thedespairzone

[thedespairzone]

The last words of Elias Edwards.

Before I share this story, I’ll preface it by saying I am not the author, and nor is my grandfather. After his passing, I found this amongst his belongings. Pieced together from torn and water-damaged scraps of paper were the last words of a man lost at sea. Alongside the tale was a glass bottle. Supposedly, this is the bottle that the story washed up ashore in. I will presume this tale to be real, instead of some elaborate piece of fiction, as my grandfather insisted upon this in his accompanying notes.

Without wasting any more of your time, I will now type out the story to the best of my abilities. Forgive me if some details are inaccurate - the handwriting is already bad, and almost illegible in some places due to water damage. I will use my grandfather’s speculative notes to assist me in places where the water damage is too great. 

Let’s begin: 

To whomever finds this note, be sure to keep it to yourself. I’ve a need to tell someone of my fate, but I wish not for my beloved to know of the tragedy that befell me. I’d rather she believed our ship was capsized, that we all drowned in the frozen hellscape of the Atlantic. I shall surely perish out here. Whether I drown, starve, or be eaten, I hope it will bring me peace. I want not for my own demise, I’ll make that much clear, but I no longer fear it. As a last remark, before I begin, let it be known that I don’t hold a grudge against anyone. I pray their souls feel the same about me. None of us were brave men. Not on that day. Least of all me.

My name is Elias Edwards. I am twenty-six. The year is 1846. I will die at sea, as have all but one of my shipmates. 

We set sail from the Bristol City Docks. We’ve a history of seafaring men in town, and whoever reads this will surely recognise us as the city that bestowed Blackbeard upon the world. With that sort of history, its no wonder we’ve so many fishermen and merchants clambering for a chance at sailing the high seas. We were a crew of one hundred and fifty men, each of us very capable. As our ship was presently the brawniest of the seaworthy bunch at Bristol City Docks, the academics at the University of Oxford had arranged for us to keep watch over a young scholar. He had been developing a device that would revolutionise seafaring, as they boldly claimed. The young lad, definitely no more than twenty-one, was named Henry Clark. 

I had expected Henry to be a meek academic; I’d known the type - scrawny, with such a penchant for all things scientific that he’d be sooner caught in bed with a book than a woman. But Henry gave a different impression. He fit in well with the crew, and we almost forgot that he was there for a reason other than pay. We had all said our farewells and see-you-soons to our betrothed, beloveds, firstborns, and mothers - each man to whomever it was he cared for the most in this world, and so we journeyed out to the Americas. Our ship was well stocked, and we carried with us crates of goods to be sold to the Yanks.

As our ship cleared her path out to sea, and the bustling docks melted away into the distance, a number of the men began a mild teasing of Henry - despite his friendly disposition, nothing was enough to save him from the mockery that one who had not found their sea legs would receive.  Amongst the group was my cousin; he too was a member of the crew. Albert Edwards, a little older than I, patted Henry on the back as the jests subsided. “Happens to everyone,” he reassured Henry. I went over to greet Albert, but stopped when I saw Henry pull a strange box from his pocket. 

My cousin and the others were fascinated by the machine too, and we all began to gather around the scholar. I can’t quite describe best how the machine looked; I’ve no knowledge of steam engines or any other such mechanisms. There were blinking flashes of red and green along one side, and on its front were a series of levers and switches that did only God knows what. A rectangle above the switches showed numbers that changed, six digits that increased and decreased for some reason unknown to me. Albert went to touch the box, but Henry quickly pulled it away. 

“We have to be very careful with this.” 

Henry refused to let anyone else touch it, but was more than happy for us to look. This new mystery device, the one that would revolutionise seafaring, soon became the talk of the whole crew. Many of us speculated upon how it worked, but none of us quite understood when Henry explained it. He told us to rest assured that, one day, nobody would set sail without one. While none of us could understand how it worked, Henry told us what it did. He said that its use was to pinpoint your exact position on the globe, and that’s what the numbers meant. We were all amazed, but after a number of days spent sailing, we carried on with our normal duties and forgot about Henry’s box. 

I shan’t bore you with details of ship life. The next two weeks were uneventful. There were no skirmishes with marauders or freebooters, no gunfights with other ships. Our canons were covered with dust - I wasn’t certain whether they had ever known the joy of firing. The Captain ran a tight ship, but enjoyed the company of a relaxed crew, so we entertained ourselves by playing cards and other such things when our attention wasn’t required. It was also a common occurrence for one or two items of freight to go missing from time to time - this trip it happened to be a few bottles of cider. We allowed ourselves to get merry on the drink we had brought, and every now and again on the drinks we were supposed to be delivering. 

On a night out in the middle of the Atlantic, Albert and I sat on the deck. I’d procured a bottle of cider, and Albert cracked in to a bottle of rum that he had stowed away below deck. We sat, bottles in hand, eyes up at the night sky. The blazes of stars lit the way for our journey, and we marvelled in the beauty of a thing we had seen a thousand times. But both of us, without saying a word, knew that the stars we looked at that night would be the same stars our wives looked at when night came for them. We spent some time watching, drinking, the ambient sounds of the ocean and creaking wood of the ship did well rocking us to relax on that still night.

Some time passed before either of us spoke.

“When we get this far out,” my cousin said, “it’s not nice to be away.”

“We’ve done it plenty of times.”

“You’re right. But I’ve got a boy now.”

Albert and his wife had their firstborn not long before we set sail. As horrid as it made him feel, he had to leave her with with their little William. We all need money - with an extra mouth to feed he needed it more than ever. We spoke about fatherhood; Albert’s newfound trials and tribulations, before Henry came to join us. 

“You should come and look at this.”

