this was all just some strange dream. I stared at the reflective pool of still blood, noticing the two wires insulated with black rubber leading out and into a humming, metal box near an empty plastic blood bag. I scanned the filthy room and spotted an ancient broom and picked it up, holding it over the pool with hesitation. I lowered it down, feeling it connect with the wooden floor beneath the few millimeters of the blood with a dull tap.

My heart pounded as I then lowered to a kneel and splayed my fingers out over the pool, staring into my own wide-eyed reflection. I lowered my palm slowly, half-expecting a painful electric shock. I felt my arm hairs raise as my hand descended one centimeter at a time until it connected with the dark fluid blood. I watched in both absolute amazement and horror as my hand pressed below where the floor should be. Warm blood covered my submerged hand then wrist. I laughed a nervous, terrified laugh, then I pulled my hand out, now a slick with a red coat.

Jeremy was inside of there. He’d chosen to risk death in order to show me there was something beyond explanation, and clearly, there was. I lowered my face to the reflective puddle, staring at my own worried face as it got closer and closer. I felt the hot liquid on my nose and cheeks and I plunged my face into what should have been the floor.

It was impossible, yet I opened my eyelids and I saw it. There was a mirrored red room I stared into the ceiling of down below the puddle. The room was the exact size and shape but made of what appeared to be carved black stone, monolithic and ancient. It was preposterous and impossible, but I plunged my head down further, feeling the wetness against my skin and I watched the room’s walls and ceiling seem to pulse and shift. I shouted out for Jeremy and tasted the tangy copper flood my mouth. My words stopped shallow, muted by the density of the thick, liquid-like air in the impossible place. Then I heard a deep moan, gurgling and inhuman and forged from lungs that had to be at least twice the size of mine. Claustrophobia hit me, and I lifted up my head from the puddle and gasped for air.

I’ve pulled over a chair to skim over this book that casually discusses travel between these strange, alternate planes. It mentions things within that can rend the human mind with madness. Echoing chambers that cause feedback of physical matter, sentient beings that hunt and other anomalies, all outside of our spectrum of tangible reality. I shiver as I stare at that impossible puddle, terrified of what I’ve glimpsed into. I can’t wrap my head around any of it, but options slim as time ticks. At some point, that puddle is going to dry.

* * * * * *

An electromagnetically charged puddle of my cousin Jeremy’s blood sat on the floor before me.

I opened my photo app on my phone, switched it to video mode and lowered it into the pool of blood, twisting it around. My neck hairs stood on end as I stared at my arm, missing illogically just past the elbow in what was only a few millimeters of blood. When I removed my dripping, red phone, it was dead. I cursed then ran to Jeremy’s on the side of the puddle, realizing with a sigh of relief, he had no password on the device he’d left alongside his wallet, a coiled $5 bill dusted with powder and a stained keychain crafted from a dead bird’s skull. “Jesus, Jeremy,” I muttered, then tried to breathe slowly to ease my rapidly-beating heart.

I flipped the strange book open to the next chapter in search of any helpful information.

Chapter 2

Preparing

Anchoring. A rope, wire or chain anchor should be secured in order to connect with, and return to, an adjacent plane. Failure anchor may result in a shifting that can both sever the path and bend the matter within. This means you. Just as neurons, muscle cells, and endocrine cells emit –40 mV to –80 mV, all matter inorganic in nature should carry a 40-80 mV charge or be coated with hemoglobin or other cellular tissue in order to maintain the current.

Breathing. I: Full Inhalation, E: Full Exhalation, S: Slight exhalation. Patterned breathing of I-S-I-E, I-S-I-E (repeat) MUST be practiced and performed in order to prevent suffocation and death. Your blood oxygen level should typically vary between 75 and 100 mm Hg. A significant decrease in your blood oxygen saturation levels will result in rapid suffocation and death.

Circumventing: It is imperative to avert one’s gaze when in the presence of most of the entities within. These pathways and inhabitants exist beyond our logic and understanding. Attempts to comprehend them can and will ravage the minds of those who traverse these planes. Failure of the autonomic nervous system will follow, leading to respiratory failure, suffocation and death. Undocumented hostile beings dwell in the dimensional folds, scavenging for protein in any form. This means you. If any physical contact is made, death will likely ensue.

The alphabetical list went on with dozens of pages of additional hazards and threats; Solidification of the atmosphere leading to an eviscerated body, being caught in a temporal field causing the body to implode, being stuck inside a feedback loop of folding space and crushing the explorer, shifting doors causing the amputation of limbs, coagulating edges of the windows leading to solidification of bodily fluids. The list continued for 12 pages filled with hundreds of horrific scenarios.

I skimmed through, shivering from the combination of anxiety and wonder at the pages of the guide book. Time was short; if I was to attempt a rescue of my cousin, I’d need to read it along the way. In the boxes of filth near the wall of the room and found medical clutter I could only assume Jeremy had stolen. I gathered a few anti-coagulants and blood packs marked “CPDA solution” with shaky hands. The bird’s beak of Jeremy’s morbid key-chain made a quick tool to puncture a blood packet, gushing out the thick, red liquid from within onto the book. I scoured the adjacent rooms of the house and eventually found a coil of twine to anchor myself to the room, squeezing the contents of the blood transfer bag over the rope then slathered its bristly fibers with my bare, bloody hands.

I tied the stained red cord to a door handle, then returned to the dark spill, realizing without care just how utterly insane I must have looked, covered in blood and daubing it over seemingly random objects. I peered into that reflective crimson pool and the humor vanished. That bloodstain-in-the-making would likely be my tomb. As uncomfortable as it was, I b practiced that odd manner of breathing, trying to maintain the peculiar rhythm a few times until it felt natural. I stared into the black spill, deliberating. Then, I jumped in.

My senses fought to understand the comprehend my falling into the mirrored room of air thick and fluid. A vermilion murk gradated into black nooks and shadows, tracing the contours of what looked to be ornately carved coral with strange geometry. Every accent, corner and angle repeated in a fractal pattern that echoed in an artistic beauty that was both mesmerizing and terrifying. My hands flowed through the rippling current of dense, dark air, and I felt pressure from every angle on my skin that was dry from inside the impossible place. I heard a soft hum, the buzzing rumble from the oscillator’s current.

I looked down to the mirrored ceiling and over to the door to the adjacent room. I felt my lungs ache and realized I wasn’t breathing. The twine was gripped firmly in my tight fist, and my heart beat against my chest. I could hear it as if underwater, yet I was neither in liquid or air. I closed my eyes, blocking out the strange chamber that called to memory ruins of an ancient civilization. Then I tried to breathe.

The coppery taste of blood choked me as it filled my mouth when I inhaled the dense air. Panic flared, I was suddenly both lightheaded and terrified as spots formed in my peripheral vision. I was going to drown, suffocate or die, never to be found in there, and the air thickened as if aware of my raising anxiety. FOCUS. I opened my eyes wide, feeling that thick, dark air flowing over my eyeballs, and then I concentrated on my lungs and tried again.

Breath in deep.

Slight exhale.

Breath in deep.

Release.

I soon stopped coughing and regained my composure as I focused on the strange, flanging sound of my breathing. The taste was bitter and I felt the air enter my bronchial tubes within my lungs. It was foreign and violating, painful yet vital. Slowly I relaxed into the rhythm and was able to clear my head. I was inside that impossible place, and I was alive.

I took a few steps on the strange, black rock floor that mirrored the ceiling of the room I’d entered into. That solitary yellow bulb dangling from his room’s ceiling was mimicked in this plane, yet it was formed from rectangular, bismuth-crystals of obsidian stone in a sculpture-esque replica. I marveled at the strange formation for only a moment when I heard a choking scream from through the door in the porous, black wall. I walked as quickly as the pressure would allow through the murky chamber, uncoiling that coarse twine in my trembling hand.

Through the doorway, I saw the limp form of Jeremy in this threadbare t-shirt and jeans. He was clearly unconscious, his eyes rolled back in his head and a grimace fixed on his pale face. It took me a moment to notice the coiling, flaky white hook of flesh around his ankle. I walked into the long corridor, focusing on the patterned breathing that was keeping me alive. Something was dragging him. I smelled it, like a coppery, peaty stench that tickled my nostril hairs and screamed into my reptilian brain to run. Something I wished I hadn’t glimpsed, but I had.

Nothing two or three-dimensional could ever describe that nightmarish form. Teeth sprouted teeth which in turn sprouted teeth. Eyes spiraled outward in every direction, budding other glistening orbs that weaved into infinite patterns. It resonated with both horror and beauty, seemingly facing every angle simultaneously. My mind’s attempt to comprehend it built a sharp, excruciating pain in my temples. I collapsed to my knees as numerous venous tongues twisted out into millions of other smaller branching duplicates that flicked out from a hideous, amorphic mouth. I had to physically turn my head away with my shaking hands. When I did, I could hear a shrill screaming that I only then realized was coming from my own throat.

Breath in deep.

Slight exhale.

Breath in deep.

Release.

I lowered my gaze to the floor, coughing violently as I fought to regain that pattern of irregular breathing. It took a few minutes, and when I looked up only slightly to see where Jeremy was, he was gone, tugged up through a twisting passage of ridged steps in the ceiling that mirrored the stairway down in Jeremy’s home. I uncoiled more of that rough twine in my fist, walking closer to the shadowy square hole in the ceiling where it had taken him. From behind me, I heard a deep, bubbling howl neither animal nor human. I didn’t dare turn my head back to look, my only option was to press on. I moved through towards that strange passage above, building the courage to climb that porous, dark wall and follow Jeremy’s dragged body deeper within.

* * * * * *

Inside the arcane structure mirroring my cousin’s house, something was dragging his unconscious body further inside it.

