Credit to: Sgt Hoffman
*A few people asked if they could add their own stories, and this was the first to send one to me. Send in one and I'll add it to the blog.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Report, Soldier
Credit to: Sgt Hoffman
*A few people asked if they could add their own stories, and this was the first to send one to me. Send in one and I'll add it to the blog.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Tape Log
START TAPE:
Male voice:
I didn’t see the end of the world. I heard it. I haven’t seen anything since I was 4. I kind of remember seeing, but I’m 25 now, and most of the stuff I remember is blurs of color. I remember color. Red fire trucks and the endless expanse of blue that was the sky. But I don’t remember my parents’ faces, or what color my big sister’s eyes were.
PAUSE (BREATHING)
I killed her. I didn’t push her off a roof, or shoot her, but it‘s my fault. I promised her, but I broke that promise, and it’s my fault she’s dead. She came home one day, about 18 months ago, when the Stone began to spread. She was babbling, screaming about people standing stock still in the streets, and killing anyone who touched them. She had bags and bags of canned food, and began tearing the furniture apart, nailing the pieces over the windows. I’d heard a lot of commotion that day, but figured it was just people getting excited over the Sox being in the World Series. I liked listening to baseball game son the radio. I wish the radio towers around here still worked. There’s no more Red Sox to cheer for, but I guess I could have learned to like the Twins or something. (LAUGHTER) At least I know New York went down, too. No more fucking Yankees.
(MORE LAUGHTER, BECOMES WEEPING, WEEPING CONTINUES FOR 10 MINUTES)
Kris had always taken good care of me, and she was reeling off instructions to me as she boarded up the house. Things were getting louder and crazier outside. I was begging her to slow down, she didn’t make any sense, I didn’t know what she was talking about. She wouldn’t, though, not until she’d sealed off all the windows, and the dim grey that I think of as ‘daylight’ had become the black of ‘nighttime’. She pulled me to her, and told me she’d seen men and women standing still as statues in the streets, and when people touched them, they’d attack them. And then the people stood up and stood still in the streets, even though they were dead. She’d been running in the park when she saw the first one, and as she ran first to the grocery store to get supplies, then home, she’d seen more and more, more dead people too.
“You can’t touch anyone but me, do you hear me? They kill people who touch them! People tried to attack them, but nothing happened, not until they touched them, so you can’t touch anyone but me! Promise me you’ll never touch them! Promise me! Promise me!” I promised. I … promised her…
(TAPE PAUSES, THEN RECORDING CONTINUES)
We stayed in the house for 4 days, eating canned food, she said she couldn’t hear much through the boards, just the really loud screams, and gunfire, sometimes men yelling over megaphones. I heard things, though. I heard lots of things. Dry snaps like sticks being snapped over a knee. The far-off grinding of heavy equipment. Lots and lots of trucks, military trucks, it turned out. And many times I heard a gristly ripping sound, the sound a turkey leg makes when you rip it off the bird. People crying, children screaming, glass breaking, the screech of tires and the crunch of a car hitting something immobile and hard. The meatier thud of a car hitting something smaller, and fleshier. I tried wearing earplugs, but they didn’t help much. The only way I could sleep was by putting in earplugs, then putting my headphones on over them and playing bass-heavy classical music.
On the 5th day, I heard many feet running up our front walk. I screamed for Kris. She hugged me against her, and we hid in a closet, but the men found us anyway. They smelled like leather and gunpowder, their voices were cracked and hysterical with exhaustion and fear. They told us we had to come with them, it wasn’t safe here, it was a single story building. They grabbed my arm and pulled me up, out of the house. I screamed for Kris, heard her screaming and struggling behind me. I flailed like a fish. One of the men yelled and pinned my arms to my sides.
“Jesus, he almost touched it!” One of them yelled, and I went limp with fear in his arms. He carried me to the truck like a rag doll. They brought us to an apartment building, told us to get to the second floor or higher, the Stone couldn’t go up stairs. I started laughing.
“They can’t climb stairs? They can’t climb fucking stairs?”
The soldiers got mad, they didn’t hear the panic and fear humming through every note of my words like I did. They thought I was being a smartass. They yelled at Kris to get my ass upstairs. There were other people upstairs, it was a terrible din of crying, moaning, people praying and children asking “Where’s Mommy? Where’s Peter? Where’s Nanny?” Kris kept leading me up, it felt like we were climbing forever, my thighs burned. But slowly, the noise dropped away. Finally she opened a door and led me down a echoing corridor. She found an open door and called inside, but it was empty. There was a little air moving through the apartment, the window was open. She told me to be careful, the safety grate was gone. I heard her bend over and look out the window, heard a small mew of disgust, then she slammed the window shut. She found the bedroom and told me to lie down for a while. This far up, any sounds were far away, and unimportant. I slept for a long time.
