Category: short

Creepypasta #1625: Hide And Seek

Length: Short

Day 6: Made camp in satellite control tower. Found gun in
desk. I should weld the door shut after I fix generator. Don’t trust myself not
to open for Daniel.

Day 9: Generator working. Power low. From the tower I spot
Seekers in surrounding wheat fields, walking who knows where. Satellite shows
dozens more. I thought I spotted Daniel’s red baseball cap in town 30 miles
out, but image grainy. No sign of Hiders. No sign of anyone untouched by the
sickness.

Day 12: Saw a Hider running in field today, Seeker following
close. He got caught on perimeter fence. He begged, “Please, Diana. You’re
sick." 

She smiled like a child at play. "Ready or not,” she
said. “Here I come.” reminder: weld door shut.

Day 15: Generators at 30%. Pretty sure I spotted Daniel on
satellite 20 miles out. Was up all night crying. How does the sickness pair
Hiders and Seekers? How does it know who it hurts most to run from?

Day 17: Definitely him. 12 miles and closing. Generators at
12%. Should conserve power, but I can’t. I know he’ll kill me, but it comforts
me to watch him.

Day 19: Generator dead, but no matter. Daniel is 6 miles away.
Still haven’t welded door shut. Why not? Maybe the sickness is a game with
rules we must follow. Can Hiders kill their Seeker? I practice loading the gun.

Day 20: I’m watching Daniel approach through binoculars. Looks
too thin, too pale, smiling all wrong, but I can’t look away. The gun is
loaded, oiled. I can hear him on the stairs, now at the door. 

“Ready or
not,” he says. I raise the gun, but I’m not sure who I’m pointing it at.
Oh my boy, my sweet Daniel. Here I come.

Credits to: Rock-Paper-Cynic (story)

Creepypasta #1623: The Specialty Shop

Length: Short

Madam Tawona wasn’t your ordinary Psychic. You wouldn’t find
her name in any phonebook, or the name of her shop on google maps. No, Madam
Tawona made certain to stay away from those places. She knew that they would
bring nothing but misfortune to her, because… Madam Tawona specialized in
causing people’s murders. Soon, I would be her client.

The building
was a basement in the middle of downtown Atlanta. Homeless men sat drinking
near the shop’s entrance, turning me off for a second, but not for long. Upon
arrival, and payment, Madam Tawona asked me 2 questions.

“Who you want
dead? How you want them to die?” He was a business partner. Nothing more,
nothing less.

“A man named
Albert Cole.” I paused and looked around her shop. “As for how, you seem…
creative, enough to come up with something.”

After we were
done, Madam Tawona wrote something on a piece of paper, put it into an
envelope, and said “Open when you want. Is how he dies.” I took the envelope
and drove home.

Three days
later, Albert broke into my house and emptied a handgun in my direction,
missing every shot. I ran like hell behind the nearest wall, then made a bee
line for my bedroom. There was a phone inside, I could call the police.

“I know about
the psychic; she told me everything!” Albert screamed madly.

I locked my
bedroom door, grabbed the phone, and called the cops. Out of ammunition, Albert
started kicking my door. The operator said that help would be there soon. Still
scared, I opened up the death letter, hoping to see ‘shot by police’ written
inside.

“Murder Suicide.”

Credits to: DvaCannotCrouch (story)

Creepypasta #1621: Warning: This Is An Emergen…

Length: Short

WARNING: This is an emergency message, broadcasting on all
frequencies. Please, follow the following instructions and act accordingly:

The scientific community has just
warned of the detection of a strange phenomenon that seems to be affecting the
population. The exact details are unknown for now, but it is known to cause
extreme alterations in personality. The first discoveries suggest that this
phenomenon is extended through the use of language.

Please follow the following
instructions and act accordingly:

  • If you are at home and live alone,
    close all doors and windows and disconnect all communication devices, such as
    telephones, radios or computers. Televisions must also be turned off at the end
    of this message.
  • If there are more people in the
    house, move away from each other as much as possible, with each person standing
    in a different room and cut off from the rest. DO NOT MAKE ANY ATTEMPT TO
    COMMUNICATE WITH THE REST OF PEOPLE FROM YOUR ENVIRONMENT.
  • If you hear voices coming from
    outside, block the sounds IMMEDIATELY with everything you have at hand. Do not
    try to understand what the voices are saying. Do not try to communicate with
    the voices. Do not try to repeat what the voices say. Do not try to write what
    the voices say. We repeat: Do not try to understand what the voices are saying.
    Do not try to communicate with the voices. Do not try to repeat what the voices
    say. Do not try to write what the voices say.
  • Follow the instructions below and
    act accordingly. Follow the instructions below and act accordingly.
  • If you feel attracted to some type
    of written content, such as books, magazines and posters, move away as much as
    possible from the object. Do not try to read the object. Do not try to
    understand the content of the object. Do not try to understand the content of
    the object. Do not try to understand the content of the object.
  • If, in cases of urgency, you need to
    communicate in some way, keep alert if you notice any alteration in your words.
    Some of the symptoms detected so far are redundancy. Impossibility to
    understand what is being said. Repetition.

