Creepypasta: Shadow of Unit 731

Creepypasta: Shadow of Unit 731

“Have you ever thought of how lucky, no…no, not lucky. Rather, how blessed and messianic you really are?”

The voice was flat. Dull, even. Emotionally it showed zero signature of how to even understand human vocal inflection. None of this would be scary were it not for the fact that the voice was so plainly coming from a human. A human cowardly observing the sick man through a bulletproof one-way mirror and addressing him via a PA system, but a human regardless. He had said he didn’t want to talk to his patient, saying it might affect the experiment. But he’d claimed his hand had been forced by such uncooperative behavior.

“I came here to be cured!” Timothy bawled as he slammed his forehead against the graying-white room’s sole article of furniture, a simple battered cot. Just like all the furniture, it had ISCD stamped on the frame. Institution of Study and Care for the Diseased. At this point, though, Timothy honestly felt like he wasn’t the one who was diseased.  

“You. Sick. Fuck” Tim snarled. “What are, why, just-…please tell me, what you doing this for?”

“You’ve asked me that question many times, honoured resident” the man on the other side of the mirror said. The worst part was that he always managed to remain perfectly calm, as though an emotional flatline was either all he was capable of or was the only thing he consciously chose to feel. “And yet my answer remains the same every time. So why, I ask in turn, why on Earth would you keep asking?”

“Because it doesn’t make any sense! Your reason for doing this is insane.”

The omnipresent flickering of the fluorescent lights overhead sounded like nothing less than the laughing of a trillion insane corpses to Timothy as the worn-out PA system crackled back into life.

“That’s irrelevant. You should feel grateful to be hosting such a lovely creature as early-onset HIV. Viruses are no different from humans, really. Just ludicrously complex chemical reactions which drain their environment’s resources until there is nothing left but a variably hollow and bloated wreck.”

Timothy didn’t remember how long he had been here. It felt like the majority of his life, at any rate, even though it probably wasn’t more than a couple days. If he wasn’t currently bound in a straitjacket he probably would have signed himself off from this mortal coil after the first few experiments.

“Please…please just let me go…”

“No.” The man was less like a stern parent, and more like the child insisting until they got their way. “You are blessed. You will stay here and let the wonderful creature inside you fester into being.”

“If you-then why don’t you let yourself be host to some parasite or virus, if you really think these things are such a fucking blessing!” Timothy bellowed, shocking himself with how low a register his ordinarily falsetto-toned voice reached.

“I would if I could, but regrettably the effect prolonged infection would have on my thought patterns might render my scientific method unreliable. If I become unstable, there will never be another who can breed a beautiful parasite capable of leeching just enough to render its host utterly dependent.”

At that point Tim began to feel a little light-headed. It was about that time, wasn’t it? Time for the repurposed insulin administrator implanted into his wrist to pump his veins full of morphine. Strange, that a device meant to give diabetics more freedom in their life could be warped into a tool of scientific slavery.

“You…heh-hehe…ohhhh fuckkkk, this is just so much fun…” Timothy wept as he fell unconscious.

Karl Hanner watched his patient fall into a coma. A waste of medicine? Perhaps. But he couldn’t afford for him to start writhing around in the operating room while he was being strapped down.

“Hello? I’m not interrupting a ‘moment’, am I?” a familiar voice called from the observation room’s now-ajar door.

“Ah, Erma” Karl said to the fellow man of science. “Do you have the shipment of laughing gas?”

“Yep. In the truck out front. I brought the masked bitch along to help me unload it” Erma said with a roguish smirk, waiting for a laugh and then staring at the wall awkwardly when Karl displayed nothing save for his customary stoic poker face. Erma Junkers coughed twice to make sure he was still being heard before continuing.

“What do you need that stuff for, anyway? I’ve never seen you administer anesthesia while operating.”

“Sometimes if a large gathering is in the waiting room at once I like to save time by incapacitating them all in a hurry.” Karl relayed this information as though he was reading the receipt for a carton of eggs.

“Uh-huh. Well, then. I’ll just be, uh, I’ll be out front. Unloading the gas.”

Erma moonwalked out of the observation room and began the short stroll out to the front of the ISCD. The building was after all just a two-level in the woods with an admittedly elaborate basement complex. As he navigated the labyrinthine corridors, the sound of a woman choking amidst some high-pitched machinery whining away was vaguely unsettling to him, but significantly less than the room that had “mengel” scrawled on the faceplate. Erma Junkers of all certainly knew his Nazi lore, and he was well aware that this was the room where one from a set of twins were monitored as they watched their counterparts scissored apart.

Soon enough he found himself back outside, Plurality expectantly waiting by the truck. The Daemon cocked its head as if to ask how it went, which prompted a contorted expression of disgust from Erma.

“Ugh. That guy always creeps me out.”