Minor Announcement

Hello, fellow followers. Just to take a break from posting stories to let you know that I will be moving most of my creepypasta story collection into a new blog that specializes in them while keeping this blog slightly tame with heartwarming stories and such.

So, if you're interested, go to https://mycreepypastacollection.blogspot.com/ if you are a fan of reading creepypastas and go binge on my collection there. Thanks~!

The Anguished Man

Over twenty five years ago a friend of my Grandmother gave her an old oil painting called ‘The Anguished Man’. She told my Grandmother that the artist used his own blood mixed in with the oils and committed suicide shortly after finishing the painting. I have no way of confirming if this story is true or not, but my Grandmother passed the story down to me when she gave me the painting.

I really liked the painting, but because my wife didn’t like it I kept it in the cellar. After our cellar was flooded during a prolonged period of heavy rain I moved the contents of the cellar to my parent’s garage while the cellar dried out. When I got the painting back I decided to keep it in our spare bedroom on the third floor of our house. Shortly after we started to hear strange noises, loud unexplainable bangs and an odd scraping noise like someone scratching their nails on fabric.

When the painting was in the cellar our dog would not go in the cellar, she would just stand outside growling; now when it was upstairs she refused to go to the top floor despite the fact that she usually used to follow me everywhere. At night we would often hear crying and sobbing noises. I suppose these noises could have come from outside the house, and it was suggested the crying could have been a cat outside, but they sounded like they came from within the house. I wasn’t duly alarmed at this point and put everything down to natural phenomenon, however I started to see the shadowy figure of a man in the house, it was always just in the corner of the eye or brief fleeting glimpses of a dark shape. Soon the rest of my family were seeing things too. It has also been suggested that because we all knew the history of the painting that we were all imagining these things, and I suppose that is a possibility, but at the time it felt very real.

As the weeks went by the noises got progressively worse, I even heard crying that seemed to be coming from inside our own bedroom, again it has been suggested that this could have been from a cat outside the window but I’ve heard the noises cats make and this sounded distinctively human. A few nights I woke up suddenly and saw the dark figure of a man standing at the foot of the bed. Could I have been dreaming? Again, this is a possibility, but at the time it felt very real. The figure had the appearance of a tall middle aged man but his features were unclear. I never actually felt afraid at this point just extremely curious. I wanted to find out what was happening. Was it just my imagination or was there something paranormal happening? We started to notice numerous cold spots around the house and we often had a strange feeling of being watched. I often felt like someone was standing directly behind me and heard whispers that seemed to be extremely close by.

One evening my wife had gone to bed early, she thought it was me getting into bed beside her but when she turned around she found herself staring into a strangers eyes. I heard her scream from downstairs and ran upstairs to find her extremely shaken up by the experience. She has since told me she may have had a very lucid dream but at the time she was convinced it had actually happened. After this experience my wife persuaded me to put the painting back in the cellar. Things settled down almost immediately but once again my dog refused to go anywhere near the cellar, when the painting was upstairs the dog would quite happily follow me into the cellar.

After posting the videos on YouTube I attracted a lot of interest worldwide and several people asked me if I would consider setting a video camera up in an attempt to record some of the activity. I moved the painting back into the top bedroom and set up the video camera. I recorded for approx eight hours over three consecutive nights. After the first night I was convinced I had left the bedroom door open but in the morning it was closed so I changed the camera angle in order to record more of the bedroom because at first it had been focused solely on the painting. After spending several hours looking through all the footage I found I had recorded quite a lot of noises, most of them sounded like they came from outside the house and were easily explainable but a few were different. They sounded like they came from inside the bedroom. There was a strange scraping sound similar to the noises we had previously been hearing and the sound of a loud bang, like something falling but in the morning nothing was disturbed.

When I checked the footage from the second night I found I had recorded the bedroom door suddenly swinging shut despite there being no drafts in the room. The third night I closed the door before recording in the hope it might swing open through the night but on this occasion it remained closed. I decided to leave the painting in the top bedroom for the time being and over the next few weeks my wife felt someone stroke her hair when she was in the bathroom and one night when I was going to bed I saw a strange fog like mist at the top of the stairs, I walked into the middle of it and it was extremely cold, it felt like I was standing in the middle of some dry ice, my vision was blurred and I became very light headed, then suddenly it vanished as quickly as it came.

Now while some of the incidents could be explained by saying I was dreaming or it was a result of my over active imagination, this strange mist was real, it was something I could see and feel and something for which I can find no explanation. While the painting remained upstairs the whole family experienced feelings of being watched. We also started to hear the noises at night again, somehow the whole house felt different when the painting was upstairs. I also began to experience intense feelings of anxiety and dread and suffered from terrible nightmares, at one point it felt like I was being repeatedly and violently lifted up out of bed and slammed back down. I also started dreaming about the painting and kept dreaming about the same man, a tall middle aged man but I could never quite make out his face.

After a few weeks I decided to set up the video camera again in the spare bedroom to try and catch some more of the activity on tape. This time I recorded over four consecutive nights for about seven hours each night. I spent hours looking through the footage again and I found I had recorded several strange light anomalies. At the time these were recorded everyone in the house was sleeping, there are thick curtains up in the bedroom so it can’t be light from outside. There was one small lamp on in the bedroom at all times. They were not like the usual ‘orbs’ you see on some videos and photographs, they seemed to be moving around and over the painting. I also recorded many noises, such as bangs and scraping sounds that were similar to the sounds in my previous video.

A few days after this was recorded I heard my sons footsteps coming down the stairs then suddenly I heard him stumble and fall down the last four or five steps. I jumped up and rushed to help him, to my relief he was unhurt, just a little shaken up. Later on in the day I could tell that something was bothering him so I asked him what was wrong, he was a little reluctant to tell me at first for fear of sounding stupid but after some persuasion he told me that it felt like something had pushed him downstairs. He said that he was just walking down the stairs when he felt a pressure on his back that pushed him forward, he tried to stop falling but he said the force behind him was too strong. Well this really concerned me, was I putting my family at risk by keeping the painting in the house? I decided to put the painting away again in the cellar and once again the activity seemed to stop.

I have tried to research the paintings background and have posted the story all over the internet in the vague hope that someone will recognise the artist but so far I have had no luck. I have had many offers from people wanting to buy the painting but I really have no desire to sell it. At first I thought the painting was very unsettling but I put down all the activity to the fact I had been told of its background and perhaps I was imagining things, but the longer I had the painting the more convinced I became that there is something paranormal about it.

It has been suggested that because he used his own blood in the oils it could be the restless spirit of the artist but a few people have told me that it may be much more sinister than that, they told me that it could be some sort of demon. At first I was a little disturbed by the activity but I always felt there was nothing malicious or evil about it but since my son’s ‘fall’ down the stairs I’m not too sure. If the painting is indeed ‘haunted’ then is the ‘spirit’ trying to communicate with us, trying to tell us something? I have been advised at various times to burn the painting or even bury it, then I have been told not to burn it because if I burn it and it is some sort of gateway then I would be just sealing whatever has come through into our reality and that could make matters much worse. I have also been told to have it blessed or even exorcised. I do know now, however, that I don’t want to destroy it. I have asked my family if they know anything about the painting but nobody knows anything about it. All I have to go on is what was passed on to my Grandmother and in turn was passed on to me.

Hopefully I will eventually find out the artist’s name and then I will be able to research the validity of its back story. I have tried to remain objective and look at the events rationally but I have no explanation for some of the things I have experienced.

