Scary Stories

I've been reading a lot of stuff on creepypasta. It's not really doing it for me. Some are ok, some are pretty bad. Plus, the site's been inactive for a while now. The problem with a lot of the stories is the suspension of disbelief, and even while some stories really aren't badly written, my ability to believe what's happening and submerge myself into the story is inevitably hampered by something stupid, like bad grammar or the oh-so-popular "Ohmygod guys I'm totally fucking scared right now!" or "This totally means (blank) is haunted!" I was thinking that, despite whether or not I know any of you have sat down and written a good scary story, I honestly figure I'd be more likely to "believe" something one of you wrote, given most of the forum's talent for english and my general impression that there's an average intelligence here higher than that of most of the internet, a thread where we share original short works might be fun! Or, no one will really want to post. Either way, here's the idea; we each compose a short story, between 3 and 9 paragraphs (don't put too many long ones in there, I know how they're often received), per each of our posts, and ideally fleshed out and edited before submission. I'm not asking for perfection, just that you honestly gave it a shot and feel satisfied your work will have an effect. There's no limit to subject matter, all that really matters is if it's scary/creepy/unnerving in some way. I feel drawing from other works is good for inspiration, but I would hope noone here directly plagiarizes a story. I mean, if it's something like an addition to the Slender Man mythos, go for it. Done well, it's pretty awesome. Done poorly, it's like most of what I've read. Just don't go taking credit for Slender Man unless you're the guy from SomethingAwful who photoshopped the first pic and created the first of the mythos. You know, simple stuff like that.
As a final note, I'm hoping there are no Shyamalan-level twists...I'm sure you know what I mean, like "Protagonist was dead the whole time! And so smug you'd call him a hipster if it wouldn't give hipsters a bad name!"
Enjoy the thread!