We each turned to face him, then followed him to the side of the ship. Henry peered over the side, and we followed suit. Beneath us was the ocean black, a glistening mirage of stars floating on its surface. 

“What are we looking at, Henry?” I asked.

Henry pulled his box from his pocket, the red light flickered and flashed like a flame blown by the wind. It made a repetitive ding, which sounded like the bell of a bicycle or some such noise. He watched the numbers closely. 

“There’s something strange beneath us.” He said. 

By this time, I had just about finished my cider. Henry asked me to drop the bottle into the ocean upon my finishing it. I swigged the dregs of my drink and dropped the bottle into the sea. It splashed against the surface, then sunk rapidly down - and as it did so the waters around it were ablaze with a golden hue. A perfect, fantastic, gold. 

“Wow. That’s incredible. What’s that there, then?” Albert asked. 

We thought about what it might be, before Henry hatched a plan. 

Albert recovered his empty, discarded rum bottle and found some rope, and some of the other men crowded around us to watch. Albert held the rope, and I fastened the other end of it securely to the bottle. We lowered it down the side of the boat and into the ocean. It swung and tugged in the breeze, but Albert held a steady hand. The moment it touched the water, a web of gold echoed about it. A subtle humming filled the air while we allowed the bottle to be filled with ocean water. I gazed upon the returning bottle filled with that flowing, glowing gold, and I felt inexplicably drawn to it. We all crowded around Albert as he pulled the bottle up the side of the ship. Some of the golden waters were sloshed around the outside of the bottle. Coiling the rope in one hand, Albert finally dangled the bottle onto the deck. 

“Nobody touch it.” Henry warned. “We need to see what it is first.” 

The crowd that had gathered grumbled at his caution, myself included. We all must have felt the same pull, the same yearning for the golden water. Albert, who had become quite drunk on his rum, complained that it was his bottle and he should be able to do what he wanted with it. Henry ignored the rabble, and unveiled a second device. Much like the first box we had all seen, this second one was of an equally confusing nature. Extending from one side of it was a glass appendage, which Henry dunked into the top of the bottle. It filled itself with the golden liquid. 

“This tells me what it is.” He informed us.��

While Henry was looking at the device he had kept hidden from us until this point, the golden glow within the bottle, and that which was dripping from its sides, had simmered down. It had faded and appeared as if it were regular water of the ocean. The crowed had lulled, but Albert reached forwards to the bottle, noting aloud in a drunken slur the obvious fact that it had faded. He placed his thumb over the mouth of the bottle, and shook it. Sure enough, the water inside began to sparkle again with that same dazzling gold. So did Albert’s hand, as he took it away from the still-wet bottleneck. The tip of his thumb was bright and golden. A number of the men laughed, and so did Albert - but his laugh slowly grew nervous, before falling silent. He began to scratch at his hand, to try to wipe off the gold, but all he did was spread it to his other hand. Albert scratched and scratched, his breath became snatched. I asked him what was wrong.

“Don’t touch me!” My cousin screamed as both myself and others tried to help him and see what was the matter. He panicked, whirling about, before he began to wail in pain. Alongside Albert’s screams was that same humming chorus - we all heard it, rumbling and ominous. I wanted to help Albert, but was terrified of going near him. I knew that the rest of the crew felt the same. He flailed about, winding and twisting himself around and around as he desperately tried to remove the golden waters from himself, but all he could do was spread it further. Albert’s skin began to bubble, began to pop, and even began to fall off. Flesh dripped from my dear cousin’s arms as he begged God for mercy. One man tried to throw some of his alcohol over Albert to wash away the gold, but it didn’t work. I winced and turned away from the scene. The constitution of my stomach was not enough to behold the sight any longer. In the commotion, with my hand held before my mouth and facing away, I noticed Henry skulking behind the mast. 

“Where are you off to?” I called over the screams and humming, dashing over to him. 

“I told everyone not to touch it. I’m leaving.” He said, flicking the levers and dials on a device of his. I went to reach towards him, to grab him and tell him to explain himself… 

Perhaps it was a mix of the alcohol and all the panic in the air, but I swear I saw Henry vanish before my very eyes. Like a spectre, he disappeared. I know not how, but it must have been something to do with his device. I was stood in shock for a moment, trying to understand how a man could do such a thing. It was as if he flicked a switch on his box, then folded into himself, as if he was being crunched and eaten by some invisible beast. He folded and folded, all within the space of a second, until he was no more. Gone... 

While I was preoccupied being completely dumbfounded by what had happened with Henry, the ship had fallen into complete disarray. The alcohol that someone had thrown onto Albert had facilitated the spread of the gold; and in all of the confusion someone must have knocked the first bottle over. I quickly climbed the rigging, and saw others following in my footsteps. Hand over hand, foot over foot, I scrambled my way up high and perched atop the crow’s nest. Canon fire blared beneath the screaming and humming on deck; and I looked down around at the chaos that unfolded before me.

It was a terrible golden mist that slithered upon the side of the boat, reaching at us and clawing its way ever closer. It moved slowly, yet we couldn’t outrun it; there was nowhere to run to. Slowly, but strongly, the sea spray stuttered and juddered its way above and over the walls of the ship, engulfing the bow and marking men for dead with its gentlest touch. Men with melting flesh climbed to reach me, but fell back to the deck as the searing pain became too much for them. 

As strange as it sounds, there was forever an allure about the golden mist that fluttered in the wind. Though I saw it burn through whatever it met, I felt a desire to reach out below the crow’s nest and touch it. I was wise enough to refrain from doing so, but something about the mist could draw men in. Pandemonium was unleashed below me by the onslaught of the golden mist - which reached just below my perch. I sat terrified as I waited for everything to stop, the screaming, the humming. The canon fire had ceased, likely as soon as the operators realised how fruitless an effort it was to fire a cannon at mist and water. 