I waded through the thick air, which seemed to glide over my skin with a cold resistance. Intricately patterned walls and doorways shifted slowly into hypnotic new shapes as if alive. The deep bellow of something behind me sounded and I rushed towards the porous, black surface of the wall ahead leading up. I quickly tucked the hardback guide book into the back of my jeans to free both hands then began my climb into the dark passage above.

I strained to lift myself up the pocked walls that resembled volcanic rock. The sharp surface dug into my fingertips with jagged edges, causing my to hiss in pain as I climbed. The physical exertion caused my breathing to quicken, and I paused to pace myself and regain the pattern of my careful breathing as I continued up into the murky depths of the passage. A constant humming from the oscillating current vibrated the shifting walls; a constant reminder of the high voltage helping stabilize the impossible place. After a few minutes of climbing, I’d reached another chamber.

I breathed in the thick, cold air in that forced pattern and removed the book, flipping it open to try and understand how to proceed. I opened it to the third chapter, skimming over the strange details for insight.

Chapter 3

Surveying

Time is precious when within as the oscillating electric charge will gradually disrupt both cellular balance and function. Ions on the surface of a cell’s plasma membrane may experience irreparable cellular degradation after just 25 minutes time, so keep any surveying short.

I read the words with a slow blink of the thick, dark atmosphere as I understood the need to to hurry. I skimmed through a few paragraphs looking for insight on how to get Jeremy from the thing that nearly cost me my life at just seeing. I spotted something a few pages in.

Entities within will feed on any foreign source of protein without prejudice. As they have become accustomed to paralytic and comatose prey that unfortunately finds itself within their realm, rapid movement can be used advantageously.

I closed the book and tucked it back in my waistband, realizing how critical time was. I raced towards the pale, limp body of Jeremy, barely visible ahead in the shadowy corner of the room. The gurgling moan of whatever had been dragging him deeper within the illogical place made it clear it had no intention of releasing him. I focused my gaze to the moving floor, which grew crystal-like patterns as I watched. By squinting and blurring my vision, I was able to unfocus my eyes as my mind fought to identify that thing dragging him deeper within.

In a moment as heroic as it was stupid, I charged, screaming out into the dense vapor of strange, dark air, and I reached Jeremy. In a swift motion, I grabbed his ankle and yanked forcefully. An aggressive howl that pierced my ears rang out, twisting and echoing in a maddening cry that trembled throughout me, but Jeremy was freed. My heart pounded and I began to choke, and I struggled to continue the strange pattern of breathing as I quickly dragged his body across the shifting floor, which now seemed to grow taller rapidly. My heart sank as I realized what was occurring. The portal was collapsing.

I dragged Jeremy by a sock that seemed to flake and dissolve under my grasp. I looked down to make sure his leg was still intact, and then I felt a powerful tug that jarred my arm at its socket with a sharp pain. That thing was trying to get its protein back. Time was dwindling, the crystalline patterns grew rapidly on the floor, climbing over my dissolving sneakers. I screamed one again, the sound stopped short as I yanked back in a strange tug of war with Jeremy’s unconscious body. With a violent heave that lit up the nerves throughout my arm, I finally freed him. I dragged his back towards the stairwell and my panic multiplied.

The large stairwell mirrored in ancient, black stone was a fraction of its original size. It was now a narrow tunnel, twisting and warped, shifting in texture rapidly as new layers formed over the animated walls. The twine tether I’d stretched throughout was thin as a strand of dry spaghetti, frayed and disintegrating before my panicked eyes. There was no time to think.

I leaned forward, supported by the dragged body of my cousin, who grunted in a pained moan as he came to. “Hang in there, Jeremy,” I called out as I strained to squeeze him through the tunnel of strange, collapsing geometry.

“Say it,” he mumbled weakly, barely pronouncing his words. I scraped my hands on the walls of that tunnel which had thinned to the diameter of a manhole lid as I pulled my slurring cousin through.

“Huh?” I responded, barely able to find the remaining thread of the tether.

“Say I was right,” Jeremy mumbled as if talking in his sleep.

I felt my blood pressure rise at the audacity of the request.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I replied, nearly considering letting go of him. “Oh for fuck’s sake, Jeremy. Yeah, you were right. I can say with absolute certainty that this is not a good thing, but you were right. Happy?” I asked and waited for a reply, but there was none. I looked down at him, only to see he’d passed out again. I did a double take when I got a good look at his face, which was now red and flaky as if severely sunburned. Cellular degradation, the words pounded in my head as I understood the severity of the meaning.

With a heaving yank that screamed with pain in my shoulder I only then realized was dislocated, I’d dragged my cousin into the remainder of the room I’d first entered into. It was smaller, built up in patterned layers of crystal-like growth which closed in on the space. I gently dropped my cousin, who splayed on the floor like a rag doll and I looked up, eager to find the exit above. It wasn’t there. I spun around to search the walls; nothing. The exit to that strange and horrific dimension, collapsing rapidly around us, was gone.

* * * * * *

I was in a room that no longer had an exit, and the thick air was closing in as it ate my cousin and I alive.

“Jeremy!” I shouted, shaking the limp body of my cousin by his shoulders. His face was red and slightly swollen. The proteins in his body were clearly dissolving, and soon I felt a growing itch over my skin. It was faint at first, then the tickle continued to spread into an irritating iitch. I reached around the walls for any sign of the twine I’d pulled into this strange, horrific place, but there was none. I flipped open the book and read with shaking hands as flipped desperately through for answers.

Chapter 4

Tethering

Due to the volatile nature of matter within these folds, openings are likely to close upon the tether and obscure the window, which can lead to a quick demise. It is vital to gauge an approximation of the window created and physically move the matter in order to clear the path. Of course, this solution comes with its own setbacks. The rapid degeneration of a fold is coarse and difficult to manipulate. Be sure to bring a tool, preferably metal as it will degrade at less rapid rate than porous, less dense materials (see Disintegration of foreign matter, p. 254).

I looked to the strange, vibrating surface of the low ceiling, black and animated like a magnetically triggered thero fluid. I rushed over and pushed aside the growing mass, feeling the sharp surface that cut into my hand as I pushed it away like metal filings. My hands were bright red, flaking wisps of thin layers of skin, and the tickle which had become an itch was now a stinging pain. I watched in awe as the blood from my hand clouded in inky red trails of smoke that floated within the illogical, dark air. As horrifying and painful as the experience was, a small part of me was amazed that a world so secretive and hidden, so completely fantastic and impossible existed.

I pushed away at the heavy shale-like growth of the living pattern, foot after foot as if digging into the earth as I searched for the way out. Just as the pain flared into an unbearable burn, I saw a dim, red glow peeking out from the black buildup. I looked down at my hands, which were split open revealing puffy red muscle within the lacerations. I looked closer in horror, seeing the white of bone within one of the slivers. When I checked back at Jeremy to make sure he was okay, I shouted from shock at the sight of him.

The room was now only a fraction of the size. The chamber we’d come from was entirely blocked over. The room we were in was the size of a small bathroom at this point, and the floor had rapidly grown over Jeremy’s unconscious form. His appearance was horrific. His face was deteriorated, stripped raw and red multiple layers as permanent damage to his skin had clearly taken place. The t-shirt and jeans he’d worn were now spiderwebs of thread, revealing his eaten-away skin that emerged from a cluster of black, polygonal noise.

I raced back and hammered away at the buildup, trying my best to chip away the enclosing floor and walls that clung to him like wet asphalt. I screamed from the pain as the sting that spread over my own skin shifted another few degrees on the pain scale into a steady, singing burn.

“Jeremy!” I screamed down to his slack face that sank slightly into the black floor at this point. “Jeremy wake up!” I cried as a knot formed in my stomach. I wasn’t even sure if he was even alive anymore. The portal was closing and swallowing everything within. Every instinct screamed to abandon him, that I’d be sealing my fate in death if I stayed, but I kept clawing away at the living material that closed in until I’d freed him enough to yank him out my a slippery, wet arm. The pain in my own mangled hands distorted the feeling of his arm in mine, but when I looked back down at it, I could see the skin had eroded nearly down to the muscle.

I dragged his slippery hand as I climbed the narrow path upward and then continued to chip away at the rapidly closing exit to that hostile rift. I was soon screaming in pain as I clawed at the speedily closing buildup from the red, oval window in space that puddle of blood had somehow created. I felt a snap, refusing to look and register the even I knew was the loss of one of my fingers, I just dug away until the surface was breached, then I climbed, dragging Jeremy’s body through the exit.

The light nearly blinded me, and I began choking immediately upon crossing back into his room where the air was thinner, warmer and of a different nature entirely. I had to force myself to remember how to breathe.

Breath in deep.

Release.

I yanked Jeremy up by the forearm, both he and I were drenched red with blood. He looked terrifying, A hole had eroded in the meat of his cheek, revealing visible molars in a ghastly grin. His eyes were wide orbs, and it took a moment to register the fact his eyelids had deteriorated completely.

I caught a glimpse of my own hands and let out a whimper, two fingers were flayed, split down revealing the muscle and white, bulbous knuckles within. They trembled as I coughed and then I vomited what looked to be a pint of blood onto the floor not far from the puddle we’d emerged from. I tugged Jeremy out as much as I could, but his lower legs were stuck. They remained in that impossible puddle as it dried over completely with a dull glaze, amputating the remainder in that deadly, mysterious realm outside of our own.