Please follow the instructions below
and act accordingly.

WARNING: This is an emergency message, broadcasting on all
frequencies. Please follow the instructions below and act accordingly.

Credits to: Yaru2585 (story)

Creepypasta #1619: Workday Blues

Length: Short

Could Thursdays be any worse? So close to the weekend, yet
so far. This day is dragging on and I keep getting email after email from
blithering idiots at corporate prattling on about “Our Mission” and
“Quality Improvement,” scheduling meetings right when I need to get
an important project finished.

As if right
on cue, I get a ding.

Attention Staff: We regretfully
inform you of the passing of Trevor Haverford yesterday evening. More details
will follow with a fund link for his surviving family.

Wait, what?
But I feel like I just saw Trevor this morning, his cheery self in the break
room smiling and inviting everyone to yet another BBQ. I stare at my inbox,
waiting for a follow-up saying it’s a prank.

Nothing.
Fuck. How could they announce this in an email? Alexis couldn’t come out and
talk to the office personally? Has anyone else checked their inbox?

Thankfully,
in walks Trevor with a cup of coffee. So this was just a prank. I wave him
over. “Hey, have you checked your email yet?”

“No,
why? Announcing another meeting?”

“Dude,
just read it.”

Trevor sighs
and turns to his computer. My heart pounds while waiting for his reaction.
After several seconds, I realize I’m holding my breath. I exhale and peer
around the wall.

“Trevor?”

“Hey
Sam, what the fuck is this? A sick joke?” He squeaks out weakly.

Before I
could answer, my computer dings again.

Attention Staff: The previous email
is retracted. Trevor Haverford is alive. Kelsey Langeley passed yesterday. More
details to come. Here is a link to a fund for her family
.

“Trevor,
check again. What is this?” I whisper. I don’t hear anyone else talking.
Has anyone else seen this? What is management doing?

The door
opens and in comes Alexis, accompanied by a police officer and a woman I
recognize from HR.

Alexis clears
her throat. “Everyone, may I please have your attention. The company is
under a cyber attack. The criminals are sending spyware emails to try and gain
access with links to funds claiming staff here is deceased. Please do not click
on the links or open any more emails.”

Oh, that
explains it.

Until my
email dings again. I quickly steal a glance while Alexis answers questions from
my coworkers.

Attention Staff: Alexis Williams is
part of a criminal attack on this company. Please cease to listen to her.

Ding.

Attention Staff: Please support
Kelsey’s family. There is no cyber attack. Please resume work duties. Ignore
Alexis.

Ding.

Attention Staff: Kelsey and Trevor
were murdered. These things are imposters. Please hurry to the nearest exit
without drawing their attention.

I inhale
sharply and look at Trevor. He’s staring at me, his eyes cold and empty of
their usual cheer.

Ding.

Attention Staff: Samantha Freudigman
is responsible for the attacks. She killed Trevor and Kelsey. Stop her from
leaving
.

Ding.

Attention Staff: Ignore Alexis. Stop
Samantha. Please donate to Kelsey
.

Ding.

Attention Staff: Run.

“Don’t
move.” Trevor whispers.

Ding.

Credits to: QueenSkittlez (story)

Creepypasta #1618: I Really Need To Stop Eatin…

Length: Short

TRIGGER WARNING: SELF-HARM

Recently, my wife has started making
me hamburgers for dinner. And by that, I mean that she’s been making me
hamburgers almost every night for the past month. At first, I thought it was
kind of charming. Home-made hamburgers, home-made up to her grinding the beef
herself in a little grinder she bought some time ago but never had the chance
to really use. 

After the fourth night in a row of hamburgers, though, it
quickly stopped being quite so charming. I brought it up with her that eating
hamburgers this often can’t be healthy, but she simply waved my concern away,
telling me that she made sure to get the healthiest cuts of beef for us. Of
course, the plain fact of the matter was that, after two weeks of eating
nothing but hamburgers had passed, I was getting very, very tired
of it.