(TAPE PAUSES, THEN RECORDING CONTINUES)
The other people came up eventually, most of them were pretty nice, Kris cleaned out the apartment we’d commandeered, we settled into a life. I can hear the helicopters coming form way off, and I have to go downstairs. I count the landings carefully, 23, and then I’m on the second floor. The sound of the chopper’s blades and the roar of the engine gives me a wicked migraine. If my name ever comes up in the lotto, I’ll probably throw up all over that godawful loud thing. Kris used to follow me everywhere, but after a while, the apartment building became our home. I knew where everything was. I knew how many steps from our door to the stairwell door, I knew how many landings to the second floor, I knew the sound of all our neighbors footsteps and voices. So after a while, Kris stopped following me downstairs when the choppers came. She wanted to hear news from the soldiers, she hated the long climb back upstairs, and the second floor smelled. There’s no running water here, so most people dump their garbage and…septic out the 20th floor windows. Kris says all the buildings with people have a ring of filth 20 feet around them. I wonder about the people in the other buildings. It get kind of boring talking to the same 21 people all the time. But those other people may as well be in China. I’ll certainly never meet them.
I normally started the long trek back upstairs when I heard the helicopter engine winding up to take off again, but one day I felt lazy. I was fighting a bit of a head cold, and felt rundown. So I stayed where I was a bit longer, in an apartment Kris had opened up and cleaned out for me to use when I was hiding down here. I was stretched out in a recliner, and I must have snoozed a bit. I was woken up to soft, soft sobbing. I went out into the hallway, but the sound got dimmer. It was coming from outside! I ran back into the apartment and ran up the window. There was someone outside, beneath the window, crying softly. I thought, “It has to be a person! Kris says the Stone don’t make any noise!”
I thought about running upstairs, getting help. But what if that person was hurt? What if a Stone was slowly creeping towards them? I decide I would just stick my head out the stairwell fire door and yell to them. They could come in the door, and we’d escape upstairs. I went down the stairs quietly, my ears pricked for the slightest sound. I heard someone far up in the stairwell, but nothing below me, just that crying getting louder. Quietly, I opened the fire door. Sobbing roared into my ears. That person was crying so hard now.
“Hello?” I called, opening the door further and stepping out, but not quite daring to let go of the door handle. “Come inside! Where are you?” I started to lift my hand up to feel for them, they were close.
Then Kris screamed “NO!” and shoved me aside. She barreled past me, shoving me back into the stairwell. I heard her gasp, then the door was swinging shut. I felt hot, thick liquid splash across my face, then it slammed shut. I screamed for her, over and over, but there was only that sobbing, endless, and I realized it was them sobbing, all of them, all of the Stone sobbing together, so low no one but me could hear them. I ran back up the stairs, sweat burning my stupid useless fucking eyes, and a taste like the way lightning smells in my mouth. I ran up to our room, and slammed the door. I locked it and shoved all the furniture against it. The neighbors were banging on the door, asking me what’s wrong, where’s Kris, what happened? But they’ve given up now. I wonder if they heard me through the walls. I hear them, fighting and making love, and crying. But I hear a lot they don’t hear. They’ll break in eventually, someone will spot my body down in the ring of filth when they dump their bucket of shit out, and they’ll break in here to see if I left a note.
This is my note. This is why I deserve to die in the garbage and waste down there. I’ll die on top of the body of the last guy who jumped out this window. There’s no safety bar on the window, and it’s what I deserve. I can’t live with the thought that Kris might be down there, endlessly sobbing. I can’t live knowing if I’d kept my promise she’d be alive. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Kris.
(SOUND OF WINDOW OPENING, RUSTLING, TAPE CONTINUES TO RECORD SILENCE FOR 3 HOURS)
(END RECORDING)
End
*Well you asked for it. I couldn't sleep and decided to try another one. I have a few more ideas for Stone stories, you may get more out of me yet. God, I've been awake too long.
Male voice:
I didn’t see the end of the world. I heard it. I haven’t seen anything since I was 4. I kind of remember seeing, but I’m 25 now, and most of the stuff I remember is blurs of color. I remember color. Red fire trucks and the endless expanse of blue that was the sky. But I don’t remember my parents’ faces, or what color my big sister’s eyes were.
PAUSE (BREATHING)
I killed her. I didn’t push her off a roof, or shoot her, but it‘s my fault. I promised her, but I broke that promise, and it’s my fault she’s dead. She came home one day, about 18 months ago, when the Stone began to spread. She was babbling, screaming about people standing stock still in the streets, and killing anyone who touched them. She had bags and bags of canned food, and began tearing the furniture apart, nailing the pieces over the windows. I’d heard a lot of commotion that day, but figured it was just people getting excited over the Sox being in the World Series. I liked listening to baseball game son the radio. I wish the radio towers around here still worked. There’s no more Red Sox to cheer for, but I guess I could have learned to like the Twins or something. (LAUGHTER) At least I know New York went down, too. No more fucking Yankees.