The ship began to violently rock, side to side, until I could no longer peek over the side of the crow’s nest for fear of falling to my death - be it the mist or the impact that took me, I desired neither. I hunkered down and crouched hidden, surrounded by the small circle of wood that acted as my final wall of protection. I was wobbled by the rocking of the ship, and I tried to hold myself still, but the rocking soon became so violent that I was thrown back and forth by the assault. I cowered in my hiding hole, too timid to face the horrors below, dwelling upon the thought that my friends among the crew, and my dearest cousin Albert, had by now all but fallen apart by the will of the golden mist. 

X X X

From that point onwards, my memories are terribly ill-defined. I must’ve hit my head while I was being flung by the rocking of the boat. I’ve no idea how this came to pass, but when I awoke amidst the scattered, floating wreckage of the ship, I was still afloat myself in the bucket-shaped crow’s nest. Amongst the floating debris were some crates - gifted to me in them are the parchments on which I have written this message, and the bottle in which I will seal this message. And, of course, plenty of cider to keep me company in my final days - though God knows how much of the beloved stuff we’ve lost to the sea floor. 

Make no mistake: I wish I could have helped even just one soul. But to see a man’s flesh fall from his bones as if he were well-cooked meat is enough to send the bravest of men into a blind panic. Please, cousin, hold no grudge against me for my cowardice; I’m serving my punishment, withering away to nothing while drifting aimlessly through the barren ocean blue. 

I’m growing weary as I write now. I’m sensing that the end is near. Whoever finds this, wherever it may wash ashore, thank you for letting me share my story with you. 

I shall now drink the remainder of that which floats with me. If you would be so kind, have a drink with me as you read my final farewell. 

- Elias Edwards

Unfortunately, a lot is left unanswered by Elias. My grandfather’s notes focus heavily on working out what the “golden mist” was, with the avenues he has explored being related to bioluminescent plankton, various microbes, and even the mythological sirens. He also focuses very intently on Henry Clark, and working out how he “disappeared” - though with the fact that Elias had been drinking and had hit his head, I can’t be certain whether any of this really happened. 

#short story #horror #creepypasta #writers on tumblr #my writing

[thedespairzone]

The Man Who Was The Sun.

[narration link] 

The first time I saw him, I was twelve. I was asleep, and then I was awoken by nothing in particular. I looked up from my bed, and saw him. A frail man, with boyish proportions, hunched over in the corner of my room. I could see his spine protruding, casting shadows on his back in the darkness. His head was comically large. He turned to face me.

“Hello. My name is Sundance, and I am the Sun.”

A rasping voice echoed throughout the darkness. His words were low, croaky, and in whispering tones. I focused on his face; that great, round, yellow disc. With unmoving lips, and unblinking eyes, Sundance smiled. A permanent stare, and a permanent smile. From that yellow face, eight beams burst. Golden, twisting, metallic spikes shot out individually, clockwise around Sundance’s face.

I screamed, and I woke up again. It was morning, and I was in my bed. Sundance was nowhere to be seen. I felt safe, knowing it was just a dream. But then he came the next night. And the next night. And the next. Despite his unnerving appearance, I became less afraid of Sundance. He would always greet me in the same way.

Hello. My name is Sundance, and I am the Sun.

One night, after I had completely grown used to his appearances, I spoke to Sundance. It was a warm night in the Summer holidays. I remember being too warm to get under the covers, but doing so anyway, because I felt exposed. When I “woke up”, Sundance was in his usual spot.

“Hello.” He began. “My name is Sundance, and I am the Sun.”

“Hi, Sundance. I’m Joe.”

“Hello, Joe.” Sundance straightened with a creak. His metal lips smiled. His vacant eyes stared. “I’m a little cold, Joe.”

“Oh, are you? It’s really warm, though.” I said.

“May I lay next to you?” He gestured to my bed.

“Um, the bed is quite small.” I said.

“Oh, don’t fear, Joe.” Sundance took a few steps towards me. “I shan’t take up much room.” He slithered into the bed next to me. He sat up straight, wrapping the blanket over his shirtless body. His bones poked into my skin as he nudged himself closer to me. He was cold. Fingers traced along my arm. His nails jagged, sharp.

In the morning, I woke pressed against the wall. I had found a newfound fear of Sundance. I had grown used to his visits, but that dream had rekindled the uncomfort I felt when I saw him. I didn’t see him for many nights after that. Not until I was thirteen. When the fear of Sundance had finally faded, he returned.

“Hello.” Sundance said. “My name is Sundance, and I am the Sun.”

I silently stared, watching Sundance. He looked less emaciated, though still frail. His spine was less visible upon his back.

“Joe.” Sundance snapped. “Are you not going to converse with me?” He swivelled quickly, to reveal his face. Smiling. Staring.

“Sorry, Sundance.” I stuttered.

“I’m cold, Joe.”

“I don’t think I should-”

“Show some hospitality, Joe.” Sundance interjected. His croaking voice trickling into my ears, as he slid once more into my bed. That same cold skin pressed against mine. Sundance’s feet poked out of the end of my covers. Bare, thin, crooked toes wriggled with glee as Sundance wrapped an arm around my shoulders. Yellowed toenails sat atop his writhing worms like little wax stamps.

The next day at school, I found myself unable to focus. I couldn’t get any of my schoolwork done. I was punished for this, and sent to isolation. In isolation, one would have their belongings confiscated, being made to sit in a small room with nobody else present. I was given several worksheets and a pen. I began drawing on the back of the worksheets, as I wasn’t exactly in the mood to do maths. Absentmindedly, I doodled.

