Do you like sad stories? One’s where a young life full of promise is cut short, or changed in the worst ways?
Well, then you’d probably get a real kick out my life up until now. Stupid accident at age 6, snapped my spine like a twig, left me with one usable limb ( my left arm), and a whole host of other medical problems, that I’ not getting into.
At age 14, that arm is starting to lose feeling, and more frequently, I’m spending months at a time in the hospital.
So yeah, sad, but not really the point.
No, the reason you guys are hearing from me starts on a night like any other, the droning beeps and tones of the half dozen machines keeping an eye on me doing their best to ensure I spend most of the night staring at cracks in the wall.
27 of them, in case you’re wondering.
When your life hinges on folks with the right set of skills being around, you tend to get real nervous when equipment malfunctions. My heart skips as I hear the machines around me go silent in unison.
That can’t happen. I’ve been in hospitals for storms, floods and fires, and there are so many redundancies for these things, unless its WW3, they keep ticking.
I scream, frantically tapping the call button, trying to get the attention of anyone, in any way I can.
I hate the sound of my voice, more and more lately I’m stumbling over my words, really having to focus on pronouncing things right. Another great side effect from the ticking time bomb that is my nervous system.
My voice has no echo, the button makes no noise at all. The air is humid, and smells of rotten plastic and saltwater.
I start to think, maybe this has nothing to do with mechanical failure. Maybe this is just that final moment, where everything inside me gives way. Maybe this is what death feels like.
“That’s a morbid turn of thought. “ a voice says from the tinted window.
He stands a little over six feet, wears a well tailored suit, and at first, I want to say he’s a handsome guy, but the more I look the more his features seem a little off, too tailored.
I jump backward, nearly falling off of the bed, then freeze as my head begins to spin. I just moved myself, in fact, I’m sitting against the wall.
The man grins, white, pointed teeth shine in the filtered moonlight.
“Take a little walk, come chat with me, Phil. “ he says, motioning me over.
Not only is this impossible, even if I did find myself suddenly with use of my limbs, I should be weak as a housefly, walking would be a goal a year or two down the road. But as I hop off the bed, my emaciated legs hold strong, and balance I don’t have kicks in in an instant.
I’m too shocked to be happy, something is happening here, something dark.
I stand beside the man, the new angle of the window seeming like the most beautiful sight on earth.
And as I look closer into the forest ringed parking lot, I see birds frozen in flight, cars in mid turn, then entire world is a still tableau.
“Who are you? “ I ask, my voice strong and full.
“I, am the man with the fuckin plan kiddo.
I am the sappy son of a Bitch who is going to offer you something no one gets.
I’m the guy who has the magic lamp, when everyone else is selling monkey’s paws.
I’m your savior kid, call me Art. “ Art reaches out his hand, the nails are immaculately manicured, but pointed wickedly. His other holds an old, faded chocolate bar, the wrapper almost completely illegible.
I’m either dreaming or in over my head, so I ask, “Are you the devil? “.
Art laughs, short but friendly.
“That wrinkled old prick? I don’t even think he is still playing in the major leagues. Lost any of his real clout back in the 1800s
But, if I want to be honest about things, for your purposes, I’m not that far off.
I’m old, I’m scary, and I want to use you for my own ends.
That being said, I think what I have to offer, is good for both of us. “ He let’s his unspoken offer hang in the air for a moment, leading me to ask.
“So, I’m looking at a deal with a demon? Seeing as I’m probably going to die before I can legally drink, why would I want to go pissing off God? “ my question scares me, it’s not a sarcastic dismissal, but the start of a negotiation.
“That thinking is a little, rigid.
Demons, and Gods, they are all people’s way of trying to make sense of what really goes on in the shadows. And while you little fellas get a few things right, the shit you don’t know could fill a bottomless pit.
Taking my offer, it will, in a sense, mark you. Make you stand out as someone who would negotiate with me.
But if you think anyone or anything that cares about such things has any intent on offering you help in this life or the next? Kid, you are really, fucking, mistaken.
