literature

Creepypasta: The Whites of their Eyes

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Creepypasta: The Whites of their Eyes

Running is all I have known, all I have ever known. Granted, the span of my existence is fairly limited, since I have no memories prior to about ten minutes ago. When I awoke…or should that be “was born”? At any rate, when I came to, I was in a filth-caked room which had the appearance of a slaughterhouse’s kill floor that had been emptied of any cadavers. I had the appearance of a small girl, wearing a dress that looked halfway between formal attire and a ritual sacrifice’s arcane finery. I was not alone, either, and I’m not solely referring to the monster which hunts us in this labyrinthine Hell.

With me was a young man and a much older woman. The man has since told me his name is Thomas; he is the only one among us who knows (remembers?) his name. The older woman says that her husband is dead, that he died to imprison the monster in this place, and that she is mourning him. It certainly explains her dour, drab garb. I hope someone will exist to mourn the fourth member of our group, rest his soul.

He was a middle-aged sort with a Salvador Dali mustache and a pinstripe suit. We never had the chance to ask much of him, because about a half minute or so after we all came to, the flickering 20-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling finally shorted out. One garbled shriek from the fellow a split instant later, and we knew we had to leave this room before the monster claimed us too. Fortunately there was a door leading out, or further in, maybe. But either way, we couldn’t stay, now could we?

The next chamber resembled a very specified sort of funhouse, a hall containing mirrors of varying lengths and curvatures, half molten candles decorating their upper extremes. I had the first chance to really examine my face, and I thought it seems odd that although I could see perfectly fine I had no pupils. My eyes were entirely a sickly white, lending me a diseased appearance. I thought I rather liked it, though.

In one frenzied torrent of activity the candles lighting this extent blew out in a chill gust of wind. We heard a hoarse scream from the poor old woman and we knew she was lost, that we would need to leave to save ourselves. I and the young man bolted to the next door, handily located at the end of the hall. The fact that the door was present in such a logical position from a structural perspective actually seemed more than a tad paradoxically surreal.

But. I deviate.

Myself and my one remaining companion were now trapped, since this room had no door, no egress route that we could possibly claim. Realization dawned in his eyes, and he produced a walnut-handled cavalry revolver from his jacket pocket.

“I almost forgot I had this! Thank God, thank God, we might be saved! There’s only…oh…there’s only one round in the chamber, but that should be enough right? I won’t fire until I see the whites of their eyes.”

I mechanically replied back the last part of the young man’s statement as my lips twisted into a venomous sneer.

“Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes.”

Indeed.

Spoilers below. :3

Written with two prompts. From :iconpunkass-myth:, “A parallel world where a young man, an old widow, and a strange girl are trapped in an old house haunted by the spirit of a cannibalistic serial killer” and from :iconasiananity:, “When a monster someone is trying to run away from is actually themselves”.

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XeruFury's avatar
:star::star::star::star: Overall
:star::star::star::star::star-half: Vision
:star::star::star::star::star-empty: Originality
:star::star::star::star-half::star-empty: Technique
:star::star::star::star::star-half: Impact

Alright, I think that, after considering the possibilities, that I've figured out what you've done here. The memory blanks are somewhat unexplained, as is how the young girl really went about killing them all without any of the others knowing. I rather did enjoy the description "Salvador Dali mustache". It was rather interesting. The description of the original room was pretty decent, although I feel that the "or was I born...?" was a little overboard to describe an amnesia filled child. However, as always, the descriptiveness and imagery is really quite advanced and I continue to urge you to keep writing. Well done once again, Shackle.