As I drew many innocuous little things, I felt a sharp pain in the nape of my neck. I placed my hand at the source of the pain, and felt a thin, waving, twisting metal. I jerked away, and spun around to face what was behind me.

“Hello.” Said Sundance. “My name is Sundance, and I am the Sun.”

“Help!” I shouted. I backed away from Sundance, climbing over the tables and chairs to the front of the room.

“What do you need help with, Joe?” Sundance giggled.

“Get away from me, go away.” I cried. “Someone, help!”

“Oh, I see.” Sundance took my seat. “You need help with these pictures, don’t you Joe?”

I tried to open the door, but it wouldn’t move. The door didn’t have a lock on it, but still it was stuck in place. I watched Sundance as he drew. He held the pen in his fist, much like a child would. He scrawled frantically, stopping to look up at me before looking back to the paper to continue scribbling.

“Finished, Joe!” Sundance held the paper with pride.

I woke up at my isolation desk. Drawn upon each of my worksheets was a crude picture of Sundance. That same smile, those same eyes. The eight rays of sunshine that poked from his head. I scrunched the pieces of paper into balls, and dumped them all in the waste bin in the corner of the room.

I became used to being reprimanded for misbehaving over the next number of years. The constant panic I felt that Sundance would visit me loomed over me, clouding my every thought. A persistent fog in my mind, Sundance’s smile was lingering in my head. I found it hard to focus, to remember things, to do much of anything. My mind would slowly drift back to that cold, wet skin, and those unblinking eyes. When I was fifteen, I began sleeping with a knife under my pillow. I had gotten it from one of the older boys at school.

“Hello.” In that tone I dreaded, Sundance revelled in his own glee. “My name is Sundance, and I am the Sun.

“Leave me alone.” I muttered under my breath, covering myself completely with my covers.

“That’s not very nice, Joe.” Sundance tore away my blankets. His smiling face peered down at my curled up body. He was larger than before, he looked fuller, more radiant.

I slowly reached under my pillow. Wrapping my hand around the folding knife, I flicked the blade open with my thumb.

“Joe. Share with me your bed.” Sundance dug his jagged nails into my thigh.

“No!” I shouted, and jerked towards him with the knife. My trembling hands were barely able to meet their target, but still, I plunged the knife into Sundance.

“Oh!” Sundance stumbled backwards, and I fell on top of him. I stabbed him, and stabbed him, and stabbed him. I kept stabbing him. With every thrust, Sundance let out a little yelp. I kept stabbing him until he stopped.

I sat atop Sundance, and looked at the knife. It wasn’t wet with blood, but instead with a thick, greasy oil that layered Sundance’s skin. Still, blood poured from him. I felt a great relief. I closed my eyes, and dropped the knife from my shaking hands, ready to stand up and leave. Greasy fingertips grabbed my hips, squeezing my flesh, pulling me back downwards.

“Now it is my turn to penetrate you, Joe.” Sundance reached up, lifting my by the throat. I struggled, kicked, scratched at his arm. His skin grease caught under my fingernails, and I left no marks on him. His stab wounds were still pouring blood, but he paid them no notice. Reaching above his head, Sundance grasped the top sunbeam. It clicked as he uprooted it. I looked Sundance in the eyes, and there was the first time I had ever seen his expression change. Sundance frowned. His lips cracked and warped downwards, little gapes filling the splitting mouth. His eyes narrowed. Sundance sunk his shimmering sunbeam into my stomach. The blistering metal burned as he swished it around inside of me. I saw a smile return to Sundance’s face, and my vision faded.

Sundance’s giggles as he tore me open played in my head like a broken record. I couldn’t have imagined such intense pain. The pure hatred that settled upon that metallic face. The anger and disgust that Sundance felt, that I would dare defy him. A burning malevolence carved into those sunken eyes.

***

I had believed myself dead, yet I was still thinking, feeling. I slowly opened my eyes, and in the blackness of the world around me I saw a distant light. I found that I was alone, in what was seemingly a void, aside from that distant glow. Floating. I looked down at myself. My stomach was agape, and little chunks of myself floated alongside me in the black. Before I could question what was happening, I felt myself pulled towards the light.

Globules formed on my skin, born of the blood that had poured from my stomach. Little red balls floated alongside me, weightless, like tiny cherries. The pull of the light became stronger, and I knew that soon I would pass the event horizon. My thoughts were few as the light grew brighter. Closer. A great orb that encompassed the majority of my vision. In those moments, I only held a melancholy acceptance - this was the light at the end of the tunnel that so many people described. I noticed waves, indentations, spots, and other imperfections upon the light. Slowly, those imperfections shifted to the right, as the great orb rotated.

“Hello.” A booming, skull shattering voice called from all around me. Still, despite its omnipresent echoing, it was a familiar croak. First, the corner of a great eye came into view. “My name is Sundance.” Lips spoke with thunderous volume. Wide, red lips. Cracked and dry. “And I am the Sun.”

In full view, I beheld the great light in all of its terrifying magnitude. Sundance. A vast star. He opened his mouth. Wide, all-consuming, it grew to encompass his entire face. I could do nothing but scream as I drifted towards the chasm. Closer. Closer. Closer still. I screamed for what felt like hours, screamed until my throat was raw, Still, I hadn’t reached him. I endlessly floated onwards, and soon felt no fear of Sundance. Instead, only that same melancholic acceptance remained. I had become too exhausted to scream, to feel that fear.