----
Credit - Sean Robinson

Slideshow

Fingers trembling with excitement I opened the package. Just as I had hoped, it was the camera I won on ebay. With mild delight I realized I had received a better deal than I had realized because the previous owner had left the memory card in the slot.

Before sending an e-mail to the seller alerting them of the mistake I decided to see if anything was on it. Setting the camera on slideshow I watched as the camera displayed a picture of a shipping label. My confusion turned to horror as the next image was of a person brutally murdered. The rest of the card was alternating pictures of a mailing address followed by a murder scene.

The last image was of the shipping label from the box I had just opened.

----
Original Author: danatblair

Nyctophilia

I’ve always loved the dark.

It feels warm and welcoming. Like a mask, hiding all the stress and emotion that the daylight shows so explicitly and replacing them with a sensuous feeling. The dark reveals your true nature and abolishes the facade you play during the daytime.

Yes. The dark is good. You can be yourself in the dark and not feel judged or threatened all the while by being yourself.

That’s why I love the night so much. You can just relax in the blackness, surrounded by nothing but shadow. Allowing the dark to overcome your senses and numb them down until you feel nothing at all but complete weightlessness.

Then, when sleep finally takes control, you are thrusted into even deeper darkness. Infinite darkness. Just black empty space. An endless void your mind creates to help you drift off into unconsciousness.

But why? Why is it always black? Have you ever thought about that? Whenever we close our eyes, we are met with black. But why?

You don’t notice it, do you? You don’t think about it. It’s just there. Like breathing, blinking. After a while your subconscious just accepts that when we close our eyes, we see darkness. Empty darkness.

Why is it then that people are scared of the dark?

An average human being will sleep for 229,961 hours of their lifetime. For one whole third of their life, they will live in darkness. Complete and utter darkness.

If we really were scared of the dark, why do we have the ability to close our eyes and sleep for so long. So long in the black oblivion.

You see, I think no one is truly afraid of the dark. That’s just an illusion. An illsuion we produce to trick ourselves into thinking that there is no such thing as monsters.

We’ve all heard that story haven’t we?

About the night terrors that roam around in the night – claws raised, teeth bared – ready to attack the young, naive child as they sleep in their beds, unaware of their demonic presence because they can’t see them. Don’t lie to yourself, you were like that once. Sitting awake, clutching at the sheets as your stare at your ceiling or glancing around your room. Perhaps you had a nightlight. A ‘Holy Crucifix’ of sorts that were used to ward off the monsters. To protect you.

Well I think, as you grow up, you begin to tell yourself that in all your childlike innocence, you were never scared of the evil that lurked in the shadows, you were simply afraid of the dark. That’s what you believe. As you grow up, you tend to grow out of this fear and relish in the dark like I do. But this fear can remain with you in adulthood. In fact it’s one of the most common phobias – nyctophobia. Even as a fully matured adult, you still fear the emptiness.

Or do you?

You see, the statistics prove that we spend a long time sleeping. A long time in the dark. We never seem to mind, even if we are terribly scared of that darkness. But why?

I think your subconscious is telling you that they are still there. A small part of you still holds strong on your childhood memories of being alone in the dark with the night terrors. But this time, you have no light to guard you. Obviously adults don’t tend to own those little night lights anymore do they? They say they don’t need them anymore. They call it a silly childhood fear of the dark. They say there is no such thing as night terrors.

But what do they know? If they lived long enough to mature into adulthood, they’ve probably never seen one.

My opinion is that we all have nyctophilia. A general love for the dark that helps us sleep. Even those that claim they have a fear for the night. They love the dark. I love the dark.

You really were never scared of the dark. It really was an illusion our minds created to reassure ourselves we are safe at night.

To reassure us that there are no such things as night terrors.

I love the dark. I always have. It feels…. Homely. Warm and comforting. Like I’ve always been in the dark. It’s fun being in the dark. Feeling free. Feeling… Safe.

I know you like the dark too. When you come home from work, tired and tense, and you flop onto your bed, stretching your aching muscles, getting ready to sleep. Yes. You love the dark. I know.

You still fear it though. An occasional scan around your room before you allow your body to shift into sleep mode. It’s amusing really.

You know damn straight what you fear and it ain’t the dark.

It’s me.

I like watching you sleep. The way you toss and turn, the way you sigh contently when you get comfortable… The way you jump up in surprise when you hear a noise.

You haven’t changed much from when you were a child. Not really. You still fear me.

But this time, I’m not going to let you get away. You are unprotected now. No nightlight. No nothing. Completely and utterly alone in the dark.

With me.

I’ve always loved the dark.

So have you.

---
Original Author: BrokenMelodiesInMyHead

The Dark Man

I’ve been working at a police station in Massachussets for the past ten years. No, I’m not an officer but rather a First Responder. It’s…not such a big job, or at least to me anyway, because my family lives in mid-sized city. Average 20,000 people. The most important calls I get include robberies and house fires. And then there are the pranks that teenagers play on Halloween and such like that.

I’m recording all of this. The reason why is because I’m scared like hell. Still scared.

It all happened ten years ago.

There are eight emergency responders at the station. Six are the assigned responders who switch off at eight hour shifts. Two responders work one shift. Two extra responders in case one bails. It’s pretty efficient, I think. We’ve never had two responders bail and the back ups having to work the same shift. But in case we do, we have a calendar for that sort of thing. I work the night shift from 8 pm to 4 am with a guy….we’ll call him ‘Bill.’

It was mid September and Bill had to call in sick. He didn’t want to risk getting me sick, and he was throwing up real bad so the boss allowed it. When I called in the back up responders one didn’t pick up and the other one’s wife was in the hospital delivering their first child. I guess I could’ve asked if any of the other responders could come in but I thought I could handle it all to myself. We barely got any calls on night shift anyway. I was alone in the small office with the blinds shut and it was all dark but the constant blue glare of the computer monitor and the pale white light from the ceiling. My left hand manned my cup of two hour old coffee and my right armed the keyboard.

I was pretty bored at first. About an hour in there was a disturbance at a house for domestic battery, and another for a concerned mother calling because her two year old son stuck a dime up his nose. That was pretty much it. My mind began to dawdle off onto other things. I played Minesweeper and read Facebook. I didn’t get another call until about two in the morning. I clicked on it.

‘911, what’s your emergency?’ I asked.

Heavy breathing replied in a small screen of static. It sounded like a girl. ‘Hello?’ It replied. ‘Someone’s watching me.’

‘Can I get an address?’ She gave me the address and I noted that the address was near the south side of town, on the close outskirts.

‘I’m scared.’

I tried to soothe her calmly. ‘Calm down, miss. Now, can you tell me how old you are?’ She said thirteen and while I gave the information to the police standing by I asked her more questions. ‘How do you know that someone’s watching you?’

‘There’s a man standing in our yard,’ she said. There was a grainy sound on the line.
‘Can you identify this man?’ I asked.

‘H-he’s wearing a black sweatshirt. And I can’t see his face.’

I started to write down the description. ‘Okay…can you estimate his height for me, sweetie? And his age?’

There was a pause. ‘No. It’s dark out and I can’t see his face.’

‘How far away from the house is he?’

‘I can’t tell. Me and my brother are upstairs and he’s staring at us.’

‘He knows where you are?’

‘Yes.’

‘The police are on their way. Please, I need you and your brother to get away from the window and somewhere where he can’t find you. Um, hide in a closet or or lock yourselves in the bathroom. Just stay away from the windows.’

The girl whispered something like ‘come on, Tommy’ and I heard running and a door shutting. ‘We’re in the closet.’

‘Good girl,’ I said drumming my fingers nervously. ‘Is the door shut all the way?’