Regardless,
though, my wife seemed to enjoy it. She was discovering new and creative ways
to make the hamburgers every night, and even if I got tired of it after a short
while, she at least managed to make each hamburger dinner different in smaller
or in larger ways. I couldn’t deny that it was pretty good tasting meat, too,
so it at least had that going for it. Even though I had my issues with it,
then, I let my wife make hamburgers as much as she pleased, especially since I
hadn’t seen her this excited for something she was doing in quite a long time.

I
should get something out of the way right now, though. For as long as I’ve
known my wife – going on about five years now – I’ve never seen her get
seriously injured. She might slice her finger while chopping vegetables, or she
might bang her arm or leg against something really hard, but I’ve never seen
any real sign of those things having happened an hour or two afterwards. She
always puts a bandage or some kind of ice compression pad on the injury, of
course, but I’ve always found it strange how I can’t see any cut or bruisers by
the end of the day.

By
the time I get home from work, the hamburgers are usually already made – if not
the whole meal, then the patty itself is formed up and cooking on the grill. I managed
to get off work early, today, and I decided to come home and surprise my wife,
and maybe help her out with the dinner if I could. After all, it wasn’t fair
that she had to make the hamburgers all by herself every night, and maybe if I
helped cook them, I could learn to love them as much as she did, herself.

I
think you might see where this is going, by now.

Since
I wanted to surprise her, I made sure to park my car a few houses down the road
so that she wouldn’t hear me pull into the driveway. I quietly walked up to the
house, and peeked in through one of the front windows that looks side-long into
the kitchen. As I did, I saw something that made my stomach churn, and it took
every ounce of self-control I had to not hurl right there on the lawn.

My
wife was shoving her own hand and lower arm into the meat grinder, barely
wincing as her flesh was ground into strings of meat that strung themselves out
onto the plate in front of the grinder. Blood splattered up a bit, but it
looked like she had some sort of towels or something to keep it from flying all
over the place. I suppose I would have suspected something the first night if I
came back to my kitchen covered in blood. 

Either way, I watched in horror as
she continued to push her limb into the machine, losing more and more of her
body as she went. Eventually, she pulled her arm out, and what I saw next was,
perhaps, even more horrifying. Right there, before my eyes, her arm started to
grow back. In less than a minute, everything was right back to what I was used
to: A perfectly normal arm and hand, not looking at all like it had just been
put through a meat grinder. And yet, the ground “beef” was still
there on the plate, the “beef” that I knew would be cooked up into
the hamburgers both her and myself would eat later on for dinner.

I
must have stepped on a branch or something, because my wife twirled around to
look through the window in my direction. I think that I had managed to duck out
of the way quickly enough that she didn’t see me, but I didn’t take any
chances, and quickly retreated back to my car. I drove the opposite way from my
house, figuring that I could take refuge at a coffee shop or some such until
the time that I normally get back home.

I’m
so confused. I want to believe that maybe I was just imagining it. That maybe
she was just putting normal cow meat into the grinder, and I just couldn’t see
properly at the angle I was looking in from. But her arm. Her hand. I saw them,
missing, a bloody, mutilated stump where the grinder had stopped. And I saw
them grow back, grow back and looking like nothing had ever happened. It must
have happened. There’s no way it didn’t. The image was too vivid, too ingrained
in my head for it to not have been real.

It’s
been about an hour now. I’m supposed to be back for dinner soon. I’m not sure
that I can eat those hamburgers tonight.

At the same time, though, I’m
worried about my wife. I don’t want her to think that I don’t like her cooking.

Credits to: MissBrainProblems (story)

Creepypasta #1617: I Was Re-Watching Some Old …

Length: Short

I live alone now. It was hard to adjust to living in rural
England after having lived in a house packed to the brim with family in London,
but, I was trying. It gets a little lonely sometimes.

I left a few
years ago and have kept minimum contact. It wasn’t my family, they were always
good to me. They loved me and I loved them. I just felt… out of touch with
everything going on. I guess you use the classic ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ here,
but really, it was my fault. There was nothing wrong with them but I felt more
and more suffocated the longer I stayed there.

That brings
us to now. I managed to get some home video tapes before I left and recently,
I’ve been missing them. So I put the tapes in, sat down with a tub of ice
cream, and played.