I cried tears of joy as I heard Jeremy’s gurgling gaps for air. He was alive. I wiped the tears with the rags remaining of my shirt and I called an ambulance, or “Emergency Response” as they answered. Out of the corner of my eye, I stared in disbelief at the strange, hardcover book on the floor by a bright, yellow wallet and a peculiar looking device where his phone had been near the drying pool of blood. I tried to wrap my brain around how it was back with us in the room. I knew I’d left it in there,and this room was eerily clean.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I walked over to the wallet, wondering who’d put them there as I switched off that humming oscillator, also somehow different. I picked up the wallet, yellow Velcro and emblazoned with some local soccer team. I flipped it open in confusion, finding a Colorado license, insurance card and a few crisp $20 bills within. It was Jeremy’s but he looked clean cut and almost—normal. “Colorado?” I asked aloud in confusion. He’d never even been there. My mind tried to piece things together but refused to cooperate as the reality of the situation became more apparent, and far more terrifying as I noticed other details about the now-clean room.

The cellphone kind in the pile of his belongings simply didn’t exist as far as I knew. I picked up the strange phone, its white plastic shell lined with orange and brown accents, emblazoned with the familiar name “Commodore.” The shivers throughout my blood-soaked spine multiplied as I then saw the green flashing lights approach the house and that siren that sounded in strange, digital bursts.

I walked over to the book and picked it up in my butchered, bloody hands and flipped it open to the fifth chapter. I read as my heart pounded in my chest and my vision blurred from tears.

Chapter 5

Returning

Little is know about the ability to return to one’s plane of origin. While explorers have been documenting these ruptures in the fold for dozens, in some planes even hundreds of years, there has been nothing to suggest a return is actually possible aside from the fact nothing suggests it is not. Prepare for a one way trip each time you travel.

I looked out the window to the yellow van marked “Emergency Response”, lit by the flickering strobe of green LED lights through the leafless trees below. I stumbled and fell to my aching knees, overwrought with trepidation as I realized:

This was not our world.

* * * * * *

I’d dragged my severely injured cousin from the electromagnetically charged puddle of his own blood. What we came out into was a different version of his home.

It happened so quickly it was hard to even process it. The banging on the door sounded, I know I heard that. I faded in and out of consciousness as I was placed on a stretcher and carefully taken down the stairs by men in fluorescent yellow garb, reminiscent of what a fireman might wear. I tried to ask questions, but even in my fatigued delirium, I knew I wasn’t pronouncing any words, just a faint mumble. Either shock or exhaustion helped separate me from the experience as I was loaded into the back of the Emergency Services van.

The strobing bursts of green lit the flawless facade of the alternate home of my cousin. The workers in their yellow, vinyl garb were professional and coordinated, assuring me they would get me the treatment needed as soon as possible. They placed a rubbery anesthetic mask over my nose, and I looked into the kind face of the man in his mid-thirties who assured me they’d take care of my friend. I tried to correct him by mumbling “cousin” but was out before I had a chance.

I woke up in a room wallpapered with a lavender floral pattern, I appeared to be in a fairly swanky apartment of sorts. My hazy eyes fixed on the smooth overhead light fixture then following the pattern of the wallpaper. It was only when I turned my head to the left fully that I saw the plastic bag with an IV drip. As if on cue, a face I recognized from the ride over walked in, underneath a sweater and slacks; casual attire.

“Mr Stanton, how are you feeling?” he asked with that warm smile as he interlaced his fingers over his stomach. I hadn’t even thought about how I was feeling until he’d asked. My pain was gone.

“I—I feel fine, I guess,” I spoke, then added, “Where am I?”

“You are with Emergency Services Mr. Stanton,” the man stated calmly, “I figured you would recognize it, or at least me after waking up.” The smile had slipped off his face, replaced by a look of worry. My fuzzy brain tried to patch together the events, that impossible, geometrical nightmare that nearly consumed me. My cousin…

“Jeremy, is he,” I couldn’t even say it, I knew he was gone when I’d seen his eroded face, the bared teeth and eaten eyelids from that terrifying dimensional fold that shouldn’t couldn’t exist.

“Jeremy will be fine,” the man added, walking closer to the side of the bed in that room that looked like a metropolitan apartment but a bit too pristine. “We have two prosthetics to replace the lost portion of his legs. I’m more concerned about your mental state.” The look in his eyes flickered with a coldness that send shivers up my spine. “You don’t recognize me?” he asked sincerely. Something told me to play along, and so I did.

“I’m sorry, I am just in shock and a bit exhausted.” I suggested, hoping to buy some time to piece together just what exactly was going on.

“Of course, I’ll check on you after you get some rest,” he said and walked back out the room, looking back one with those concerned eyes that seemed to tell me I’d be better of remembering. I sighed out and then looked to the bureau with a flat screen TV and a cactus resting on it. The nightstand to my left had an call button and a few pamphlets about treatment options and patient rights. I was what appeared to be a hospital, lacking all of the uncomfortable sterility that defined them.

I found a small remote and figured out how to power on the TV, which I only then realized displayed a clean logo reading “Lorimar”, never heard of it. I flipped from channel to channel of countless television shows that simply did not exist. There was nothing remarkable for the most part, they were similar reality TV shows and standard films, bachelor and home improvement programming. I even recognized a few of the actors, and began to think my fears were just that. Then I made stumbled across the news.

I watched the TV and a headache formed as I heard the newscaster discuss the Citizen’s States. I only then hit me as I watched the strangely sectioned off ‘districts’ of the country during the weather. This was another version of my world. My heart thumped loudly, triggering the soothing beep for a nurse, who soon came in to check on me. A man in a crimson vinyl outfit entered, and he lacked the friendliness of the previous man. I watched the group share ideas around a table for a bit before I understood they were the leaders of the nation. It was a panel of four spokespeople for different demographics, two men and two women, discussing tax ballots at a table casually sipping coffee. I barely felt the needle in my arm as the nurse slipped it into the thin skin of the crook of my elbow, I was too busy trying to wrap my head around the next segment the perfectly coiffed reporter discussed a breaking story.

My clenched teeth parted from the calming effect of the drugs entering my vein. Drool slipped from the corner of my mouth as the medication coursed through my blood, dulling the sharp panic into a cloudy afterthought. My face was there on the news, staring back at me from a picture I’d never taken. It was me, listed as Will Stanton, and I looked bedraggled and angry.

I listened to the reporter continue on about the man who’d been missing for months after stealing blood packs from the ES station he worked at. The words scrolling beneath my photo blurred as my heavy eyes closed, and the reporter’s soothing voice spoke the velvety words “unstable fugitive” that finally lulled me to sleep.

* * * * * *

I woke to the voice of my cousin. It took a while to adjust from my foggy dream to the clean interior of the room. I then remembered the strange hospital. I jolted upright, looking into the deformed face of Jeremy in the doorway. A glaze of repairing ointment of some sort was slathered over his exposed skin, catching the overhead lighting with an eerie glow. The hole in his cheek was crater of exposed teeth, he looked like something out of a horror movie. He wheeled himself over in a carbon fiber wheelchair that looked light and slimmer than any I’d seen, the nubs of his amputated legs bandaged.

“I’m sorry, I’m so…so sorry,” he said, staring those lidless, bulging orbs of bloodshot white that framed milky blue irises at me. I propped myself up on my elbows, only then looking to my pink arms, also coated with some gel to facilitate a speedy recovery. My blurry eyes focused on a tall figure of shiny crimson behind him. A sturdy-looking employee stood by in that slick, vinyl uniform. I only then began to wonder if the red was meant to prevent the staining of blood.

“I’m so glad you’re alive,” I spoke to Jeremy, knowing he needed to hear it. “And I was wrong, about everything, especially my arrogant assumptions” I spoke with sincerity. I watched Jeremy’s head fall forward, looking down since he was unable to close his eyes.

“I never meant for anything to happen to you.” Jeremy muttered in a shaky voice as his streamlined wheelchair was wheeled backwards. “I owe you my life.” And he was wheeled out as a large man in a red, vinyl uniform entered to read me the equivalent of Miranda rights. The charges against me would lead to appropriate time in a Recovery Center,this place’s term for jail.

The man held out a slim tablet of sorts, made by the company Commodore with patterned plastic that appeared both decades old and futuristic. He held the device with shiny red gloves, displaying a man who looked identical to myself breaking into Emergency Services building, sifting through records and pilfering blood packs. I had no case, that was clearly me. Still, questions grew as the screen showed further footage and mounting evidence against me that sent shivers down my spine.

The alternate version of me had apparently broken into multiple stations over the course of the year. He—I’d—been apprehended before and taken to a Recovery Services already. The frowning man in red said nothing as he held out that screen. I watched as each of my crimes was displayed to ensure I understood the severity of my punishment. The high definition footage played on, showing my time in the other facility. Sitting there in a red plastic-walled chamber, naked on the floor in the corner. The mirror version of me was crying and screaming about how he didn’t belong there, how he was from another place.

White text overlaying the screen displaying “evidence of mental instability” soon switched yellow to read “evidence of theft of government property” as another feed showed me procuring what appeared to be a piece of metal from my armpit in a plastic cell devoid of anything but a drain. I watched in shock as the me on that screen cut his arm open, spilling blood to the floor before collapsing from blood-loss, reminiscent of watching Jeremy do the same on my phone screen.

The text changed to read “evidence of self-harm and escaping an ESS”, and I watched as my doppelganger’s limp body was lifted onto a stretcher and wheeled into a facility like the one I was in. The man with my face, only then wearing any clothing—a thin hospital gown—managed to work the rubber restraints until freeing himself from the bed. I watched as a number in the lower left climbed, only then realizing it was the sentence date accumulating with each offense. The number shifted from a yellow ‘2’ to a yellow ‘4’. I watched as the alternate version of myself on screen called a worker in, then choked them out from behind and stole their key fob for the door. The text shifted to read “evidence of assaulting a government employee”, and I shivered as I saw the yellow ‘4’ climb to an orange ‘15’.