(MORE LAUGHTER, BECOMES WEEPING, WEEPING CONTINUES FOR 10 MINUTES)
Kris had always taken good care of me, and she was reeling off instructions to me as she boarded up the house. Things were getting louder and crazier outside. I was begging her to slow down, she didn’t make any sense, I didn’t know what she was talking about. She wouldn’t, though, not until she’d sealed off all the windows, and the dim grey that I think of as ‘daylight’ had become the black of ‘nighttime’. She pulled me to her, and told me she’d seen men and women standing still as statues in the streets, and when people touched them, they’d attack them. And then the people stood up and stood still in the streets, even though they were dead. She’d been running in the park when she saw the first one, and as she ran first to the grocery store to get supplies, then home, she’d seen more and more, more dead people too.
“You can’t touch anyone but me, do you hear me? They kill people who touch them! People tried to attack them, but nothing happened, not until they touched them, so you can’t touch anyone but me! Promise me you’ll never touch them! Promise me! Promise me!” I promised. I … promised her…
(TAPE PAUSES, THEN RECORDING CONTINUES)
We stayed in the house for 4 days, eating canned food, she said she couldn’t hear much through the boards, just the really loud screams, and gunfire, sometimes men yelling over megaphones. I heard things, though. I heard lots of things. Dry snaps like sticks being snapped over a knee. The far-off grinding of heavy equipment. Lots and lots of trucks, military trucks, it turned out. And many times I heard a gristly ripping sound, the sound a turkey leg makes when you rip it off the bird. People crying, children screaming, glass breaking, the screech of tires and the crunch of a car hitting something immobile and hard. The meatier thud of a car hitting something smaller, and fleshier. I tried wearing earplugs, but they didn’t help much. The only way I could sleep was by putting in earplugs, then putting my headphones on over them and playing bass-heavy classical music.
On the 5th day, I heard many feet running up our front walk. I screamed for Kris. She hugged me against her, and we hid in a closet, but the men found us anyway. They smelled like leather and gunpowder, their voices were cracked and hysterical with exhaustion and fear. They told us we had to come with them, it wasn’t safe here, it was a single story building. They grabbed my arm and pulled me up, out of the house. I screamed for Kris, heard her screaming and struggling behind me. I flailed like a fish. One of the men yelled and pinned my arms to my sides.
“Jesus, he almost touched it!” One of them yelled, and I went limp with fear in his arms. He carried me to the truck like a rag doll. They brought us to an apartment building, told us to get to the second floor or higher, the Stone couldn’t go up stairs. I started laughing.
“They can’t climb stairs? They can’t climb fucking stairs?”
The soldiers got mad, they didn’t hear the panic and fear humming through every note of my words like I did. They thought I was being a smartass. They yelled at Kris to get my ass upstairs. There were other people upstairs, it was a terrible din of crying, moaning, people praying and children asking “Where’s Mommy? Where’s Peter? Where’s Nanny?” Kris kept leading me up, it felt like we were climbing forever, my thighs burned. But slowly, the noise dropped away. Finally she opened a door and led me down a echoing corridor. She found an open door and called inside, but it was empty. There was a little air moving through the apartment, the window was open. She told me to be careful, the safety grate was gone. I heard her bend over and look out the window, heard a small mew of disgust, then she slammed the window shut. She found the bedroom and told me to lie down for a while. This far up, any sounds were far away, and unimportant. I slept for a long time.
(TAPE PAUSES, THEN RECORDING CONTINUES)
The other people came up eventually, most of them were pretty nice, Kris cleaned out the apartment we’d commandeered, we settled into a life. I can hear the helicopters coming form way off, and I have to go downstairs. I count the landings carefully, 23, and then I’m on the second floor. The sound of the chopper’s blades and the roar of the engine gives me a wicked migraine. If my name ever comes up in the lotto, I’ll probably throw up all over that godawful loud thing. Kris used to follow me everywhere, but after a while, the apartment building became our home. I knew where everything was. I knew how many steps from our door to the stairwell door, I knew how many landings to the second floor, I knew the sound of all our neighbors footsteps and voices. So after a while, Kris stopped following me downstairs when the choppers came. She wanted to hear news from the soldiers, she hated the long climb back upstairs, and the second floor smelled. There’s no running water here, so most people dump their garbage and…septic out the 20th floor windows. Kris says all the buildings with people have a ring of filth 20 feet around them. I wonder about the people in the other buildings. It get kind of boring talking to the same 21 people all the time. But those other people may as well be in China. I’ll certainly never meet them.