‘No, it’s cracked a bit.’

‘Okay.’ Something struck me as odd. It was two in the morning and a thirteen year old girl was calling. ‘Do you have any parents? Are they home?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Daddy’s at the bar.’

‘Do you think the man is your father?’

Pause. ‘Daddy would’ve called. He has a key to get in.’

‘Did you try calling him?’

‘He didn’t answer.’

I blew through my nose. It’s been three minutes since I answered the call. I just hoped the police would get there soon. I heard a whimper from a young boy and the sound of shuffling in the closet. The girl started to cry. ‘Oh god, oh my god, oh god……..’

‘Miss, what’s going on?!’

‘…………’

‘Miss?’

‘He’s staring at us.’

That caught me off guard. ‘How? Did he break in?’ All my focus at the time was on my headpiece.

‘He’s at the window.’

How could that be possible? They’re on the second story! ‘Did he climb something? Is there a ladder or a tree near your window?’

‘Nothing.’
My palms were sweaty. Where were the police? This was starting to scare me. ‘Um…….can you see his face? Is he looking at you now?’

‘I-I-‘ she coughed tears into the phone. ‘His face is dark. I can’t see his face. He’s just standing there outside my window.’

‘How can he be standing there if you’re on the top floor?’

‘I don’t know.’ She whispered. ‘Please, help us.’

‘The police should be there soon. Be strong. Can you be strong for me?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The next thing I heard was the sound of glass shattering and a mix of screaming. My blood ran cold. ‘Miss? Hey, are you two okay? Hello?!’

‘H-he’s in the house.’

‘Is he moving?’

‘No. Just standing there. Staring at me.’

‘Can you identify him now?’

The sound quality sounded like if you recorded something at a windy beach. It had that graininess to it. She breathed into the phone. ‘My mom’s with him.’

‘W-what? So, is it your father then?’

‘No.’

‘But your mother is there?’

‘Yes….But it can’t be her.’

‘Why?’

‘Mommy died last year.’

There was a scream and static of the phone. I jumped in my seat, trying to calm myself down. There was a thunk of wood as if the phone was dropped. I was desperate. Help was on the way! ‘Hello? Miss? Hey! Are you alright?! What’s going on?’

Silence in static.

Then, the girl’s voice.

‘It’s alright Mr. Operator. We’re fine now.’

‘What? What happened?’

‘The dark man just wants to play with kids. He wants to play with us.’

My voice was caught in my throat. What was she talking about? ‘Miss?’

‘We’re happy,’ the girl said, but it wasn’t exactly the petrified voice of the preteen I just heard seconds ago. It was darker, disturbed. Monotonous. ‘Everyone’s here. The dark man, mommy, me and Tommy, and our friends.’

‘There’s others?’

‘They just wanted us to play with them.’

‘No! What’s going on?’

‘Your daughter Emily is here too.’

My eyes widened. ‘How do you know my daughter’s name?’ Emily was my youngest daughter of two, only three years old. I have a picture of her in my wallet with my wife and eighteen year old, Becca.

‘It’s okay, Mr. Operator. We’ll be happy together and play safe.’

I heard cop sirens in the background. ‘Miss! Stay where you are. Help is there.’

The phone line went dead. I was freaking out. Was this some sort of elaborate prank? It had to be. My wife was at home watching TV, Emily was asleep, and Becca was either with her mom or studying for a college test. The static sounded too loud in my ears and I threw the earpiece at the monitor. It was then I realized that another call had beeped in, one I didn’t hear the alert for. I clicked on it and saw the address.

My house.

At the station all of our calls are recorded until the call ends, so I was able to bring up a record of the call. It was the house phone. I played it.

‘Dad!’ I froze at Becca’s panicking voice. ‘Why aren’t you picking up?! I’m in the bathroom with Emily. There’s a guy in our house and I think he’s standing right outside the door. I think Mom’s dead.’ My voice choked. ‘Pick up! He’s outside! Help us!’ She screamed and the call ended.

***

That night two things happened. I arrived at my house after dispatching the police and found both my wife and Becca dead. Becca was in the bathroom and her mom was at the foot of the stairs, as if wanting to run up after Becca and protect our children.
Emily went missing, and so did the two children that called 911. I failed to save five lives that night, including my own family. How could I not have heard the notification of the other call? I quit my job at the police station and found one as a clerk at a 24-hour grocery store chain, one with multiple people working at night so I wouldn’t be alone. The kids’s dad at the bar commited suicide later on, for not being able to protect his family.

As for this ‘dark man,’ no investigation was done for him. The description was so vague that it could be anyone. Now, I’m beginning to wonder if it was a person at all. No human could just…just…stand outside of a second story window. There were investigations to find my daughter and the two kids though, which is still an open case.

I’m sitting at home in my dinky living room, still recording this. It’s seven at night and one more hour until my shift starts. Why am I telling you this? Do you think I’m just some person who made up this story to get sympathy, someone who suffers post-traumatic stress and constantly tells lies to cover up the real story of why their family is dead? I’m telling you this because I’m still scared, even after all this time.

The dark man is real and he wants to kill me too.

How do I know that?

Because he’s staring at me through the window right now.

----
Original Author: MissHyde13

The Quantum Man

 Jonathan Felix sat back in the chair after affixing the final electrodes to his skull. He is currently reclined in one of the most expensive private scientific investments in the world, and today was the fruition of his, and many others, efforts. The aim of the project was to open a human beings mind and allow them to perceive one of the spatial dimensions above the mediocre three.

The actual result was still a point of contestation, but it was suspected that the individual would be able to study all possible universes that could be created from his actions, and then choose the one that he wished to follow. A man whose every action would be perfect as he had already witnessed the results.

Felix had jumped at the opportunity, because he was young and headstrong. In his early twenties and brilliant in the field of quantum mechanics, he was relishing the opportunity to apply the usually theoretical aspects of his craft to a physical medium. He gave the final thumbs up to the techs behind the safety glass, and they activated the first stages of the machine. A microphone in the room relayed his words as the process started.

“If I have seen farther than others, it is because I have stood on the shoulders of giants.” Imitation was the greatest form of flattery, he thought with a grin.

The chair reclined back until it became a flat table, and a large rotating dome lowered down to encompass his entire body. Within the dome, there was a complex crystalline structure lining the inside. He focused on the facets of the crystals, and noticed that they had started to morph, shifting in ways his mind just could not understand. He started to feel light-headed and dizzy.

His sight was suddenly filled with explosions of light, and his body started to spasm. Reading his health signs in the control room, the engineers instantly halted the operation. A medic ran in checked the vitals of Felix, and was pleased to find a weak, yet consistent heartbeat.

Felix opened his eyes a couple of minutes later. He looked up at the doctor and suddenly jerked up as he realized where he was.

“What happened? I don’t feel any different…..”

The doctor smiled and patted him on the shoulder

“Any landing you can walk away from, right?”

The doctor turned to walk away, caught his ankle on a trailing cable, tripped forwards, and cracked his forehead against the corner of the table. His head twisted to a sickening angle…….

reset

The doctor turned to walk away, caught his ankle on a trailing cable, tripped forwards, and then was grabbed from behind as Felix threw himself from the chair, stopping him inches from the table corner.

Felix collapsed and threw up. His hands shaking, he realized that he had just perceived two universes and had actively chosen the one he wanted. He smiled at the doctor.

“I did it! I can see them …I can see them all……”

Felix’s smile faded.