They started
off normally; the usual bustling of Christmas time at our home. Kids running
around, my mother and aunts preparing dinner. I remember this Christmas. I was
in my bedroom, not really doing much. My father is holding the camera as he
walks upstairs towards the rooms. He pans the landing: my parents’ room, my
aunts’ and uncles’ rooms, my sisters’ room, and my roo-

My room
wasn’t there. A wall stood in its former place. I put in the next tape, a beach
trip to Bournemouth with just me and my parents. I distinctly remember playing
in the water with my mother but there is nothing on the tape except my mother
swimming alone. I begin to panic; I shove the next tape in, my birthday. The
tape starts with the family crowded around the table singing ‘Happy Birthday’.
The camera zooms in between my uncles’ shoulders to an untouched cake with
candles alight and an empty seat.

I put the
next tape in, and the next. Our trip to Alton Towers, our days out in London,
our trip to Tenerife. Each tape plays and plays yet I am absent in every single
one. My fear grows on me more and more before I decide to pick up the phone and
do what I haven’t done in three years. I call my family. The phone rings..

But the line
responds dead.

I go online,
trying to look for their social media accounts but everything comes up empty.
There isn’t a single indication to them ever having existed.

I go cold as
the realisation dawns on me. The familiar noise of the nearby railway has been
silent for days. My mail is a week late. I have not spoken or seen another
person in a week. I try to remember where I’m living, and how I got here, and
why I left but I can’t think of anything. I try to remember my mother’s name,
my sister’s name, my own name, but all thoughts escape me except for one:

I’m lost, and no one is looking for me.

Credits to: Zero_Blasted (story)

Creepypasta #1617: Slaughter In The Park

Length: Short

A
girl alone on a bench–a strange sight at two A.M.

It
piqued my curiosity, and so I went and sat down beside her.

“It’s
not often you see a pretty girl alone so late at night,” I said.

“Is
that what I am?” she asked. “A pretty girl?”

“Yes,” I
replied. “I think so anyway.”

“Thank
you,” she said. “He thought so too.”

“Who
is that?” I asked.

But
the woman didn’t answer. A cool breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees behind
us, carrying with it the scent of a coming nighttime rain.

“You’d
better get inside,” I said. “You can smell the rain on the air.”

“I
like the rain,” she said. “It makes me feel at peace.”

I
paused for a moment and scanned the park. The moonlight shone through the trees
on empty patches of grass. No one else was here.

“Did
you have a fight with your boyfriend?” I asked. “Is that why you’re out
here all alone?”

“Not
with my boyfriend, no,” she replied.

“So
you had a fight with somebody then,” I said.

“In
a manner of speaking yes,” she replied. “And in another manner of speaking
no.”

“I
don’t get what you mean,” I said.

For
the first time the woman turned to me, and I noticed there was something off
about her eyes, a peculiar glassed over quality.

“Is
it a fight when you slaughter a beast?” she said.

At
this I began to feel a cold prickling along the back of my neck, and I had the
distinct sense that somebody was watching me. I wanted to turn around, but I
dared not tear my eyes away from the woman. So instead I swallowed hard and
answered.

“No,” I
replied. “It’s not a fight.”

“Then
it wasn’t a fight I had,” she said. “It was a slaughter.”

She
looked up to the moon and let out a heavy sigh.

“It’s
almost funny,” she said. “That in the span of a few short seconds the
predator can become the prey.”

My
hands gripped painfully tight against the wood of the bench as I tried to
remain calm.

“I
think I’d better go now,” I said, making a motion to rise.

“No,” the
woman said, surprisingly forcefully. “You can go in a moment. But for now you
have to stay.”

At
that very moment I heard footsteps approaching from behind, crushing the dead
fall leaves as they approached.

“Don’t
turn around,” said the woman. “You’ll ruin everything.”

The
footsteps continued to approach, growing louder as they grew closer.

“It’s
almost time,” the woman whispered.

The
footsteps were right behind us now, and I heard the sound of a gun being cocked
behind my head. Paralyzed with fear, I closed my eyes and said my prayers.
Suddenly there was a scream, and I could move again.

I
leapt up from the bench and turned around to see something impossible. A
blood-soaked man was laying on the ground, gun inches away from his
outstretched fingers, the woman’s hand plunged inside his chest. She ripped the
man’s heart out and tossed it aside like garbage, before dissolving into
nothing, like an ephemeral morning mist chased off by the day’s first hint of
wind.

When
the police questioned me that night, I told them I had found the man like that.
My lawyer got me out of jail that night, and later on informed me that they
police declined to pursue investigation into me when the ballistics run on the
man’s gun matched seventeen open murders in the city.