I normally started the long trek back upstairs when I heard the helicopter engine winding up to take off again, but one day I felt lazy. I was fighting a bit of a head cold, and felt rundown. So I stayed where I was a bit longer, in an apartment Kris had opened up and cleaned out for me to use when I was hiding down here. I was stretched out in a recliner, and I must have snoozed a bit. I was woken up to soft, soft sobbing. I went out into the hallway, but the sound got dimmer. It was coming from outside! I ran back into the apartment and ran up the window. There was someone outside, beneath the window, crying softly. I thought, “It has to be a person! Kris says the Stone don’t make any noise!”
I thought about running upstairs, getting help. But what if that person was hurt? What if a Stone was slowly creeping towards them? I decide I would just stick my head out the stairwell fire door and yell to them. They could come in the door, and we’d escape upstairs. I went down the stairs quietly, my ears pricked for the slightest sound. I heard someone far up in the stairwell, but nothing below me, just that crying getting louder. Quietly, I opened the fire door. Sobbing roared into my ears. That person was crying so hard now.
“Hello?” I called, opening the door further and stepping out, but not quite daring to let go of the door handle. “Come inside! Where are you?” I started to lift my hand up to feel for them, they were close.
Then Kris screamed “NO!” and shoved me aside. She barreled past me, shoving me back into the stairwell. I heard her gasp, then the door was swinging shut. I felt hot, thick liquid splash across my face, then it slammed shut. I screamed for her, over and over, but there was only that sobbing, endless, and I realized it was them sobbing, all of them, all of the Stone sobbing together, so low no one but me could hear them. I ran back up the stairs, sweat burning my stupid useless fucking eyes, and a taste like the way lightning smells in my mouth. I ran up to our room, and slammed the door. I locked it and shoved all the furniture against it. The neighbors were banging on the door, asking me what’s wrong, where’s Kris, what happened? But they’ve given up now. I wonder if they heard me through the walls. I hear them, fighting and making love, and crying. But I hear a lot they don’t hear. They’ll break in eventually, someone will spot my body down in the ring of filth when they dump their bucket of shit out, and they’ll break in here to see if I left a note.
This is my note. This is why I deserve to die in the garbage and waste down there. I’ll die on top of the body of the last guy who jumped out this window. There’s no safety bar on the window, and it’s what I deserve. I can’t live with the thought that Kris might be down there, endlessly sobbing. I can’t live knowing if I’d kept my promise she’d be alive. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Kris.
(SOUND OF WINDOW OPENING, RUSTLING, TAPE CONTINUES TO RECORD SILENCE FOR 3 HOURS)
(END RECORDING)
End
*Well you asked for it. I couldn't sleep and decided to try another one. I have a few more ideas for Stone stories, you may get more out of me yet. God, I've been awake too long.
The Stone
Sasha,
I hope you get this. I paid a soldier over $10,000 to sneak this letter across the Q-line and mail it. Ha, $10,000. Somewhere in this city, my shitty apartment (with my cat rotting inside, no doubt) cost me $600 a month and I could barely scrape that together, but I’m going to hand a man $10,000 cash to deliver this letter. There’s plenty of money on this side, just lying around, in banks and stores, it just got left there in the panic, and if you’re brave enough to go downstairs, it’s yours for the taking. I went into a mall nearby and looted every cash register I could lay hands on, I almost backed into one of them once, I was so scared I actually pissed myself, but I went. I need you to get this letter. They check outgoing mail, and they’ll never let this one through.
I’ll start at the beginning. I know the TV shows and newspapers in the West are lying their asses off about what really happened here. It started with one man, standing all alone on the Summer Street Bridge. He was just standing there. A woman walked up to him and put her hand on his shoulder. He grabbed her arms and pulled until she came apart like a doll. The cops came out and yelled at him through megaphones for a while, but he just stood there. A trooper approached him, and thinking he wouldn’t be a threat, tried to cuff him. The man reached out and snapped his neck. The other troopers opened fire. The bullets passed through him like smoke. They tried hitting him with batons. They went right through him. They threw things at him. They went right through him. Another trooper tried to retrieve the body of the dead trooper. The dead trooper sat up and tore his head right off his shoulders.
From there, it just spread. It was slow, but steady. It was slow enough that they managed to built the wall at the Q-line, and Canada built one at their southern border, now the Northeast is it’s own little country. The Stone’s country. We call them the Stone because for the most part, it doesn’t even seem like they’re moving. It’s like the minute hand on a watch. You can see it move, but only if you stare for a really long time. But as soon as you touch them, they move fast. One lady I’m with now says they must get a burst of heat from the living in that contact, enough to fire them for one quick moment. It’s all they need, that moment. You wouldn’t believe how fast one of those things can dismantle a person. Less than 4 seconds. I counted once. Some of the people get up, some don’t. I’ve seen people with their limbs torn completely off slowly come back together and get up. I’ve seen people with no mark at all, except the odd tilt of their necks rot to mush in the streets.