He now saw two new universes, both the same as far as he was aware. Suddenly, a third, a fourth, a fifth blossomed in his mind. He could suddenly see all of the possibilities that he was capable of, some he didn’t wish to see. His mind began to fracture.

Felix grabbed the medic and in an act of unnatural rage plunged his thumbs into the poor attendant’s eyes…..

reset

Felix looked despairingly into the eyes of the medic and started to scream, refusing to stop even when bubbles of blood foamed around the corners of his mouth…..

reset

Felix grabbed the table leg and forcefully headbutted the corner, only achieving his goal of shattering his skull on the fourth strike……..

reset

Felix sat on the floor experiencing all the potential evil that he was physically capable of. His body shook as he was racked sobs of horror. He grabbed the collar of the medic and drew them face to face.

“TOO FAR……TOO FAR……” he screamed

His eyes blurred for a second, then started to turn yellow and shriveled. At the same moment his hair changed to the purest white. Felix in his final moments became aware of a magnitude of universes bearing down on him, and he would have to live through every single one. His grip slipped and his mind was lost to the abyss.

reset

---
Original Author: The Silicon Lemming

Exploding Head Syndrome

Identifying Exploding Head Syndrome (EHS)

An uncommon phenomenon that causes a person–usually female–to suffer from sudden, loud, and unexplainable noises right on the verge of sleep.

Noises which are jarring and can sound like the popping of fireworks, gunshots, the bang of slamming doors, and even loud explosions. In some cases, violent screaming or sobbing is heard.

The most exceptional thing to note about the sleep disorder that is EHS, is that noises do not occur within the head. Sounds are out of body and can be heard anywhere up to a block away by both ears.

Although very little is known, psychiatrists speculate that EHS occurs when certain synapses in the brain fire off rather than settle down.

What synapses and why, however, is still unknown.

No one has proven this theory to be true however, and doctors aren’t even sure where to begin looking–let alone find an actual cure or remedy.

Many subjects have claimed that a little rest and relaxation can help, but EHS never truly leaves those afflicted–and those with insomnia experience it much worse. Some claiming to see flashes of light, even short bursts of unexplainable pain along with the noises.

In extreme cases, EHS can develop into a more serious mental illness.

—

When I was a kid, maybe ten or eleven years old, I began hearing things right at the verge of sleep. You know that point I’m talking about? Where you’re still semiconscious and things are fuzzy, but you’re aware? That state.

I’d be moments from drifting off to dreamland when BAM this horrible loud noise would startle me awake. For the life of me, I can’t really explain to you what the noise was like…what I could relate it too, but it was loud and it scared the shit out of me.

For the first few months, it happened maybe once or twice a week. I couldn’t really explain it, and I was terrified of bringing it up to my mother because I didn’t know if she would believe me. I was an imaginative kid after all. So I kept to myself right up until I got into my teens.

I remember those nights.

Sometimes, I didn’t even get any sleep.

Time after time, just as my exhausted brain would begin to drift, BAM! And again I’d be wide awake, full of terror and paranoia.

Occasionally, on particularly bad nights, I’d hear other things. High-pitched noises…like screaming…it’s the only thing I can think of to relate it to.

The final straw was the night I kept hearing the banging. It was aggressive. I was so out of it that I didn’t even need to close my eyes. I was constantly in that semi-conscious state, trapped with those damned noises, when finally, I saw a bright light flash through my room.

It lit every nook and cranny. Like a flash bang. It made my skin hurt just being near it even though it was there and gone in less than a second. It woke my ass up completely and I didn’t sleep at all that night. I didn’t even try.

So I finally told my mom. I couldn’t take it anymore. It had gotten to the point that I was failing every class because I was dozing off constantly. I was lethargic, exhausted, and it felt like my brain had begun to shut down. I felt like I was going insane.

She didn’t believe me at first and I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t have believed me either. She hadn’t heard any of the noises I told her about and the fact that I had heard them was even more strange to her. Why did I experience it when she and dad didn’t? My inability to describe the sounds didn’t help either.

It took some coaxing, a little bringing up of grades, and finally she agreed to take me to a psychiatrist for a mental evaluation.

Not exactly what I was hoping for, but then again, who else to go to but a psych doctor?

After a few tests, a few more weeks, and countless sleepless nights, they still had nothing but a hunch as to what my problem was.

They guessed it was a rare form of Synesthesia.

The abnormality that causes senses in the brain to fuse together. They assumed that was why I was seeing and hearing things at the same time. But because I had only one occurrence of that, and because of my condition, they needed to do more intensive tests.

The kind that even our insurance didn’t cover.

My mother rejected the offer immediately, even when they offered to cut the bill since I was a bit of an abnormality. I still don’t blame her, I saw the cost after it had been cut and it was far more than we could afford.

So, as a last ditch effort to help me, they prescribed me a drug called Cereneroxomil, or Cerenew as it was written in some fancy scribble on the bottle. But in order to do so, they had to go for their second theory as to what was wrong with me.

They had diagnosed me with paranoid, delusional Schizophrenia.

Not something anyone wants to hear, especially at only thirteen with the knowledge that they aren’t crazy at all.

Fortunately, the drug worked a little like Perphenazine (an anti-psychotic medication) and Methylphenidate (ADHD medication). I know, that sounds weird because they are exact opposites of each other. One blocks dopamine, and the other releases it.

Apparently, the hat trick here was to try and and regulate my brain. Cerenew wasn’t on the shelves yet and was still in testing so I was a guinea pig, but at least it was free. And I could tell myself that I wasn’t actually taking antipsychotic medication. Not technically at least.

The first night with the medication brought me silence and dreamless sleep. And the following night, and the one after that, and so on and so forth. It was wonderful.

Sure, it made my head feel like a fuzz ball most of the time and the side effects weren’t great, but I could sleep. It made the noises stop completely. I managed to pull my grades out of the gutter and even graduated at the top of my class five years later.

I still thought about it though. The idea that I had been wrongfully diagnosed for all those years…it set me a little on edge if I thought about it for too long. I mean, it made the noises stop, but what was really wrong with me?

After moving into my own apartment and putting college on hold for a while, I decided to do some investigating of my own. I couldn’t exactly afford good mental health care–even with my insurance–so I went for the internet with my fingers crossed and hoped for the best.

They say to never look a gift horse in the mouth…but I was only curious.

I managed to find a medical site with a recently posted blog about a sleep disorder called Exploding Head Syndrome or just EHS. All I had done was type in my symptoms and there it was. Everything matched up perfectly.

The only problem? No one really knew what it was.

They knew the symptoms, and narrowed it down to the time of the phenomenon in the brain, but nothing else. It was a completely new topic in the medical field, despite the claim that it’s been documented for ages.

I thought I was back to square one until I happened upon a forum for people with EHS. Like any good researcher, I immediately went in to interview people on their personal experiences.

Thankfully, everyone I spoke to was very informative, many even suggested I try simple sleep aids like Melatonin. I compared what I could remember of my sleepless nights to their accounts and with every passing minute I became more and more convinced that all I had was a simple sleep disorder. Everything matched up too perfectly to suggest otherwise.

Just as I was about to get off, a new person joined the chat room. His username was TheWatcher and he introduced himself as such.

At first, he seemed a little arrogant, listing off all of his symptoms to me in an almost hoity-toity manner. But after I informed him that I had concluded my interviews and had come to a personal decision, he asked me what it was all about.

So I explained to him my situation in the most detail that I felt comfortable with and he asked me what medication I was on.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not exactly a private person. But I also know how important it is to not be too open on the internet. This guy though…I felt like he was looking at me under a microscope. We were only in a chatroom, merely words on a screen, but something just felt…off.

