The tipper tapper of a finger echoes through the small dark room. Sometimes even whispers bounce off the walls from other rooms, whispers that do not make sense to me. I would hear things like, “Stop it, he’ll see us” and “Quickly, don’t trust him” or just the moans of torment and despair. Living your past over and over again, until your end. Then you’re back in the white room, and the flashbacks of people’s departure move on to the next dorm. Sometimes a death is so horrific, shrieks of agony seep through the thin layer of walls that separate all of us. It upsets me sometimes, hearing the pain and sorrow of others, so I block my ears and close my eyes tight so they don’t see me crying. That’s what they want, they laugh at us. Hysterical laughter echoes round the rooms, like being bullied in a playground, being surrounded by people who laugh at you and pick on you. That’s what it feels like. I’m not going to give them the satisfaction. As the screams get more disturbing and agonized, the hysterical laughter gets louder and darker. When a toddler throws a tantrum and you ignore them, you think they would stop, but they don’t, they try harder and harder until you give in. That is what these sick people do. Whenever I ignore or try fight my senses and vision not to blur into my past, they begin to get angry and impatient. You can hear them grunting or sometimes they just go completely quiet. As they do, they try to make your past more enhanced and scary until you give in to their little game. So let me give you some advice, when you die, calmly walk to the light in front of you. Don’t stop, even if you get weak or weary, do not stop until you reach the light. Ignore the person breathing down your neck, persuading you to turn back. No matter how much he sounds like your dead father. Ignore him. Read more at creepypasta/#warx5Pfe8dKA36mj.99
Posted on: Tue, 02 Jul 2013 05:59:07 +0000
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