As The Raven Dreams Podcast - Diary Of a Drifter: How We Got here By N. Murdock | #CreepyPasta Narration

Episode Date: May 17, 2021

Diary of a Drifter- a log of how we got to this point. What is this point you ask? Well... The end. The end of everything...  Want to see your story Featured in a video? Send it my way!  ➤  https://www.astheravendreams.com/submit  Or Post It To My Subreddit!  ➤ https://reddit.com/r/TheRavensDream  ✯✬✯✬✯✬ All stories come with a Mild Content Warning for Language and/or Graphic content. Viewer Discretion is advised. You're valid, and you are important- Never let anyone tell you otherwise.  ✯✬✯✬✯✬ 【TIMESTAMPS 🕠】 0:00 ➤ Hit That 👍 Button if you liked the video! 0:07 ➤ Diary Of a Drifter: How We Got here By N. Murdock | #CreepyPasta Narration  21:54 ➤ Leave A Comment, Let Me Know What You Thought!   ➤ Outro FACT OR VIDEO  ✯✬✯✬✯✬ 【Disclaimer】 ➤All stories within are used w/ direct permission from the author- or under some level of CC license (where noted) True Stories are not verified, and should all be considered 'supposedly true'. Some Fonts used are from https://www.misprintedtype.com - Eduardo Recife makes some AMAZING fonts! #TrueScaryStories #Reddit #AsTheRavenDreams Be sure to *subscribe* if you like any of the following; #GlitchInTheMatrixStories #DeepWebHorrorStories #CryptidEncounters #RedditScaryStories #ASMR #CreepyTrueStories #Creepypasta #RedditGhostStories #DeepWoodsHorrorStories #DogmanStories #SkinwalkerStories, #RedditStories - Or Really anything, I'm a pretty diverse person.  --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/astheravendreams/message Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/astheravendreams/support Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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And profite. Via Rai. The voice that we love. Today's story is Diary of a Drifter, How We Got Here, by N. Murdoch. I'm going to tell you right now, this is not a happy story. There won't be some triumphant climax where the dashing hero conquers evil, gets the girl, and rides off into the sunset.

In truth, the hero isn't all that dashing. Evil wins. He doesn't get the girl. Instead of a sunset and happily ever after, our hero finds himself in an abandoned Dutch colonial, beaten, tired, and scribbling like a madman in a bunch of old composition notebooks. These journal entries, dear reader, will serve as my suicide note. And no, before you get all worked up, this is not a cry for attention. I'm not looking for anyone to talk me down. You won't change my mind.

It's going to be long, I won't lie, probably a bit convoluted and giving the rate that I drink these days. Some things are reliable to be out of order. but my hope is that by the time we're done here, you'll at least understand why I decided to off myself, and if not, well, maybe it'll make for an interesting read. A little about myself, just so you know who the hell I am, I'm in my mid-20s. I don't have any family or really any friends, and for what feels like an eternity now, I've been living with lung cancer. Don't pity me too much, though.

I brought that on myself. Smoking is for suckers, right kids? When I got my diagnosis, I went about it the way most people do. I worked through the stages of grief, went through treatment, and, as is so often the case here in the good old US of A, the healthcare system drained me for all that I had, and tossed me aside like I used condom, in one of those no-tel motels.

There's something weird about cancer. I know. That sounds like a bad setup to an even worse joke. But hearing those words from a doctor, it's like staring death in the face. It rocks you to your core. Your stomach drops to your feet and all the noise in the world fades away.

Well, that is, until you have to pull yourself together and continue being alive for months or years. Honestly, it's like being in a slow-motion car crash. You pretty much know how it's going to turn out, but all you can do is just ride it out. As of the last time I spoke with my doctor, which was not any time recently, if I'm completely candid, I was in remission.

The doctors were really pushing me to get the operation and have the cancer removed. operations like that though They ain't cheap And since it's been quite a long time Since I've seen any kind of medical professional I don't even know if an operation is still viable Suppose it doesn't matter much Given what I'm going to do

Anyways That's more or less where my story really gets interesting I sold just about everything I owned And I bought myself a cheap car It wasn't in great shape, but I'm handy enough to keep it from falling to pieces. I started just driving. I went from one town to the next, doing an odd day or two of light work until I had enough cash to move on again. I spent a lot of time just talking to people, hearing their stories.