Despite my better judgement, I told him about Cerenew. By this time the drug had passed all FDA regulations and had been on the public market for almost three years, so it was common knowledge. I then asked him why it was important.

He dodged the question at first, and instead rattled off things about the drug that I already knew, until finally making a point that it was a very good drug for people with advanced cases of EHS.

By this time, I had already made up my mind. I was going to stop Cerenew and start taking homeopathic sleep aids instead. Again, yes it worked, but that fuzzy head feeling had worn out its welcome after five years, not to mention the occasional nausea, loss of appetite, and stomach cramps.

I began to type out a message thanking TheWatcher when he posted again.

It was a single word: Wait.

I looked down at my message box to see my half-typed goodbye still waiting to be sent and felt a shiver run down my spine.

Another message popped up almost immediately after: Don’t go yet. Please. This is very important.

I instinctively checked my security programs and saw nothing. If this dude was hacking, he was doing a fairly good job of it.

I stared at his message and gave a moment of consideration before deleting my departing message and simply responding with: What?

His response was quick and to the point: Don’t stop taking Cereneroxomil.

So, with a sigh, I asked: Why?

He responded with: Because it’s the only thing keeping Them from finding you.

Now I was fully freaked out, and possibly a tiny bit irritated. Was this guy fucking with me? I didn’t really expect trolls to dwell on medical forums, but I guess they’re everywhere. Still, I didn’t leave the chat.

A golden rule of the internet is to never feed the trolls, but I’ll admit, I was curious to see where this was going. So I asked what he meant, and who They were.

I wish I had never asked.

This is what he said to me:

EHS has been around for centuries, but only has it recently gained attention. The reason? More people have it. And why do more people have it? Because They’re getting hungrier. They’re becoming gluttonous and greedy so They’re marking more and more people for The Feast.

Those sounds you heard?
It’s simple. It’s Them attempting to open the door to our world. Those sounds are echoes of Their dimension slamming into ours. And only the unlucky hear the warning.

The light you saw?
That’s the door being yanked open. But if you wake in time, the door will close. That’s why it only appears as a flash.

The final warning is pain.
You mentioned feeling your skin burn, but that was only a side effect of being so close to the door opening. No, the real pain felt by those with EHS is much worse. It’s a rending of flesh from bone. It’s Their claws digging deep into your skin. But again, if you manage to wake in time, it will stop. Unfortunately, there will be no proof of them ever touching you. Not a single mark on your body, as if it never happened.

The reason I beg you not to stop your medication is because it’s the only thing keeping Them from finding you. You may think it’s only a dopamine regulator, but it’s more than that to Them. Those synapses firing off in your brain act like a GPS locator. And only when your mind is in that twilight state between waking and sleeping can They take you.

But your medication is acting like a restrictor. It’s preventing Them from finding you again and taking you. You didn’t make it to the final stage of EHS, but it sounds like you were close.

So please, PLEASE, if you value your life, never stop. They’ll find you if you do.

I’m a pretty open-minded person, but this was ridiculous. I let TheWatcher speak his piece before closing out the window and shutting down my computer. I didn’t even attempt to write a farewell. It was too late and I was too tired.

I hadn’t even noticed how long I’d actually been on the internet, but once I got off, I realized it was far too late to take my medication. I remember feeling a twinge of guilt and fear at the time, but I brushed it aside and decided to go to bed without anymore help from Cerenew.

I had already made my decision anyway, and there was no risk of seizure or stroke if I stopped abruptly. And besides, I wasn’t crazy, I just had a sleep disorder.

In the morning, I would go out and and buy some simple sleep aids and get back to a normal life without the fog of medication.

That night, I got the best sleep I had ever experienced.

The next morning, I did exactly as planned and picked up a couple bottles of Melatonin, along with some generic stuff from the medicine aisle.

For about a week everything was wonderful. No more fog, no more side effects, and not a single noise.

But that all changed a few nights ago…

To be honest, I can’t really remember how long it’s actually been…I haven’t slept in so long.

It all started when I took a few sleep aids before bed. I took them a little earlier than usual, but I felt like dosing as I watched some mindless TV before turning in.

It had to have kicked in rather quickly, because the next thing I remember was being woken by a loud slam from somewhere in my house. And as I opened my eyes, I saw a blinding flash from across my living room.

In an instant I lost power and everything in my home went completely dark. All I could see was that damned after image of the flash in pitch darkness.

I don’t know if I could ever explain the fear I felt in that moment. Not being able to see…not knowing if someone was creeping up on me at that moment. It was horrible.

I panicked for a brief moment before talking myself into believing that it was only a power surge. It didn’t explain the noise, but I just tried to ignore that. Within a few minutes, the electricity came back on and I stayed up for a few more hours before the drowsiness became too much and I headed off to bed.

I was nearly asleep when it happened again, flash and all, in my dark room.

By the time the sun had risen the next morning, it had happened maybe five or six more times and I hadn’t gotten any sleep.

It happened again the next night.

And the next.

I’m taking caffeine pills now instead. I’m scared to fall asleep.

But I can feel myself slipping. These past few hours I’ve been jarred into consciousness by this horrible pain in my legs. And there’s this new noise…it comes in intervals…

I think it’s saying my name. I can’t be sure…but I assume that’s what it is.

I can’t help but think of TheWatcher’s warning. I should’ve listened. I can’t even remember where my Cerenew is now. But I’ve got this feeling that it’s too late anyway.

They’ve already found me.

Soon, I’ll end up stuck in that constant state of semi-consciousness and then They’ll be able to grab me whenever They wish. I would imagine They’ve worked up quite an appetite trying to get to me.

The only thing keeping me awake now is focusing on writing this. I’m not sure what it’s supposed to be. A memoir maybe? A warning? Let’s call it a word of advice.

Why should you believe me instead of writing this off as the words of some crazy person who should’ve never stopped taking their antipsychotic medication?

Why should you believe me when I tell you that TheWatcher was actually right when even I didn’t believe him?

And why should you go looking for help immediately if you are experiencing symptoms of EHS?

It’s pretty simple actually.

It’s the only reason I know that what is happening to me is real. The reason I know They are real.

It’s the reason my mother refused to believe me at first and why the psychiatrists insisted on further testing.

It should be physically impossible for me to experience the symptoms of EHS. I shouldn’t be able to hear the things I do. The loud noises, the high pitched noises…the noises that sound like they could be calling my name.

Even now, as I write this I can hear it. I hear Them. But I shouldn’t be able to hear any of it.

I was born deaf.

----
Original Author: TsamiTsunami

Mentality

I woke up. Sheets were stained with sweat, breath was no longer bated, and unconscious solace began to surcease.

Depression kills. Not in a directly physical way, not in a way perceivable by anyone except the sufferer. It made me feel psychotic. It went past the brain tissue, into the atoms of their molecules. I always imagined the electrons painstakingly orbiting a chunk of ice. There was never light in my imagination.

I felt a subconscious sigh emit, and tossed off the sheets. I sat up, let drop head to hands, and contemplated once again my current situation. I contemplated the fact that I could no longer stay awake during the day. I contemplated the nothing I felt all the time about nothing.

I’ve been contemplating suicide.

Yet I’m too pathetically apathetic.

I got up, and silently made my way to the kitchen. My night vision and preference for darkness have both increased proportionally. Light couldn’t help me navigate the cramped quarters of my apartment any better than the dark.

Came to the counter. Loosened the lid. Popped the pill. Instant release. Or was it a placebo? Irrelevant.