The timestamp of the footage sped up rapidly in the lower right of the Commodore tablet’s screen to show hours passing as it fast forwarded. The collapsed employee shifted on the ground a bit before waking up, then reached into their pocket, still slumped on the floor. They removed a pill bottled and opened it hastily as the footage returned to normal speed. They dumped the sole pill in the plastic bottle into their hand, then accidentally dropped it. I watched in confusion as to why this particular sequence continued on for so long. The pill rolled under a cabinet. The employee wiggled to try and reach it but it was clearly too far underneath. The man on the floor struggled a bit as he grabbed at his chest and then collapsed, flat and still. The text shifted to read “evidence of causing the death of a government employee.”

No I mouthed as my insides iced over. My gaze shifted to the orange ‘15’ which then vanished from screen. I then felt the world collapse as the number was replaced by red text reading “Euthanize”. I was too weak to even struggle as he bound my wrists with rubber cuffs and lifted me gently to my feet. I tried to speak on my behalf, but the futility of trying was beyond apparent. Everything I’d could even try to say, he’d heard it all before.

* * * * * *

I remember being lifted up and frogmarched through the hall. I realized only death awaited me, likely on some lovely postmodern death house. My throat dried and I was sweating so much. I wondered where the other version of me was who’d came here, realizing he must have somehow opened another window and escaped to some other plane of existence that mostly mirrored our own. I saw the trees and the highways out the window when I heard a loud, meaty banging sound from behind me. I soon fell onto my knees with a jarring pain that pulsed through my bones. I felt the rubber wrist restraints being unfastened.

“Take this and run,” the familiar voice called from behind me.

“Jeremy?!” I called back, and turned enough to see the collapsed body of the man marching me out where Jeremy’s feet would have been in that ultra-modern wheelchair.

“This is all my fault, and there’s no time to argue. There’s a group of them around the corner coming to pick you up, I saw them. I’m sorry, now run.” Jeremy looked down at me from the wheelchair, a mutilated face incapable of any expression but that ghastly grin. In his deteriorated arms was the metallic canister of compressed oxygen he’d used to take down the large worker sprawled out cold on the floor.

I strained as I lifted my aching body to its feet as the sound of marching boots came closer to the corner. A glance down the red carpeted hallway showed an exit, marked by a green LED shaped like trees. Jeremy held out a key fob from the fallen employee, and I took it in my butchered hands and swiped it over the reader, turning back to face him. I gave him a solemn nod, well aware I’d likely never see him again, then I ran outside and into the sunlit unknown.


Credit: Michael Squid (Official WebsiteAmazonFacebookTwitterRedditTumblrYouTube)

Check out author Michael Squid’s collection of 50 short scary stories, Where the Light Stops Dead, now available on Amazon.com.

The post A Beginner’s Guide to Blood Portals appeared first on Creepypasta.

0 views

The Canada Geese of Lake Pleasant

Estimated reading time — 7 minutes

I’m a researcher studying Canada Geese for the last ten years. I’ve never published my research.
Specifically, my small team and I study a small population of Canada Geese that migrates to Arizona during the winter months from Alaska. This work mostly involves checking the new adults tagged during the summer months from our sister team in Alaska. This is important because the specific flock we are keeping track of has two unusual things that our teams determined required further study.

The first is the unusual size of the flock itself. The average size of a migrating flock of Canada Geese usually falls in the range between thirty and sixty individuals. Our population was originally counted at 239 individuals in 2009 and as of the last count in 2018 has grown to 367 individuals. It was first discovered in 2009 by a fisherman at Lake Pleasant when he noticed the large flock come in and land in late November when the busy summer lake is empty of weekend water sports enthusiasts.

This initial research only consisted of the initial counting of the population and fitting tracking bracelets on a couple of individuals. Come April the flock left the area of the lake as expected and started their migration to Alaska. This led to the discovery of the second thing that makes this flock so unusual in its behavior.

Its normal for a population of geese to not begin migrating all at once, usually leaving in smaller groups as I described earlier. This population however left as a single group on the same day and, near as we could tell, the same hour. The radio tracking bracelets fitted to the individuals also showed a strange behavior in their flight patterns. I’m sure most everyone here is familiar with the normal ‘V’ shape that Canada Geese fly in while traveling. Without going into much detail it’s the most optimal pattern that the flock can fly in in order to conserve energy for the long trip to their breeding grounds during the spring and summer months.

We honestly thought it was a mistake when the first reading of the GPS tracking bracelet came and showed that our flock wasn’t flying in this V formation. Because of the few amount of GPS units our team could afford at the time it was impossible to tell what the formation was but the distribution of tracked individuals showed definitively that the flock could not be flying in the V pattern normal for Canada Geese.

With the unusual size of the flock and our initial findings of the flight pattern it wasn’t hard to secure funding for more GPS units to attach the next time the flock appeared at the lake. It also allowed us to get in contact with the closest ornithology professor in Alaska in order to get an accurate account of their breeding grounds. Unfortunately the breeding area of this flock was in a pretty remote area so that professor and his students could only get to their breeding grounds for a two day span in the middle of June when all of the goslings had already hatched so their nesting behavior couldn’t be studied that first year. However they were able to accomplish the important task of attaching more GPS units to breeding adults in order to try and get a more accurate representation of their flight patterns. They also gave us an accurate number of individuals in the population.

As expected the GPS units transmitted the first migration data in the middle of October. We were expecting exciting results as with the inclusion of the new units we would be able to get a more accurate picture of what their unusual flight pattern actually was.

The flock left Alaska in a single hour and formed into the first noticeable pattern three hours afterwards. The pattern wasn’t very clear despite the number of GPS units attached but this could be attributed to the unusual size of the flock. It was actually one of the research students working in my team that put the dots together. Quite literally, as our readout of the flight pattern was only a number of dots representing each individual with a unit on it.

The student, who I won’t name for anonymity, sent me the readout when the flock was somewhere British Columbia. While missing obvious spots it was possible to make out a word.

Butcher.

Yes, you read that correctly. The geese were flying in a formation that spelled out the word ‘butcher’.

Like I imagine most of you are doing right now I dismissed the image. It had to be an error on the GPS units or the student was reading too much into it and connecting dots that weren’t there.

The geese landed at Lake Pleasant in early November. By sheer chance the same fisherman that had seen them the first time was out fishing again when they approached the lake and informed us of their arrival again. I remember the email from him because he emphasized how freaked out he was when he first saw them in the distance.

Freaked out because he clearly saw that the flock was flying in a pattern that spelled out his last name, Butcher.

Coincidence. That was the only thing that made sense to think at the time. Or maybe my student had been playing a joke on me with the GPS tracking image and the fisherman was involved.

I stopped thinking that when I saw an image of the fisherman’s face on the local news two weeks later with his full name, Jonathan Butcher, plastered on my TV screen. According to the news anchor he had been murdered by his wife when he was caught watching porn. A senseless and sad way to go, but I still refused to believe it was anything more than coincidence.

The next couple of months were filled with multiple trips to Lake Pleasant, attaching more GPS units we managed to scrape together, and getting another count of the population for our records. The flock left in April as a single unit just like last year although we weren’t able to get a visual on what their finalized pattern looked like until the first GPS readings came in a couple of hours later.

This time the word they spelled out was much clearer as the new GPS units filled up many of the gaps we had seen in the previous readings.

Schilling.

This was when I finally started to believe that something strange was going on. As I had gotten these readings myself it would’ve been impossible for any of my team to change or mess with them. The word itself didn’t mean anything to me besides being the name of a former pitcher for Arizona’s MLB team.

In May, 2010, Wendy Schilling of Anchorage, Alaska was shot and killed by her husband when he arrived home early from his long haul truck route to find her in bed with his brother. This happened two and a half weeks after our Canada Geese flock landed at their breeding grounds.

Because of the particular interest I was taking with this flock I asked my colleague to check on the flock in their breeding grounds and note any odd or peculiar behavior the flock showed while there. Bless his heart, he spent an entire week at the breeding grounds by himself taking a count and attaching even more GPS units to them. Unfortunately the week didn’t yield any unusual behavior from the flock and hence didn’t give any answers as to what the hell was going on.

Come October of 2010 the flock flies out of their home in Alaska and towards their summer home here in Arizona. Considering what had happened the last two times I waited impatiently while the first GPS readings came in.

Townsend.

A week and a half after landing at Lake Pleasant, Jacqueline Townsend was killed in a road accident when her husband drove drunk from a bar in northern Phoenix. The husband survived the accident and was charged with manslaughter.

In April 2011 the flock left Lake Pleasant and arrived in Alaska keeping a formation spelling out the name ‘Richardson’. In June 2011, Tim Richardson disappeared in the Alaskan wilderness when his partner and him went camping just outside of Anchorage. While the partner was eventually recovered Tim was never found and has been declared dead.

Annie Nowak. Murdered by her abusive husband in Phoenix in December 2011, two weeks after our geese landed at Lake Pleasant.

Brennen Zamora.

Maeve Dougherty.

Emanuel Chambers.

Every single one dead at the fault of the person who loves them the most in the word. Every single one dead within three weeks of our geese landing within 100 miles of them. Every single one named weeks beforehand.

Because I don’t want to sound like a crazy person and get all of my funding cut for my other research I’ve never published the results of this research. However I feel the need to mention this because the geese left their winter home at Lake Pleasant yesterday. Just like all of our GPS readings over the last decade the formation of the birds spelled out a name.

I’m currently on a working vacation with my wife in Anchorage to try and see this group of geese come in for myself so I was excited to look at the first GPS readings for the flock yesterday. I became a lot less excited when I saw the name that they spelled out.

Stephenson.

