The Chris Effect

So this happened to me the last night.

First, know that I have a cat. I it cries at me when it wants to go outside, and when the cat wants in it claws at the door. It never cries to get in, cause I guess it knows that I can’t hear it from inside. My cat is smart; cats rule, dogs drool. Yeah, sometimes I can’t hear her cause I’m watching TV too loud or I’m asleep or whatever, but it’s a pretty good system we got worked out.

Anyway, last night I heard the telltale scratching and I go to let her in, and she’s not there. I look around outside; the porch is empty. I figured it was just my mind playing tricks on me. No big deal. Then, soon as I sit back down at the computer, I hear the scratching again. I mute the music, some old Guns’N’Roses song, and sit and listen to make sure that it is scratching before I go check the door again. And just like last time, my cat’s not there.

I stood there for a minute, wondering what’s going on, then called for my cat. Her name is Muffintop by the way. It used to be Cupcake when she was a sweet and innocent kitten, but that evolved to Muffin when after she grew up and developed a temperamental side. Now, in the twilight years of her life, she was fat and disgruntled, so I call her Muffintop.

As for myself, in case you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m Kevin Dropsey. If that doesn’t ring a bell, I was the guy who got horrifically drunk at last year’s Christmas party and spontaneously developed hauntingly pungent diarrhea, and in front of most of the office, invented the term shuking. I looked like a chocolate water fountain. It’s all any of you assholes would talk about for a month. I probably ruined Christmas. And if some of you somehow missed even that, then you’re probably new around here, in which case I probably hate you.

So, where was I? Oh yeah, Muffintop came when I called her, which was a rare treat. She comes creeping up behind me and brushes against my leg – from the inside. She’d been in my house the whole time.

What, then, was scratching at my door? Tree branches? Other animals? The living-dead? I took a good long look around outside.  The sun was beginning to set on this beautiful midsummer night. There was no wind, nor a cloud in the sky. And I knew this for certain because I had to get up early for work and hadn’t smoked anything.

After a few minutes I quietly closed the door. I’d barely taken a step away when the scratching returned. The cat took off but I remained, paralyzed by fear. This was fucking creepy. I swallowed and had to focus to issue a, “Hello?”

The scratching stopped. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, during which I reached for the door handle, willing to check that the coast was clear. But then, wouldn’t you know it, the scratching was replaced with pounding. Someone – or something – was savagely attacking my door like it owed them money. Punching, kicking, karate chops, low blows, you name it, just desperate to get in.

“Dave’s not here!” I shouted, backing away.

I ran to the kitchen to grab the biggest knife I could find, wishing I had a chainsaw – that at least would also drown out the noise. Then I snuck quietly to the nearest window, hoping to take a peak at whatever godforsaken thing was at my door.

At the window I froze, seeing something deeply disturbing (which is quite a feat in my neighbourhood). Littering my lawn were dead bodies. And when I say littering my lawn I’m not talking about lying on the ground like garbage. I mean, they were on the ground, not floating or anything – which would be way worse (because if there’s one thing creepier than dead bodies, it’s floating dead bodies) – but standing. Standing and staring at my house. Men, women, children; some clothed, some naked, others somewhere in between. There was this naked blonde with a set of double-Ds that was hotter than any woman I ever dated. Gave a good, strong argument for necrophilia. Except for her eyes; they were missing. All their eyes were gone.

Come to think of it, I couldn’t really say they were dead; I mean I’m no doctor. They sure looked it with their greying, semi-translucent skin, and way their bodies were oddly crooked with obvious rigor mortis. The gaping eye sockets were just rubbing it in my face. Yes, you’re dead, we get it. Except I began to think they weren’t.

I know a lot about the living-dead. In fact, I’d say I know more about them than the actual dead. So the living-dead, or as kids these days like to call them, zombies generally don’t stand still; they walk around until they find food, or catch fire or reach enlightenment or whatever happens when no one’s looking. They also, mostly, have eyes. Not all of them, of course, but what are the odds that every zombie on my lawn was eyeless? Not only that, but the empty eye sockets displayed a profound darkness within, as if they didn’t open unto human bodies but a different dimension of hell and torment.

So if they weren’t zombies what were they? Was it a club, or a cult? Were they a group of roaming vagabonds? Extras from a movie that I didn’t know was filming in my neighbourhood?

A black blur suddenly darted by the window. I screamed and jumped back, tripped over Muffintop, and tossed the knife in the air. Watching in slow motion as the knife imbedded itself into the hardwood less than an inch from my fun zone, I almost crapped my pants. Had I found religion at some point in my life, I’d have lost it right there, flying right out my ass as I damn near shit myself. Also, had I been better endowed, I wouldn’t be anymore.

Muffintop ran away as I yanked the knife out of the floor, and all for the better since at that moment I couldn’t think of any good reason to continue owning a cat. I returned my attention back to the window to watch the black blur float back and forth across my lawn, like a trash bag blowing in the wind. It drifted between the non-zombies (how about nonbies?) like a general among his troops, reminding me of the Grim Reaper, but formless and without a scythe.

