Halloween Creepypasta Horror short (Patreon)

As some of you may recall, I am helping organise an event for Halloween this year, but I am also participating in it.

I figured I would share it here first. It'll be up on RoyalRoad the 31st.

Normally I don't write a lot of shorts and I honestly don't know if this is good or not, but it was a fun challenge to try something that's a bit creepy.

I've intentionally left this publicly available, since this is outside of what I normally post and something that will be publicly available soon anyway. 

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Screenlocked

Father and I have a pattern we follow every day:

After dawn, and once father has made sure the sun is out, we both get out of bed. While father goes and uncovers the phones, tablets, monitors, and television, I gather up the plates from yesterday’s dinner.

If there are leftovers on the plates, I save them for later. If they are empty, I clean the plates with a cloth.

We usually share canned fruits for breakfast and I like to have a cup of water from the purifier, but never more than two decilitres. Father has made it clear that we must save where we can.

We sit in front of the patio door, looking through the glass to the garden outside, while we eat our meal. Father like to drink the condensed juices at the bottom of the fruit can. He likes sweet things he says, but I know that he just wants to save the water for me.

He often pats me on the head with hands that still belong to him and says that we will be alright.

While we sit there and enjoy our breakfast, we often see neighbours walk by outside. If they wave, we always wave back, but we do not go outside to talk. If they ignore us, we ignore them as well. I am unsure why we do this, but father says it is important.

Around noon, when none of the neighbours are out, father opens the patio door slightly and sneaks out. I lock the door and stay behind to ‘guard the fort’, as he likes to say. I promise him I will stay in the house and not open the doors or windows, even if a neighbour waves and asks me to.

While he is gone, I refill my cup with water, two decilitres as always, and go to my parents’ bedroom. I put the cup in front of the closet door and whisper, ‘I brought you water.’

Most days I do not hear any response, but today I hear a low gurgle. The sound makes me relieved and happy. I do not leave a cup of water in front of the locked door in the hallway.

Around this time, animal noises often come from behind the locked door, but I do not respond to them, because father has taught me not to.

Father returns two hours before dusk, and I always make sure to take the cup away from the closet so that he does not see, even if it is still full. If it is empty, I clean it with a cloth, otherwise I pour the liquid back into the tank of purified water.

When father comes back through the patio door that I unlock for him, he often has nothing in his backpack, but today he has found some candy-bars and cans of food. He always smiles wide when he sees me and lifts me up, swinging me around and calling me his ‘princess’.

We share one of the candy-bars, while the rest of what he has found is placed inside the cupboard with the other cans of preserved fruit and food. The candy-bar is very sweet, but I savour every bite. Today has been a good day.

An hour before dusk, father covers-up the phones, tablets, monitors, and television. He always insists that I do not help him.

We make dinner and prepare four plates. Today we are having sausages with beans. I have another cup of water, two decilitres. Father looks at the tank of purified water and nods. We still have plenty left because he always keeps track of how much I drink.

After we finish eating, I take the two plates of food and place one in front of the locked door in the hallway. I never say anything when I place one here, but I always hear shuffling noises from behind the locked door. The other plate I bring to the closet in my parents’ bedroom, and after setting it down on the floor, I whisper, ‘I brought dinner. Today is sausages and beans.’

I return to the living room and watch the sun set next to father. Then we go to my bedroom and prepare to sleep. We always lock the door. Father says it is important.

After I lie down, he lies down too and puts his big hands over my ears.

His hands are never enough to muffle all the sounds of the night.

Every night is the same. The locked hallway door slams open and screams come from the closet in my parents’ bedroom.

Father always whispers, ‘They’re not family anymore. They’re not family anymore.’

The many screens let out luring voices that even father’s hands cannot silence. They always want me to look at them.

Most days I sleep only a little bit.

I can always feel the way our house rumbles, and the sounds that come from outside, where they always climb up onto our roof and hammer on our doors and windows. Father has made sure that they cannot get in, and, so long as we are quiet, they cannot find us.

When I awake, it is often within father’s embrace. I always wipe the tears from his face before he wakes up. Soon after, he rises from the bed and goes to make sure that the sun is up. As he goes to uncover the phones, tablets, monitors, and television, I gather up the plates. Today, both of them are empty. I smile to myself. Today will be another good day.

---

When I wake up, I always tell myself that I am lucky. They say that people can get used to anything after a while, but I have never gotten used to this new way of living. Any night I go to sleep might be my last: there is an existential terror in this, but also a dark sort of comfort.

After I carefully check that the sun is up, I rouse my daughter from her sleep.

I always feel lucky that I am not alone. She is clever and obedient, despite her age. If she was different, she would be like her brother.

I no longer go into the bedroom I shared with my wife. She is still in there, and it is painful for me to acknowledge. But as I always tell my daughter, she is no longer family. I am unsure if she is even still human.

My daughter loves her mother, as does any child, so she always brings her food. I am unsure if my wife and son even eat food anymore, but my daughter is always happy when their plates are empty.