A shadow loomed over me as I approached the final stretch, passing the boundary of Sundance’s lips. A thick spiral of tiny teeth lined the inside of Sundance’s gaping mouth, and I was sucked towards the central singularity of Sundance’s throat. Little laughs resonated around me, as if each of the tiny teeth were giggling at my expense. The white stalactites peppered my skin with dripping boiling water. Slowly, the mouth closed, and I was engulfed in darkness.

***

Sundance stood over my body. He was fat, gelatinous. His body wobbled as he leaned over to pick me up from the floor. Weak, dejected, I tried to struggle. I tried to release myself from his grasp, but there was no fight left in me. Were his grip not so tight, I’d have slipped through his oily, greasy arms like butter. Sundance hummed a merry tune as he raised me above his head, and dropped me onto the sunbeam spikes that lined his face.

***

Everywhere I look, I see him. I see his rotten nails, his greasy skin. I see his eyes, and I see his face in the sky. I always feel cold. I always feel alone. I try to meet new people, so that I won’t be alone. I always introduce myself politely. I find myself looking for someone who will share their bed with me, just to let me warm myself up a little. It’s not that I wish to impose, I’m just so cold. Perhaps one of my new little friends will speak to me soon.

#creepypasta #horror #short story #lovecrafian

[thedespairzone]

I have a narration of this story with original music here!

The Enigma of Roger Roundhead

I’m pretty sure I was their biggest fan since the beginning. When I first saw them performing, they were busking in Bristol’s shopping district. It really is a nice city, and the amount of young, fresh-faced musicians you see on the street adds to its endearing appeal. You’ll find all sorts of singers and songwriters trying their luck with the public.

One Saturday, I was out with a friend. We were on our way to grab a bite to eat, and there they were. The strangest sight I had seen all day. Three men busking - something that would have usually been a normal occurrence. I barely even noticed the other two, the frontman was so uniquely captivating that I stopped in my tracks. I couldn’t take my eyes from him. There he stood, playing an acoustic guitar. From his neck downwards, there didn’t seem anything out of the ordinary about him - brown boots, cargos, vest, average build. But then there was his head. What looked to be a great, big, white papier-mâché ball. Some sort of gimmick, I thought; despite that I found it utterly enthralling.

With an accompanying banjo and a cajon, the trio sang away. My friend pulled at my arm, but I stayed still, paying an intense attention to the band. The humdrum of a passing group obscured my focus, and I came to.

“Yeah, sorry, just watching the buskers.”

I saw a cardboard sign on the floor. Written in a thick, black marker were the words Roger Roundhead and the Trashmen. I repeated the name out loud with a child-like curiosity.

“Fitting name.” My friend laughed. “Right, I’m starving, shall we get going?”

We went and got some food from the market stands, but still I couldn’t remove the image of Roger Roundhead from my mind.

When I later searched their name, I could find little about them. I found it strange that such an interesting performance didn’t have an online presence. There were no videos on YouTube, and no songs on Spotify. So I decided I had to follow them, to see their music, to have more than a thirty second glimpse. I was hooked.

I went to town on my own the following Saturday, in hopes that they’d be busking in the same spot. As luck would have it, they were. Playing the same song that I had heard before, this time I was able to sit down and listen properly to the whole thing.

It wasn’t even my sort of music, if I’m completely honest. It felt a little too political for my liking, and the rhythms and melodies weren’t particularly different to anything I had heard before. If anything, it was a little repetitive. But still, I tried not to blink for fear of missing as much as a second of Roger Roundhead and the Trashmen. Something about Roger unfalteringly drew me in, as if I was being compelled to simply sit and observe him. The song finished, and I looked around. Dotted about were a small number of other people who were equally invested in the group of buskers. After performing only a few songs, Roger Roundhead and the Trashmen packed up their belongings and left.

I watched them busk on a number of occasions, and quickly became familiar with all of their songs. Still, I was never able to discover an online presence - until I found out that they would be performing at a small venue called The Fleece. Though it wasn’t their own online presence, they were mentioned by another local band. Some friends were fans of them, and were already going to the concert. I instantly decided to tag along when the band stated that Roger Roundhead and the Trashmen would be opening for them.

Their opening performance was much like their busking performances. It had the exact same format, and they played the same songs. Still, I was unable to turn away from Roger. My friends were divided in opinion - half of them just wanted the main band to perform, the others were as captivated by the opening act as I was. And so I went on, going to concerts simply because Roger Roundhead and the Trashmen were the opening act. Performing at a number of different venues, I followed them as far as Cardiff. And then, they returned to Bristol, to perform at The Marble Factory. This time, however, would be their first time as a headlining act.

***

It was a Saturday night, and the place was packed. We stood like sardines, pressed against one another, clambering to reach the front beside the stage. I was lucky enough to get a front row view. I was with two of my friends - Will and Theo. They were the ones who were as equally fascinated by the band as I was at that first concert they opened at.

“When are they gonna start?” Will anxiously peered onto the stage. “I hate it when bands are late.”

By the time I had looked at Will, and looked back at the stage, the Trashmen were positioned ready to perform. Roger Roundhead was yet to show himself. Instead of their usual banjo and cajon, the Trashmen were equipped with a more standard drum kit and bass guitar. As we patiently waited, smoke filled the stage, and the lights dimmed. The blackness gave way to silent excitement. The crowed waited with anticipation. As if to treat us to an appetiser, strobe lights flashed. And shortly after, out emerged that familiar round head - the main course. Like a disco ball, the strobe lights seemed to bounce from him. Roger Roundhead brandished a new guitar; black and white circles rippled outwards sequentially from its centre. Cheers burst from the crowd, but soon were dulled into silence as Roger raised a finger to his round head.

“Shhhhh.”