My name is Dr. Aaron Stephenson.


Credit: A.S. Lowe (FacebookReddit)

The post The Canada Geese of Lake Pleasant appeared first on Creepypasta.

0 views

Canada Geese

Estimated reading time — 7 minutes

I’m a researcher studying Canada Geese for the last ten years. I’ve never published my research.

Specifically, my small team and I study a small population of Canada Geese that migrates to Arizona during the winter months from Alaska. This work mostly involves checking the new adults tagged during the summer months from our sister team in Alaska. This is important because the specific flock we are keeping track of has two unusual things that our teams determined required further study.

The first is the unusual size of the flock itself. The average size of a migrating flock of Canada Geese usually falls in the range between thirty and sixty individuals. Our population was originally counted at 239 individuals in 2009 and as of the last count in 2018 has grown to 367 individuals. It was first discovered in 2009 by a fisherman at Lake Pleasant when he noticed the large flock come in and land in late November when the busy summer lake is empty of weekend water sports enthusiasts.

This initial research only consisted of the initial counting of the population and fitting tracking bracelets on a couple of individuals. Come April the flock left the area of the lake as expected and started their migration to Alaska. This led to the discovery of the second thing that makes this flock so unusual in its behavior.

Its normal for a population of geese to not begin migrating all at once, usually leaving in smaller groups as I described earlier. This population however left as a single group on the same day and, near as we could tell, the same hour. The radio tracking bracelets fitted to the individuals also showed a strange behavior in their flight patterns. I’m sure most everyone here is familiar with the normal ‘V’ shape that Canada Geese fly in while traveling. Without going into much detail it’s the most optimal pattern that the flock can fly in in order to conserve energy for the long trip to their breeding grounds during the spring and summer months.

We honestly thought it was a mistake when the first reading of the GPS tracking bracelet came and showed that our flock wasn’t flying in this V formation. Because of the few amount of GPS units our team could afford at the time it was impossible to tell what the formation was but the distribution of tracked individuals showed definitively that the flock could not be flying in the V pattern normal for Canada Geese.

With the unusual size of the flock and our initial findings of the flight pattern it wasn’t hard to secure funding for more GPS units to attach the next time the flock appeared at the lake. It also allowed us to get in contact with the closest ornithology professor in Alaska in order to get an accurate account of their breeding grounds. Unfortunately the breeding area of this flock was in a pretty remote area so that professor and his students could only get to their breeding grounds for a two day span in the middle of June when all of the goslings had already hatched so their nesting behavior couldn’t be studied that first year. However they were able to accomplish the important task of attaching more GPS units to breeding adults in order to try and get a more accurate representation of their flight patterns. They also gave us an accurate number of individuals in the population.

As expected the GPS units transmitted the first migration data in the middle of October. We were expecting exciting results as with the inclusion of the new units we would be able to get a more accurate picture of what their unusual flight pattern actually was.

The flock left Alaska in a single hour and formed into the first noticeable pattern three hours afterwards. The pattern wasn’t very clear despite the number of GPS units attached but this could be attributed to the unusual size of the flock. It was actually one of the research students working in my team that put the dots together. Quite literally, as our readout of the flight pattern was only a number of dots representing each individual with a unit on it.

The student, who I won’t name for anonymity, sent me the readout when the flock was somewhere British Columbia. While missing obvious spots it was possible to make out a word.

Butcher.

Yes, you read that correctly. The geese were flying in a formation that spelled out the word ‘butcher’.

Like I imagine most of you are doing right now I dismissed the image. It had to be an error on the GPS units or the student was reading too much into it and connecting dots that weren’t there.

The geese landed at Lake Pleasant in early November. By sheer chance the same fisherman that had seen them the first time was out fishing again when they approached the lake and informed us of their arrival again. I remember the email from him because he emphasized how freaked out he was when he first saw them in the distance.

Freaked out because he clearly saw that the flock was flying in a pattern that spelled out his last name, Butcher.

Coincidence. That was the only thing that made sense to think at the time. Or maybe my student had been playing a joke on me with the GPS tracking image and the fisherman was involved.

I stopped thinking that when I saw an image of the fisherman’s face on the local news two weeks later with his full name, Jonathan Butcher, plastered on my TV screen. According to the news anchor he had been murdered by his wife when he was caught watching porn. A senseless and sad way to go, but I still refused to believe it was anything more than coincidence.

The next couple of months were filled with multiple trips to Lake Pleasant, attaching more GPS units we managed to scrape together, and getting another count of the population for our records. The flock left in April as a single unit just like last year although we weren’t able to get a visual on what their finalized pattern looked like until the first GPS readings came in a couple of hours later.

This time the word they spelled out was much clearer as the new GPS units filled up many of the gaps we had seen in the previous readings.

Schilling.

This was when I finally started to believe that something strange was going on. As I had gotten these readings myself it would’ve been impossible for any of my team to change or mess with them. The word itself didn’t mean anything to me besides being the name of a former pitcher for Arizona’s MLB team.

In May, 2010, Wendy Schilling of Anchorage, Alaska was shot and killed by her husband when he arrived home early from his long haul truck route to find her in bed with his brother. This happened two and a half weeks after our Canada Geese flock landed at their breeding grounds.

Because of the particular interest I was taking with this flock I asked my colleague to check on the flock in their breeding grounds and note any odd or peculiar behavior the flock showed while there. Bless his heart, he spent an entire week at the breeding grounds by himself taking a count and attaching even more GPS units to them. Unfortunately the week didn’t yield any unusual behavior from the flock and hence didn’t give any answers as to what the hell was going on.

Come October of 2010 the flock flies out of their home in Alaska and towards their summer home here in Arizona. Considering what had happened the last two times I waited impatiently while the first GPS readings came in.

Townsend.

A week and a half after landing at Lake Pleasant, Jacqueline Townsend was killed in a road accident when her husband drove drunk from a bar in northern Phoenix. The husband survived the accident and was charged with manslaughter.

In April 2011 the flock left Lake Pleasant and arrived in Alaska keeping a formation spelling out the name ‘Richardson’. In June 2011, Tim Richardson disappeared in the Alaskan wilderness when his partner and him went camping just outside of Anchorage. While the partner was eventually recovered Tim was never found and has been declared dead.

Annie Nowak. Murdered by her abusive husband in Phoenix in December 2011, two weeks after our geese landed at Lake Pleasant.

Brennen Zamora.

Maeve Dougherty.

Emanuel Chambers.

Every single one dead at the fault of the person who loves them the most in the word. Every single one dead within three weeks of our geese landing within 100 miles of them. Every single one named weeks beforehand.

Because I don’t want to sound like a crazy person and get all of my funding cut for my other research I’ve never published the results of this research. However I feel the need to mention this because the geese left their winter home at Lake Pleasant yesterday. Just like all of our GPS readings over the last decade the formation of the birds spelled out a name.

I’m currently on a working vacation with my wife in Anchorage to try and see this group of geese come in for myself so I was excited to look at the first GPS readings for the flock yesterday. I became a lot less excited when I saw the name that they spelled out.

Stephenson.

My name is Dr. Aaron Stephenson.


Credit: A.S. Lowe (FacebookReddit)

The post Canada Geese appeared first on Creepypasta.

0 views

The Thing in the Window

Estimated reading time — 3 minutes
I’m pretty freaked out.

That thing has been there for almost a week. The figure in the window. It looks featureless, only skin on a human frame, and it’s pressing itself against the glass somehow. I don’t know how it got there, and I don’t know how to get rid of it.

At first I thought it was a prank, a doll or mannequin that some jerks put there to scare me. But I realized as I walked out of my house to pull it away… it wasn’t there. I shrugged it off, thinking that someone had hidden it while I was walking through my door. But I went back in and looked out that same window, and it was looking in, staring at me. I walked around my house, yelling for whoever it was to come out, but no one was there. The thing is hairless and naked, and it didn’t look like it actually had eyes, or even a face at all. But its head is turned towards me when I enter the room. When I sit on my computer, I can feel its faceless hatred boring into my neck. But when I turn around, it’s innocently turned in a different direction.

Finally on Thursday, I tried to open the window, but it’s stuck. I think the thing’s hands are keeping it down. But I got a good look at its face. Its eyes and mouth are behind the skin, pushing outward.

It stared at me, smiling.


I pulled back a fist and smashed it onto the glass, determined once and for all to get rid of the glaring monster. I know I’m strong enough. That glass should’ve cracked.

But it didn’t. It shuddered under my hand, but it didn’t break. And that smile just got wider and wider and wider, until I thought its head would break in half. It raised its own hand and bashed the window with its palm. It was mocking me. But I saw the faintest crack begin to appear where it had hit, and I backed away.

No way did I want that smile in the same room as me.

So I got a roll of duct tape, and I started covering the window. I couldn’t look directly at it; I nearly shit my pants just knowing it was watching me. But I couldn’t help it. I took a quick glance at that skin-covered face. A small peek.

It was angry.

That menacing grin was now a gaping frown full of teeth. The skin had ripped away from its mouth and I could see down its cavernous throat. A menacing rumble started to fill the house, and that hairline crack began to spread like splintering ice. I pulled down the duct tape. The rumble stopped, the split skin healed over, and it began to smile again.

Now it’s night, and the noise hasn’t started again. There are no sounds, no rumble, no crackling glass. Everything’s quiet now.

But I can feel its claws gripping the back of my chair. I can hear its skin stretching as it smiles.

It’s watching me type.


Credit: Orange Soda (Creepypasta Wiki)

Art by Ted Bracewell:
► Official Website: http://tedbracewell.com/
► DeviantArt: https://www.deviantart.com/tedakin
► Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ted.bracewell
► Twitter: https://twitter.com/Tedakin
► YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/user/Tedakin
► Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/tedakin/

The post The Thing in the Window appeared first on Creepypasta.