Then it disappeared. It slowly faded out of existence, which, let’s face it, isn’t the kind of thing you see, or rather slowly stop seeing, very often – especially on a Tuesday night.

I knew I’d been staring out my window too long when I realized the molesting of my front door had ceased.  Knowing what I had to do, I ran to the kitchen to grab the second largest knife I owned, wishing now for a shotgun or something else made cool by modern media, and made for the front door. There, for a few minutes, I tried to psych myself up, summoning my inner jedi. Then, I opened the door.

What I saw surprised me: the yard was empty. No nonbies, no flying trash bags of death, nothing out of the ordinary. I took a step outside and glanced around. Everything appeared normal. Steve, my next door neighbour, was putting out his recycling boxes. He caught me standing there in my boxers with a large knife in each hand, and gave an awkward, yet polite wave. I nodded and went back inside.

So did I hallucinate the whole thing? Had I actually smoked up and was so high I forgotten I’d smoked anything at all? I returned to my living-room to have another look out the window – and froze.

The nonbies were still there, and much closer now. They were all standing directly in front of the window, their eyeless faces smudging up against the glass. I thought about yelling at them to get out of my flower beds but chances are that along with being blind they were probably also deaf. I swallowed, wondering what I’d been thinking in going out to hack them all down. Sure, if they didn’t move or fight back I could do it, but –

A knock came at the door, calm and polite. I jerked my head away from the window, not knowing what to do. Who – or what – could be there? The abomination that attacked my door earlier? My next door neighbour Steve, bravely wondering if I was all right? Girl scouts, hawking their brick-flavoured cookies? I could have gone for some cookies right then, brick-flavoured or otherwise. And I swear I didn’t have the munchies.

I wandered back to the door, prepared to open it and stab anyone or anything on the other side. If it was Steve, well, he’d been warned. If it was a girl scou-

My door almost flew off its hinges from something bucking hard against it. I yelped and backed away. The invisible force at my door pounded and pounded. This wasn’t the savage, desperate clawing from earlier; this was slow, deliberate assault, as if someone was trying to knock it down.

Not wanting to be left out, my backdoor wanted some action, and it too began taking a pounding from that same, huge battering ram. Both sides of my castle were now under siege. Knives weren’t going to help me anymore.

Studying my door, I could see it move, rocking in the frame. It was strong, but under this pressure it wasn’t going to last. I ran to the living-room and dragged my coffee table into the foyer, angling it so it would shove against an adjacent door jamb. It should keep out in intruders, lest the table break under the pressure.

My back door has a small window set in it, offering a more generous view than the solid wood of the front one. Still, it was a view of nothing, like my door was being hammered by an invisible gorilla or something. The door opened onto the side of my refrigerator, some five feet away, and that stood next to the counter. I filled the void by wedging dinning-room chairs in between them. It should hold.

Then the power went out.

I would be remiss if I said I wasn’t terrified. Invisible, malevolent forces were assaulting my house like a medieval castle. What did they want? I didn’t have money or women, or occupy a strategic location – not that I knew of, anyway.

Lit by the last rays of the setting sun, I found my way back to my computer desk, where lay my phone. I grabbed my cell phone for its built-in flashlight, but realized I should probably call the police. Although, what would I say? Certainly the truth would label me a troublemaker, prank calling them. Perhaps if I just said my house was being broken into? They’d send someone by to see if I was okay, wouldn’t they?

So that’s what I did. The insistent hammering on my doors did not relent. The nonbies at my window began to circulate around my home, either creating a barrier or looking for another way in. The temperature also increased dramatically. Despite the sun having set, my house began heating up like it was built over a volcano.

Before long, sweat began pouring down my face. I began thinking, “Fuck the cops!” and not for the first time in my life, because, come on, what are those guys gonna do when they get here? I needed the Ghostbusters. I needed a team of exorcists. I needed the Avengers. And maybe a hug.

“What do you want?” I yelled at the top of my lungs, and suddenly things changed. I can’t explain exactly what it was, but it was like electricity in the air or something. It wasn’t loud in my house before, but now it was eerily quiet. The most delicate mouse fart would’ve sounded like machinegun fire. It was a total calm-before-the-storm silence, which was scary because I totally thought the storm had already arrived. What had happened?

After a minute a knock came at my door. It wasn’t a scratching, or a banging, or a zombie door-raping gangbang, but an honest to God gentle rapping at my chamber door. Then it hit me: it was probably the police. Damn, they got here fast. I wasn’t expecting them until tomorrow.

Just to be certain, I went to check the window. All the nonbies were standing in a circle around my home, holding hands, indeed forming a barricade. No cop car sat in my driveway. Figures. I was beyond their help anyway.