Most people could consider a morgue to be a strange place to build their future. However, most people aren't studying to be doctors. Even fewer people who try to become doctors make the cut. It's this process of elimination we rely upon to to determine who gets to take care of us when we're sick, to maintain us when we're well. Jacob was one of the few who made it through med school; he was respected by his peers, and it was generally accepted by his superiors that he had a bright future ahead of him.
Some years after becoming a doctor, he decided to leave the hospital where he interned. He thought that starting an urgent care center was ideal, mainly because he felt he had to extend the reach of medicine to people who had problems more severe than an appointment to their family doctor would allow, but not severe enough to warrant a trip to the hospital. He researched a location he felt would be ideal, and got in contact with medical professionals all over the state with his idea. Being the charismatic sort, and actually having an idea of how such an operation would work, it wasn't hard for him to assemble a competent staff.
He rented out a vacant building to suit his purposes, as it was more convenient and less expensive than hiring an architect and construction team at the time. Putting ads online and in the local paper was an immediate success. People were relieved to get the care they needed on a basis both convenient to them and in a more relaxing atmosphere than the stiff clinical environment of the hospital. Though, he and his colleagues began to see strange coincidences in their patients, unknown to each other for a time.
It started in the elderly. Some weeks after having started the clinic, dozens of patients over 65 began coming to the clinic with a small blistering rash, and cursory signs of dementia. Upon examination, it was shown that they all had what appeared to be a spider bite somewhere on their bodies. When asked about the bite, most couldn't remember when it appeared, but admitted it was tender to the touch. Blood work was ordered on all of the patients. The five doctors at the clinic each saw between three and four of this type of patient a day, and while not entirely sure of the cause at first, upon discussion of the commonality of the symptoms, it was believed to be a reaction to an as yet unknown toxin of arachnid origin. When the lab tests returned, the cause was confirmed, though the properties of the toxin were still undetermined.
The three weeks following the influx of the elderly, scared children with visibly rattled parents began appearing, though not in such quantity as the sexagenarian crowd of nearly a month ago. The children all immediately identified the rash on their bodies, and also showed passing difficulty in language or cognition. Their bites, all on the extremities, were harder to identify, but strongly resembled the bite pattern of a human jaw. The parents had similar (but more frequent) bites on their bodies, and recounted vividly the events leading up to their arrival at the clinic, but showed no symptoms of the toxin on their skin or in their minds. The parents told a story of either bringing their children to a relative's house and rapidly deciding to leave or having to wrestle them from an elderly neighbor's grasp, often receiving aggressive bites in response, followed by a look of horror on the attacker's face and profuse, sobbing apologies.
The elderly were told the cause of their condition, that it was not contagious, and that the toxin responsible was being analyzed to develop a proper antidote to the effects. They were given anti-inflammatory medications and were told to keep in contact with their doctors should they feel worse in any way. Two weeks passed. The rashes remained stable, as did the dementia, for a time. During the previous week, a total of 45 children and 30 adults were bitten, followed by each of the attackers to admitting themselves to the hospital. The hospital confirmed the parent's story, however, shortly after their admission, all of the patients died.
The implications of this were incredible. Not only was an unidentified spider responsible for the initial onset of symptoms, the toxin mutated as it entered their bodies and was produced by their own metabolism, but only affects the young and the old...those with the weakest immune systems.
Many of the elderly were not living at home at the time of their affliction. There was a respectable senior community in the area, and it housed at least 400 residents. There was a permanent medical staff that lived with the patients in the community, and the staff was outnumbered by the residents five to one. A call was made to the medical office of the community. The receptionist who answered the call seemed frantic, overworked. Apparently, some new disease was spreading among the residents that caused rashes, confusion, and made them unnaturally aggressive. At least eighty residents had died. Some of the staff had been bitten. A few began to show signs of infection, but were still lucid for the time being.
At that moment, Jacob decided to turn the TV in the waiting room to the local news. The broadcast began by describing an undefined ailment that was depressingly similar to the one Jacob and his staff had addressed just three weeks prior, and had been accurately described by the senior community staff. Apparently, since last week, reports have been "pouring in" regarding attacks on people of all ages, and while It noted that children and the elderly were definitely the most susceptible to the disease, it was shown at least 40% of all non-geriatric adults bitten were susceptible to it. The bulletin added that the first to suffer from the illness were, as confirmed by the local hospital, bitten by an as of yet unidentified species of arachnid.
Jacob called the hospital. He thought that if he was able to ascertain the cause of death, he may be able to allay the symptoms to a degree while a cure is found. He was faxed the coroner's report regarding each patient who had been under his care. According to the reports, each had died of massive organ failure. The time of death was what surprised him; two days before the admission.
The next day, the news was the only thing on Jacob's tv. At nine, an emergency broadcast had been issued. Packs of feral children were seen in the streets, accompanied by some adults and the elderly. Reports of cannibalism run rampant; the police have been called to dozens of homes, implored by hysterical parents to save them from their children. It was no longer safe to go outside. It wasn't even safe to stay inside. If you saw anyone with a rash, you were to report them to the police immediately and do whatever was possible to avoid contact with them. It was stated the national guard had been called to assist the local police in containing the situation, but there was no word yet as to thier cooperation.
Jacob was stunned. It was mutating at an exponential rate. He remembered the coroner's reports, and began thinking horribly morbid thoughts. How many were going to die? How many were already dead? How were his patients' bodies functioning days after their hearts had stopped? He was horrified; what if it was a trap? The ones who "died" may have cooperated long enough to get into a place where the chance of infection was greatest. That hospital served the entire county. If everyone inside were to be infected...
The news came on with an update; helicopters were hovering over the city, reporting that the infected seemed to be falling dormant in the streets. One by one they went down, mouths agape. The threat was over. The anchor was relieved, commenting on the speed and lethality of the infection. She cracked a weak smile, but her expression fell dead. Without a word, the video feed went back to the helicopter. The infected were moving, somehow. Not human movements, more like the stretching of bags about to burst. They each erupted into thousands of spiders, flooding the streets and inundating the homes through chimneys and the spaces between the doors and their frames. She attempted to report on the events, trying to remain the stoic journalist for her audience. But, as no conscious thought regarding such a horrifying spectacle could be uttered by her or the person behind the teleprompter, the video feed progressed in eery silence until the muffled screams of people trapped inside their homes became apparent.
Everyone was going to die. The spiders hadn't reached the urgent care clinic yet, but undoubtedly choked the inside of the hospital. Jacob and his colleagues stayed inside, mute, as the undefinable horror progressed before them. They heard a dull roar over the engine of the helicopter through the video feed. The camera panned up to the sky, searching for the source of the thunder. There was a spear of fire in the sky. Everyone still capable of watching the news felt a simultaneous relief as the camera zoomed in on the object. The surrounding counties had been evacuated, and the civilians ordered to get into the nearest fallout shelter. The only available option was to sterilize the area. They all knew there was no other choice. Everyone went outside at once, oblivious to the danger the spiders represented, and accepted their fate with quiet dignity; Jacob especially, because now he could literally see the bright future ahead of him.

 

I started to write this story some while ago. But it never got finished. Perhaps I should revised and finish this one.

THE SPIDER MOUNTAIN

Now, you may be laughing at my fear of spiders, but I have seen them as the instruments of an Ancient and cosmic Evil. To make you understand it’s time to share the horrid truth.

