Creepy Fanfiction

    The forums have been archived. Please read this thread for more information.


    • Fear Itself

      There's nothing to fear but fear itself - Franklin D. Roosevelt 1933

      When I was younger my father would always tell me 'Boy, there's nothing to fear but fear itself.' I honestly believed in those words, even if he only said them so he could get out of checking for monsters under the bed. After all the scariest part of a horror movie is before you see the monster right? The human mind can come up with far scary possibilities then any horror writer or reality, I thought.
      That's probably why I was able to work the job I did. I worked for a construction company that dealt in making old houses livable again. The old run down relics everyone whispers are 'haunted' or 'cursed' we turn into works of art. It's a good way to make a living.
      It was the middle of summer when the request came in, the old Coombs place had been up for sale for going on thirty years now and the company had bought it meaning to fix it up to resell. The usual rumors surrounded it of unusual deaths, and hauntings but no more then usual. A normal back story for one of these properties, one day the whole family just up and got themselves murdered right in their parlor room. No one was willing to buy the house since.
      Myself and coworker, a buddy of mine named Gord were supposed to go to the house check it out. Spend the night to smoke out any homeless that might be squatting in the place. It's best to get them out before they cause any accidents, and scare off potential owners. I don't really mind and we get paid extra to camp out for the night. Not to mention it helps gets rid of any crazy rumors about the old places.
      We showed up around sunset with the work van, and spent a hour hauling everything into the parlor room, setting up a sort of 'base camp' for the night. The place was a old stone three story building, with long hall ways and big open rooms. It was drafty as hell though from all the big windows. The place was mostly empty, with a thick layer of dust over everything.
      "Doesn't look like anyone's been here in ages, not even squatters" Gord remarked looking around, as he plopped down in one of the camping chairs we brought.
      "Never know, those squatters are tricky bastards." I snorted. "Let's get to work before it gets too dark. This place hasn't got any power remember? I don't want to be doing my inspection by flashlight."
      The company wouldn't be paying to turn on the power till the inspection was over and everything was given the okay. No need to waste more money then needed. Gord grumbled but hoisted himself up out the chair. Despite my hurry, we still ended up doing half by flashlight.
      After we settled down in the parlor with some left over take out from lunch. Soon the incident in the bedroom was the farthest thing from my mind. We pulled out a bottle of whiskey and sat around a camp heater for a couple hours just chatting away about nothing till Gord decided he was either too tired or too drunk to stay awake.
      I decided to have a smoke, so I went out to the back porch. The boss would kill me if I got the place smelling like smoke after all. Besides it was a nice enough night. I light up and enjoyed the evening air for a good ten minutes before letting myself in the back door into the ruined kitchen.
      Drip, drip, drip, drip
      The sound was deafening in the otherwise quiet house. It was like when your faucet was a bit leaky. In old places like this, it happened all the time. However with the open rooms and long halls everything echoed, making it so much louder. I wouldn't be able to sleep with the constant dripping noise.
      I checked the kitchen first, but the faucet was rusted over and dry as a bone. Still the constant drip drip drip echoed in my ears, becoming louder. There was no other sinks on this floor. I went to go upstairs, stopping by the parlor first. Gord was asleep curled up in his sleeping bag. How he could sleep with this noise, I didn't know.
      The upstairs bathroom was a no go either. If anything the noise got louder. It set my nerves on fire, all my muscles were tense and I couldn't relax. It was like a constant itch. The third floor bathroom. It had to be. There was only one left.
      As I climbed the stairs it got louder
      drip
      Step
      drip
      by
      drip
      Step.
      drip
      When I reached the top step, I couldn't take it. I was covering my ears, clutching them desperately. Still it echoed in my ears every step, as if it was going to drive me mad. It had to be this faucet it had to be! I couldn't stand it any more!