As silence befell the venue, he began to play. The strobe lights flashed in time with the beats. The same riff, over and over. The drums rhythmically repeating a backing line, the bass reiterating the guitar’s melody. A continuous line, incessant repetition, I found myself mesmerised. I stared at Roger, at his guitar. The circles felt like they were moving. Roger bobbed in time with his playing. The smoke cleared, but the strobe lights pressed onwards with a lightning speed. Then Roger Roundhead began to sing.

His voice was masked by numerous strange vocal effects, but it was still distinctly him. Regardless, it was nothing like the music I had heard them play while busking. He swayed his hips forwards and backwards with each note of the rhythm. The distorted vocals droned, and took a backseat to the repeating melody. Over and over the notes repeated an enchanting hex, words that I couldn’t make out worming their way into my mind. Not of my own volition, I felt myself swaying with the rest of the crowd. Seeds of Roger Roundhead’s words planted themselves in my head. I watched them play, waving, swaying, leaning forwards past the barrier that guarded the stage.

Roger Roundhead plucked a final note, and we were thrust into darkness.

***

Echoes of light peppered my vision, though never truly lit the way. I called out to my friends, but made no sound. The little lights resonated with my intended vocalisations, seemingly responding to the noise I was trying to make.

“Hello?” I didn’t say.

Two lights blinked one after the other.

“Who’s there?”

A flurry of lights flickered and flashed - I spun around in place, watching the strobe orbs that surrounded me. Some were a warm glow of orange that phased in and out of blackness, others a pleasant green that jittered about, and a few were a soothing purple that would rise and sink. I swivelled and stumbled, searching for any indication of what was happening, searching for my friends. I was only met with more lights. As I waded through the glowing waters of the space around me, bioluminescence splashed in place, those little lights bouncing from my body. Like tiny fireflies with no weight, no form, the lights flittered about my person until I stopped moving.

“Hello?” I didn’t call out, again.

Two lights blinked one after the other, again.

“Hello!” I tried to shout.

The same lights blinked.

“What’s going on?”

The lights formed a line forwards, flashing in sequence, the ripples of a glowing array pointing me in a direction. I followed the path set before me, that seemed to stretch on as far as the eye could see. I trudged along, for no longer than thirty seconds, before I began to feel myself lifted up. I spun around, and below me were a series of lights, carrying me upon their formless selves. They raised me further, until I was met with a small circle. Again, more little lights, though this time they were white. I passed through the circle.

Passing the threshold, I felt myself accelerating. I saw lights beginning to pass by me, faster and faster, until they all formed a single blur around me. I began to shout, feelings of fear sloshed around and mixed together with adrenaline and ecstasy. Faster. Faster. I kept accelerating. A warping, wobbling, winding tunnel formed around me, spiralling smaller and smaller, into a thin tube. I reached an unimaginable velocity, and passed through the ever-narrowing pin-prick exit.

A painted world surrounded me, a sky of oils and watercolours, a mixed media painting that splattered and slurried vastly, trickling with wet whites and drying blues. Velvet hills of rolling green, with a smattering of flowers waving in time to a familiar rhythm. The music, it played still - Roger Roundhead performed. The lights danced with precise, rhythmic intentions. And at the centre of it all, Roger and his bandmates. I felt my form slip away, and watched my body return through the pin-prick entrance to this painted world. Sucked violently backwards, it flew. Then there I was; a little green light. Happy, content, and perfectly in time, I danced carelessly and unthinkingly.

I spent no longer than an evening, enjoying the music, enjoying the company of my shapeless compatriots, before a great typhoon whisked the world up, and a tremendous mash of lights and painted hills were washed away. And then there I was, in my body, laid in the same darkness as before. I stood up. I tried to walk forwards again, but tripped over something. I tumbled onto a soft surface, and, as I broke the fall with my hands, felt that it was a person. I pushed myself back up. I felt shuffling around me. Other people were rising. A confused murmur reverberated around me, and I participated in the crowd’s muttering.

The venue lights flashed on, and I saw before me an empty stage. A crowd of dazed people wobbled to their feet, and I scanned the room for my friends. I was aware of how thirsty I was, how stuffy the room was. It was hard to breathe, and I could see other people experiencing the same discomfort that I was feeling. Amidst the fray, I did not see my friends, but found my way to the exit. I gasped for air as I fell into a flowing street, the waves of people exiting the building dragged me into the fury of the blistering midday sun.

Wasn’t it night-time?

I scratched my head, trying to work out exactly how long the night had lasted, and whether everyone else had experienced what I had. The details of the painted world were fuzzy, fading in and out of my memory. It was like trying to remember a dream. The more I thought of it, the further it slipped away from me. I took my phone from my pocket, intending to check the time. The battery was dead. I took a bus home, grabbed a glass of water, and put my phone on charge.

I had fifty-seven missed calls, a plethora of text messages, and was inundated with social media notifications.

“Are you ok?”

“Where are you?”

“What’s going on?”

“Call me please.”

Voice mails from my parents and friends, all concerned as to where I was. It wouldn’t have been the first time I stayed out all night, it shouldn’t have been an issue. Then, my mum walked through the door. As soon as she saw me, she ran towards me, hitting me with a whirlwind of emotions; crying, shouting, hugging me, hitting me. When I nonchalantly asked her what the problem was, her jaw was agape.

She explained that I had been missing for three months. She had reported me missing to the police. My friends had been reporting missing too. I was still in a state of confusion, and my Mother’s babbling words didn’t help. I had been gone for an evening, not three months. Little anxious ideas raced around in my head, bouncing from wall to wall within my skull. It was possible that I had been spiked with something, and that I was still under the influence of it. I had been gone for an evening, I went to a concert. I hadn’t been gone for three months. I knew that, but my mother - if it was really her - didn’t. I tried to focus, to see if I could wake up from whatever this was. But I couldn’t.

