HORROR DIARY: CreepyPasta

CreepyPasta #8: THE ACCIDENT

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Jennifer Shell (10/23/17)

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It was late at night. I was standing on the pier, leaning against a light post, sucking on my fifth cigarette. The fog had rolled in off the bay and with each exhale, my smoke mingled with the mist until you couldn't tell one from the other. I could hear the buoys in out in the bay – Ding! Ding! Ding! – with every gently passing wave, but the sound was muffled, eerie, through the thickness of the surrounding fog.

The weak refracted circle of yellowish light in which I stood did little to illuminate me, so, as I stood there, I felt furtive. Sneaky. I kept looking around me, waiting for someone to ask me what I was doing here at this time of night. Waiting for a police officer to tell me to move on, no loitering! But no one came. Not even Ed.

About an hour ago I'd gotten a frantic call from my brother telling me to meet him here. I didn't question him. I just threw on some shoes, grabbed my overcoat, and left the house. He sounded afraid; urgent. Ed had never been either afraid, nor very urgent – about anything. He went through life confident and steady. True, things got done on Ed Time, but they got done. He'd never once let me down. Therefore, when he called, I came running.

"Will!" He was breathless on the phone. "Something...something's happened. I need you to pick me up on the pier...now."

That was it. He hung up. I didn't have to ask him which pier; I knew which one. We'd spent half our childhood there. Naked toddlers learning to jump into the cold water and laughing for all we were worth when dad or mom caught us. Young boys beginning to get confident in our swimming abilities and seeing who could swim out the farthest without getting too tired or scared. I always turned back first. As teenagers, we brought girls there. This was our place. The place where we both made, and felt, magic as children. We'd made a pact once that if we ever got into trouble, this pier was our meeting point. No questions asked.

So, Ed had called the pact into action and I came.

After I'd been standing there, under that light, for about an hour and a half, I finally heard a sound. Not coming from the bay, but from off to my right and slightly behind me. A shuffling and grunting. I turned in the direction of the sound only to see Ed, beaten and bloody, barely able to stand. He flung himself toward me with his last bit of strength. I caught him awkwardly and guided him to the wooden pier floor.

"Will! I'm sorry. I wasn't fast enough. Go! Go now!" He was urgent, but his voice was so weak. I had to put my ear to his mouth to hear him. I tried to ask him what happened. Tried to get any kind of explanation from him. But it was no use. He wouldn't – couldn't – respond. And then I watched. I sat there, surrounded by the chilly mist of fog, in the middle of the night, and watched as the light from his eyes faded away. I watched as my big brother – just one year older than I – died, right there in my arms, on the magical pier of our childhood. I was too stunned to speak. Too horrified to act! Too heartbroken. I just sat on that pier, cradling my brother's head in my lap, and cried.

I don't know how long I remained like that – Ed's head in my lap, my tears wetting his face – but at some point, I became aware of another sound. This one was unlike anything I'd ever heard before. Heavy, wet breathing. A chattering, like teeth in the winter when you're cold and wishing for hot chocolate and a warm fire. A thump. A dragging sound. Repeated over and over. And the wet breathing.