Short Scary Stories

I Can Hear Them.

So…

Before I say anything, I need you to understand something. And make a promise.

I know…what I’m about to say is gonna make you want to throw me into a nut house – and I can’t blame you, I get it – but first I need you to know that I wouldn’t be telling you this if I wasn’t desperate. And I need you to promise to hear me out, okay?

Okay..

…

I can…hear things. Bad things.

It first became apparent when I was six. Right after my dad left my mom, my sister, and I for another woman. It really hit us hard. My mom had to get a job to support us, we had to get on food stamps, and – I didn’t realize it at the time – she started taking money out of her retirement fund. We sold the house we were living in and moved a couple states away because she couldn’t stand to be anywhere near there.

Ahem. Sorry, getting off topic.

They started out as nothing but whispers. Small noises that I could pretend I didn’t hear. Whenever I asked if others heard and they said no, I just kept my mouth shut. I don’t like drawing attention to myself.

It took a couple years before the whispers started making sense. By then, I was eight or nine, maybe ten, I don’t remember. But I do remember the day it happened like it was just five minutes ago.

I was in the living room with my sister watching TV when I heard them. At first, they were the mumbles I was used to, and I could ignore them, but they slowly started making sense. Started actually making words.

“It’s no wonder he left you. Why would he stick around for someone like you?”

Immediately, I knew it was talking about my dad, and the words felt like a punch to the gut. Tears sprang to my eyes, and I was about to yell back at it, but its next words hit me even harder, hard enough to steal my breath.

“He has a better wife now, one better than you. Besides, how could he love you? A sniveling little girl who didn’t even have a job, constantly begging for attention. Pathetic.”

At first, I was confused. But when I looked around for the source of the words, my eyes landed on my mother, and I could see it immediately. I could see past her smile, past the little tune she hums when doing the dishes. I could see the pain in her eyes and I knew. I knew those were the thoughts going through her mind.

Now, understand, I can’t read minds, that’s not what this is. I can just…hear people’s demons, if that makes sense? I know everyone’s doubts and anxieties because they’re broadcasted to me, and I can’t stop it.

It got worse as I got older. At first, the voices came only every once and a while, and kept to people I hung out with. But then they got louder, broader, and soon I could hear everyone. It was – is – exhausting, terrifying, it drives you insane. Just this constant thrum of darkness and pain, choking you, and you can’t get rid of it no matter what you do. It hurts and it’s sad and you just want to give up–

…There was, uh… A time where I was willing, y’know, to give up. Especially after I started seeing their manifestations. Thick, black clouds of oil sticking and hanging to people. They clung like a disease, weighing the person down while it whispered its poison into their ears. Some were bigger than others, but everyone had one if they were over the age of nine or so. And their eyes… Inhuman, blood red pools that bore into me. They knew I could see them. It was nauseating. I just wanted it to end.

I avoided everybody, all the time, as much as I could to keep the voices at bay. It was lonely, but it was better than having to hear those goddamn voices all of the time. I needed to end it.

But I was too much of a coward. I could never actually bring myself to..y’know..

Ahem. Sorry, I– …just…give me a second.

…

I eventually ended up marrying after I learned to deal with everything, and we had a daughter. My little girl, the light of my life. So sweet and innocent, with no doubts or fears. She is my one solace, my one pride, and my reason for living. She’s six years old now…

A-And that’s why I’m asking for help. That’s why I need you to listen to me, to believe me. I don’t care what happens to me, but she–

… A couple days ago, she came up to me… and asked why there’s a black cloud clinging to me.