I wanted to experience as much of life as I could, even if it was only vicariously. All those strangers, old, young, rich, poor, so many people from so many different walks of life. The things they told me were incredible. Not all of them were happy. In fact, some were downright heartbreaking, but the raw emotion in it all really defies language. I bonded with these people. They gave me a piece of themselves. and I feel like, in a way, their experiences live through me.

I like that. It brings me a sense of peace, maybe. At one point, I found myself in a little town in Illinois, the kind of place that only shows up on local maps because nobody else cares. I met a kid, not much younger than me, named... Well, let's just call him N. N was quiet. When he did talk, he did it in a quick, almost anxious spurt.

He mumbled occasionally, and I was judging by the dark circles under his eyes that he hadn't had a good night's sleep in ages. I thought, at first, that he might have been an addict of some kind. If he was, I never saw him. saw any real evidence. We talked for a bit, small talk, mostly. But all the while, his gaze never met my own. He kept his sights, locked firmly on the ground.

I developed a kind of method for talking to strangers. The last thing you want to do is jump someone with, I have cancer, tell me about your life. So, when I'd gotten N as comfortable as he seemed like he would get, I gave him my little speech, trying my best not to sound too rehearsed. To my surprise, his face seemed to light up, as if he'd been waiting for someone to volunteer, to hear what he had to say. What follows is a transcript of our interaction from that point.

You're cool if I take notes on this, and said, I guess so. I doubt you'll believe me, though. I don't know. I've heard some pretty crazy stuff recently. One woman survived a mafia-style hit because her husband turned state's witness. This is different. Not just a story.

Actually, I've never really talked about this at length. Anybody I've told either hits me with, and that's creepy, or they just assume that I'm lying. Well, unless you try to tell me that Bigfoot is real and he tried to tell me that Bigfoot is real and he tried to eat her ass or something way out of left field like that. I'll hear you out without any judgment. You have my word.

We both chuckled a bit at my lame joke, and then N got a more serious look on his face. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it before he realized. I waved a hand and smiled. Don't worry, I've said. I've already got lung cancer. He shrugged and continued to smoke away in silence. and had burned through half the cigarette before he finally spoke again.

Every night, since I was about eight, I've had the same recurring nightmare. I'm 24 now, so that's around 16 years. Nearly 6,000 nights in a row. Every detail is exactly the same. And every morning I wake up, my heart beating in my throat, drenched in sweat, scared out of my mind. I was right. The kid hadn't slept in longer than I could imagine. It always starts the same.

Like, you've heard of sleep paralysis, right? I kind of wake up. My body is stiff, like a corpse or something. But I'm aware of my surroundings. I feel like I'm being watched, like something sneering at me, mocking me just out of my field of vision. Then the door appears,

floating above me like it's built into my ceiling. It's like a bulkhead door that you see on a ship, with the little porthole window and everything. And there's a bright white light coming from the window shining right into my face. The pressure wheel on the door turns slowly, and this massive metal door swings open toward me, and I'm just blinded by this crazy bright light.

I know, this is a little bit of the door. is going to sound nuts, but I... I fall into it. I'm not pulled. I'm not floating. I'm falling. Straight up into the air. And as soon as I pass through the threshold,

I'm standing in a hallway. Everything is so white. The tiles on the floor, the walls, the light, even my clothes are stark white, like hospital clothes. He had already finished his cigarette and started a new one. this time absent-mindedly offering me one. I just shook my head and waited for him to continue.

So, I'm in this hallway, only I'm not me. Not this, me anyways. I'm eight-year-old, me, and I'm holding someone's hand. I look up, and it almost looks like my mother. I can tell by how she's holding me and how cold she is that it isn't my mother, but it looks like her anyway. We start walking, and I mean, this hallway goes on forever. We're following someone, a woman, she's wearing white too, but it's like a skirt suit,

not hospital clothes like me and my mom. He threw up air quotes around the word mom. It's around this time that I realize I can't actually see either. are of their faces. Their heads are there, but their faces are smeared, like if you slid your thumb through wet paint. The woman is talking to us as we walk, but because her face is smudged away, it sounds like garbled white noise. Since I can't make out what she's saying, I start to look around. I let my eyes wander. Everything is so sterile. The walls I notice, are lined with more of those bulkhead-style doors,

but because I'm short, I can't see in to the windows. He paused and leaned in. For the first time since I'd met the kid, he looked me dead in the eyes. I don't know how I know, but somehow I know that I am not supposed to look in those windows. Like, every night the dream hits me, like it's brand new,

but I always know that looking in those windows is like the one rule you do not break in this place. But every fucking time, man, there's one door with a stepstool in front of it, like it's fucking meant for me. And I cannot control myself. I slip my hand free from my mom, and I wander off towards it. The white noise from the lady fades into the background. and all I see or care about is that one fucking door. I have to know what's behind it. I have to look through that window.

