Creepypasta Origins and Stories

The Writer's Ink

Jonathan sat trembling in the dark. He stared at nothing, his eyes not penetrating the circle of blackness that surrounded him. A single lamp illuminated the round table he sat at, allowing him enough light to see the edges of it and nothing more. A tea pot and half-empty cup sat in the centre. With a trembling hand he reached toward it and took it towards his lips, not truly looking at it as he drank. He set the cup down on a plate. The cup rattled against it, the only sound save for the thunder that rumbled in the distance.

He heard a switch flick. Jonathan shut his eyes for a moment, temporarily blinded by the harshness of the light that filled the room. He opened them again to see a small, white kitchen. A single window and two doors broke the array of cabinets the covered the walls.

Advertisements

Standing in an open door was Chris, Jonathan's friend and housemate. He had a hand on the light switch.

"John, what are you doing? It's after midnight!" Chris asked.

Jonathan kept staring forward and didn't reply.

"John, answer me. This is the third time I've caught you up like this. What are you doing?"

After a moment's pause Jonathan replied, speaking in a dry, quiet voice. "I had the dream again." He still stared unblinking toward the window, though he didn't seem to notice what was behind it. Chris flinched.

Advertisements

For months now, Jonathan had been experiencing the same recurring dream. In it, he stood outside his own life, looking in at it. He saw himself live his own life, going through the same daily routine and experiences over and over again. However, something about it all seemed unreal. All his actions were artificial, all his conversations seemed planned. A strange feeling that something wasn't quite right filled him and grew and grew. Slowly, and so gradually he barely noticed, his actions were replaced with words. Instead of seeing things happen he read them in a massive wall of text that described his every movement. His conversations came in quotation marks which he read instead of spoke. Soon his entire life seemed to be a novel, running forward toward a conclusion that was always surrounded in haze. When he got to the end, he always awoke, but the feeling never left. Even sometimes when he was awake he began to lose his feelings of normality. For brief moments, barely noticeable, he saw objects described in text rather than in their own form, and his own movements seemed to be described by a nameless narrator.

Chris sighed and walked forward. He rested a hand on Jonathan's shoulder and spoke in a reassuring voice. "Listen, John, I know you are worried. But you have to remember, it's just a dream! You have been very stressed lately and started having nightmares. It happens, and its nothing to worry about."

Jonathan chuckled slightly. "Oh no, no it isn't."

"What do you mean? Look, John, get back to sleep. You're starting to worry me."

For the first time that night, Jonathan stood and faced Chris. He was taller than Chris, and the shadow he cast obstructed Chris' face. "Don't tell me you haven't had that feeling! That creeping, inching suspicion that something isn't right? Doesn't everything just seem too dramatic, too convenient? THIS ISN'T HOW REALITY SHOULD BE! THIS ISN'T HOW PEOPLE SHOULD BE SPEAKING, IT ISN'T HOW THEY ACT!" Jonathan realized he was shouting and stopped. He breathed heavily and tried to calm down, resting his head in his hands.

Advertisements

Chris looked at him with worried eyes. "Alright, John, here's what we are going to do. Just go back to sleep for now. Tomorrow we are going to make an appointment with Dr. Limestone. She helped you with the dreams before, and..."