Claws on Tile

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised when my wife asked me for a divorce. The stress of juggling work, our marriage and looking after our young daughter Emily had taken its toll on the both of us. We had barely spoken to each other in months. So when the day she told me that she wanted out came, I’m not ashamed to say a part of me was relieved. My relief was short lived however. She presented me with a bag of clothes and told me to find somewhere else to live. I won’t lie, I was angry. I mean, SHE was the one who was quitting the marriage, why should I have to leave? I may have said some things that I’m glad our daughter wasn’t around to hear.

After two months of staying in cheap hotels I finally found a place. It was stupidly cheap, I had my doubts but my ex refused to let Emily come and see me before I’d found myself some permanent place to stay. I missed her so much. I’d often heard how having a child changed you but I never truly believed it till she was born. She was always perfect to me, with her golden hair and little snub nose. She always had me wrapped around her little finger. Even when she’d been naughty, all she had to do was smile at me and I couldn’t bring myself to stay angry at her. When I opened the door to my new flat all I was thinking about was how she would be allowed a visit in a few short days.

God, that place was a shit hole. The walls were stained, the appliances were gross. I spent my entire first day just trying to get all my stuff moved in. When I finally got the chance to go to sleep I spent half the night being kept awake by music from a car outside. I had to bury my head under a pillow to get even a semblance of peace. When I woke up in the morning I was covered in insect bites from the tips of my fingers to my elbows. I was just glad I’d worn a T-shirt. It seems even the local wildlife was out for my blood. At least it wasn’t just my ex-wife. The spots where they had pierced the skin to sate themselves on my lifeblood itched terribly. I went to the bathroom hoping that a wash would ease my pain. I opened the bathroom cupboard to get the soap when I saw a tube of cream. It must have been left by the previous tenant. The label had been mostly rubbed off but when I unscrewed the cap it smelled antiseptic. I really didn’t want to wait for the chemist to open, the itching was too intense. I squeezed out a generous amount of cream and applied it liberally over my hands and arms. It stung like hell, but that at least meant it was working. It certainly soothed the itching at any rate.

The rest of my day was taken up by cleaning. I pulled on the rubber gloves and got to scrubbing. I didn’t stop until the place was spotless. If Emily was going to come over I wanted it to feel like a home. Somewhere we could be together instead of some depressing pit where her father now lives.

I didn’t stop until late into the evening. When I finally peeled off the gloves I noticed that the bites on my hand had somehow got bigger. What were once red pinpricks were now almost holes, deep and red. What I found especially puzzling was how there were no scabs or blood. Just a crimson redness. I assumed it was because I’d worn the gloves all day. I cursed myself for being so foolish and applied some more cream. I ate and decided to go to bed after watching some TV. Thankfully there was less noise to disturb me. I remember thinking how things might just work out after all.

I awoke the next morning to the phone ringing. I blearily answered and heard my ex-wife’s voice on the other end of the line. She irritably informed me that if I was still going to have Emily over to mine that afternoon, she’d need to see photos of my flat. Otherwise she would not allow Emily to see me there. As if I wouldn’t have tried to make it perfect! I took some photos with my phone and sent them over and she begrudgingly agreed that it was acceptable. Whilst I was taking the pictures I noticed the wounds on my hand had gotten worse. Now each hole was rimmed with a thick, white crust that was hard to the touch. I didn’t want to scare Emily so I applied some more ointment and wrapped them in bandages. I looked at my watch. It was eleven am. Emily was due at three. That gave me time to put the finishing touches to the place and still have some time to relax. As I fussed around I could hear a repetitive tapping noise like claws on tile. I Immediately checked the kitchen and bathroom. The last thing I needed was rats. Not with Emily here. Thankfully I couldn’t find anything.

As the afternoon progressed it happened again and again. Every time I jumped up to check, there was nothing to be seen. I thought I was going insane! Still, it wasn’t enough to dampen my excitement. It wasn’t long before I heard the buzzer go off, signalling Emily’s arrival. I rushed down the stairs to the front door and there she was. My heart swelled at the sight of her. Even the sight of her mother glowering just behind her wasn’t enough to stop the sense of elation I felt. My daughter was finally here. My mind raced with all the fun activities I had planned for us as I bent down to take her up in a huge hug. As I picked her up I heard another tapping sound. This time louder and more intense than it had ever been before. I held her tight to my chest. Suddenly she started to wail. I felt a wetness on my arms and saw the look of fear on my ex-wife’s face. I tried to let her go but something was preventing me from moving my arms. Her screams increased in pitch as I heard the tapping noise increase till it was almost a buzz. My ex-wife grabbed my wrists and tried to prise Emily out of my grasp, only to cry out herself and pull her hands back. I saw that, where there were once fingers, there were now only bloody stumps. Emily finally managed to wiggle free and as she fell to the ground I saw her back was a tangled mess of meat. Bits of bone were visible in the bloody mess. I stared at my hands. The bandages had come off. The wounds underneath were no longer wounds, they were mouths. Each with its own set of razor sharp teeth, chattering away with lethal intent. I began to scream and as I did, a hundred mouths screamed with me.

