CRAPPYPASTA

For those pastas that are smelling less than fresh…


Flash

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I woke up in an anonymous motel room. It was fairly nice, despite the awful lime-green paint on the walls. I don’t know how I got there, or why I was there, but it was oddly familiar. I looked around and saw an envelope taped to the only door in the room. It suddenly occurred to me that the motel room had no windows. Dismissing the thought, I got out of bed and walked over to the door. I opened the envelope and found a note addressed to me inside it. The note instructed me to open the door, so I did. On the other side of the door was a staircase so long that I could not see the bottom of it. Seeing no reason not to, I started to walk down the stairs. After a while I came to a room. There I saw a young child of about five. He was cowering in the corner and looked emaciated, and oddly familiar.
I stepped closer to the child, and noticed that he was quietly whispering to himself. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, but it sounded vaguely like he was saying ‘he’s coming’ over and over again. The child got louder and louder until he was screaming and shaking so violently that I panicked.
“STOP!” I screamed, but the child’s shaking and screaming only got worse. It was driving me crazy.
Looking around the stark room, I saw a knife on the floor. I picked it up, and before I realised what I was doing, the child was dead, his blood pooling around him on the floor.
Suddenly, I was in a white room with no windows and a single, steel door. I felt an immense pain in my chest and, looking down; I saw the cause of it. Slowly soaking through the front of my shredded shirt, was an immense amount of blood. I collapsed as everything went dark and I felt the life drain from my body.

“Have you ever heard the story of John Ericson, Mr Adams?” Dr Defoe asked.
“I’m afraid I haven’t,” the young journalist replied.
“Well, Mr Ericson had a yet undiagnosed psychological disorder that rendered him effectively trapped inside his own imagination. He couldn’t interact with the outside world except for a few flashes of lucidity towards the end of his life. During these flashes, however, he thought he was dreaming, and refused to believe that he was in the real world. He would tell himself to ‘wake up’ over and over again until he slipped back into his own mind. After each flash his own little world seemed to get more and more horrific, judging by the way he would act and speak during his episodes.”
“What happened to him?” he asked, curious, but somehow knowing what was coming.
“He committed suicide five years ago,” the man said, seeming to shudder at the thought. “It was after a particularly horrific episode. The strange thing about it was the way he did it. Most patients who commit suicide here strangle themselves with their own clothes, as we are very careful to keep anything that could be used as a weapon away from them. John somehow got a hold of a knife, and carved the word ‘no’ across his own chest. When we found the body, the words ‘He’s coming, and you can’t stop him’ had been written across the wall in his blood. The strangest part of it all was that never found the knife.”

Credit To: Sarah Y

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