I go to the kitchen and look at the cans of preserved food.

I always count them to know how many days we have left.

The most important thing is the purified water. It is no longer safe to drink from the tap, so I guard the water and always make sure we do not drink too much. Most days I do not even drink from it, but I always make sure my daughter does.

Today we are having canned pineapple and my daughter is having a cup of purified water, two decilitres. We sit down in front of the patio door and look out at the suburban neighbourhood, with the laws that are well-kept somehow, and the neighbours who walk by.

My daughter looks at me with a smile and eyes that are still her own.

I drink the juices from the bottom of the pineapple can, it is sweet and not as hydrating as water, but I always try to find something proper to drink when I go out around noon.

One of the neighbours walks by outside and waves at us. We both wave back. It is important to reciprocate or else they will think we are not like them.

‘Hold down the fort for me,’ I tell my daughter as I sneak out of the house around noon. It is always terrifying to leave her alone like this, but if I do not go out in search of more food, then our days are numbered.

After she locks the patio door behind me, I sneak along the fences and hedges to stay out of sight. I have learnt that people return indoors around noon. When I look through their windows, I see that they all crowd around their televisions and screens. They all smile but never blink. They stare at the screens with eyes that are no longer theirs.

There used to be more families like ours. Families that managed to blend in. I got to know some of them, but now we are the only ones left.

For the first few days after the screens started speaking, no one knew what was happening, but I have slowly pieced together how to survive. Learning the lessons that other families paid dearly for not knowing.

Although it pains me, I go through their houses, with their open windows and talking screens. They are not so harmful when the sun is up, but I always avoid looking at them when I can.

Usually I find nothing. Sometimes I find the families or what is left of them. Some are like my wife and son, holing up indoors or roaming the streets or locked to their screens. Some families decided to go out together and some ran out of water and tried to leave their homes.

My daughter and I may be the only sane ones left.

Today I find a bottle of beer, which I allow myself to indulge in. It is a rare treat for me, and though it is not as hydrating as water, it is a taste that makes my eyes misty.

I do not find any cans in my careful search, nor any candy-bars like yesterday. Most days are like this.

When I leave the house I decided to search today, I see that the sun is setting. There are about two hours left, so I return home.

My daughter sees me through the patio door and unlocks it for me. When I enter the house, I am so overwhelmed by the joy that she is still sane like me that I lift her into my arms and swing her around, while calling her my princess.

We prepare dinner together from one of the cans. Today is meat stew. My daughter insists that we make four plates, like she always does. I indulge her, like I always do.

To stay sane requires small things like this.

After dinner she brings the plates to her brother’s locked door and her mother’s closet, then she returns to my side and we watch the sun set.

I make sure all the phones, tablets, monitors, and television are covered-up. My daughter often asks why we do not throw them out, but I know that this is a bad idea. I saw another family try it and now their house stands empty.

We end the day by going to her room where I lock the door and make sure the black-out curtains are fully shut. After she lies down in the small bed, I wait for her to get comfortable, then I lie down behind her and put my hands over the ears that still belong to her.

I know that my hands are not enough to keep out the sounds that come when night-time falls with the setting sun, but it is the small things that helps you stay sane.

As the screams and animal sounds roll through our house and rumble the building from the outside, I grit my teeth and close my eyes. The worst are the sounds the screens make. The incessant begging for me to look at them. The promises of what I will see.

Most days I sleep only a little bit.

I always awake to my daughter wiping the tears from my eyes.

I get up and make sure the sun is out, before I prepare for another day.

---

When morning comes, I always hear the pitter-patter of small feet on the floor of the bedroom. They always come to take the plate away, even on days where I have not touched it.

I curl up in a ball, fearing the day that the creature tries to open the closet I am hiding in.

In my dreams, I believe she is my daughter, but I know that my family is long gone.

On days where I feel hungry, I eat from the plate that is left for me just before night sets in.

I am always startled by the voice around noon, telling me there is water in a cup. Most days I do not drink it, but on days where my thirst is so great that I feel as though I will die, I always betray my own safety and gulp it down.

I hear the same voice again when it brings the plate. I can always smell the food through the hair-thin crack in the closet door.

My voice is no longer my own, but I always try to thank the creature, but all that comes out is a gurgle. I always want to believe that it is my caring daughter, but I know that my family is gone.

On days where I feel anxious, I wonder what purpose they have in feeding me.

I love the night-time. It is the only time I feel safe.

I hear the way my son sings to the screens that talk to us, telling us that we are sane.

I never leave the closet to be with him though, it feels embarrassing that he should see me in the way that I now am. I know that my hands and eyes are not my own anymore. My face belongs to someone else, and my body feels strange.

Today, I do not hear the pitter-patter of small feet on the floor of the bedroom when morning comes.

My stomach growls and I wonder if I will also not hear the voice of the creature as it brings me water and food.

Perhaps I should try to leave the closet today.

I am very hungry.

The screens tell me I am sane.