Creepypasta

Things that go bump in the night

LONG READ:

How do I explain this? If I tell you, will you please believe me? I hope you will. Call me crazy, call me sane, call me a believer, call me an attention seeker, call me whatever you please. But I beg of you to listen to what I tell you, because they’re real. They’re very real. As real as my shaking hands as I write this. The things that go bump in the night, the monsters under your bed, the thing in your closet, the creature with the red eyes watching you as you sleep, the things that haunted your childhood, the things that may still haunt you now. They are all real, and I’m about to tell you how I know, so please listen and take my advice: they feed off of negative emotions, fear, jealousy, anger, hatred, envy, sadness, loneliness, anything negative, they love it. Don’t let them know you’re scared it only makes them stronger. They’re all like that, but there’s one in particular that’s the worst about it. And this creature that I’m about to tell you about is one of them, one of the worst things you can imagine. And they’re real. Now listen closely as I tell you how I know.

It runs in my family. A sixth sense that some call ‘a psychic ability’. It comes in different forms; seeing the future, seeing the past, knowing the good, knowing the bad, sensing danger when it’s close by, lifting things without touching them, even being able to control thoughts and actions. Some are far more powerful than others, but not everybody has one of these abilities. There is one final form it takes, the ability to sense, see, and communicate with the dead. That is what runs in my family. Ever since I as little, I could walk into a house and tell you if someone died there or not, and tell you how they died, who they were, when they died, how old they were, what they looked like, if they were good or bad, anything. Of course only my mother believed me. She could tell too. My great aunt would have believed me too, if she were still alive. That’s how my mother and I knew it ran in the family, my great aunt had it. She would help the police find people and places and things when they had no more leads. She could bring them right to the spot they needed. She could see the past and the future, but only if it was bad. For example, she warned my grandparents not to move into this certain white house they were looking to buy. Well, they bought it, and my mother was attacked by the neighbor. She told them not to buy a certain red car. What did they do? They bought that red car. And what happened? It blew up the moment they stepped out of it, they were all alive, but burned and bloody. Nobody wanted to believe her, just like nobody wanted to believe my mother and I when we knew something was wrong. They called us crazy, but we aren’t and I can prove it.

I didn’t know I had this ability until I was about six, when we moved in with my step-grandparents. My mother didn’t like the house, neither did I. The room I got used to be my step uncle’s room. It was an old house, and there were two old crawl-spaces for storage in the room. They were fascinating to me. They were like little caves that I could crawl into and play in. My mother wouldn’t let me in them, though, she said it’s because there was lead paint in them, and she didn’t want me getting some on my hands and accidentally swallowing some. I listened, knowing it was possible because I always had, (and still do) bitten my fingernails. If I was playing and some got on my hands and I didn’t notice and bit my fingernails, my mom said I would have to go to the hospital. So I always listened. I was a good little girl and listened to my mother, always.

Of course, I know now that the lead paint wasn’t what my mother didn’t like about the crawl spaces. I never knew that she could feel it too. Feel that strange presence coming from them. The feelings of sadness and fear. It was almost overwhelming, but it was so knew, that it drew me near them.

Anyways, when we moved in, my boxes of old toys were put in the crawl spaces, and I usually just played on the floor. The crawl spaces were never what really scared me in that house. No. What really scared me was the closet. I wouldn’t go near it. I wouldn’t play with my back turned to it. I wouldn’t even sleep facing away from it. I hated it. Even in the daylight, it scared me. Why did it scare me so much? It was because at night, it would slide open, by itself, slowly, creaking on its old hinges as it did so. I would cower under my blankets, petrified. I would hear raspy breathing coming from it, like there was some ill, injured person trying to crawl out. Trying to be a brave little girl, I would jump out of bed, dash over to it, and slam it shut, then I would jump back into my bed and watch the door. Slowly, it would slide open again. I couldn’t sleep sometimes for nights on end.