They’re smart, too. Remember I said I almost backed into one? They sneak up behind you and wait for you to back into them. Ooops, sorry mister! Then your head is rolling across the floor. They also know, somehow, if you know the person they’re inside of. There’s 40 people with me, and most of them are like me, alone. The ones with family, have long since been lured downstairs by their children and mothers and wives standing on the sidewalks and looking up, sometimes they cry, sometimes they mouth words. In rain or sun or snow. A lot of them are naked now, or close to it, their clothes either torn off by the initial attack or simply tattered by all the endless hours of standing outside. People can’t stand to see their grandmother standing in a snow storm in a thin summer dress and no shoes and run down to hold them. Bye-bye. They never change once they’re Stone. Never get thinner or fatter, never eat, their hair doesn’t grow.
They do go into buildings, but only the first floor. For some reason they can’t climb. Not up stairs, not up walls, or ladders. We technically could be on the second floor and be safe, but we were scared. We found a 26 story apartment building, and we’re all on the top 5 floors. The apartment I took over isn’t much nicer than the one I left. Some cops came to door, told me to come with them. They wouldn't let me bring my cat, or even a change of clothes. I miss my cat. He must have starved to death ages ago. They brought us to a hospital, but after it got really bad, we decided to come here. It's taller. We feel safer farther away from them. We have no water, no electricity. The Army brings us food and water and other supplies in helicopters. Every 3 weeks, they have a lotto drawing, and one person goes in the helicopter with the soldiers. They say that the person is checked out in a government hospital, then released to their family in the West, but for all we know they kick them out of the helicopter as soon as they get over the horizon. I can’t wait until my name comes up in the lotto. And I can’t trust that they won’t kill me when it does.
I saw something scary last week. I have a pair of binoculars, there’s not a whole lot to do, so I watch the Stone. A girl, no more than 7, in a pink rag that might’ve been a dress walked slowly towards a wall. I watched because there’s people in 4 other buildings around us, but she was walking towards an empty one. She walked right at a blank wall, no door or windows. I watched for over 5 hours, (I told you they were slow) watched her walk right through the wall. Like she was a ghost. Like how if you throw a rock, it goes right through them. And if a little girl Stone can walk through a wall, couldn’t they walk through the wall at the Q-line?
That’s why I risked going downstairs, finding all that cash, so I can bribe a soldier on the next helicopter into mailing this letter from the other side of the wall. So I could warn you, so you could find a nice tall building and stock it, and get off the ground. Take Ma, and Daddy and Nana and the kids. Take anyone who might lure you down later. Because if they’re inside someone you love, they’ll come right for you. It’s funny, you were so against me moving here, and you were right. I should have stayed home. I love you big sister. I pray to God you get this letter. I love you all so much.
End
* I was doing a RP letter swap, and we had to write a letter from 'the end of the world' and make it look according. I wrote the original in Sharpie on torn pieces of a brown paper bag. I wrote the whole thing in about 5 minutes, the handwriting was sloppy and paniced. I re-read it, and realized I'd written creepypasta. I got a few suggestions on /x/ to make a series of stories from different people in the other buildings, and I'm thinking about doing it. I've been toying with the idea of a short series, and there's so many different tones and concepts to play with with this story.
I hope you get this. I paid a soldier over $10,000 to sneak this letter across the Q-line and mail it. Ha, $10,000. Somewhere in this city, my shitty apartment (with my cat rotting inside, no doubt) cost me $600 a month and I could barely scrape that together, but I’m going to hand a man $10,000 cash to deliver this letter. There’s plenty of money on this side, just lying around, in banks and stores, it just got left there in the panic, and if you’re brave enough to go downstairs, it’s yours for the taking. I went into a mall nearby and looted every cash register I could lay hands on, I almost backed into one of them once, I was so scared I actually pissed myself, but I went. I need you to get this letter. They check outgoing mail, and they’ll never let this one through.
I’ll start at the beginning. I know the TV shows and newspapers in the West are lying their asses off about what really happened here. It started with one man, standing all alone on the Summer Street Bridge. He was just standing there. A woman walked up to him and put her hand on his shoulder. He grabbed her arms and pulled until she came apart like a doll. The cops came out and yelled at him through megaphones for a while, but he just stood there. A trooper approached him, and thinking he wouldn’t be a threat, tried to cuff him. The man reached out and snapped his neck. The other troopers opened fire. The bullets passed through him like smoke. They tried hitting him with batons. They went right through him. They threw things at him. They went right through him. Another trooper tried to retrieve the body of the dead trooper. The dead trooper sat up and tore his head right off his shoulders.