It all started, when I, Sam Clark, Professor of Anthropology came in touch with a fellow student of mine at the bus station to Boston. His name was Richard Denton, and the last time that I saw him, was at his presentation as Doctor of Archaeology, at the Miskantonic University. Richard greeted me as an old friend, and we asked each other about our lives. After the formalities, he told me that he made an amazing discovery in the library of his dead great-uncle James Trent.

“His house is not far from here, so if you're interested, I can show you the amazing discovery." If I had known what the consequences would have been for my mental health, I would have rejected the invitation. Unfortunately, against my better judgment, I accepted the invitation.

Edit: First revision

 

First of all, TLR.

Second of all, is this a serious written story (or beginning of such) that you would like to have revised by the forum? Or is this a "I dreamt stuff and wrote it down".

Because that affects whether I would like to take my time to read it through or not.

 

Nevermind.

 

I thought your story was pretty good Gross, the rupturing of people and what came out of them is especially cool.

I'll write one and post it up as soon as, it might take me a day or two though.

 

No Arthgon, go away.

 

Obvious troll is obvious.

 

Oh. It was meant to Gross. Okay. Like I said my story was not finished so that is why there are a lot of grammar mistakes in it. Perhaps I could post it here when it is done.

 

Actually I got bored so I wrote something sooner than I thought, though I doubt many would think it was believable. Here you go, the edits I've made are where I spotted mistakes or wanted to change the syntax of a sentence to make it sound better:

Something’s underneath my skin and tonight I’m cutting it out. It’s been like this for weeks, like a sensation that something’s eating at me from the inside - and for the last few nights the pain has become unbearable. My suffering is blinding, I cannot think of anything else, and I know that if I don’t do something about it right now I’m going to die.

I keep on wondering how this happened to me, how could it have got inside of me? The only thing that I can think of is a few months back I wanted to get some books from the attic, some I remember reading when I was younger, and I had an accident. My attic doesn’t have it’s own ladder, I have to use a step ladder to get up there. Normally it’s fine, hoisting myself up is a piece of cake, but I guess I must have gotten complacent this time because I slipped and banged my head on a nearby bookcase. I fell unconscious, but when I came to I felt okay, I didn’t see the need to go to hospital and bother anyone. That’s the only incident I can recall where that fucker could have gotten inside me, it must have been living in the attic. Whatever the case, it’s coming out tonight.

I go to the kitchen and find a bottle of 12 year old Glenfiddich, I drink as much of it as I can bare to - if I’m slicing into myself I need something to take the edge off. Immediately my vision blurs, my head feels softer, and the pain of it being inside me lessens somewhat. I grab a cereal box and tear off a big strip of cardboard, I fold it over on itself until I have a dense layered rectangle and put it in my mouth; something to bite down on and quiet my screams. I root around in the cutlery draw and find a 9 inch serrated kitchen knife. I put it to my gut.

Back and forth, back and forth. The feeling is indescribable, and my cries begin in earnest. The thing inside of me knows what’s coming, and it redoubles the ferocity of chewing at my innards. Even the alcohol now does little to abate the pain and my vision begins to darken; only through immense force of will do I keep conscious. I glance down to see my progress, and immediately realise it was a mistake. Blood is squirting over the disgusting off-white colour of weeks-old milk that is slimy fat. Sick floods my mouth, spluttering out around the edges of the cardboard, and I almost give up. Mockingly I think to myself that after all this is over I’ll have to go on a diet, maybe next time I wouldn’t have so much to cut through. Finally the knife strikes something different, almost with the firmness of tanned hide; I know I have found what I’m looking for.

I’m going to have to pull it out, so steeling myself I look down again. To my horror I find that I won’t have to reach into myself after all, it’s already coming out of me. Through my intestines that have started to spill forth, two black arms are emerging. They are leathery in appearance, though they are shiny and even darker with my blood. Two gnarled little hands grab the edges of my incision, I feel their powerful grip tightening on my wound. The thing pulls it’s head out of me, I can barely believe what I’m seeing. The only way I can describe it is goblin-like, all teeth and orange glowing eyes, what you'd imagine if you mixed something straight out of Lord of the Rings with a nightmare. The blood loss is now getting to me, my blood is everywhere; the counters, the linoleum floor all drenched red. Though I’m beginning to feel like I’m far away, I hear it’s voice as it begins to talk to me. The sound is low and guttural, like what the voice of a year old corpse would sound like if the dead could speak:

