Creepypasta: Nightmare Fuel

90: I Sold My Soul For A Used Dishwasher, and Would Like It Back, Part 1

I Sold My Sold My Soul For A Used Dishwasher, and Would Like It Back, Part 1 by PeteTheSeed

As the title says, I sold my soul for a used dishwasher. It seemed like a solid trade at the time. It was online; a guy was selling it on a local for-sale site, and the guy wanted like £200.00 for it. I don't have that kind of money, and I asked if he'd be willing to go any lower. In a joking manner, he suggested that he'd sell it me for my soul, and even including free shipping and installation. Sweet, sign me right up. He emailed some documents which I didn't even read, I signed and the next day two men showed up and installed it. I was pretty smug, and assumed the guy just needed to get rid of it and had a sense of humour.

However, it's since come to light that I may have actually given away my soul. Oh, and souls are real. Who knew? Not me. Being soulless seems to come with a few side-effects, that have slowly but surely begun to impact by daily life. I don't dream anymore. Instead, each and every night I find myself entering a pool of nothingness that I can't quite describe. I don't really have much passion for anything, not that I was the most passionate guy around before; I'm what you'd call a go with the flow type of guy anyway. I don't laugh or cry. I'm never happy nor sad, angry or excited. Everything is inconsequential. Nothing has meaning. I just am.

Oh, and I can see the dead, which kind of sucks.

I first realised that I could see the dead when I walked into my apartment and saw a dead guy. He was just standing there, staring at me. It was pretty horrifying, honestly. I don't know how I knew he was dead, it was just an instinctive feeling I got. Plus, he's sometimes slightly transparent which is a bit of a give-away. He doesn't really talk to me, either. He just walks around the apartment, looking pretty pissed. I guess I would be too; I learnt from a neighbour that he died from a heart attack caused by Viagra, and that the girl had freaked and bailed on him without calling the cops. Took a few weeks for him to be found too, when the apartment began to secrete a rather unique stench. He's still... stiff, down there. Naked, too. It's uncomfortable, sure, but I don't exactly have the means to move somewhere else. Truthfully, he's kind of a chill dude, as far as the dead go. He just looks frustrated all the time, but mostly keeps to himself. Spends a lot of time in the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. He leaves when I need to shit though, so at least he's considerate. I call him Gary.

Besides my ethereal roommate, the dead mostly wander around doing... nothing. They can't really interact with anything, which I guess is pretty dull. There's not as many of them as you might think, because I suppose most of them move on to the next place. They're not all like Gary, either; the vast majority that I've seen have disturbed me beyond measure. Burnt, walking copses forever crying out and yelling and screaming in agony. Fathers and mothers following their families, crying out to be noticed, begging to be able to tell their loved ones that they're still with them, but having absolutely no way to do so. The children are the worst. They don't have the means to understand what has happened to them, and spend their days wandering the busy streets, reaching out for a helping hand that can't even perceive them. It would be tough to watch, were I not... well, soulless.

Anyway, I decided that it's time to get my soul back. It's more of a principle thing than anything else; I don't like the thought of someone playing with it, touching it... it grosses me out. Plus, there's the whole 'eternal damnation' thing, which is pretty daunting. The dishwasher has also started leaking and I didn't exactly get a warranty.