 

Insert Pasta Pun Here – Humboldt Lycanthrope

My Interview with Humboldt Lycanthrope. Great stories and a great guy.

The stories we discuss are: Under a Rotting Sky – http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/Und…

And Interview With a Nullo – https://forum.bodybuilding.com/showth…

You can find Humboldt here: http://www.matthewbrockmeyer.com/

Kind Nepenthe you can buy here: https://www.amazon.com/Kind-Nepenthe-… https://en-gb.facebook.com/matthewbro…

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show…

Creepypasta Wiki – http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/Use…

Insert Pasta Pun Here – Organizing_Secrets

My interview with Organizing_Secrets. The stories we discuss are:

Case File #4 The Hysteria Project by Organizing_Secrets – https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm…

And the Correspondence Series by Bloodstains – https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm…

You can find Organizing_ Secrets on Reddit – https://www.reddit.com/user/Organizin…

The Case Files Wiki – http://case-file.wikia.com/wiki/Case_…

or on Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/Secrets440/

 

New Arrival

I’ve been in this house for so many years. Too many. I’m so lonely. I was distraught when my husband went away and when my son died, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I searched for a way to end it and all I did was make this pain eternal. Now it’s just me and the walls of this two-bedroomed house, forever.

When the new residents moved in I was overjoyed. They were a beautiful newly married couple, and so in love. He was fresh out of the army, dark eyed, strong and handsome. She was beautiful, raven haired and fat with the seed of their adoration for each other. It was their first home and I was more than happy to share. I’d been so lonely and the prospect of the laughter of a child in the house again brought a tear to my eye.

As the months wore on they did the usual things people in love do. They decorated, though not to my taste. They had meals together in candlelight, staring longingly into each other’s eyes whilst they ate and then, late one night, a scream erupted from the master bedroom. It was time. He ran around the house with the wildness of eye that only soon to be new fathers possess. He grabbed the overnight bag and helped his beloved into the car. I watched from the window as they drove off into the darkness. I was happy for them but the scene stirred up memories of my own son, and I couldn’t help but weep.

After three days, they returned. She was visibly dishevelled from her ordeal, but happy. He held the new-born gingerly but his smile belied the pride he felt in his chest. As they crossed the threshold the infant began to scream. And such screams they were! All day and all night it wailed. I watched as dark bags began to form under the lover’s eyes as they dragged themselves from feeding to changing and back to feeding again.

It didn’t take long before I noticed a sadness in him, growing like a weed and wrapping itself around his heart. He would become irritable with her, shouting at her for no reason and retiring to the bedroom to lie in bed for hours. Yet still he barely slept, as soon as his eyes would droop then the wailing would begin again, tearing him from sleep’s soft embrace. On the few occasions he did sleep I would lean over him and whisper in his ear, gently stroking his hair to comfort him. I would hear her sobbing as she rocked the boy to sleep, despairing at what the man she loved had become. I would cry too. Sometimes I would cry so loud that I was sure they heard me. They would enter the room I was in and look around, but of course, they could never see me.

Still the child would bawl. It never stopped. With every sound it made I could see the vine inside him grow. It wasn’t just his heart now, his whole body was consumed, his joints stiffened and all energy left him. I pitied his poor wife. She now not only had to care for their son, but also her bed bound husband. I could see the pressure becoming almost too much to bear. I had to start whispering to her too as she tossed and turned in her troubled sleep.

The weeks slowly turned into months and still he showed no sign of improvement. He would walk and talk, but all light in him was gone. I still whispered to him each night, but nothing helped. One night I was sitting by their bedside when the boy started up again. She groggily got to her feet and went to the nursery to comfort the child. Not long after she left I saw his eyes flick open, a look of calm on his face. I watched helplessly as he strode towards the wardrobe and pulled a tie from within. He fashioned a makeshift noose and tied it to the coat hook on the wardrobe. I stood frozen as he pulled a chair to the door, forced his head through the tight loop and stepped off. I walked over and watched as his face turned from bright red, to dark purple, to a deep blue. His feet jerked spasmodically as the last vestiges of life left him. I gently ran my spectral hand down his face as he died, but his eyes looked straight through me.

It was as if she knew. She pushed the door open and stood frozen as she beheld the corpse of her beloved as I once had. I saw tears spring into her eyes as she gasped in shock. She hunched over as racking sobs surged through her body, exactly as I did when I found my husband hanging there. The child began to cry again. I watched as her face became stony and she picked up a pillow off the bed and followed her as she walked into the nursery. She leant over the crib and, as she brought the pillow down over her offspring’s face, I could see the tears falling like a melting icicle. I couldn’t help but smile as it’s muffled cries quietened before becoming silent, just like when I did the same to my beautiful boy. She swiftly walked back in to the master bedroom and reached under the bed. From its depths, she produced a small box. I began to laugh as I saw her take out her husband’s service pistol, load it and place the barrel in her mouth. The shock of the bullet passing through her brain made her body go rigid before slumping backwards onto the bed. My laughs turned to wails as I saw her soul rise up and look at me with a perplexed expression before fading into nothingness.