On the other hand, I want to give you, this. “ Art holds out the candy bar as he talks. The smell is old and faint, but still full of musk hidden rot.
“What’s that? “ I say trying to find any clue on the ancient, nearly invisible writing.
“This, well this is something I’ve acquired from it’s previous owner, who was, to call a spade a spade, a real piece of shit.
But, it wasn’t because of this, no, he was a vicious, twisted pile of malignant fantasies long before he could act them out with ease.
It’s called the essence of squalor. It’s cut rate ambrosia, shake and bake demigodhood, and, if you want it, it’s all yours “ Art’s offer is insane, but no more so than me walking on legs with less muscle than a kitten.
“What am I giving up? “ I can’t believe I’m going along with this, dream or not.
“Oh don’t be so dramatic kid. As I said, I ain’t ol’ scratch.
I’ll tell you exactly what I want, and how it’s going to fuck you up, and I do think it will.
I’m trying something new, trying to appeal to a bit of a different crowd.
See, I’m a, producer of sorts. I make shit that everything that goes bump in the night talks about around the water cooler.
But, I’m gonna be honest, lately I’m feeling like public access television in the YouTube era. My demographic skews, old, and normally that’s a good thing where I come from, but times they are a changing, and I’ve gotta change with them. The younger crowd, they like a little silver lining in the cloud, a little inclusion, a little hope rim to the Margarita of despair.
And you, you fit the bill.
In 2 years, you can’t move, 6 months after that you’ve destroyed your family financially, and right about as the financial shit storm subsides, you die. These are facts, and without my intervention, inevitable.
I want to give you a fraction of this power, I want you to use that to try and kill a walking nightmare, and along the way, a handful of more, mundane people the world would be better off without.
The catch is, I’m not giving you a scalpel. The gift I give you will be a blunt tool, difficult to control, and dangerous to use. And I’m going to expect you to wield it in the midst of people who have done nothing wrong.
People will die, and you will have just enough control of events to be responsible.
This is by design, I want to cause you suffering, I want to cause suffering to the guilty and the innocent and barter that for power.” Art seems more ancient evil than businessman at the moment, I can see a true joy in his eyes as he thinks about whatever twisted plan he has.
“I should say no. “ I say, more to myself than Art.
“You really should.
But, do you understand the usual toll for what I’m offering?
This level of personal power, and material gain? People have traded kingdoms for less.
Your family will want for nothing, you will be reborn. “ Art peers out the window as I digest his offer.
Of all of the noble reasons I could have picked, using this power for good, or maybe taking the deal and warning the people, the reason I say yes, makes me feel like a scumbag.
My leg itches.
That’s it, I scratch it, and realize that without taking Art’s deal, I’ll never get to experience that again.
I never say anything out loud, but Art hands me a Manilla envelope. Inside are 8 pictures, and life stories, 8 people for whom murder is a tool, and life is cheap.
The 9th picture though comes taped in its own small notebook. The guy pictured is nondescript, a little soft looking, short hair, some kind of computer programmer from the brief skim I give the notes.
“Why is this guy special? “ I ask.
“Believe it or not, you are looking at something from legend.
No idea why he has the almost fit Drew Carey look, but who knows, shapeshifting isn’t exactly uncommon.
That right there is the basis for every knife wielding, grin sporting, pale skinned bogeyman since Cain.
He’s enough power to stop what I give you, but not enough to make it impossible. “ The predatory look on Art’s face makes me realize how much of a mistake I’ve made.
He made it sound like he was giving me a sword and sending me into the area when he was pitching it, but now that I’ve accepted, it seems like I’m going to be some kind of supernatural bait dog.
Art unwraps the chocolate, it’s a pale, shitty looking brown, nearly grey with age, mold spots it’s surface, and I see tiny bugs, or larvae moving slightly. As he breaks off a piece, a fine mix of dust and spores floats lazily in mid-air.
I let the piece of damned snack food sit in my palm, feeling it’s massive, figurative weight.
