Last Hope

As I write, my life is dwindling to nothing, but I need to share what I know. You ever read those stupid ritual pastas? The ones where if you light a candle and sacrifice a toddler at 12:02am then your soul will be torn away but you’ll live forever? This is kind of like that, but less pathetic – less unreal.

It was midnight, and I’d stumbled in after a drunken night on the town. The stairs had presented a challenge, and by the time I’d desperately reached my bathroom, I was throwing up all over the place. Groggy and made tearful by my own state, I lifted my head, examining myself in the mirror and wiping away flecks of vomit. The light was off, but I could still see; had I not been so drunk, maybe that would’ve told me that something was wrong? I don’t think it matters, in any case. I think I’d still be dying even if I had run. There, in the mirror, was my shower. I’m dirt poor (only just graduated from university), so it was a filthy cubicle rather than a bath. And I noticed this mat – this thick black streak laying over the plug hole. I crept closer, still drunk, and pulled it.

A handful of dark brown hair came away in my hand, strewn with reddish brown blood. From the plughole, an eye stared up at me.

I fled, drunkenness forgotten, and hid in my bed, covers over my face and weeping bitter tears, as silent as I could manage. I heard something moving in the corridor and began to pray, but no god heard. My door creaked open, and I heard something crawl in, limbs clicking like some horrible insect. It grunted and snuffled to itself, and occasionally, just occasionally, it laughed in a high, mad, cold voice I can only compare to a hyena. I almost went mad that night, just waiting for it to get me – for it to rip me limb from limb and end it all. But, apparently, it likes to play with its food.

After I finally rose the next day, there was no trace that anything had been there on the carpet. I put it down to drunken hallucinations and moved on. But I kept seeing that eye – that hair. Hearing the laughter, the awful snuffling noise, like something devouring rotten meat. A week later, I broke out into painful sores – like measles, or chickenpox.

Now I’m bedridden. My eyes are sunken, my hair is falling out, and my skin is a mass of blotched and broken sores. But that’s not the worst thing. I can hear it getting closer, limbs clicking, laughing as it comes to get me. And it keeps… It keeps whispering quietly to itself, maybe to me. Sometimes I can hear what it says; sometimes just barely audibly, sometimes as though it’s right next to me. It’s advice.

That’s why I’m writing this. It keeps telling me that if someone else reads this, if someone else knows what has happened, it’ll leave me alone and find them. Find you.

I’m sorry.

Credited to bez00mny.

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