From there, it just spread. It was slow, but steady. It was slow enough that they managed to built the wall at the Q-line, and Canada built one at their southern border, now the Northeast is it’s own little country. The Stone’s country. We call them the Stone because for the most part, it doesn’t even seem like they’re moving. It’s like the minute hand on a watch. You can see it move, but only if you stare for a really long time. But as soon as you touch them, they move fast. One lady I’m with now says they must get a burst of heat from the living in that contact, enough to fire them for one quick moment. It’s all they need, that moment. You wouldn’t believe how fast one of those things can dismantle a person. Less than 4 seconds. I counted once. Some of the people get up, some don’t. I’ve seen people with their limbs torn completely off slowly come back together and get up. I’ve seen people with no mark at all, except the odd tilt of their necks rot to mush in the streets.
They’re smart, too. Remember I said I almost backed into one? They sneak up behind you and wait for you to back into them. Ooops, sorry mister! Then your head is rolling across the floor. They also know, somehow, if you know the person they’re inside of. There’s 40 people with me, and most of them are like me, alone. The ones with family, have long since been lured downstairs by their children and mothers and wives standing on the sidewalks and looking up, sometimes they cry, sometimes they mouth words. In rain or sun or snow. A lot of them are naked now, or close to it, their clothes either torn off by the initial attack or simply tattered by all the endless hours of standing outside. People can’t stand to see their grandmother standing in a snow storm in a thin summer dress and no shoes and run down to hold them. Bye-bye. They never change once they’re Stone. Never get thinner or fatter, never eat, their hair doesn’t grow.
They do go into buildings, but only the first floor. For some reason they can’t climb. Not up stairs, not up walls, or ladders. We technically could be on the second floor and be safe, but we were scared. We found a 26 story apartment building, and we’re all on the top 5 floors. The apartment I took over isn’t much nicer than the one I left. Some cops came to door, told me to come with them. They wouldn't let me bring my cat, or even a change of clothes. I miss my cat. He must have starved to death ages ago. They brought us to a hospital, but after it got really bad, we decided to come here. It's taller. We feel safer farther away from them. We have no water, no electricity. The Army brings us food and water and other supplies in helicopters. Every 3 weeks, they have a lotto drawing, and one person goes in the helicopter with the soldiers. They say that the person is checked out in a government hospital, then released to their family in the West, but for all we know they kick them out of the helicopter as soon as they get over the horizon. I can’t wait until my name comes up in the lotto. And I can’t trust that they won’t kill me when it does.
I saw something scary last week. I have a pair of binoculars, there’s not a whole lot to do, so I watch the Stone. A girl, no more than 7, in a pink rag that might’ve been a dress walked slowly towards a wall. I watched because there’s people in 4 other buildings around us, but she was walking towards an empty one. She walked right at a blank wall, no door or windows. I watched for over 5 hours, (I told you they were slow) watched her walk right through the wall. Like she was a ghost. Like how if you throw a rock, it goes right through them. And if a little girl Stone can walk through a wall, couldn’t they walk through the wall at the Q-line?
That’s why I risked going downstairs, finding all that cash, so I can bribe a soldier on the next helicopter into mailing this letter from the other side of the wall. So I could warn you, so you could find a nice tall building and stock it, and get off the ground. Take Ma, and Daddy and Nana and the kids. Take anyone who might lure you down later. Because if they’re inside someone you love, they’ll come right for you. It’s funny, you were so against me moving here, and you were right. I should have stayed home. I love you big sister. I pray to God you get this letter. I love you all so much.
End
* I was doing a RP letter swap, and we had to write a letter from 'the end of the world' and make it look according. I wrote the original in Sharpie on torn pieces of a brown paper bag. I wrote the whole thing in about 5 minutes, the handwriting was sloppy and paniced. I re-read it, and realized I'd written creepypasta. I got a few suggestions on /x/ to make a series of stories from different people in the other buildings, and I'm thinking about doing it. I've been toying with the idea of a short series, and there's so many different tones and concepts to play with with this story.
Stop That Banging!
“Why do you keep banging like that?”
I looked up. My boyfriend, Paul, was at the kitchen table, clicking away at his laptop.
“Like what?” I asked.
“What?” He looked up, shoving his glasses onto his forehead and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“You said, “why do you keep banging like that?”. I’m not banging. I’m just folding clothes.” I walked over to the closet in the hallway and hung his sweatshirt up.
“I didn’t say anything. I’ve got to get this done before tomorrow, I should have been doing it yesterday, but someone-” He rolled his eyes toward me. “-really needed to go get ice cream. And go to the mall.”
“Hmmmm, and someone-” I rolled my eyes back at him. “-really didn’t have to come, but convinced himself with the words, “Fuck this shit, I want some cookies and cream.”. It must have been the upstairs neighbor. That guy’s a douche.”
“A douche who can hear you call him a douche if he can hear you folding clothes and think you’re banging.” He pulled his glasses down his nose. “So quit banging and let me finish this, or you’re sleeping alone tonight.”