“So you thought you’d cut me out did you, thought you could be free of me?” I groan, words now escaping me. “Many have tried in the past, but do you really think a thing like me would still exist if it was that easy. No, no. You know I was going to make it nice for you - kill you real quick, well for me anyway - but now you’ve been such an asshole I think I’m going to keep you alive for years; chewing at you, swallowing down your ample fat, sucking on your arteries. I bet you’re thinking that people will find me in you, after this escapade you’re bound to receive an X-ray to survey the extent of your injuries. Well I’ve got news for you Bucko, I ain’t a thing of science, and no fancy tests are going to find me no matter how many they run. Even if they look into your wound they’re not going to see me, I’m very good at not being seen when I don’t want to be. They’re going to take you to the madhouse, they’re going to think you’re a loony, and you know what? I’ll be there, safe and snuggled in your gut, feeding off you as much as I feed off your misery.”

With that it disappeared, ducking in back inside. I’m dying. I reach for the phone, and after a few failed attempts with my weak trembling fingers I reach 999. The ambulance is coming, I’ll be okay. Mercifully my consciousness gives way to the dark.

***

Mary arrives at the place, somewhere she never thought she’d see. Broadmoor. If you asked her a week ago if she would ever come somewhere like this she’d had told you such a notion was ludicrous, but here she was. She goes to the reception, and with a quick enquiry they direct her where she needs to go.

The psychiatrist greets her, though his smile is tellingly sombre. She looks through the viewing window into the padded cell; back and forth her brother rocks, back and forth, all bound up in a straight jacket. Over and over he says:

“It’s inside me, it’s eating me alive. It’s inside me, it’s eating me alive. It’s inside me, it’s eating me alive. It’s inside me, it’s…”

“Doctor, how did this happen?” Mary asks, tears filling her eyes.

“Well Mary, an MRI revealed that some months ago your brother must have suffered some sort of head trauma, which lead to extensive brain damage causing his hallucinations. Since then it would appear that your brother has not been in his right mind.”

Mary sobs, she can’t help herself, composure is impossible. “Must he really be kept in this place though, isn’t there anywhere else he could go?”

“I’m afraid so, he’s a danger to himself and others. The extent of his own self abuse is astonishing, and at the hospital where he was taken he lashed out at people whilst in recovery. He kept on insisting there was something in him, eating at him, and that they would have to cut him open to see. When the doctors refused he got enraged, beside himself with anger, and he tried to harm them. Really it’s safer for everyone with your brother being here.”

The girl begins to break down, “I-I can’t take this any longer. Please, I need to leave.” Her crying is now uncontrollable, it echoes down the corridor where they are stood.

“Of course, I didn’t mean to distress you, I’ll help you to your car. If you have any questions about medication, anything at all, you can reach me on this number”. The doctor and Mary leave, though her wailing can still be heard for some time after.

The man is still rocking back and forth, back and forth. He’s still saying, “It’s inside me, it’s eating me alive. It’s inside me, it’s eating me alive. It’s inside me, it’s…” From within himself he can hear a voice singing, it’s low and guttural:

“I’ve got you under my skin. I’ve got you deep in the heart of me…”

 

The lock was, however, not locked. It looked broken.

 

The last man wonders. What for horrors lies behind the door?

 

alcohol and cock and endless balls

 

Hmmm...maybe one line per person, building a story was a better idea? I did like what was actually posted though. Arthgon, I'm not sure what yours meant...it may need more story development.

Seeing such a sight made the last man shut his door and pray. He was relieved there was no coffee out there.

 

A deep voice began to speak in his head 'Why don't you pray to me instead and I make those offensive objects disappear.'

 

He recognized the voice right away; it was Barry White. Not seeing any harm in praying to Barry, the last man obliged. That's when things went horribly wrong.

 

Not knowing what he has done, the last man went through the door.

 

He began hurriedly wading through the cock and alcohol and endless balls outside, trying to escape Barry's influence, but he could feel him getting closer all the time.
The last man tripped over a particularly large cock. He felt a presence behind him, and it began to sing;
"Darling, please don't make me wait too long
I wanna love you, baby
Can't you see, it's only you I want
And only you I need..."

 

Suddenly, the last man took one of the bottles and smashed the bottom on the floor. Armed with the broken bottle he slashed at the presence behind him with all his might.

 

Blindly slashing at whatever was claiming to be Barry White was the smartest thing he could have done. When he opened his eyes, however, the sight that registered in his brain disarmed him. This was no human form. The Last Man would've been lucky if it was a corporeal demon or even some lost deity. No, what he saw was a form so horrifying and outside of what earthly beings would even call a "thing," the mere strangeness of it caused him to retreat into his own mind, within a placid childhood memory. He could not escape.