I circled around my house, checking all the windows to confirm I was surrounded, and as I did I began to get this overwhelming urge to open my door. Words entered my head, like door, inside, and welcome, and I got the distinct impression that they were coming from the nonbies. It was almost imperceptible, but as I watched them their eye sockets – not their mouths – where moving, warbling, uttering something I couldn’t exactly hear, but was being shoved into my head anyway. They were communicating telepathically. Under different circumstances this would’ve been really cool, but at the moment was just plain creepy.

The knock came at my door again, quiet, polite, and patient as ever. I decided to answer it, first putting down my knives, since if it actually was the police I didn’t want them to feel threatened. Greeting an officer at my door brandishing weapons was a good way to get on their bad side. So for the umpteenth time that evening I approached my door, wishing I had a peephole installed in it. I took a deep breath, said a silent prayer, and opened the door.

No one was there, again. Wait, the trash bag was back, blowing around my porch – until a small gust of wind blew it inside my house. I closed the door and turned to chase after it. Seeing it float into my office, I ran after it, only to find myself face to face with a nonbie. It was a big bastard, a head taller than me, reeking of something otherworldly.

I gaped at it, doing my best not to freak out – they say you only get one chance to make a first impression. But before I could say hello and cordially offer it a beverage, I heard the telepathic whispers, only they were more like moans; louder, since he was inside my house. Like an exotic and passionate lover, its eyes did all the talking, moving like little mouths, trying to squeeze out syllables and vowels. It said that it wanted me, needed me, had to be inside me, which was a little more forward than I prefer in a potential partner, human or otherwise (hey, I’m open-minded).

But before I could tell it that I wanted to take things slow, I noticed its eyes and mouth getting bigger. And when I say bigger I mean passed ‘I think you should see a doctor about that’ and into ‘please God make it stop’ territory. They began taking up more and more of its face, eventually merging together until it was one large hole in its head. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know what this new super orifice was for, but I felt ill just looking at it.

“You are mine now,” it said, the words leaking out of the new hole. Its arms then reached out to grab me in what was probably the first authentic zombie move I’d seen all night. I tried to back away but somehow every freaking nonbie had snuck into my house like ninjas and were blocking my escape. The big guy grabs me and starts feeding me into its feed hole, swallowing me whole. Not the best way to start a relationship, I’ll admit, and horrifically painful.

I woke up on the floor, alone in the house once more, as if it had all been a dream. Once again I would like to reiterate that I never took any recreational drugs that evening. The rest of the nonbies were all gone, though I could still sense them nearby. Everything seemed to have returned to normal.

But get this: I go to splash some water on my face and in the bathroom mirror I see the big fucker. Well I freaked right out until I realized it was me. I looked down and I’m still myself. Still my stomach and legs, and still extremely well endowed (that’s right ladies). And no hole in my face – well, besides the usual ones. But in that mirror, I was that big nonbie. It’s like it was inside me, which is weird since it ate me. You think it’d be the other way around, right? Like I should see myself in the mirror, but actually look like him. So I might not look it from the outside, but I’m pure filth and evil now. Okay, if I’m being totally honest, I was already plenty filthy, but my evil quotient has definitely skyrocketed.

So I’m sure you’re all wondering: Kevin, what is this thing inside you and are you okay, and are you free this Friday night? Well for starters, this thing is what we might call a demon, though it has no relation to the devil or anything, and has a name you could only pronounce with two tongues and if your head was inside out. I call him Hank.

Hank’s a pretty cool guy, close to royalty where he comes from. Got an army of loyal minions and everything. He just wants the same things we all want: to be accepted for who he is, have sex with hot women, and eat human flesh; although that last one might be more him than me. We share the same mind and body now, two peas in a pod. And I get some sweet powers, like telepathy, telekinesis, and the most astounding apathy you’ve ever seen. I’m talking not giving a fuck like it’s no one’s business. Make no mistake though, he’s in charge. I still have some autonomy, but I take orders from him now. But hey, he might set me up with the nonbie with the big knockers, so he can’t be all that bad.

Speaking of hookups, I am free this weekend, thanks for asking. Although I guess that depends on Hank here. I’m still a little in the dark of what comes next. He doesn’t seek world domination, so that’s good news, even though he’d be a great leader. I say this knowing full well that I’m on team nonbie – and proud of it. I haven’t met the rest of the crew yet but they seem like cool cats.

All in all it’s been a strange evening. I’m part of something greater now, even if my first meeting with Hank was a little awkward. In hindsight I suppose it wasn’t so bad. I’ve had visits with my grandma that went worse. I was picked at random for this life-changing experience and I am on board all the way.

So anyway, I suppose this was kind of a roundabout way of saying this but I’m feeling a little under the weather and won’t be coming into work today. That’s the whole point I’m trying to make here. I’m just not feeling like myself. I probably just need to sleep off whatever this is, and I’ll be back, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow.

Oh, and if Ray is in, from accounting, I’m going to rip his fucking heart out of his chest with my bare hands and feast on it in front of him. So if you guys could lay down some newspapers or towels or something in his office, that’d be great.

Thanks,

 Kevin

BACK

This entry was posted on April 10, 2017 at 09:49 and is filed under Creepy Pasta. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.