I shut up, and finished folding the laundry, walking quietly between the sofa and the bedroom, and forgot about the voice. It must have just been the douche upstairs, after all.
A few days later, Paul was in class, and I was reading a textbook on the sofa, arm flopped off the sofa and onto the floor. I tapped a finger gently against the floor as I read.
“Stop banging!”
“I’m not banging! Shut up!” I yelled up at the ceiling. I continued reading and tapping.
“I’m trying to sleep! Quit the damn banging!”
“Are you on drugs? I’m not fucking banging, asshole!” I rolled over onto my back, holding the book up with both hands.
A bit later, I heard footsteps thumping up the stairs and the lock turn in the apartment upstairs.
“What’s he bitching about banging? Shit man, he’s like a herd of elephants.” I grumbled to myself. I thought for a minute. Had I heard him leave? He must have, since he’d been yelling before, and now he was tromping up the stairs. He didn’t have a roommate, the last one had left over a month ago, in a screaming fight that had been in turns both humorous and frightening. Paul and I had wavered between making popcorn and calling the cops for 2 hours before the roommate left in a final shriek of curses and trailed by a whiskey bottle flung from the top of the stairs.
I saw it was getting late and got up to start dinner.
“This is your last god dam warning! Keep banging and I’m gonna come up there!”
I opened my mouth to yell back a slew of obscenities, when my mind replayed the comment. “Up there”? Paul and I lived on the first floor of a two story house. There was a 3 foot crawlspace under the house, but there wasn’t even a proper basement.
I bent down and tapped my finger against the floor. I paused, and something slammed against the floor under my feet. I screamed and skittered away, retreating into the kitchen. The pounding continued, following me, making books jump off the shelves in the living room, and the dishes in the cabinets clatter against each other.
“Hey, quit that fucking noise!”
This time it really was the guy upstairs, stomping his foot against the floor to emphasize his point. I turned my head up, was about to start screaming again, when something grabbed my foot. I looked down. A hand, palest white with greenish veins pulsing beneath the surface, was wrapped around my ankle. I tried to pull away and it clamped down tighter. It was coming right out of the floorboards, there was no hole in the floor, and this was no see-through movie ghost, but it passed right through the wood like smoke. I began to scream.
The hand pulled down, and my foot passed through the boards with no resistance. It was like stepping into a deep puddle of ice water. I lurched forward, then backward, trying to tear my foot away from that grasping hand, but it only pulled down harder. My shin began to slide through the floor. I braced my other foot against the floor and pulled as hard as I could, then put my hands down on the floor and began to push with my arms, too. The hand let go of my foot, and I pulled it back a little, it came slowly, like pulling your foot out of deep, thick mud.
Then hands closed over my wrists, both of them, and began pulling. For a moment, a face seemed to be pushing at the wood between my palms, a old, angry, mean face, then I went into full panic, wrenching at my hands and leg, twisting and bucking like a beast caught in a trap. But my arms sank deeper, and in a few moments my face was pressed against the floor.
“I’m sorry!” I gasped. “I’m sorry!” Then my face sank under the floorboards.
I’ve been asleep for a while now. I know Paul moved out, the racket of the movers was almost unbearable, but I resisted the urge to tell them to shut the hell up for a while. I liked Paul a lot, and didn’t want to have to go up there and yell at him. But theses new people, ug. They have a dog. A little yapping thing that scurries around all day, slamming it’s nasty little feet against the floors, screeching it’s nasty little head off every time a fucking leaf blows past the window. I might have to reach up there and pull it down here, so it can sleep. It can sleep right here, between me and the old man. It might be nice for a little company. The old man talks in his sleep sometimes, giggling about things he did while he was alive, none of them nice, most of them ending with a child buried in the woods somewhere in Pennsylvania. I could roll over and pull the dog to my chest, and put my face in its fur. Sure it was a little yapper up there, but down here, there was just sleep and the old man muttering to himself. Company would be nice.
Slowly, my hand heavy with sleep, I place my palm against the underside of the floorboards and wait for the dog to pass within grabbing distance.
End
*I got hit by a car when I was 8. My back has been messed up ever since. Sometimes, when it's acting up, it actually helps to sleep on the floor. One night as I was lying on the floor of my room, something banged hard against the floor under me. It turns out it was the cats fighting under the house, but holy crap did it scare me!
I looked up. My boyfriend, Paul, was at the kitchen table, clicking away at his laptop.
“Like what?” I asked.
“What?” He looked up, shoving his glasses onto his forehead and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“You said, “why do you keep banging like that?”. I’m not banging. I’m just folding clothes.” I walked over to the closet in the hallway and hung his sweatshirt up.
“I didn’t say anything. I’ve got to get this done before tomorrow, I should have been doing it yesterday, but someone-” He rolled his eyes toward me. “-really needed to go get ice cream. And go to the mall.”