0 views

The Hourglass Tattoo

Estimated reading time — 9 minutes

My friends and I were always trying to dare each other into doing stupid stuff. Generally, it involved us all getting super drunk, then making suggestions. If we all agreed somebody had to do something, they would have to do it…or they’d have to have a drink from “the Bottle.” The Bottle was a former bottle of vodka that now contained any sort of nasty, vile fluids that we collected over time. One sip was guaranteed to make anyone hurl.

Looking back on it now, my friends and I were dicks. But things definitely would have been better if I had just drank from the Bottle that night.

The night I’m talking about was the night I was chosen to get a tattoo…from the lowest-rated place Yelp had to offer. I never wanted a tattoo. Everyone else in our group had at least one, with Frank covered in the things, but I had always been a holdout. That was why I was chosen. Being super drunk, as I said, I was less willing to say no. It didn’t help that I was the last contributor to the Bottle and definitely didn’t want my lips anywhere near it.

It didn’t take long to find a place online. We had never seen a place get so many negative reviews and still be in business…without it being a trolling prank, anyway. These looked genuine, ranging from being stabbed with the needles to getting the wrong tattoo to getting a staph infection from leaning against a stain on the wall.

The guys thought it was perfect for me.

I’d never actually been to a business that had its front entrance come in from an alley, but this did. Everyone else waited back at my place while Frank drove me there, to make sure I did the deed right. He sat in the lobby with me until I was called back behind a yellow curtain.

The guy doing my tattoo looked like an ex-biker who had recently gotten into voodoo. He wore a bandanna on his head (probably to hide the fact that was going bald, most likely), a Killing Joke jean jacket (the band, not the Batman story), and had a beard long enough to hide gravy stains on his belt buckle. On the shelf behind him were a collection of painted skulls (those calavera ones from the Day of the Dead festivals) and vials filled with used needles, fresh needles, and at least a few shrunken heads. I hoped they were fakes, but they were really leathery looking.

He looked me over, and then pointed to a binder full of designs to pick from. I flipped through them, looking for anything unusual enough that I’d never seen it on anyone before, but not so lame that I’d regret my decision in the morning…though I was still drunk enough that I’d probably regret anything at this point.

I finally found one, towards the middle…an hourglass. A real Goth-looking hourglass, with spider webs and curled, pointy edges, very Tim Burton-looking. I gave it to the guy, pointed to the back of my neck (right where a nice business shirt would cover it up), and prepared myself.

It took three hours. It shouldn’t have taken three hours for something as small as I got, but it did. Every second the needle was running hurt, and hurt bad. But after sweating, swearing, and plotting revenge on all of my friends one by one, he said it was done. I thanked him, paid him (though the tip was certainly smaller than he probably expected), and went to go see Frank.

Frank, mad that he’d waited for so long, asked to see it on the way back to the car. I pulled back my shirt and angled my neck. “So, what do you think?”

He looked at it. “Christ, dude, I knew it had to be big, but wow, that’s commitment. I can’t believe you’d get something that disgusting and realistic looking.”

Disgusting? Realistic? Maybe he’d had more to drink in the lobby. It was a stupid hourglass; realistic I could buy, but disgusting?

We got in his car and started driving back. With my neck itching, I asked if he had a mirror in the car so I could take a look at it, maybe even rub some of that greasy lotion the artist gave me to keep it from drying out. He said there might be a signal mirror or something in the glove compartment; I checked, and he was right. I raised it up to look at my hourglass.

It was dark in Frank’s car, but even I could tell something was wrong. My hourglass, which had looked fine when I was in the tattoo parlor, wasn’t an hourglass anymore. It couldn’t have been. It was too big… it stretched across my neck completely. I would have never gotten a tattoo like that.

But there it was. And I could see why Frank said it was disgusting.

It was a car wreck. A truly disturbing one, with twisted metal and a corpse hanging out of the windshield. Blood and glass everywhere.

What in the hell was I looking at?

Frank must’ve noticed my look of surprise. “What, did the guy give you the wrong one? I guess that’s why they’re so low rated. You really got to be careful, I almost had the same thing happen to me on the one on my forearm here. You know the guy thought I wanted a Garfield and not a snow leopard? It would’ve been embarrass…”

I never heard him finish. He was cut off by a loud roar as something smashed into the car. I felt it spin through the air, but I remembered nothing else before waking up on the road. It can’t have been a long time, because there were no emergency vehicles around. But I stood up, with only a dull pain in my arm the only injury I could feel. I was lucky, considering I had been wearing my seat belt and yet had still been thrown from the car.

Frank wasn’t so lucky. The car lay in a puddle of leaking fluids, and when I came closer I saw he was hanging out of the driver side window. He was shredded by glass, and not moving.

The way he was hanging looked familiar, and the longer I looked at his ruined body, the more I realized what I was looking at.

The tattoo on my neck. The wreck looked just like the tattoo.

I was checked by the emergency personnel who arrived, who confirmed that I had bruised my arm and gotten a few superficial cuts. Frank had been killed on impact. The truck driver who had hit us had fled the scene and was caught a little ways up the road. Thing is, if he had stayed he wouldn’t have been at fault; Frank had run a stop sign.

I didn’t talk to anybody for awhile. I wasn’t sure if I was just in mourning, or if I was still scared about my tattoo. Since the night of the accident, it was clearly back to being an hourglass. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought there was more sand in the bottom than there had been when it was first done.

The night of Frank’s funeral (closed casket, obviously), the guys and I got together to have some drinks in his honor at a local microbrew.

Eric was the first to remember that I had gotten the tattoo, and wanted to see it. I let him, but I was reluctant.

“Dude, sick! What the hell? Who’d even let you get that?”

My stomach twisted. I had to see what he had seen. I excused myself and went to the bathroom.

I still had the mirror from Frank’s car. It had survived the crash, and I held onto it just in case. Looking in both mirrors, I saw the tattoo had changed again.

It showed a man whose head had been smashed to a pulp, but the body was still holding a glass raised in toast.

I ran back out to the group, and told them maybe we should go on home and meet back up tomorrow. They all agreed, except for Eric, who said he’d call for an Uber or something, that he wanted a couple more drinks.

I thought maybe that if I left, he’d be okay. Maybe if my neck was cursed or something, it would leave him alone if I got as far away as I could.

I went to sleep. The next morning, I got a frantic call from Jeff. It was Eric. He had gone missing. A few hours later, Jeff called again. Eric was dead.

He had apparently gotten blind stinking drunk and started getting loud and screaming that he wanted to fight someone. He got kicked out, and he thought it would be a great idea to walk home by himself. He passed out on the railroad tracks. The train hit his head and never even slowed down. They found him early in the morning, but it took awhile to find out because they needed fingerprints to identify him.

I checked my tattoo. Hourglass again. More sand was definitely in the bottom than there was.

I went back to the tattoo parlor and asked about the guy who gave it to me. I found out he’d been fired. Turns out he falsified his application form. The name and address he gave weren’t his. He had taken his stuff and left before anyone could call the police. No one knew who he really was.

After Eric’s funeral, I didn’t go out drinking. I stayed at home. I found myself watching the tattoo. It was the only thing I could do.

It was a mistake to be alone, though. My remaining friends decided to check in on me and make sure everything was OK. Jeff brought The Bottle with him, not to drink from, but just to remember better times. And then he made a comment asking if I got the tattoo worked on, because he didn’t remember it being big enough to see over the top of my shirt.

No. I wouldn’t let it hurt anyone else. I would stop it.

It was the stupidest thing I had ever done without being drunk. I grabbed The Bottle, and smashed it on the table. Everyone shouted as I ran out of the room and up to the bathroom, where the mirrors were still set up, where I watched every day to see what shape the tattoo would take next. I saw it was no longer the hourglass, but didn’t look at what it was now. I locked the bathroom door, held tight to the gooey, liquid coated edge of the Bottle’s neck and started cutting.

It hurt. It hurt so bad. But it had to go.

I vaguely remember the door busting open and some calling an ambulance, going to the hospital.

I did live, as I’m writing this now. One skin graft and many psych evaluations later, I was discharged.

So far, nothing more has happened. But I’m still afraid.

You see, nobody found the piece of skin I had cut off. I had stared at it, long and hard, before my friends broke down the door. I’d thrown it into a drawer and hid it. When I came home, I found it. It was the hourglass again. But even on that now dead tissue, it still changes…I think. I swear more sand is still falling through the hourglass, even without it being attached to me. There’s only a few grains left.

Which means now I look for it to change. To go back to that image I saw that night. The image that I know realize nobody ever saw but me. Jeff never got a good look at it. It means that was my fate. And with the grains left in the hourglass, it’ll be any day now.

On that piece of severed skin that night was an image of a man. A flayed, skinless man. He sits in a puddle of his own blood, holding strips of his own skin and a knife. The strips are all covered in tattoos. And he’s laughing.


Credit: The Dead Canary (Chilling Tales for Dark NightsYouTubeReddit)
If you wish to narrate the story please contact Chilling Tales for Dark Nights for permission by clicking here.

The post The Hourglass Tattoo appeared first on Creepypasta.

0 views

The Portal in the Woods

Estimated reading time — 10 minutes“Dad, you said you’d play catch with me!” I yelled as my father walked past me to his office, where he spent most of his days when he wasn’t at work.

“I’m sorry, bud, I’ve gotta get these documents done for tomorrow’s big meeting. We’ll do it another day, okay?”

I frowned. That was the same excuse he always gave me, and the same follow-up he always had. ‘We’ll do it another day,’ Yeah, yeah, sure we will, I thought. The longer I stood in front of his door, the more upset I became. I eventually huffed and puffed enough to the point where I stormed out of the house. I left for my go-to place when I was upset: the treehouse.

