Creepypasta: Nightmare Fuel

91: I Sold My Soul For A Used Dishwasher, and Would Like It Back, Part 2

I Sold My Soul For A Used Dishwasher, and Would like It Back, Part 2 by PeteTheSeed

For those who aren't in the know, not too long ago I sold my soul for a £200.00 used dishwasher. This has proved to be a rather irresponsible decision, as I am now a soulless husk who sees the dead. Oh, and the dishwasher has started leaking a weird brown gunk all over my kitchen floor, which kind of sucks. I recently made the decision to reclaim my soul, which has turned out to be kind of tricky. So far, my endeavours have led to me summoning a demon in my apartment who attempted to drag me back to Hell and violate me. Don't worry, my naked ghost room-mate Gary vanquished him, I think. He has a permenant ghost boner. It's super weird.

Anyway, it turns out that the only way to reclaim my soul is to be given it back by the guy who I traded it with. Simple stuff, surely? Not quite. I'd been unable to contact him online, because the douche is ignoring all of my messages. That pretty much exhausted all of my options, so I decided it better to just embrace the soulless lifestyle. Sure, it had its flaws; I now couldn't leave my apartment without witnessing a parade of deceased souls, and the floorboards inside my apartment where there had briefly been a portal to Hell now leaked the tears and howls of the damned, but I guess nothings perfect. I could grow accustom to the dead, and I'd already covered my floor with a nice new rug that muffled most of cries of the condemned. Things were looking up.

That is, until I made a solid break-through in the search for my soul through my exceptional perception, cunning and intuition.

The news-paper add read: Need New Stove? Perhaps Fridge/Freezer? Call Now! Will Accept Best Offer! Now Accepting Souls!

It seemed a bit too 'on the nose' to be a coincidence. I made the call, got an address and embarked on my journey of soul reclamation. Gary joined me, and I sensed this was just another average Tuesday for him.

Our journey took us to a downtown marketplace. It was early morning, and the place was filled with people setting up stalls of strange meats and fish, novelty decorations and knock-off clothes. The dead were everywhere. Gary approached one, a weeping woman who stood in the middle of the walkway. She was dripping wet from head to toe, her skin a strange tint of blue and her arms slashed from wrist to elbow. He stood in front of her, presenting himself. She stopped weeping, looked Gary up and down, and then proceeded to continue weeping whilst walking away. Gary looked like he let out an inaudible sigh; I guess even in death, rejection is hard. Undeterred, he walked over to another. I decided to leave him to it; you do you, Gary.

The actual living souls were busy unloading vans and pitching signs, and I wondered where it was that I would begin my search. The call hadn't been very specific on the exact location of this trader of souls, so I guessed I'd have to do a bit of leg-work. Maybe give a few people the rundown, maybe play a little good-cop/bad-cop with my spectral sidekick. One thing was certain: It would be a gruelling day.

"Oh, you want Dave. He's right in there."

The fish salesman pointed towards a warehouse at the other side of the market, handing me back the newspaper clipping I'd given him. Alright then.

The warehouse in question looked deserted, and the only entrance I could find lay down a dingy alleyway, locked with thick rusted chains. The whole place screamed 'murder'. As I approached the alleyway, a hand grasped my wrist and pulled me back.

"You don't want to go in there," An old, veiled woman informed me, in thick eastern accent. "No good in there, child. Only darkness." Her skin had the feel of dry plastic, and was as smooth as sandpaper.