“Hmmmm, and someone-” I rolled my eyes back at him. “-really didn’t have to come, but convinced himself with the words, “Fuck this shit, I want some cookies and cream.”. It must have been the upstairs neighbor. That guy’s a douche.”
“A douche who can hear you call him a douche if he can hear you folding clothes and think you’re banging.” He pulled his glasses down his nose. “So quit banging and let me finish this, or you’re sleeping alone tonight.”
I shut up, and finished folding the laundry, walking quietly between the sofa and the bedroom, and forgot about the voice. It must have just been the douche upstairs, after all.
A few days later, Paul was in class, and I was reading a textbook on the sofa, arm flopped off the sofa and onto the floor. I tapped a finger gently against the floor as I read.
“Stop banging!”
“I’m not banging! Shut up!” I yelled up at the ceiling. I continued reading and tapping.
“I’m trying to sleep! Quit the damn banging!”
“Are you on drugs? I’m not fucking banging, asshole!” I rolled over onto my back, holding the book up with both hands.
A bit later, I heard footsteps thumping up the stairs and the lock turn in the apartment upstairs.
“What’s he bitching about banging? Shit man, he’s like a herd of elephants.” I grumbled to myself. I thought for a minute. Had I heard him leave? He must have, since he’d been yelling before, and now he was tromping up the stairs. He didn’t have a roommate, the last one had left over a month ago, in a screaming fight that had been in turns both humorous and frightening. Paul and I had wavered between making popcorn and calling the cops for 2 hours before the roommate left in a final shriek of curses and trailed by a whiskey bottle flung from the top of the stairs.
I saw it was getting late and got up to start dinner.
“This is your last god dam warning! Keep banging and I’m gonna come up there!”
I opened my mouth to yell back a slew of obscenities, when my mind replayed the comment. “Up there”? Paul and I lived on the first floor of a two story house. There was a 3 foot crawlspace under the house, but there wasn’t even a proper basement.
I bent down and tapped my finger against the floor. I paused, and something slammed against the floor under my feet. I screamed and skittered away, retreating into the kitchen. The pounding continued, following me, making books jump off the shelves in the living room, and the dishes in the cabinets clatter against each other.
“Hey, quit that fucking noise!”
This time it really was the guy upstairs, stomping his foot against the floor to emphasize his point. I turned my head up, was about to start screaming again, when something grabbed my foot. I looked down. A hand, palest white with greenish veins pulsing beneath the surface, was wrapped around my ankle. I tried to pull away and it clamped down tighter. It was coming right out of the floorboards, there was no hole in the floor, and this was no see-through movie ghost, but it passed right through the wood like smoke. I began to scream.
The hand pulled down, and my foot passed through the boards with no resistance. It was like stepping into a deep puddle of ice water. I lurched forward, then backward, trying to tear my foot away from that grasping hand, but it only pulled down harder. My shin began to slide through the floor. I braced my other foot against the floor and pulled as hard as I could, then put my hands down on the floor and began to push with my arms, too. The hand let go of my foot, and I pulled it back a little, it came slowly, like pulling your foot out of deep, thick mud.
Then hands closed over my wrists, both of them, and began pulling. For a moment, a face seemed to be pushing at the wood between my palms, a old, angry, mean face, then I went into full panic, wrenching at my hands and leg, twisting and bucking like a beast caught in a trap. But my arms sank deeper, and in a few moments my face was pressed against the floor.
“I’m sorry!” I gasped. “I’m sorry!” Then my face sank under the floorboards.
I’ve been asleep for a while now. I know Paul moved out, the racket of the movers was almost unbearable, but I resisted the urge to tell them to shut the hell up for a while. I liked Paul a lot, and didn’t want to have to go up there and yell at him. But theses new people, ug. They have a dog. A little yapping thing that scurries around all day, slamming it’s nasty little feet against the floors, screeching it’s nasty little head off every time a fucking leaf blows past the window. I might have to reach up there and pull it down here, so it can sleep. It can sleep right here, between me and the old man. It might be nice for a little company. The old man talks in his sleep sometimes, giggling about things he did while he was alive, none of them nice, most of them ending with a child buried in the woods somewhere in Pennsylvania. I could roll over and pull the dog to my chest, and put my face in its fur. Sure it was a little yapper up there, but down here, there was just sleep and the old man muttering to himself. Company would be nice.
Slowly, my hand heavy with sleep, I place my palm against the underside of the floorboards and wait for the dog to pass within grabbing distance.
End
*I got hit by a car when I was 8. My back has been messed up ever since. Sometimes, when it's acting up, it actually helps to sleep on the floor. One night as I was lying on the floor of my room, something banged hard against the floor under me. It turns out it was the cats fighting under the house, but holy crap did it scare me!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)