I sat down on the couch in the living room. It was 9:04 P.M. Same time I woke up yesterday. I left the lights off. I always felt the darkness bore itself into my head, like an interloper, like a conqueror. It felt unnatural. I can’t remember when it swallowed the last fuck I had to give.

And so this is how I’ve lived my days. I know it wasn’t always this way, but the apathy dulls my memory. One day, it just seemed like my ribcage wasn’t protecting anything worthwhile. Like there weren’t any organs inside me.

I go out at night for groceries, for my alcohol, and for the hope that I might feel something. Anything. I find myself more and more entranced by nothing, though.

I administer databases remotely for a data bank located downtown. I live in White City. I see a psychiatrist once a month to keep my prescription of Prozac abundant. He doesn’t do shit. I pay him so I can pay for a drug that keeps the worst away. There’s depression, but there’s a place past that, a place I don’t ever want to be again. It was like being conscious that you’re insane, that you’re sane while you’re insane.

There’s no way to describe it, except that it haunted me, terrorized me like I’ve never experienced. I’d kill myself before I got to that point again.

I’ve been here for more than a couple years now. I dissevered myself from the ones I used to love, because I no longer love. I cannot connect with anyone. Empathy evades me. I’m alone, and I can’t care less.

I feel cold. No happiness, no fear, no anger, no frustration. Ice, and apathy.

The weeks go by. I find myself in the living room, slouched upon the couch. It was 8:05 in the morning, and I felt a spectral sort of fatigue. Contradictory, tired and not tired. The yield from an inversion of homeostasis. I sighed, preparing to let fall a deep, dreamless sleep. I depressed the power button on the remote, gaze transfixed on the TV screen reflecting the morning sun, watching my reflection being disemboweled by a jerky, gaunt figure, half the innards thrown, looking like they might come out the TV from the other side, the other half wrapped around his neck so he could devour them while keeping his scarred arms free to keep emptying me out. I stared at myself, and my self rolled it’s lifeless eyes toward me, until the creature slowly moved it’s mouth down near the bridge of my nose, cocked his head instantly, used his tongue to spear my eyes, one by one down his throat. It began to turn it’s head towards the TV, but before I could behold this nightmarewalker’s face, the reflection changed. There was no reflection.

I sat there. I wasn’t able to move. Paralysis. Seconds passed. I screamed.

As loud as I could, I used the lungs I knew were still in me. Flying upwards, sprinting to a corner of the room, knocking a bookcase down so I could flatten myself against the wall.

Eyes from corner to corner of the apartment I used to know. Heart beating loud enough to be used as sonar. I heard sweat hit the books. And, finally, I felt. I felt sickened. I felt disgust. I felt confusion.

I can finally feel fear.

I spent hours calming down. There was no sleep now. It seemed that the peaceful place my consciousness went to during sleep was now convoluted by a web of my internal organs. I turned every single light on in my house. Washed a hundred milligrams of anti-depression down with something both Russian and 120 proof. Felt the fear and ethanol interact and puked it up. Turned the TV towards the wall.

I must’ve muttered “What the fuck?” a hundred times. What the fuck? What happened? I’m not sure I’ve ever hallucinated anything past the familiar hypnagogic images preluding sleep. What was it that murdered my reflection? Logic couldn’t find it’s place. There were no variables able to induce something like that.

I wasn’t sure what to do. The only option I had was to talk to my psychiatrist in a couple weeks.

Two weeks passed. The TV stayed turned, the lights stayed on, even when I slept. I can’t sleep like I used to. I dream now. The DMT released when I dreamt was flooding every synapse in my brain. I saw different things. One dream, he licked clean my ribcage. Another, I used a spoon to cut his fingers off, sticking them through his neck while he just stood there. In one, we sat next to each other on a loveseat, and simply stared at ourselves in a mirror that covered an entire wall. I had no expression on my face. He had no face, and instead scars in the form of an X over each eye, and a gangrenous, greening chelsea grin connected to each side of his hairless, deformed head.

The teeth were covered in a browning-red, with jagged holes carved out of a few and atrophying flesh in between most. His mutilated lips were sewn as far away from his mouth as possible, leaving his dry and puffy, bloody and purple, rotten and decayed gums exposed. His skin is mostly bleached a bright white, with massive keloids in some areas and burned flesh in others. He wears no shirt, revealing messy stitchwork covering his entire torso. He looked like the result of a drunk mortician and years of starvation. He was tall, and thin, arms with reach, deep scars up the underside of the wrist, and perhaps just sinew in the stead of muscle. He was emaciated, no sign of ribs, feet covered in caked blood and legs with sharp pockmarks in various places. He was genital-less, but not naked, as the skin he was in seemed more like a suit than a part of his body.

I spent the first week distracted by paranoia. It eased when nothing happened. I made sure every light I owned was on. I made sure I had alcohol in me at all times.

My psychiatric appointment arrived. I told the doctor I’d experienced hallucinations, and I felt intense fear. Dismissively, he told me it seemed like a result of the depression. I asked him about any side effects of the medication. Tonelessly, he said there were none relevant to my experience. I asked him which course of action I should take. Carelessly, he told me to remind myself that it’s all in my head. That it’s all a matter of electrical flow in my brain, and neurotransmitters in the axioms. He recommended that I videotape myself when I felt like I had control of reality to prove to my future self that everything was fine. He wrote me off another prescription of Prozac, and scheduled an appointment for another month. I asked him if he would put me in two weeks earlier.

He said he was too busy.

Fucking prick.

I got home. Turned the computer on. Found out what the Internet had to say about Prozac.

Severe symptoms included hallucinations. That goddamned psychiatrist. I flushed the pills down the drain and didn’t even bother with the pharmacy. I turned on the webcam.

Uneasily, I began talking to my future self, “Hey. You’re ok right now. There’s no one here. There’s no more Prozac to fuck with your head.” I took a swig of some incendiary to warm me up.

“It seems like it was just a side effect of the anti-depressant. You have control of reality. There are no hallucinations anymore. You’re good now.” I ended the recording and sent a shortcut to the desktop.

I had a nightmare again that night. He removed me bit by bit with a scalpel that had been pushed into his index finger, and an ocean of blood rapidly pooling out of it. He had ripped the stitching on his torso off, drenching his body in a brown-tinged maroon, and was stuffing my organs inside of him. I was still alive. I felt the pain. I wasn’t sure how much of the blood from his finger was inside me before I woke up. Nor was I sure of how much of me he extracted.

When I woke up, the bedroom door was closed. I passed the day away typically. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be feeling from being off that drug, but it was too early to discern a difference. I felt a twinge of frost, an arrowhead in the tip of my brain. Subliminal.

I made another video. I told myself a few different things, and it lasted a couple minutes. Again this file went to the desktop. I got up, stepping towards the kitchen, feeling a sort of slime touch the bottom of my foot. It didn’t distract me, though.

The alcohol did.

I went to sleep. The next day, again, the bedroom door was closed. I know I hadn’t closed it. I moved the computer desk in front of my room after I finished my night, and set the webcam to record what exactly happened. I went to bed at 7:06 A.M. When I woke, the door was closed again. I rearranged the desk, and slowly moved the slider, analyzing the video.

He’s been watching me sleep.

A bleached hand with a scalpel for an index finger grabbed the edge of the door and closed it. He knew I was watching him.

I drank.

I wasn’t sure what effect the medication had on me. Maybe it was too soon for the side effects to wear off. I had been taking the medication for a few years now, though, so why is it happening now? Either I’ve gone insane, or something is happening. Something more real than a hallucination the mind can synthesize.

I’m not insane.

I’m not insane.

