Creepypasta: What's in the Bag?

Creepypasta: What’s in the Bag?

We all have secrets, skeletons in our proverbial closets which speak of a face under the mask we call our surface persona. Everyone lives a double life in some sense or another, right? I’m not really so unalike in that respect, am I?

I tried to shield her, I tried, tried, tried to keep the truth from her. She didn’t need to know. And now my hand has been forced.

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“How was your day?”

“Fine, thanks for asking.”

Another day, another dollar. Another give-and-take of good-natured remarks as Mrs. Smith’s husband re-entered their modest single story suburban house, in advance of heading to the living room to take his nap on the couch as he often did after work. The couple were the picture of normalcy, with a thoroughly ordinary life story, mundane interests and hobbies, and average problems and highpoints.

In a sense, this normalcy was what made them so odd. Most people have some quirk, some trait or experience that sets them apart. But the Smiths were so ordinary that in a paradoxical way they were actually quite extraordinary.

None of this bothered Mrs. Smith, or if it did she managed a faultless job of concealing it. Some people really do just aim for “good enough”, as opposed to trying for something they can’t reach and crashing into the ground. There was only one enduring mystery that struck Mrs. Smith as the slightest bit odd, a sole spanner of the works of the absolutely regular existence she yearned for.

The fact of the matter was, there was one room in the house she was absolutely forbidden to venture into. Not that she would have been able to if she was permitted, for it was locked as well. And needless to say, she didn’t know where her husband had stashed the key.

This was enough of a thorn in Mrs. Smith’s side that she felt determined today to investigate this thorn in her treasured run-of-the-mill reality. Once she was certain her husband was asleep, she stalked silently down to the room on the left side at the far end of the basement, this being the chamber in question. Producing her husband’s kitschy Knight Rider keyring which she had covertly snatched off the table in the front hall after he’d come in, she silently prayed that one of the keys would unlock the door to this most mystifying room.

Fortunately, one did, an appropriately ordinary looking brass specimen. Pushing the door open, she was slightly surprised by what she saw. She hadn’t been expecting dead bodies and butcher’s tools or anything of the sort, and to be sure none of that was present. Nothing was present. The room was absolutely bare. Actually, that wasn’t quite true. Her husband’s bowling bag was here, lying on the only other object in the room, which was a simple card table.

It had always seemed a bit strange to her, though. Whenever she asked how his bowling games with his buddies had gone, he’d give a noncommittal reply or change the subject. And she never understood why that bag always had to go with him to work each morning. Best to take a look inside, and find out what was in the bag. Mrs. Smith approached the card table, grasped the bag, tilted it upside down, and-

Something came out. Something imperceptible, something ethereal and intangible but nonetheless possessed of a horrifyingly concrete sense of substance. It was a nightmarish sensation, and Mrs. Smith dropped the bag in shock. Instantly she felt as though she was no longer alone, and she whipped her head about, expecting to see her husband standing behind her. Nothing. She was the only one here. Right? No, no, that couldn’t be the case, there were others here with her, the ones from the bag, and they were in pain. She could tell where they had died, and where their bodies lay after he’d collected the souls, whether bound to the earth, decaying putrid in the fields, or nailed to the firmament.

A deluge of questions and answers assaulted her brain. Was her husband a Daemon? No, not any Daemon, but the Reaper. “Work”, her husband’s “work”, it all made so much sense, “don’t ask about my work” he’d say, “don’t ask why I don’t call from work”, “this occupation runs in my family”, “don’t ask”-

“Dear…”, her husband’s voice rang out from upstairs. “I think we need to have a talk.”