      I threw open the door of the bathroom in the hall, but again the sink was dry. I fell to my knees, unable to take anymore of that horrible horrible noise. Then I realized. The tub. I scrambled without any dignity on hands and knees to the tub.
      Drip, drip, drip, drip
      A single drop of rusted water constantly fell into the old tub. The noise was a loud roar in my ears, then as I finally turned the tap.... nothing. Silence. I slumped exhaustively over the edge of the tub. The dripping was gone. The noise was gone. Nothing but silence.
      It was then I realized. There was no water running to the house. How could the tap drip? I sat up and stared at the tap. Then...
      Creak, creak, creak
      A new noise was here to crush my sanity. Footsteps, on the creaking floorboards. I couldn't take it, I had to get out of this house! No pay check was worth all this noise! The squatter could have the damn place! I got up and all but ran down the stairs.
      Creak, creak, creak
      The footsteps got louder, and sped up. This time I knew exactly where the noise was. It was behind me. Following me. I clutched my ears as I ran down the stairs, but the foot steps followed getting louder and closer with every step.
      Creak, creak, creak
      I reached the first floor when suddenly it stopped. The noise was gone. I stopped at the bottom of the stairs and slowly uncovered my ears. The house was silent again. I trembled with relief. But what of my pursuer. I was scared to turn around, but I remembered there is nothing scarier then what your mind makes up. Not looking will only make it worse. Slowly I turned around. Nothing but the pitch darkness of the upper floors greeted me. There was nothing or no one there. I sighed in relief.
      The whiskey must have gotten to me. Feeling better I wandered back to the parlor, ready to get some sleep. However when I got to the parlor, Gord's sleeping bag was empty with no trace of the larger man. Suddenly I had a really good idea who my mystery purser was. Gord thought he could scare me huh?
      That's when it started.
      Drag, drag, drag
      I could hear it, in the hallway behind me. So he thought he could get me again? Well sure I'd play along. So I walked out into the dim moonlight hallway. The old floor boards looked a bit warped as if something heavy had been dragged across them. The boss was going to kill him for that. All the more reason to play along. I walked down the hall, following the noise that was getting louder.
      Drag, drag, drag
      The floor boards were groaning under the weight of whatever it was, and I could hear the faint noise of something metallic being dragged against the floor as well. It made a tinny sort of noise that echoed through out the old place. I followed the noise down the second darker hall way and up to the third set of stairs. The noise echoed the loudest up here till it was all you could hear.
      Drag, drag, drag
      The person would take a step, pause then take a step. I could hear it now. It must be a great effort to drag something up all those stairs. The noise stopped as I stood in front of the girl's bedroom. Slowly I opened the bedroom door... As I expected.
      Gord was sitting on the bed facing the open window with his back to me. I shook my head walking over being careful to avoid the floor boards.
      "Come on man, isn't this a bit childish? The boss is going to kill you for damaging the first floor hallway." I said walking around the bed to face him. All laughter died in my throat, and I instantly became sick as I saw him.
      There was no way he had down this to himself.... there was no way... Tears welled up in my eyes as knelt on the old floor trying not to look at the body of what used to be my friend. That's when I heard it.
      Drip, Creak, Drag
      Someone was coming. I could hear the metallic noise of whatever they were dragging with them as they slowly came up the stairs. My body was frozen in fear I couldn't run. I couldn't even move. All I could do was tremble.
      Drip, Creak, Drag
      It came closer and closer till I knew, I just knew it was just behind me. I could imagine it breathing down my neck as I trembled on the ground. Then I remembered my fathers words. 'There's nothing to fear but fear itself'
      My instinct might be not to look. However that was just making this worse. I had to look. I had to! I had to get the strength to run! So I turned my head, and looked behind me....