Roger Roundhead and the Trashmen disappeared. I didn’t hear of any more performances by them, it’s almost as if they never existed. Maybe they’re still in the painted world, but I wouldn’t know. Everyone says I was missing for three months, and I tell them I don’t remember anything. My friends and I agreed to say that whenever anyone asked, but we still talk about that evening amongst ourselves. We have theories about it, but I know that we won’t ever come to a solid conclusion. At the end of it all, all we can do is reminisce, and hope that we can go back - just for an evening.

[thedespairzone]

The Enigma of Roger Roundhead

I’m pretty sure I was their biggest fan since the beginning. When I first saw them performing, they were busking in Bristol’s shopping district. It really is a nice city, and the amount of young, fresh-faced musicians you see on the street adds to its endearing appeal. You’ll find all sorts of singers and songwriters trying their luck with the public.

One Saturday, I was out with a friend. We were on our way to grab a bite to eat, and there they were. The strangest sight I had seen all day. Three men busking - something that would have usually been a normal occurrence. I barely even noticed the other two, the frontman was so uniquely captivating that I stopped in my tracks. I couldn’t take my eyes from him. There he stood, playing an acoustic guitar. From his neck downwards, there didn’t seem anything out of the ordinary about him - brown boots, cargos, vest, average build. But then there was his head. What looked to be a great, big, white papier-mâché ball. Some sort of gimmick, I thought; despite that I found it utterly enthralling.

With an accompanying banjo and a cajon, the trio sang away. My friend pulled at my arm, but I stayed still, paying an intense attention to the band. The humdrum of a passing group obscured my focus, and I came to.

“Yeah, sorry, just watching the buskers.”

I saw a cardboard sign on the floor. Written in a thick, black marker were the words Roger Roundhead and the Trashmen. I repeated the name out loud with a child-like curiosity.

“Fitting name.” My friend laughed. “Right, I’m starving, shall we get going?”

We went and got some food from the market stands, but still I couldn’t remove the image of Roger Roundhead from my mind.

When I later searched their name, I could find little about them. I found it strange that such an interesting performance didn’t have an online presence. There were no videos on YouTube, and no songs on Spotify. So I decided I had to follow them, to see their music, to have more than a thirty second glimpse. I was hooked.

I went to town on my own the following Saturday, in hopes that they’d be busking in the same spot. As luck would have it, they were. Playing the same song that I had heard before, this time I was able to sit down and listen properly to the whole thing.

It wasn’t even my sort of music, if I’m completely honest. It felt a little too political for my liking, and the rhythms and melodies weren’t particularly different to anything I had heard before. If anything, it was a little repetitive. But still, I tried not to blink for fear of missing as much as a second of Roger Roundhead and the Trashmen. Something about Roger unfalteringly drew me in, as if I was being compelled to simply sit and observe him. The song finished, and I looked around. Dotted about were a small number of other people who were equally invested in the group of buskers. After performing only a few songs, Roger Roundhead and the Trashmen packed up their belongings and left.

I watched them busk on a number of occasions, and quickly became familiar with all of their songs. Still, I was never able to discover an online presence - until I found out that they would be performing at a small venue called The Fleece. Though it wasn’t their own online presence, they were mentioned by another local band. Some friends were fans of them, and were already going to the concert. I instantly decided to tag along when the band stated that Roger Roundhead and the Trashmen would be opening for them.

Their opening performance was much like their busking performances. It had the exact same format, and they played the same songs. Still, I was unable to turn away from Roger. My friends were divided in opinion - half of them just wanted the main band to perform, the others were as captivated by the opening act as I was. And so I went on, going to concerts simply because Roger Roundhead and the Trashmen were the opening act. Performing at a number of different venues, I followed them as far as Cardiff. And then, they returned to Bristol, to perform at The Marble Factory. This time, however, would be their first time as a headlining act.

***

It was a Saturday night, and the place was packed. We stood like sardines, pressed against one another, clambering to reach the front beside the stage. I was lucky enough to get a front row view. I was with two of my friends - Will and Theo. They were the ones who were as equally fascinated by the band as I was at that first concert they opened at.

“When are they gonna start?” Will anxiously peered onto the stage. “I hate it when bands are late.”

By the time I had looked at Will, and looked back at the stage, the Trashmen were positioned ready to perform. Roger Roundhead was yet to show himself. Instead of their usual banjo and cajon, the Trashmen were equipped with a more standard drum kit and bass guitar. As we patiently waited, smoke filled the stage, and the lights dimmed. The blackness gave way to silent excitement. The crowed waited with anticipation. As if to treat us to an appetiser, strobe lights flashed. And shortly after, out emerged that familiar round head - the main course. Like a disco ball, the strobe lights seemed to bounce from him. Roger Roundhead brandished a new guitar; black and white circles rippled outwards sequentially from its centre. Cheers burst from the crowd, but soon were dulled into silence as Roger raised a finger to his round head.

“Shhhhh.”

As silence befell the venue, he began to play. The strobe lights flashed in time with the beats. The same riff, over and over. The drums rhythmically repeating a backing line, the bass reiterating the guitar’s melody. A continuous line, incessant repetition, I found myself mesmerised. I stared at Roger, at his guitar. The circles felt like they were moving. Roger bobbed in time with his playing. The smoke cleared, but the strobe lights pressed onwards with a lightning speed. Then Roger Roundhead began to sing.

His voice was masked by numerous strange vocal effects, but it was still distinctly him. Regardless, it was nothing like the music I had heard them play while busking. He swayed his hips forwards and backwards with each note of the rhythm. The distorted vocals droned, and took a backseat to the repeating melody. Over and over the notes repeated an enchanting hex, words that I couldn’t make out worming their way into my mind. Not of my own volition, I felt myself swaying with the rest of the crowd. Seeds of Roger Roundhead’s words planted themselves in my head. I watched them play, waving, swaying, leaning forwards past the barrier that guarded the stage.