I’ve been in this house for so many years. Too many. And no matter how much I try, I’m still lonely.

Insert Pasta Pun Here – The Interviews – Sense Delete

My interview with Sense Delete AKA Em Leonard. Check out more episodes on my channel  or check us out Facebook.com/insertpastapunhere. The Stories we discuss are:

Em Leonard “Never talk to people while waiting in line at Disneyland” https://redd.it/6xjvoi or listen here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hVqIzr…

S.H Cooper “The Ringing in my Ear” https://redd.it/5sgx0y

You can find Sense Delete at: https://www.facebook.com/fracturedfic…

And his music here: https://sense-delete.bandcamp.com/alb…

Insert Pasta Pun Here – The Interviews – Abysmii

Welcome Back! I’ve got a great interview for you today. It’s Abysmii! Thanks again to the man himself. I had a lot of fun with this one. Hopefully you will too! Don’t forget to like us on Facebook facebook.com/insertpastapunhere.

The stories we discuss are: Black Rice – http://toospooky.com/your-creepypasta…

The Chanting in the Woods – http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/The…

You can find Abysmii’s Music Here: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC1iR…

Rawdog Readings (Horror Critique) – https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCGK4…

And of course, Raygun Readers – https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC7xY…

Things That Go Bump

I used to hate the dark. For as long as I can remember I’ve suffered from sleep paralysis. An affliction that means the mind wakes up before the body. Leaving the sufferer fully aware of their surroundings but unable to move. I would wake up at night feeling like there was pressure on my body, unable to move my limbs or sit up. It started after my parents took away my night light because I was getting too old for such childish things. It was the thought of all those things that hid away in the darkness: the monster under the bed, the stranger on the landing and the creature in the cupboard. Each one waiting to drag my limp body away from the loving embrace of my family to some dark hole where it would feast on my young bones. What used to scare me the most was the noises. We lived in an old house back then. A squat terraced building in an old coal mining village in Wales. Like all old houses, there were sounds. I remember lying in bed at night, eyes wide open, unable to move and every creak and groan would send my imagination racing. I’d constantly tell myself that it was just the house settling on its foundations. I even looked up the science behind it on the internet, hoping that if I knew why it happen it would assuage my fears. Or that it was just my clumsy neighbours brushing the walls as they got into bed. It never worked though. My mind would still spiral off into a world of teeth and tentacles, of faceless ghosts that served as harbingers of the end of my young, fragile life.

I remember begging my parents to buy a cat for the family. Not for the company, but so I would have something legitimate to blame all the nocturnal noises I would hear. They never did though, my dad was extremely allergic to animal fur and would have a sneezing fit if he spent even thirty minutes in the company of one. So that was never going to be an option.

Then, for my 10th birthday, my parents deigned to buy me a computer. They thought it would help me do my schoolwork. It was an old battered thing, every time it powered up you could hear the motor of the fan arthritically jump into life. I loved it as much as it is possible for a little boy to love an inanimate object. I saw it not as a tool to further my education, but as an escape. I’d spend my nights bathed in its comforting glow. Watching YouTube videos and cartoons until I eventually fell asleep. Every time I heard a noise I would turn up the volume. Drowning out my fears and pushing the horrors back where they came from. I’d keep it at the end of my bed. If I woke up during the night, once I regained control of my body, I could immediately wake it up from sleep mode and start my ritual anew.

There’s one night that stands out to me from that time. I remember waking up, body paralysed. I remember the familiar feeling of pressure on my arms and chest. The feeling that my body was wrapped in cotton wool. And the noises, they too were different. The thumps I usually heard were always muffled. Somehow distant, but the one I heard sounded so much closer. I heard the sound of air. Not the usual susurrus of the wind moving the trees outside or the whistle of it forcing its way through the cracks in the window frames. This was a long, wet exhalation. I could feel the draught of it on my feet. I wanted to scream but my muscles still wouldn’t respond. My eyes widened and I heard the creak of floorboards as something moved. Suddenly the pressure on my chest increased. I felt pinpricks of pain across my ribs. As if someone was performing some torturous form of acupuncture on my young body. My foot jerked spasmodically and kicked against my computer mouse at the end of my bed. The familiar whirr began, the room was awash with pale blue light and, as the start-up sound played. I found myself looking into a pair of huge milky eyes.

I still suffer from sleep paralysis. I still wake up with that feeling in my chest, feeling that breath on my feet. Even as an adult, and I think I always will.

I don’t hate the dark anymore. I hate the light that illuminates it. The light that confirms your fears.