Risk, reward, good, evil, real or fantasy, I hope this doesn’t come across as cold, but they are all contextual. If you find yourself thinking about how you would have spit at this offer, or been too smart to take it, that’s awesome for you. But I’d bet that We’ve had a very different set of life experiences.
To me, it’s the only lifeline I’ve been tossed since the day a misjudged dive took away most of my ability to live life.
“Why me? “ I ask, all but having made my decision. A meaningless question to someone, or something that has no reason to be truthful.
“Why not?
Actually, you know what kid? You’ve seen some shit, you seem like the type that can handle the real answer.
I’ve got nothing to lose. You are, in my situation, guaranteed profit.
If you die, I get my show, and the one loose end tied up.
If you live, well, only two outcomes to that. Both great for me.
The most likely, is that you come out of this a brutalized harbinger of decay. You realize how enjoyable power is, spend your life seeking more, and thank me for the spark that lit that fire.
Now, there’s another option, as gnat-dick tiny as it is.
Maybe, just, maybe, you don’t get kill drunk on the power I give you. There is nothing inherently, mind altering or virtue destroying about it. You could be that once a millennium person who can turn down infinite power at finite expense.
You could be everything you want to be, every superhero fantasy, you could help the world, no kid, scratch that, you could change the world.
Even then though, that’s still fucking phenomenal for yours truly. I’m in the business of making my name known, and you being the only real hero in a world of monsters, well, that’d make me real well known.” Art looks as if he is speaking to himself as much as me.
I read between the lines, and as far as I can figure, what is really going on is that Art is offering me something that is of little cost to him, for a sliver of a chance at some kind of life, strange as it may be.
I do think of my family, but I think of that itch, that casual annoyance I thought lost to me forever.
The piece of chocolate tastes like dust and spoiled milk. It coats my mouth in a thin caustic film of long turned oil. The texture is almost non existent, besides the popping, writing, things living within.
I expect Art to laugh and disappear in a puff of smoke. But he looks somewhat sad.
I feel strength start to fade from my limbs, and slowly make my way over to the bed.
“ I’m rooting for you kid. “ Are the last words I hear before sleep takes me.
I can’t call it a dream, no, it was something more than that.
It was a maelstrom of feelings and senses, fear and rage, a sense of being stretched too thin, of being too many things at once.
Blood and pain are the paint, claws and teeth are the brush. Red eyes and diseased blood are as much a part of me as skin and bone.
Alien emotions and desires fight for my attention, the whole situation playing out, not like some kind of static ridden broadcast, but a work of art, slowly being made before me.
The finishing touches are shame and regret in levels I’ve never thought possible.
But all without source, without explanation or reason.
In my life, I’ve been woken up by screaming three times. After the first I learned not to immediately try and see why. Medical professionals don’t resort to shrieks lightly.
I’m sweating, enough to have soaked the resistant hospital bed and sheets. It has a pungent, refuse like reek to it that makes me gag.
The nurse is holding up the thin, sodden sheet on the far end of the bed. Dr. Dali beside her.
He’s a short, round tan man, in his 40s, I can’t see his face behind the sheet, but judging by his panicked whispers, something is distressing him.
Instinct tells me to lift up the sheet, see what they are so nervous about, but fear stays my hand.
All thoughts of the strange dreams, or any deals are purged from my mind. Real problems rearing their ugly head, as they often tend to do.
My mouth tastes foul, I feel bile rising in my throat.
I’m too afraid to pull back the sheet, my heart starts hammering, and I begin to scream as the doctor, likely thinking me still asleep, takes it from the nurse and exposes my legs.
I’ve had bedsores, pressure sores, and all kinds of minor gross ailments most of you will, luckily, never have to experience. I have a huge tolerance for my body trying to horrify me.
But the absolute chaos, the weeping mess my legs turned into overnight, made me make a noise so gutteral, both members of the medical staff jumped backward.
Dozens of small cuts, as I’ve I’d been feverishly scratching, red and inflamed, threatening to puss. Small, circular wounds I can’t place until I see the small black, things scuttling over my skin.