Roger Roundhead plucked a final note, and we were thrust into darkness.

***

Echoes of light peppered my vision, though never truly lit the way. I called out to my friends, but made no sound. The little lights resonated with my intended vocalisations, seemingly responding to the noise I was trying to make.

“Hello?” I didn’t say.

Two lights blinked one after the other.

“Who’s there?”

A flurry of lights flickered and flashed - I spun around in place, watching the strobe orbs that surrounded me. Some were a warm glow of orange that phased in and out of blackness, others a pleasant green that jittered about, and a few were a soothing purple that would rise and sink. I swivelled and stumbled, searching for any indication of what was happening, searching for my friends. I was only met with more lights. As I waded through the glowing waters of the space around me, bioluminescence splashed in place, those little lights bouncing from my body. Like tiny fireflies with no weight, no form, the lights flittered about my person until I stopped moving.

“Hello?” I didn’t call out, again.

Two lights blinked one after the other, again.

“Hello!” I tried to shout.

The same lights blinked.

“What’s going on?”

The lights formed a line forwards, flashing in sequence, the ripples of a glowing array pointing me in a direction. I followed the path set before me, that seemed to stretch on as far as the eye could see. I trudged along, for no longer than thirty seconds, before I began to feel myself lifted up. I spun around, and below me were a series of lights, carrying me upon their formless selves. They raised me further, until I was met with a small circle. Again, more little lights, though this time they were white. I passed through the circle.

Passing the threshold, I felt myself accelerating. I saw lights beginning to pass by me, faster and faster, until they all formed a single blur around me. I began to shout, feelings of fear sloshed around and mixed together with adrenaline and ecstasy. Faster. Faster. I kept accelerating. A warping, wobbling, winding tunnel formed around me, spiralling smaller and smaller, into a thin tube. I reached an unimaginable velocity, and passed through the ever-narrowing pin-prick exit.

A painted world surrounded me, a sky of oils and watercolours, a mixed media painting that splattered and slurried vastly, trickling with wet whites and drying blues. Velvet hills of rolling green, with a smattering of flowers waving in time to a familiar rhythm. The music, it played still - Roger Roundhead performed. The lights danced with precise, rhythmic intentions. And at the centre of it all, Roger and his bandmates. I felt my form slip away, and watched my body return through the pin-prick entrance to this painted world. Sucked violently backwards, it flew. Then there I was; a little green light. Happy, content, and perfectly in time, I danced carelessly and unthinkingly.

I spent no longer than an evening, enjoying the music, enjoying the company of my shapeless compatriots, before a great typhoon whisked the world up, and a tremendous mash of lights and painted hills were washed away. And then there I was, in my body, laid in the same darkness as before. I stood up. I tried to walk forwards again, but tripped over something. I tumbled onto a soft surface, and, as I broke the fall with my hands, felt that it was a person. I pushed myself back up. I felt shuffling around me. Other people were rising. A confused murmur reverberated around me, and I participated in the crowd’s muttering.

The venue lights flashed on, and I saw before me an empty stage. A crowd of dazed people wobbled to their feet, and I scanned the room for my friends. I was aware of how thirsty I was, how stuffy the room was. It was hard to breathe, and I could see other people experiencing the same discomfort that I was feeling. Amidst the fray, I did not see my friends, but found my way to the exit. I gasped for air as I fell into a flowing street, the waves of people exiting the building dragged me into the fury of the blistering midday sun.

Wasn’t it night-time?

I scratched my head, trying to work out exactly how long the night had lasted, and whether everyone else had experienced what I had. The details of the painted world were fuzzy, fading in and out of my memory. It was like trying to remember a dream. The more I thought of it, the further it slipped away from me. I took my phone from my pocket, intending to check the time. The battery was dead. I took a bus home, grabbed a glass of water, and put my phone on charge.

I had fifty-seven missed calls, a plethora of text messages, and was inundated with social media notifications.

“Are you ok?”

“Where are you?”

“What’s going on?”

“Call me please.”

Voice mails from my parents and friends, all concerned as to where I was. It wouldn’t have been the first time I stayed out all night, it shouldn’t have been an issue. Then, my mum walked through the door. As soon as she saw me, she ran towards me, hitting me with a whirlwind of emotions; crying, shouting, hugging me, hitting me. When I nonchalantly asked her what the problem was, her jaw was agape.

She explained that I had been missing for three months. She had reported me missing to the police. My friends had been reporting missing too. I was still in a state of confusion, and my Mother’s babbling words didn’t help. I had been gone for an evening, not three months. Little anxious ideas raced around in my head, bouncing from wall to wall within my skull. It was possible that I had been spiked with something, and that I was still under the influence of it. I had been gone for an evening, I went to a concert. I hadn’t been gone for three months. I knew that, but my mother - if it was really her - didn’t. I tried to focus, to see if I could wake up from whatever this was. But I couldn’t.

Roger Roundhead and the Trashmen disappeared. I didn’t hear of any more performances by them, it’s almost as if they never existed. Maybe they’re still in the painted world, but I wouldn’t know. Everyone says I was missing for three months, and I tell them I don’t remember anything. My friends and I agreed to say that whenever anyone asked, but we still talk about that evening amongst ourselves. We have theories about it, but I know that we won’t ever come to a solid conclusion. At the end of it all, all we can do is reminisce, and hope that we can go back - just for an evening.

#creepypasta #original writing #short story #first person narrative #horror