To a twelve-year-old kid, a tree house was the perfect place for a kid to just get away from his problems and be a kid! It was Reese’s and my place to go when we were sad, mad, or just bored out of our minds. It was our little getaway when things went awry in our lives. We also went there just to hang out. It was our spot.

We had found the treehouse one day while looking through the woods for buried treasure. We didn’t find any treasure, but we did stumble upon the treehouse. We climbed up the ladder and viewed the place from inside. Reese called it a dump, but I saw the potential in it. I fixed her up, grabbing fold up chairs, a rug, and a blanket to cover the only window in the wooden box, to create the coolest treehouse ever! We kept our comic books, Yu-Gi-Oh cards, and other miscellaneous knick-knacks up there.

Now that I got the treehouse out of the way, let me explain to you who Reese is. Reese is my best friend. He moved in next door when I was in the second grade. We went over their house and introduced ourselves. I went into Reese’s room and saw that he had a Nintendo Sixty-Four. We sat down and played Super Smash Bros. all day, and that first visit became a sleepover, which we spent staying up late playing video games till our eyes became sore, and then some.

Reese was a good kid. Sure, he’d get into trouble occasionally, like the one time he fed his sisters’ goldfish to the cat, but he was overall a good kid. He’d get into trouble for sneaking out and he constantly was a wiseass to teachers, but again he was a good kid, and most importantly my best friend, my only friend.

That day, Reese was on the last day of his grounding. He was caught sneaking out at night. I was supposed to sneak out as well, but I got cold feet and stayed in bed. Reese went to the treehouse alone, and when he realized I wasn’t there, returned home where his parents caught him trying to sneak back in.

Reese would always tease me, clucking and calling me a chicken when I did stuff like this. I was sure that once he got loose from the confines of his room, he’d be all up in my ear about it.

I entered the woods and was making my way to the treehouse. I was about three quarters of the way there, swinging a stick I found awhile back, pretending it was Excalibur, when I saw it. It was a black hole, the size of a bowling ball, levitating at eye level a few feet away from me. It looked like someone took a picture and hole-punched it, leaving a black spot in its place.

I approached it curiously. I tried to go around it to get a sideview of the thing, but it disappeared. I walked behind where it would have been, and it reappeared. The hole was paper-thin and couldn’t be seen from its sides. I looked at it intensely, trying to see anything inside. I looked down at Excalibur and lifted it upwards. I slowly inserted the stick into the black hole. Suddenly, like a vacuum, the hole absorbed the stick, forcing me to let go. I fell backwards on my rear end, kicking my legs out and skittering back in a feeble attempt to create distance between the black hole and me. I breathed heavily as I stared at the hole in astonishment. Then the stick spat back out and fell at my feet.

I was frozen in place for a good minute. I didn’t know what to do. Then I had an idea. I ran over to a tree and grabbed an acorn off the ground. I went up to the hole and chucked the acorn in. I waited a minute, then the acorn came out, whizzing past my head.

“Whoa!” I said.

That’s when I had another idea.

I went home and grabbed the football from my bedroom, just in case my dad decided he wanted to play catch with me. I brought it to the black hole, got into a throwing stance, stretched my arm backwards, winding up the shot, and then threw. Of course, I missed the hole completely. I ran and grabbed the ball, got closer to the hole, and threw it underhand. This time it went in. A minute passed, and then the ball popped right back out and bounced a few times before it rolled up close to me. I smiled and prepared another throw. I got into the stance, stretched my arm backwards, and chucked it as hard as I could. This time the ball went in, no problem. A minute went by, and I just stood in front of the hole.

The ball suddenly came out fast, spiraling and hitting me dead in the stomach. I fell to my knees in shock and pain. I wasn’t expecting it to come out that hard. That’s when I realized that it all depended on the strength of my throw. If I throw it weakly, the hole would toss it back with the same momentum. Throw it hard, and it comes back hard.

I played catch with the black hole for a good hour, then made my way home. I couldn’t wait to show Reese.

The next day arrived. It was a Sunday, so after Reese got back from church, I was ready to show my friend the coolest thing ever!

When my friend got back home, I quickly ran over to his house and asked his parents if he could hang out. They said of course, and we went to the treehouse.

“Dude, I have something amazing to show you!” I said, hyped for my friend to see my cool find.

“Yeah, yeah, sure you do,” he responded.

We walked about three quarters of the way and started to approach where I’d seen the black hole. That’s when Reese spotted it.

“Whoa! What the hell is that thing?”

“It’s a portal!” I eagerly said.

We looked at it for a good minute, and then made our way closer.

“Throw this into it!” I said, unable to hold back the excitement in my voice. I handed him the football and he brought his arm back and threw it in on his first try. I was a little envious, but I had to remember that Reese played baseball, so his aim was going to be better than mine.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Just wait.”

A minute went by, even though it felt like an eternity, and the ball finally popped back out and landed on the ground in front of Reese. Reese didn’t say anything for a moment, then knelt and picked up the football. He scrutinized it carefully, looking for any scruffs or nicks on the ball.

“That was pretty amazing,” he said in a monotone. I smiled, grabbed the ball back from him, and threw it into the hole once again.

We played for a good thirty minutes. At first Reese wanted to know how many things could go through the hole. He threw rocks, acorns, and even a worm into the hole. All came out just like they had before. Then we took turns tossing the football into it.

“What’s on the other side?” Reese finally asked.

“I dunno. Space stuff?”

“What if there’s like a whole ‘nother dimension on the other side of it? Maybe there’s an alternate version of us!”

I tossed the football into the portal again and waited for its reemergence.

“Yeah, I guess it’s possible.”

“Aren’t you at all curious what’s on the other side?”

I thought for a moment.

“Yeah, I guess I’m a little curious.”

“Well…”

“Well, what?” I asked, confused.

“Stick your head through the portal!”

“What?! No way!” I said, backing up, as if to say no with my body.

“C’mon! Don’t be a chicken like you were the other night.”

There it was. The chicken comment. I knew it was coming.

“I don’t care what you say, I’m not doing it,” I said, not letting peer pressure get the best of me. Every time he pressured me into doing something, we always ended up in trouble. That’s when he began to cluck, bending his arms into his torso to resemble chicken wings.

“Chicken! Chicken! Chicken!” he chanted.

“Look, I’m not doing it. You don’t know what could be on the other side. What if there’s a monster or something?”

“C’mon, man! It’s just a portal. Don’t you want to know who’s been tossing the ball back through it?”

I didn’t think about that aspect of it. I guess there could’ve been someone on the other side, catching the ball, and then tossing it back to us. But I still didn’t budge in my decision.

“Pussy!” he finally shouted, which hit hard. He’d never called me a pussy before. I didn’t even know that the word was in his vocabulary. I knew the word too, but I’d never dare say it.

He began to walk toward the portal, and I shouted to him, “What are you doing, Reese?!”

“I’m going to look through the portal.”

I quickly followed him, trying to explain that it was a bad idea, but he wasn’t having any of it.

“Look, you can’t be a chicken your whole life. You gotta take chances sometimes. Plus, I want to know who or what has been on the receiving end of our passes. Don’t you?”

“I guess, but I don’t think it’s safe to just poke your head into things you don’t understand.”

“Pussy,” he said, then bent forward to stick his head into the hole.

He hesitated at first, maybe to take in what he was about to do, then plunged his head into the hole.

A few long seconds passed by and nothing happened. He just stood there, arms limp at his sides, looking through the hole. I looked around nervously, like we were doing a bad deed and I was on watch. Then everything happened at once.

Reese fell backwards, hitting the ground hard. I stood right behind him and was hit by something warm and wet, as if someone sprayed me with a Super Soaker with hot water. I looked down at the ground. He was missing his head! His neck leaked copious amounts of blood all over the place. That’s when I realized that I was covered in blood. I screamed a scream only a kid could make. Then something flew out of the portal, and I instinctively caught it as it slammed into my chest. I looked down at the thing in my hands and screamed again. It was Reese’s head! His face was twisted in horror, like he’d just seen a ghost! His tongue lolled to the side and his eyes were glazed over, a white milky film covering his barely-visible pupils.

Memories started flooding into my head. Thoughts of the times Reese and I would play hooky from school. The times we’d sneak out and would tell scary stories to each other in the treehouse, trying to make the other piss his pants. All the fond memories I’ve ever had of Reese came together all at once, and were shattered with one new, horrifying, mental scar.

My hands began to tremble, and I dropped Reese’s head to the dirt and ran away. I kept running till I made it home. I opened the door and slammed it behind me, then ran to the restroom to wipe Reese’s blood from my face. I spent a half an hour scrubbing Reese’s blood from my face, and another scrubbing the blood off my clothes. I was petrified!

I walked out of the restroom and ran up the stairs to my bedroom. I got into bed, even though it was only six o’clock, and lay there mortified. My eyes were wide open, looking straight at the ceiling, staring into space. The image of Reese’s body dropping to the ground and his head landing in my arms kept playing over and over in my head. Then, after hyperventilating for a good ten minutes, I fell asleep.

My dad woke me up. I opened my eyes and thought to myself, that was one weird-ass dream. But my father knocked me out of that thought when he asked me if I knew where Reese was. Apparently he didn’t come home, and his parents thought that maybe he was over here.

They filed a missing persons report the next day, thinking that maybe Reese had run away. After a few days went by, the police decided to do a search of the woods. They spread out and found his decapitated body on the woodland floor.

