Creepypasta: Spectacles

Creepypasta: Spectacles

William Shakespeare. Once the toast of both high and low English society, now loathed all across North America by high school students forced to learn about his plays. The man was a bit of an eccentric, as geniuses inevitably are, and that’s perfectly okay in your books.

Because you’re a little off-kilter too.

Won’t your class be freaked out when they discover you had a real human skull in your hands during the monologue scene of the upcoming school play. Okay, so technically you don’t plan on telling them, not even afterwards, but if there was ever an event prompting you to gain possession of a legit skull it was this. Just like Hamlet himself, you’re disturbed, relatively paranoid, and prone to mood swings. But you’re no murderer. Not yet, at least. But seriously, it’s not worth killing just to gain access to a real skull.

No. No, you know where you can go to get that.

The other kids at school sometimes talk about this place, although they always clam up when you asked them directly. Maybe they were worried you’d actually try coming here. Hell, given the rumours they spread about you, maybe some thought you were responsible for the disappearances. Which isn’t true, just for the record. Again, you may be profoundly warped, but you’re no murderer.

The official story about this cave is that it eventually gives way to a labyrinthine series of passageways that are easy to get lost in, and that’s why so many spelunkers go missing in here. Bullshit. If that were the case, then why are the bones always found at the entrance to the cave? At any rate, a couple of paranormal investigators who actually came here specifically to look for anything out of the ordinary ironically went missing themselves.

If you’re lucky, whatever preys on those who come here might have left a trophy for you.
And so here you are, fiddling with your spectacles nervously as you try to work up the courage to do what must be done. As you at last approach the cavern proper, you hear it, faintly at first but then gently increasing in volume until you know you can’t be imagining it. A soft, warbling sound, unmistakeably human. Someone is in there. Someone is crying.

Alarmed, you think of running for it, but what little humanity you have takes hold of your self-preservation instincts and you decide to head in. Within the cave it smells of copper and tar, an unpleasant combination to be sure. And there, sitting in a fetal position and rocking back and forth, is a woman in her twentysomethings. Her clothing is ripped and covered with some sort of black ichor, and there are manifest cuts and gashes crisscrossing her skin like so much vile needlework.

“You’ve got to help me! It’s going to come back soon!” she says as she stands up. Apparently she realizes you’re here now, if nothing else.

“Who are you?“ you ask, although you realize the answer even as you finish asking the question. It’s her. It has to be. The missing paranormal investigator, one of them anyway. Just as she appeared on the Missing Persons report, albeit battered and damaged.

As you help her to her feet, a question nags at your mind.

“Hey, if you wanted to get away from it, why did you wait in this one spo-“

It’s then that you perceive something off with her face. Her eyes are completely black, absent even of a pupil or iris.

“So you noticed” she smiles as she digs her flensing nails into your arms skin, effectively preventing you form running away. “As a Skinwalker my disguises aren’t perfect. But you, with those wonderfully thick spectacles. You’ll be easy to make pretend with.”