      --------------------------------
      "The wind feels nice up here, doesn't it Gord? I don't know why I kept shutting this window. It so stuffy in here." I murmured, smiling softly as I sat on the window sill. The house was silent. The only noise was the birds singing to greet the morning.
      "Ah, it's such a beautiful day out... Hey Gord, did I ever tell you? About my dad?"
      The birds kept singing.
      "I didn't?! Ah I'll tell you. I used to get these horrible nightmares you see. So he used to tell me gruffly. 'Boy, there's nothing to fear but fear itself'...' I smiled, standing up on the window sill.
      "He was so full of shit." Then I stepped off.
      Really, the wind felt so nice.

    • PACEMAKER

      It started when I was 16. I was an only child, living with my mother and father. Every night I would wake up at 2:16 am exactly. No dopiness, no tiredness, nothing. I would sit bolt upright, for a reason unknown to me, and I would listen. I would see nothing in the pitch black of my room, I would hear nothing in my silent house. For 5 minutes, until 2:21 am, I would listen hard. At first, I heard nothing. 5 minutes of being totally alert, totally unable to switch off, hearing not a single sound. Then, as quickly as the alertness came, it faded, and I’d fall fast asleep.

      This went on for a few weeks, every night the same. I didn’t think much of it. I wasn’t scared very easily; this was more puzzling than anything else. Around a month or so into the awakenings, I heard the first sound. It was so close to being inaudible, I almost thought I imagined it. A soft footfall outside my door, on the stairs leading up to my attic room.

      The next night, another step taken, yet still incredibly quiet, as if on tiptoes. Still, I was more puzzled than scared, but it was starting to become a little strange. This progressed, night after night, the footsteps growing louder and louder, closer and closer up the 12 stairs to my room.

      On the fifth night, I tried to get out of my bed to investigate during the awakening. But I couldn’t move. It didn’t feel like paralysis; it felt like my body wasn’t my own, as if I had no control; as if all I had was consciousness and no physical input. I started to become scared.

      The next day I stayed off school ‘sick’. I was beside myself with fear for that night. I finally fell asleep at around 2:00 am.

      And I woke up the next day, like nothing had ever happened. I had not awakened during my sleep. I felt more refreshed than I had been in weeks. I was beside myself with relief, and had a great day. The next night, again, I slept like a log. It was over.

      The next month was probably the best of my life. I did well in all my classes, I got a girlfriend. I had good luck and generally just had a good time.

      It was after a particularly good Saturday spent with my girlfriend that I went to bed, the happiest guy alive. I couldn’t wait for the next day.

      I have never felt the same chills as I felt that night when I woke up at 2:16am, sitting bolt upright, unable to move, staring blindly into space, listening. 4 minutes of complete silence passed; with every second, a stronger chill surged down my spine; with every second, another bead of cold sweat slipping down my neck.

      At 2:20, with the loudest crash, I heard my door being ripped from its hinges and smashed against the far wall. Footsteps thudding towards me with unstoppable intent, louder than you can possibly imagine, closer and closer until they stopped dead. A cold rush of air washed over me, chilling me to the bone. My eyes, wide with terror, searching for anything, anything to focus on. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then suddenly, emblazoned in my vision in white, etched, print the words ‘I have arrived’, along with the most horrible sound I have ever heard. If you have ever heard the screams of foxes in the night, imagine them at a much lower pitch... An inhuman, guttural scream, the scream of an agonized, tortured soul. I remember the exact sound to this very day.

      Beyond that, there was nothing. I fell asleep at 2:21 am, and woke up the next day too terrified to do anything. I sat hunched on my bed. All day. Unmoving. When night came, I was wide awake. I never wanted to sleep again. Time ticked by on the clock... 1:30... 1:45... 2:00... 2:10... 2:15... Then I blacked out. I don’t remember anything that happened that night.

      I awoke to find myself standing in my parents room. Simply standing there, arms by my sides, relaxed. I had no idea how I got there, which in itself was slightly alarming, as I had never been prone to sleepwalking. But the disturbing thing was that I didn’t feel odd. I didn’t feel out of place, staring down blankly at the faces of my sleeping parents. I couldn’t help but notice how vulnerable they looked.

