Creepypasta angst

Lost connections and regret

The wind screamed through the trees as Jack and Warren walked in silence, the dark clouds above pressing down on them like the weight of an unspoken grief. The small town below them was lifeless, its streets abandoned as if even the people there had given up. Warren watched Jack out of the corner of his eye, sensing something deeply wrong with the other demon—a kind of despair that made his own chest ache.
The trees thinned, revealing a weathered house at the edge of the woods. Jack didn't say a word as he approached it, his steps heavy, as if each one hurt more than the last. Warren followed, his curiosity darkened by the unease gnawing at him. Jack stopped in front of a tree, its bark torn open by savage claws, and began to climb, each movement slow, deliberate. When he reached a branch, he perched there, staring blankly at the house. The sky grumbled, the storm nearing, but the real storm was inside Jack, threatening to tear him apart.
Warren sighed in frustration and climbed up after him, settling on a branch nearby. He stared at the house, at the dim light flickering inside, and saw her—a woman, old and fragile, her thin body slumped over a table. She was staring at something in her hands, something unseen from the tree, but it was clear she had been staring for a long, long time. Her face was etched with sorrow, deep lines cutting through her expression, as if life had done nothing but strip her bare.
Warren turned to Jack, unable to hold back the rising frustration.
"Jack," he spat, his voice thick with judgment, "why the fuck are we here? We come here every Saturday, and for what? Just to watch some old woman wither away? Is this your idea of fun, or is there something sick going on in your head?"
Jack didn't respond. He didn't even flinch. His eyes stayed locked on the house, his face a mask of something far deeper than Warren had ever seen before. The wind howled through the branches, making the moment feel endless and unbearable. Finally, Jack spoke, his voice so broken and soft it was barely audible.
"She's my mother."
Warren froze. The words hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. He stared at Jack, then back at the woman in the window. A bitter laugh escaped him, though it felt cruel even to his own ears.
"Your mother?" he scoffed, shaking his head. "You're a fucking demon, Jack. How can you—"
Jack's head snapped toward him, and for the first time, Warren saw something close to devastation in the demon's blackened eyes. His voice came out as a snarl, but it trembled with something far more vulnerable.
"I wasn't always like this," Jack growled, his words rough, torn from the depths of his misery. "I was human once, Warren. I had a life. I had her. She was everything to me." His voice faltered, breaking under the weight of the truth. "But now... now I'm this, and she's... she's still there, waiting. And she doesn't even know her son is alive."
Warren felt his throat tighten, but he tried to hide it, looking away from Jack's crumbling form. His eyes wandered back to the woman, who hadn't moved, still lost in whatever memory she was clinging to. She looked so tired, so utterly broken, like the world had forgotten her long ago, and she was waiting for it to end. The storm was closer now, the first drops of rain beginning to fall.
"What was she like?" Warren asked softly, almost afraid of the answer.
Jack didn't speak right away. He stared at the old woman, his jaw clenched as though speaking would tear him apart. When he finally did, his voice was barely a whisper, cracked and raw.
"She was... everything I ever had. She loved me, pushed me to be better. She wanted me to be a doctor, to save people, to make the world better. And I couldn't even save her." His breath hitched, and Warren could see the black tar that Jack's body bled instead of tears. It mixed with the rain, falling like some grotesque mockery of grief. "The last thing I ever said to her was 'I hate you.' I was angry. I was stupid. And now she's... dying, and I'll never be able to tell her I'm sorry. I'll never be able to tell her that I loved her more than anything."
The rain came harder now, drowning out Jack's broken voice. Warren sat in stunned silence, the weight of it pressing down on him until he could barely breathe. The old woman still hadn't moved, still hadn't looked up from the photo she clutched in her trembling hands. And Warren knew, deep down, that Jack wasn't the only one who was dead. She was too—alive, but long dead in every way that mattered, waiting for a son who would never come home, and who would never tell her the words she so desperately needed to hear.
And in that moment, Warren's heart shattered—not for himself, but for the demon beside him and the mother who would die never knowing how much her son still loved her, even as he sat there, a broken shadow of the person he once was.