You wouldn’t think a kid that can only move one arm and his head could cause enough shit to get sedated, but I managed to.
“We don’t know how this could have happened Phillip, St. Joseph’s prides itself on the highest hygienic standards.
It’s honestly a mystery, we can’t find the source of the infestation, and no other patients have shown symptoms. Though, I know that is of cold comfort to yourself. “ Dr. Dali says, barely able to make eye contact.
The nurse is engaged in a process called’ debriding’, where she flenses the dead skin of my legs to avoid further infection, I do my best not to look.
“God damned right it is. “ I say, my voice shaking, “How, how in the hell do I get fleas, ticks and, just about every other parasite without anyone noticing? “ I begin to cough, the involuntary action making me feel small, and my rage seem blunted.
“I understand your frustration, and I assure you, this will not happen again. In the meantime, we will have to quarantine you briefly, but this likely will have minimal impact on your day to day life. “ Dr. Dali seems needlessly offended by my pg-13 vulgarity. Something about this pisses me off, but I eat the pointless anger.
After hours, of procedures, creams, salves and ointments, I’m left alone again, with the setting sun, my mutilated legs, and my thoughts.
In the light of day certain things seem smaller. Unknown noises, irrational fears, looming death.
But when the sun falls, these kinds of things grow, they gain power, and presence.
My brain doesn’t want to settle for the very real horror of infection or amputation. No, it wants to focus on the why, instead of the how.
It’s a why that probably has some rational explanation, several even. But I can’t bring myself to wrap my brain around any of them. Each theory based in logic and reason has some fatal flaw, and with each figurative sheet of crumpled paper I throw in the trash a feeling of dread and fear starts to fall over me like the night’s lengthening shadows.
Belief causes more fear than proof. I scan the room for anything, any piece of evidence that would confirm or deny if what happened last night was real. But of course, I find none, and I am left with nothing more than the belief that the ruin of my legs has something to do with a deal with the arcane.
Sleep doesn’t come, and I find myself staring at my phone, watching the numbers change from 2:29 to 2:30.
I don’t notice the man, not at first, what I notice is the massive, pearl white grin, leering, almost equine, reflecting the scant moonlight.
It seems to hover in the far corner of the room, still, daring me to notice it. I know the outcome but I tap the call button anyway, as I thought, no response.
The figure that steps out from the shadows sets off every sense of fear in my brain. He’s short, maybe five foot seven, he wears an old hooded sweatshirt, black as pitch, and blood stiffened black pants.
The skin of his face is chemical burn pale, and seemingly stretched too tight, leaving him with a lip less grin and moist, red muscle tissue ringing his eyes. Strands of spider web thin black hair catch the air currents of the room.
His eyes are wild and filled with hatred, and in each hand he holds a chipped, cracked butchers knife too large to have been intended for meal preparation.
This thing, with it’s lightly clicking teeth, slowly makes it’s way over to me, putting it’s face inches from my body and loudly, wetly, inhaling through it’s mangled stub of a nose.
It coughs, it’s teeth snap together like a bear trap.
Slowly, the creature turns toward me, making eye contact. Those rage filled orbs feeling like they are burrowing through my skull.
“What are you? “ I say, my voice small, barely a whisper.
The skin of the entity’s face shifts in what I assume is a smile.
“Grynn. “ The creature says, dragging out the name to the point where it sounds like an angry growl, “ And you’re the one that took the deal. “
Grynn’s accusation stops my heart.
My silence is met with the entity dragging one grime covered blade across my hospital gown. Somehow the ancient looking thing parts the fabric perfectly as it starts to make its way upward, toward my throat. The fact this thing can do this while not even scratching the skin underneath isn’t lost on me.
“I am. “ Is all I can think of to say before the carving blade is applied.
He flips the knife, it’s point resting under my chin.
“Interesting play. “ Grynn says, seeming to be in thought, “ He still think I’m some desk jockey by day? “, the thing prods me with the knife, sending a thick drop of blood down my neck.
“He does. “ I say, folding instantly.