His
last victim had been a nineteen year old girl named Annabelle. I saw her
picture when the news broke about the man’s murder. Chills ran down my spine as
I realized it was the same woman I’d met on the bench that night.

I
only visited the park once after that. I sat on the bench, not knowing what it
was I expected to happen. After a moment a cold wind blew through and kicked up
the leaves around me into the air.

Just
for a moment, I thought they resembled the silhouette of a young girl.

Credits
to: lifeisstrangemetoo (story)

Creepypasta #1616: The Town With No Name

Length: Short

All three of us were silent as we drove past the blank
“welcome to” sign and into the town with no name.

The people
all watched us with the same slack expression, their heads tilted at identical
angles as if listening to a single far-off sound.

For a moment,
I heard it too.

For a moment,
the people in the car seemed like strangers and I couldn’t remember who we were
or where we were going, but then we passed the last house and it came back.

We were all
old friends. All travelling together. All safe.

All four of us.

Credits to: Rock-Paper-Cynic (story)

Creepypasta #1614: “911, What’s Your Emergency…

Length: Short

The following is a transcript of the Jane Heaster 911
emergency call to the Greenbrier County Sheriff’s office.

[Dispatch]: 911 what’s your
emergency?

[Jane]: There’s someone, a
man I think, he’s- he’s at my front door.

[Dispatch]: Okay ma’am, is he
trying to break in?

[Jane]: I-I don’t know. He’s
just standing there. I was asleep and…

[Dispatch]: And?

[Jane]: I heard this light knocking
on the- on the front door. I haven’t even turned any of the lights on, I don’t
even think he knows I’m here. He’s just standing there-

[Dispatch]: Okay ma’am,
please calm down. What’s your name?

[Jane]: It’s, Jane.

[Dispatch]: Jane?

[Jane]: Heaster.

[Dispatch]: Miss Heaster,
what’s your address?

[Jane]: (Redacted)

[Dispatch]: Is the man
holding a weapon?

[Jane]: I don’t know, I can’t
tell. It’s dark and he’s in all black.

[Dispatch]: He’s wearing all
black?

[Jane]: Yes! And a hat. It’s
got something gold on it.

[Dispatch]: Where are you
now?

[Jane]: I’m upstairs in the
bedroom, I’ve locked the door and I’m standing by the win– Oh my God!

[Dispatch]: What?

[Jane]: Oh my God, fuck.
Fuck–

[Dispatch]: Ma’am, are you
okay? What happened?

[Jane]: He looked right at
me!

[Dispatch]: What?

[Jane]: I was standing by the
window and he just looked right at me! He knows I’m here! Oh God, he’s banging
at the door again.

[Dispatch]: OK Jane, I want
you to stay on the line with me until the officers arrive in case anything
happens.

[Jane]: He’s saying “let me
in!”

[Dispatch]: He’s doing what?

[Jane]: He’s shouting, “let
me–” He’s in the house! He broke down the door!

[Dispatch]: Jane, where are
you now?

[Jane]: Heavy
Breathing.
 I’m in the bedroom.

[Dispatch]: Can you lock the
do-

[Jane]: It’s already locked!
Oh God… I can hear him. He’s at the door.

[Dispatch]: Stay on the line
with me Jane, Okay? The officers are nearly there.

[Jane]: Shouting. Why
are you here?! Why?! Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Leave me–

[Dispatch]: Jane? Ma’am?

[Jane]: Incomprehensible
screaming.

The Line cuts off.

[Dispatch]: Kolten Twelve,
Code 3.

[Officer]: Twelve, Code 3, go
ahead.

[Dispatch]: I’m showing a
possible breaking and entering at address (redacted), break–

[Officer]: Go ahead.

[Dispatch]: Party of Jane
Heaster, female, unknown physical and age.

[Officer]: Copy.

A few minutes after the call with
Jane terminated.

[Officer]: Kolten Twelve,
Code 11.

[Dispatch]: Go ahead.

[Officer]: What’s my RP
again?

[Dispatch]: Jean Heaster,
address (redacted).

[Officer]: And, uh, you’re
sure that’s the address?

[Dispatch]: Sorry?

[Officer]: There’s nothing
here. The house is derelict. It’s been abandoned for years. Heck, we used to
tell ghost stories about this place as kids.

[Dispatch]: Can you Code 13
for a walk in report?

[Dispatch]: Kolten? … Kolten?

[Officer]: I’m at the front
door… There’s someone in the window. I’ll have to break the door down.