I’m not insane.

I’m not insane.

I can’t be sane.

I go back over the video. Again and again. He closes the door everytime. At 2:11 in the afternoon.

After however much time is spent, I go back to the couple videos I made, searching for solace. I watch them. And he’s in them. He’s standing behind me, right fucking behind me, in both of them. He scratches my name into his pale chest and lets his brown-red blood drip off. I look behind me and I see the stains in the carpet. I look at the bottom of my foot, and there’s a branch of sickly purple vessels spreading throughout.

I watched the first video. Telling myself there’s no one there causes his unsurgically cut smile to grow.

I made the mistake of going into the bathroom. I looked down to turn the faucet off, and then up, and he’s right behind me, scalpel plunged into my ear drum, twisting and turning. I turn around. Only a miasmic smell of putrescence.

I smashed the mirror.

So I left the apartment. I go to the liquor store, and as I purchase my bottle, he’s standing behind the cashier with his barbed tongue wrapped around the cashier’s throat, drawing blood. It waterfalls down his shirt. When the cashier talks, he sounds like he’s suffocating. He sounds anguished. Yet he doesn’t act like he notices it. I sure as hell do.

I go to the grocery store. I pass by the butchery, and he’s in there with a blade, cutting up some sort of carcass, flies looking to get their fill. His face stares at me, the scarred Xs igniting the photoreceptor cells inside my eyes. He doesn’t notice the blade cutting through his fingers first, then hand, then wrist.

I leave.

I rent a hotel for the night. I open the door and he’s standing in the middle of the room, the middle of the blood-fucking-drenched room that stinks like a slaughterhouse. I close the door.

I’m back at my apartment now. I have no more peace. These few weeks, I haven’t been alone like I have been these past few years. There is nothing better than being alone. But he won’t leave, he follows me.

I sit in the corner of my living room, every light I have inundating my immediate surroundings. I’ve got 112 ounces left and a capsule of caffeine pills.

I haven’t seen him since the hotel. That was hours ago. Where is he? Is he waiting in the bedroom? Is he hiding in the reflection of the broken mirror? Is he standing outside my door? He’s stolen my mind. He’s invaded it. The way I used to bask in the darkness and let it envelop my imagination, I find that I now bask within his existence. He interlopes within my imagination. I can hear how loudly his scarred smile laughs. I can smell the stink of rot on his breath. I can feel him running his pale fingers over me. I can sense him in every way possible, but I can’t see him, he leaves that up to my imagination. He’s here, but I don’t know where. He has stolen my sanity, and I don’t know where to find it. It’s 12:01 A.M.

There is a stench in my apartment. Like blood fermented for consumption, like flesh rotted to an extra rare. There is a footstep in my bedroom, one in the kitchen, another right in front me. The radius of the light is my domain, the only place safe. He weaves through parts of the darkness. I think I can see him, and yet all I see is darkness, warped and twisting in on itself. It flows ethereally, consuming everything in it. I don’t feel fear anymore. I feel empty. I feel the end.

I take a very long drink.

I turn the lights off.

---
Original Author: Lichtjunger

Jack' Back

I first got in contact with Jack, my former landlord, a little over a year ago when I answered his newspaper ad. I was in a rush to move out as I had just broken up with my significant other, whom I shared an apartment with, and Jack was renting out the furnished basement of his house. The location was good and the price was a steal, and I moved in with a few boxes of personal items four days later.

The house was old and the floors were creaky – Jack was the eternal bachelor, interested in nothing but cars, certainly not interior decorating or hardly even basic upkeep for that matter – and when he got up to go to work at 5 A.M. he would often wake me up, since I am a very light sleeper. However, as the months passed by I got accustomed to waking up early.

I cannot tell you the exact moment I realized that something wasn’t right.

Over a number of days, a thought slowly crept into my conscious mind and settled; I hadn’t heard very much noise from upstairs lately. There was the occasional creak or bang, like in all older houses, but the heavy footsteps that I woke up to and sometimes heard during the evening had seemed to disappear completely. Perhaps Jack was sick, I thought. Perhaps he hadn’t worked in a few days, perhaps he worked different hours. The man was a real loner and kept to himself, so it honestly didn’t seem strange to me. I only really talked to him when I went upstairs to give him his rent money on the first of every month. He was never unfriendly or rude, but short with me, didn’t have much to say.

I looked out the window and saw that the light was on in the garage. The blinds were closed, but someone was moving around in there. Jack must be working on his car. I felt relieved. His car was his baby – a powerhouse customized from scratch in the body of a 1930′s Ford. He’d shown it to me once. It was still just barely drivable but had already won prizes. He spent all his free time working on it.

The last couple of days the truck that he drove to work had been sitting in the driveway when I left in the morning, but the following day it was gone. That same evening, the new noises started.

It was around 5 P.M. I was on my computer, when from upstairs I heard what could only be described as shuffling. Like something covered in cloth was being dragged across the floor in short bursts. Then the sound of something heavy, like a big dresser, being moved. More shuffling. I heard the phone ring multiple times, but nobody picked up. A few minutes later, I could hear Jack slam the front door shut and walk towards the garage. As he passed by my window, I looked outside.

Now, I have to say that Jack was not a man who cared a great deal about the way he looked – his hair was grey and disheveled, his clothes often had holes and oil stains and I had never seen him even remotely close to clean shaven – but this, this was different. There was something unnerving about his gait, but I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly was wrong. Arms hanging at his sides, he was looking up into the sky. I couldn’t see his face, but for a moment it looked like his mouth was wide, wide open… was that his tongue bulging out, swollen and black? No, of course not, it couldn’t be…

I closed the curtains and locked my door. Never before had Jack frightened me.

That night, I woke up from screaming upstairs. Not frightened screams, or calls for help, but angry. A man’s voice, loud, shouting in rage. I couldn’t make out any words. Was it Jack? I stumbled out of bed and fumbled around in the dark for my clothes. Not really knowing what to expect, I looked around for something to defend myself with, and grabbed a knife from the kitchen. With shaking hands I called the police on my cell, ran upstairs and beat my fist against the door.

There was no answer. The house was dark and silent. Jack’s truck was there in the driveway, cold, sleeping. After a little while a police patrol drove by, and I talked to the officers briefly in the driveway, but they left after looking around outside and not finding anything out of the ordinary. Useless cops. So useless. I turned around, and the house loomed in front of me like only houses in the dark can. I thought I saw movement behind a curtain.

After an hour or so I crawled back into bed. I did not sleep. I just laid there, quiet as a mouse in the dark with my covers up to my eyeballs, listening for any noise or movement upstairs.

There was only silence.

Thankfully, I was not scheduled to work the next day. It was late summer and a lovely day, but I was afraid to go outside. I did not hear Jack all day – however, the phone rang multiple times. Nobody picked up. I spent the day with millions of thoughts running through my head, jumping at every little sound the house produced, kitchen knife never out of reach. Had there been a knock on my door that day I would probably have suffered a fatal heart attack.

Nightfall brought a sense of despair. I did not see anyone walking by my window that evening, but through my curtains I saw the lights come on in the garage. I started to wonder whether I was losing my mind.

Sleep came late, and when it did, it was filled with terrible dreams. It was one of those long nightmares that you never really seem to be able to get out of. In my dream, Jack was standing by my bed, looking down at me. I remember his face – foreign, cold, filling me with a deep feeling of dread. And then, something had roused me from my sleep. I looked up and that lingering feeling of dread escalated into paralysing fear, violently wedging an icy spear into my spine – because for a few terrifying seconds Jack was right there, mouth open so impossibly wide, like a ghostly image burned into my retinas from looking into bright light. I screamed, and the vision faded away. Just then, as if something upstairs had heard me scream, a response came in the form of a heavy thump. Something rolled across the floor. I think I cried.