Local news played the story everywhere. They were looking for his killer and asking if anybody had any information, they should call the local police department. I picked up the phone a few times, mostly to clear my conscience, which was eating me alive, but I didn’t because I knew no one would believe me. Who would? Hey, my friend stuck his head through a portal and it bit his head off. Yeah, I’m sure that would be taken seriously.

After all this time, one question remains with me, though: what did my friend see on the other side of that portal?


Credit: Nicholas Gray (Facebook)

The post The Portal in the Woods appeared first on Creepypasta.

0 views

My Son Did the Momo Challenge

Estimated reading time — 8 minutes
I looked at the phone.  I waited for the text to come back.  It was maybe about ten, fifteen minutes.

That hideous face popped up on the screen, with the reply.

“You didn’t do the last task I asked of you.  Now, there will be consequences.”

The last task was done, actually, but not by me.  The phone I was holding was not mine.  It was my son’s.  I wanted some answers, something that would help me get through what had happened.  I needed to know the truth.

I wanted to know what made my son kill himself.

I had thought him being secretive was just because he was a teenager.  I remembered when I was a kid, I tried to hide things from my family, things I was embarrassed of.  But I never expected to walk into the bathroom to find him collapsed on the floor, his wrists cut.

It was one thing to just be suicide, but then there were the phrases on the walls, the symbols.  All gibberish, written in lipstick, on the mirror and the shower door.  “She tastes all,” and “Bend the circle.”

The Momo Challenge was what they called it.  A sick, twisted thing that looked like it was just for fun, but it terrorized people, mostly children.  I found out about it, and everything I read after my son’s death made me angrier the more I found.  That weird woman’s face wasn’t some demon, some creature from the pits of hell.  It was just a statue, that belonged on some weird bird creature thing in Japan.  They used it like an avatar, lured kids in with the promise of some good scary fun.  Then the increasingly frightening challenges.  Watching a scary movie alone was first.  Then, not telling anyone about these conversations, or else their personal information would go out.  Then the fear that ‘Momo’ would come and get them if they didn’t continue.

I never expected my son to be fooled by it.  But I read the conversation.  The things ‘Momo’ was willing to tell people.  I could see why he got scared.  They knew so much, all from a couple of clicks.  Hacking.

I never even knew what WhatsApp was, but my son used it to message friends outside of Facebook.  A friend told him about the number, but was too scared to try it himself.  So, my son tried it.  The friend never knew what was really going on, and was horrified to learn what had happened.  He would have never sent it along if he had known.

The police couldn’t do anything.  They said the number was a spoof, useless, probably a disposable cell phone, though it was odd that it wasn’t one normally associated with the Momo Challenge they normally looked into.  They knew the group did things out in South America, and there wasn’t much as local officers they could do.  They took the phone as evidence, but after they didn’t get anywhere with it, they returned it, and offered me their condolences.

They said it wasn’t worth trying to contact them.  They’d given their last command, they probably would ignore the number.

I didn’t care.  That phone sat in my son’s room, in a little Ziploc baggie, for weeks.  My wife didn’t want me to touch it; she didn’t want anything to do with the monstrosity.  She just wanted the memory of our son to stay as it was.

But I wanted to know why.  I wanted to know why people would do such a horrible thing.

So I texted back.  “I didn’t do your last thing.  I was too scared to try.”

Then I got that response.  Then another came through.  “You get one more chance, and then everyone will know your secrets.  Go to this address, alone.  It’ll be fun.”

My eyes widened.  The address wasn’t far from where I lived, maybe a few miles or so.  It would’ve been a fast drive.

If the group was in another country, they wouldn’t have bothered.  But this was local.  Maybe I would get answers.

I left my wife asleep in our room, but I took my coat and my handgun.  Funny, even though I showed my son how to handle it, I never got over the worry he might hurt himself with it, even locked away in my locker the way it was.  Now he never would.

I drove out to the address.  The neighborhood wasn’t great, but it didn’t seem like any place I would have felt unsafe walking after dark.  The house itself was a bungalow, dingy gray color on the outside, no vehicles anywhere near it.  There wasn’t even a detached garage.  All the lights were out.

I parked across the street.  I got out and went to the front door.  There was a note on it.

Come inside…if you dare.

The door was unlocked.  I didn’t bother knocking.

I entered a small hallway with a staircase going up, an entry into a little living room to the side, and a kitchen straight ahead.  Even in the dark, I could see the kitchen had old, flaky yellow wallpaper, and a small table with chairs at it.

The house didn’t look abandoned; just empty.  I didn’t see anything weird in the living room, so I went ahead into the kitchen.

I tried the light switch.  It flicked on, which I honestly didn’t expect to work.  A doorway led into a laundry room, another door led off onto a back porch, and a third with a security latch on it led underneath the staircase.  The room was small, but not uncomfortably so.

On the back wall, there was a note on the refrigerator.

Look inside.

I opened it.  There was nothing in there but a plate, with a note on it.

Surprise!

I heard footsteps behind me.  Thing is, whoever was attacking was expecting a high school kid, I’m sure, not a grown man, and not one who played football when he was younger.  I turned around and ducked down, charging the dark shape that had come down from upstairs and through the front hall.  I knocked him over, and I hit him again and again until he stopped fighting.

I couldn’t believe I had knocked him out.

I dragged him into the kitchen, pulled out one of the chairs, and sat him up in it.  In the light, I could see he was wearing all black, including a hoodie and a ski mask.  He also had a knife in his hand.

I took the knife away and dug through the drawers, hoping to find some rope.  I didn’t, but a junk drawer had a few unused zip ties.  I bound his wrists and tied his feet to the chair.

I pulled off his ski mask as well.  He was young, maybe college age.

I sat and waited for him to recover.  I kept my gun on him.  It didn’t take too long, and when he saw me, he went wide eyed and pulled at his ties.

“Who are you?”  I waved my gun at him.

“What the hell’s going on here?”  I expected him to be upset, and a little scared considering his situation.  But he looked more than scared.  His eyes were rimmed with lack of sleep.  “Let me go, man!  Let me go!”

“I want an answer.  Who are you?”

When he kept struggling, I kicked him in the knee, hard.  He yelped.  I asked him a third time.

“I’m just playing the game, man.  It’s what I was told to do.”  He started crying.

“Told what?”

“I started playing that challenge thing, the Momo challenge.  I looked it up, I thought it was all horseshit.  I gave them all fake info, so they couldn’t dox me.  But it figured me out.”

I relaxed the grip on my gun, but just a little.  “Who figured it out?”

“It asked me to kill myself, it would tell everyone about me, everything I’d ever done, unless I did it.  I didn’t, I told it to screw off.  But then the messages, the pictures…they stopped.  It just said it was coming for me.”

He sniffed.  “And it did.”

He looked over at the locked door.  “I went downstairs, in my basement.  It came for me, in there.  But I got away.  I locked it in there.  But it kept talking.  It kept saying it would come for me, it would get me, unless I passed on the game.”

He looked at me.  “I started getting texts.  I got information.  I told him to off himself, like I was told.  I was hoping he wouldn’t mail back.  But then you did.  And then it told me since the plan didn’t work, I needed to feed it, or else it would get me.”

He broke down and cried again.  “I’m sorry, man.  I’m so sorry.  I didn’t know.  I haven’t slept right in weeks.  I barely even know what’s happening anymore.”

I looked at him.  He looked downright pathetic, sitting in that chair.  Bawling away.

And I looked over at that knife.

He took my son from me.  And he planned to kill me.

I felt no sympathy for his sick, pathetic ass.

I smashed the gun across his face.  He screamed.

“Please!  I said I was sorry!”

I grabbed his chair.  I pulled it over to the basement door.

“You scumbag shit.  You killed my son.  MY SON!  And you think lying to me about some…thing scaring you into murdering him will make me feel sorry for you?!?”

He saw me unlatch the door.  His eyes widened again.

“NO!  NO!  STOP!  PLEASE!  DON’T DO IT!  I’LL DO ANYTHING!”

I opened the door.  I saw the stairs, leading down into darkness.

Perfect.  I leaned back, and kicked his chair.

He screamed as the chair tumbled down the stairs.  He landed at the bottom.  I saw him laying there, sprawled, sobbing and yelling.

“MY LEG!  MY LEG!  OH, GOD!  OH, GOD, NO!  HELP!”

I went to shut the door, when I saw it.

The long, thin pair of arms reaching out from the darkness, into the light of the kitchen.

The hair.  Long, black, scraggly.

The bulging eyes.

The body that was not on a chicken monster, but on a thin, pale frame, with a dirty, gray tank top.

And its hideous smile.

It didn’t look like Momo.  Not exactly.  But it was nothing human.

It dragged the chair, slowly, back into the darkness.

I didn’t think his screams could get any louder, but they did.

I shut the door.  I slammed the door latch back into place.

I waited, unsure what to do.  The screams ended, abruptly.

A minute later, just on the other side of the door, I heard a thin woman’s voice.

“Are you ready to play with me?”

I drove home faster than I ever thought possible.

It’s been weeks since then.  I haven’t heard from the police.  I haven’t heard from anyone about a missing person.  It’s just quietly gone away from our lives.

I know that there are sick people out there that get their jollies from torturing and frightening children.  I sincerely hope you can protect your kids and they are never exposed to it.  I also hope that someday what I saw in that basement will give them exactly what they deserve.

But I will not give out that weird, secondary number that it used.  I know it’s not some kind of angel that punishes the wrong people.  It’s not safe.

I know because I got a text the other day.  On my phone I erased it, but it’s still in my mind.

“I’m out now.  Let me know when you’re ready to play.”


Credit: The Dead Canary (Chilling Tales for Dark NightsYouTubeReddit)
If you wish to narrate the story please contact Chilling Tales for Dark Nights for permission by clicking here.

The post My Son Did the Momo Challenge 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