Credits to: secretmortician (story)

Creepypasta #1613: My Priest Asked Me To Meet …

Length: Short

Father Nicholas always weirded me
out.

He smelled like stale bread and
onions. His gaze seemed to look past you, not at you. He had a
quiet, sullen demeanor, and he always recited the Nicene Creed in a rasping
whisper.

So
when he asked me to “join him in his office for a quick chat” after Mass, I
freaked out a little.

But
I replied: “sure, Father.”

I
glanced around the church. It was nearly empty, now; the parishioners were
filing out the front door in a thick line, full of chatter and laughter. Behind
them, a gloomy darkness had settled in the church – deep shadows behind the
pews, behind the altar. The golden tabernacle glinted in the dim light, under
the darkened crucifix.

I
followed him into the parish office. Father Nicholas closed the door behind us.

“I’ve
noticed you haven’t been coming to Mass regularly,” he said, taking a seat
across the desk.

“Uh, yeah, I’ve been busy,” I
replied, my heart beginning to race. What is this? Some kind of
interrogation?

“And
you don’t wear your cross anymore,” he said, pointing to my chest from beneath
his robes.

“I
forgot to put it on.”

Father Nicholas leaned back in his
seat, surveying me carefully. I didn’t like the glint in his dark eyes, or the
fact that his hands were hidden in the robes. Just tell him you have to
go,
 the voice inside me urged. But reverence kept me locked in place.

“Is
there a reason you didn’t get any holy water today?”

My
heart began to pound, so loudly that I could hear it in my ears.

The holy water is kept in a tiny
basin at the front of the church. How would he know, when I came in, that I
didn’t get any? Was he watching me that closely? There were dozens – no, hundreds –
of other parishioners coming into the church at the same time, but he
noticed I didn’t get any holy water?

“Uh
– no, no reason in particular.”

He
sighed. Then he pulled a small vial of clear liquid from the folds of his
cloak. He wet his fingers, and – before I could react – flicked them, so that a
few drops fell on my face.

“What
– what are you doing?” I asked.

And
then I felt it. Where each drop had landed, it burned, as if he had pricked me
there with a poker from the fire.

I
shot up, shrieking in pain. “Are you crazy?! What is that?! What did you just
put on me?!”

With
his face grim, Father Nicholas replied: “holy water.”

“What
– I don’t understand,” I replied, clawing at my face like a madman. “Holy water
– but –”

“Holy
water burns. You don’t wear a cross.” His tone turned almost humorous. “Need I
spell it out for you, Jake?”

I
stood there, numb, my cheeks still stinging.

“Oh, what – you thought it’d be
like The Exorcist?” He laughed – the first time I had ever
seen him do so. “No. They’re too clever for that. Why, if you all were
projectile vomiting everywhere, and speaking Latin with perfect fluency, we’d
catch on pretty quick.”

I
stared at him. My heart was racing; my hands felt numb. I opened my mouth to
speak, but nothing came out.

“No,
they’re subtle.” He placed the vial on the desk, halfway between us; I
involuntarily backed away. “Ever have an intrusive thought? ‘Jump out that
window, you know you want to.’ ‘Stop cutting up those carrots and stab him in
the neck.’”

I
nodded.

“Most
of them are meaningless. Just silly thoughts to cloud your mind. But,
sometimes… it’s one of them, its voice blending perfectly with yours.”

“But
–” I faltered.

“Just a suggestion, in the back of
your mind,” he said. And then he laughed again – but this time it was a bitter,
empty scoff. “That’s all it takes, for humans to do unspeakable
things.”

Just a suggestion.

I
pulled my arms around me and felt a shiver crawl down my back. “So… what do we
do?” I asked, voice quavering, fearing the answer.

“Come
back tomorrow. At dawn, we will begin.”

That night, I tossed and turned. The
more the blanket tangled around me, the larger the pool of sweat became, the
crazier Father Nicholas’s words sounded. A possession, really? I
thought. That’s the stuff of movies. He’s crazy.

I flipped the pillow over. Yes,
that’s what it is. The guy is nuts.

But then… what’s his real motive? I stared up at the dark
ceiling. Maybe he wants to do something to me. Something terrible. I
looked over at the alarm clock – 5:12 AM. The sun would rise within the hour.

You better bring your gun, just in
case.

I
glanced over at the desk, black in the dusky shadows. At the locked drawer,
that held a Smith & Wesson in its bowels.

Bring the gun.

As the horizon lit with the fire of
dawn, I made my way to the church, the gun swinging heavily in my pocket.

Credits to: BlairDaniels (story)