Looking back, I think that was the turning point for me. Everything about this was so, so wrong and I couldn’t continue letting this happen, whatever it was. I needed to not be scared anymore. This needed to end. When dawn finally came after what seemed like an eternity, I looked outside and felt my heart skip a beat when I saw something moving around in the lit garage. This was it. It had to happen now. I needed to know the truth. I grabbed my trusty kitchen knife and climbed out my bedroom window, which was not visible from the garage.

Crouching, I sneaked around to the front door and held my breath as I turned the smudged brass knob. It wouldn’t budge – the door was locked. Is it possible to be both relieved and disappointed at once? My sweaty hand tightened around the handle of the knife as I went around the side of the house. Adrenaline was coursing through my veins, eyes in the back of my head like a startled deer. Please-don’t-let-him-see-me-please-don’t-let-him-see-me.

The kitchen window was open. It was open… I still remember every terrible detail so clearly. After picking together the last bits of courage I could muster, I stood up and looked inside. The fluorescent light over the sink was on. I could see that the refrigerator door was slightly ajar.

Then… The smell. That awful, disgusting stench, wafting out through that window slit. And there, on the floor, next to the broken dishes… God help me.

I did not go back inside. I didn’t stay. I drove away, and I called the police from my car. I did not want to gamble on that thing, whatever it was, staying put in the garage until the police arrived. I drove until I was too tired to drive any further, then I pulled in on a side road and slept.

I never went back to the house.

A few days later, I found the article in the local newspaper. It stated that a 58-year old man had been found dead in his home on 112th and Dunsmuir. Cause of death was unknown. An autopsy was going to be performed. Foul play had been ruled out, however. The coroner estimated that the man had been dead for about three weeks before he was found by his tenant. It also spoke of some unusual findings around the property, especially in the unattached garage, but I did not read any further.

The worst part is, sometimes when I wake up I can still see Jack standing beside my bed, draped like a blanket over something far more dark and sinister.

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Original Author: littlepangolin

My Older Sister

My life has been average at most.

 I lived in a family of two girls and one boy. There was my older sister, Jenny, me, and my younger brother, Alex. We had a typical childhood, I guess. Jenny was popular, with her blonde hair, blue eyes, and skinny frame. Alex, early on, showed a penchant for sports and became the star athlete of the family. But myself, just like the rest of my life, was very… average.

I wasn’t overly smart. I wasn’t ugly but I didn’t stand out. I had a small group of friends.

I was average.

But I idolized my older sister.

Jenny was everything I would never be. She had friends, upon friends, upon friends. She had a string of boyfriends starting from the time she was 11. There was always some boy, some drama. She grew tired of it, but I loved it.

Jenny loved me, too. We were really close as children. Mom and dad loved me, sure, but they didn’t notice me like they did Jenny and Alex. Because there was nothing special about me, not really. But Jenny didn’t see it that way. See, she paid attention to me. She gave me makeovers and taught me about makeup. She used to take me shopping even with her popular friends and show me the best clothes to wear for my body shape. She would tell me all about her amazing, glittering life and she would listen if and when I found some small contribution to make to our conversations.

She was my role model.

But sometimes life isn’t average. Sometimes it isn’t typical. When Jenny was 16 and I was 13, she was found in her room, a bottle of pills spilled out next to her. I don’t think they even bothered with much of an investigation. It was clear what she’d done, although no one really knew why. Life can be funny that way. Sometimes it’s the ones who seem happy who are struggling the most.

It was a very difficult time for my family.

But life went on. As I grew older, I grew to love my average life. My parents paid a little more attention to me, with Jenny gone. I went to a state university for journalism, where I met my husband, Alan. We got married right out of college. I worked for the local paper and he had an office job at a company just a few blocks down the road. Our life was blissful, beautiful, and unremarkable.

Until, that is, I became pregnant.

It started when I was about two weeks late. I’ve always been as regular as a clock, but at this time work was pretty hectic and I wasn’t really paying attention.

Then, one night, I had a terribly real, terribly strange dream.

In the dream, I was in my old childhood room, sitting on the flower-patterned comforter on my twin-sized bed, playing with a pacifier for God knows what reason. In walked Jenny. She came and climbed on the bed. She was toying with an empty pill bottle. She looked into my eyes.

I don’t know why, but I woke up screaming. To be honest, I hadn’t paid much thought to Jenny in years, and I’d never had a dream like that. My husband woke up to comfort me, but I was already on my way to the bathroom. I vomited into the toilet for about twenty minutes, thinking of missed periods, pill bottles, and Jenny.

I took a pregnancy test that day. It came out positive.

My husband and I were overjoyed. We celebrated with a nice dinner. We called our parents, who were both incredibly excited. We talked about baby names, nursery, and all the things you associate with babies. We got to bed late, exhausted but happy, cuddling together like newlyweds, dreaming of little cherubs dancing in our arms.

I woke up to see my sister standing next to the bed.

If the night before had been frightening, you can’t imagine how this felt. Here she was, Jenny, the real, not so alive Jenny. She stared down at me. I reached out, I almost felt as though I could touch her. But she turned and walked out of the room.

From that day on, Jenny was always there.

She was standing next to the bed when I woke up in the morning. She followed me to work. She watched as I picked out baby clothes, occasionally fingering one or two items that she particularly liked.

She was always there.

Sure, I thought about telling my husband. But what would I say? That his average wife was about to disturb his average life with her newfound ability to see the dead? Unlikely. Rather, I considered it a strange and extraordinary experience in my otherwise unremarkable life.

Besides, I enjoyed it, in a way.

Here was my long-lost sister. My ages-ago best friend, the one person who I looked up to. The person I wanted to be when I grew up. She was back again. It was comforting to have her there as my stomach grew fat and round, and I began to waddle back and forth, trying to control my deranged hormones.

Sometimes, she would put her hand on my stomach to feel the baby. When she did, the baby would start to kick. How comforting to know that my baby would share a special connection with Jenny.
Jenny was there when my husband drove me to the hospital, crying in the back through the pain of my contractions. She followed us to the maternity ward and stood calmly next to me as I pushed, pushed, and pushed. She kept her hand placed on my stomach, and it was a comfort.

Then it was over.

They placed the baby into my arms. A girl! A wonderful, plump little baby girl, whose cries were the most beautiful thing in the world. Alan and I played with her tiny, curling fingers. When I looked to the bedside, Jenny was gone.

Now, don’t misunderstand. I have always missed my sister, she was very important to me and I miss her still. But I was somewhat relieved to see her gone. I missed her, but she could never be a part of my life again. Now I could return to my happy, typical life. My happy life with my happy baby and happy husband.

I was happy for a few weeks before I noticed it.

I was playing with little baby Ellen when she looked up at me and I noticed them. Her startling blue eyes. The eyes that neither her father nor I possessed. She looked at me with an eerie calmness.

When I looked into her eyes, I saw Jenny.

And so, tomorrow morning, I will fall to the floor in an outburst of tears and screams. Alan will frantically dial emergency services as I will clutch at the body of my child. When the EMTs arrive, they will pry the cold, lifeless body from my embrace and I will collapse into Alan’s arms.

I will be sad. I will miss her, just as I missed Jenny. But Jenny can never be a part of my life again, no matter how much she wants to be.

After all, it took me years to be rid of her the first time.

Original Author: KibaInuzuka