      Eventually I snapped out of my trance and went downstairs. I vaguely remember making breakfast. I ate food but tasted nothing. My senses seemed to be dulled, my head hazy. Despite the horror of the night before last, I did not feel scared... I didn’t feel... well... anything. I went to school that day, concentrating on nothing, accepting a detention wordlessly, coasting along. Never once making an attempt to talk to anyone about anything. School ended and I walked home.

      That night my phone rang. I watched it. I remember just... just watching it ring out, no desire to answer, no desire to even check who it was. Presumably, it was my girlfriend, as she came round later that night. I was upstairs, just sitting on my bed, staring at the wall. She tried to talk to me, I didn’t answer. She lay down and pulled me down with her. She hugged me, trying to coerce me to respond. But one thing really annoyed me, and I don’t know why. She kept telling me I was really cold. Really, really fucking cold. Eventually I turned over to look at her. At first she smiled as my eyes met hers; finally, a response. The smile quickly faded. I felt no love for this girl. I felt like I did not know her, and this must have been reflected in my eyes. Empty, devoid of caring. All I could see was her vulnerability, lying there next to me.

      She fell asleep at about 1am. I just watched her like that, for a full hour. At 2am I closed my eyes, not even a hint of anxiety. I counted those 16 minutes, second by second, and thereafter I remember nothing.

      I woke up in a pool of blood as dawn broke. I looked to my right to see my girlfriend. Her chest had been ripped apart, her ribs hanging loose at either side. Unidentifiable organs spilling out. I felt nothing. I rose from my bed, covered in blood. I followed a trail of red, arterial blood out of my room, down my stairs, into my parents’ room. My father’s head lay bloodied and caved-in beside his still-oozing neck. A giant gash split his back in two. His right leg rammed down my mother’s throat, her jaw unhinged and her legs and arms crumpled at impossible angles. I felt nothing.

      I turned around and walked downstairs. I noticed a trail of blood left in my wake. You could smell it. Smell it seeping into the carpet, the cloying smell of iron pervading the house. Even through my numbed senses. I went and made myself breakfast. Another tasteless meal. In fact, it was getting worse. I could taste less than the day before. I went back upstairs and stared at the wall for hours, I think. By now I keep forgetting what happened... My mind just became cloudy and unaware of what was happening. Eventually, I just lay back down in the pool of blood, next to my eviscerated girlfriend.

      I remember reading 2:16 on the alarm before I went to sleep that night. I remember waking up standing in front of the wall next to my parents’ room. From the door frame to where I was standing at the wall, neat rows of blood-colored handprints. I couldn’t see much, but looking down I saw my hand smeared in red. My hearing was almost gone. My touch was so dull that I felt completely separate from the rest of the world. Trudging over to my parents’ room, I should have been horrified. Not only because of the mangled corpses, but because of the fact that every wall, the floor and even the ceiling were covered in handprints, my handprints. Inked in my parents coagulating blood.

      The last thing I remember doing was going downstairs and clumsily searching through my drawers; finally finding a rusty old knife that had dropped behind the back of one drawer, then making my slow way upstairs. Then, nothing.

      A neighbor eventually complained about the smell coming from our house. The police arrived shortly afterwards. I pity anyone who had to step into that house. Nearly a week’s decay would have made the smell utterly overwhelming. They thought we were all dead at first. But, when I had been transported outside, upon closer inspection, I was still alive; somehow.

      They had found me on the stairs with both legs and my left arm lying beside me, detached. There were no clean cuts, nothing surgical about the procedure. They could not explain how I had not died of shock or blood-loss, but as they discovered my only remaining limb grasping that blunt, rusty table knife, they knew what had done it.

      I’ve been in the institution for 2 weeks now. I have never felt better. I feel... normal. I’m like any other person now. Any one of you. I could be living a normal life, feeling like this. Like every one of your existences. But I’m not. I’m writing this final little bit, waiting for an operation to save my digestive system. See, there’s an unidentified metal object in there somewhere that has to come out. A little box-shaped thing. Well, I say unidentified... I only just remembered that my girlfriend had a pacemaker.
      "My Tongue is sharper than any of the swords you have"
      Stewl