“That’s good at least. “ Grynn muses, and with flexibility in places no human being has, he shifts himself to sit on the bed, facing away from me.
He holds one knife above my leg, I gasp as he lets it drop, catching it at the last instant. He repeats this, as we converse, each time setting off a jolt of fear.
“What are you going to do to me? “ I ask, likely already knowing the answer.
“Most of the time, that’d be a real easy answer, but not with Art.
See, he’s not what he seems. He’s not like you, me, or even the formless horrors that really pull the strings in our little corner of reality.
He’s not some ten thousand year old void born, he’s a parasite. He’s an idea that developed will and stole it’s place in the universe.
To dumb it down enough for someone like yourself to understand, anyway. “ I hear Grynn speak, but I can’t keep my focus off of the knife, each drop bringing it a little closer to my leg.
I don’t know why I say what I do next, probably too many stories where the supernatural is basically reasonable, “Why would I trust you? “ it’s not an accusation, just a legitimate question I assumed would be harmless.
I was wrong.
Before answering Grynn dangles the knife like Damocle’s sword, and this time, when it drops, it buries itself a couple of inches in the thigh.
I feel nothing, of course, but that makes the quick well of blood that begins to pour from the wound all the more terrifying. I stay silent, trying not to further anger this thing.
“Do you think I’m just some scary little guy with a couple of knives?
That’d make me Gacy, or Dahmer, or some other pathetic worm who plays at being a monster.
I don’t stab, or cut, I don’t choke or maim. I wield violence, and I’m not a man of fucking metaphor.
I’m not quick, I’m already there, I’m not quiet, I make sure you can’t hear me.
Do you understand, Philly boy? “ Grynn flicks the knife, blood begins to flow a little more freely, “ Everything I’m going to do to you is already done, so the fact your still here, talking, is how you can trust me. “
He removes the knife with a flourish, the flow of blood subsides fairly quickly, but I could just as likely be bleeding internally.
He begins to pace, his jerking, somehow speedy movements remind me of a dying spider.
“What can I do to make this right? “ I beg, my voice shaking, and panicked.
“That’s the question, isn’t it? For now, you be a good little boy and play along with Art, I’m no where near that hovel he’s haranguing anyway.
But Phil, there is likely going to come a time where I realize the easiest way for me to be rid of this situation is to just say ‘Fuck the world’ and play along with Art’s little game of wack a Rat.
Then, you get to see what I’m capable of.
Your friends and family though, they will probably end up seeing it a bit sooner than that. I’ve got a lot of stress I need to relieve, and, you still are the dumb asshole that decided to gamble on taking a swing at me. “ Grynn looks a me and begins to laugh, a sick, distorted sound, that sets his corpse skull grin chattering.
He walks into the same corner, shaking his head and mumbling twisted promises, as the shadows seem to devour him.
I half hoped that the stress and fear would keep me up, away from whatever connection art had thrust upon me. But minutes after Grynn leaves, sleep comes on with a speed that was anything but normal.
Things are… clearer this time. Not by much, but just enough to give me glimpses of a basement, unemptied dumpsters, and a disused septic tank, all teeming with Rats.
I feel a part of the swarm, I feel that we are not ready yet, our numbers are not perfect. This can only come from food, and the only way to get food quickly is…
I wake up in what I think is a cold sweat, but realize at some point I’ve pissed the bed. Images of the dumpster diving hipster, being torn apart, stripped down to the bone, burned into my mind.
The wound in my leg is all too real, as real as the security guard stationed outside of my door to prevent me from hurting myself.
My already tiny world is expanding and contracting all at the same time. I’m caught between two forces I know nothing about aside from 10 years of creepypasta fandom, and with some kind of curse that I’m fairly certain has already caused one innocent death.
I’m typing this to reach out, to see if anyone out there has any information that can help me put the brakes on this roller coaster into hell.
I know I fucked up, I know that bad things are going to happen because of me, but…
I don’t want to be the bad guy.
Link to part 2
https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/139e9ck/visitation_part_2/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button