So I make my way to the stool and I climb up it. And I'm still not quite tall enough. It's like the doors are so much taller than they seem when they're up close. I have to stretch on the tips of my toes and I can just barely get high enough to peek through. Lazang sur-gillet, Pucance-Moyerned 15 minutes. We're like that's the

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Tears welled up in his eyes, and he quickly dropped his gaze from mine. I could tell this was horrible for him, to be tormented every night for years and now having to relive it in the daylight too, the one place where he's safe from those dreams. I opened my mouth to tell him that we could stop, but without raising his head, he continued. There's someone on the other side of the door. Someone in white hospital clothes just like mine, only they don't look clean. They look ratty, dirty, like they've been lived in for who knows how long. The person, man, woman, I don't even know.

They're so damn emaciated. Their skin is like rice paper. It's so fucking thin. They look like they're hunched over crying with their back to me. You know that feeling you get as a kid? When you knew that you'd fucked up big time, like that sheer sense of doom, imagine that times about a fucking billion.

That thing, it turns its head to face me. It's matted, wild hair dangling in its face, and it stares at me with eyes, giant fucking red eyes. Just big pools of solid red. No iris, no pupils, and it screams. It screams like it's angry. It screams like the only thing it was ever made to do is to hurt me. To tear her into me with its crusty, broken fingernails that, and cause me as much pain as it can.

It screams, and the vast white world around me goes red, red like those eyes. The silent, sterile hallway is filled with the sound of that thing's cries. I close my eyes and I cover my ears, hoping, praying that if I don't look, everything will go away. And as suddenly as it starts, it stops. No more screams. Just enveloping silence. I stay frozen like that for a long time. I slowly opened my eyes and pressed against the glass as that,

horrible, gaunt face with those crimson saucers for eyes. It's, it's grinning at me. There's so much malice and hate in those eyes. I hear a slow mechanical creaking and my stomach drops like a stone. I look down and I see the wheel of the bulkhead door turning, opening. I, I look back up at the face, panicking, but before I have time to move, The door swings out, colliding with the stepstool and throwing me to the floor. The wind gets knocked out of me and I start frantically choking for air.

That thing is free and there's nothing I can do to stop it. Nobody is around to help me anymore. I can hear this dry, cackling sound from that thing's ancient throat. I struggle to my feet and try desperately to run, but it swipes at my legs and I tell. to the ground again. The last thing I see every goddamn night is that thing on all fours leering over me. Then, right before it lunges at me,

I wake up by the time he'd finished his tail, and looked like he'd aged about ten years. His already sunken eyes had retreated even further into his skull, and maybe it was the light, but I could have sworn his hair was cold. going gray. The poor kid, he didn't say much after that. He thanked me for listening, and I thanked him for sharing.

There's really no point in trying to act tough here, the way he told the story. I'll be honest, it sent a chill down my spine. End's story was kind of a catalyst, I guess you could say. It started me on a long journey of bizarre, bullshit that frankly, I wouldn't have believed if I hadn't experienced it, which I guess is why I find myself here, writing this for you. Occasionally, stealing glances at the freshly tied noose dangling from the rafters. See, after I left that forgettable little town with its unforgettable little man, something happened

to me that, at least at the time, I couldn't quite explain. It was the damnedest thing. I was driving along Interstate 80, on the lookout for another story to hear, when I pulled into a rest area. I relieved myself, I washed up, and was almost out the door when I saw something that I couldn't quite explain. The bathroom had three stalls. The first two were like any other rest stop you've seen before. But the third,

the one closest to the wall had a door that plain and simply should not have been there. It was a large metal bulkhead door, like the kind you've seen on submarine or ships. Don't get me wrong. I'm all for bathroom stalls needing better security than the typical tiny latch bar, but everything about that door was wrong.

Seeing the thing made my head begin to sort, swim. My vision began to blur at the edges. The longer I took notice of it, the more my brain tried to convince itself that the door was actually there. The worse I felt. The harsh white glow from the door's porthole window grew in intensity along with my throbbing headache. I felt my nose began to bleed as something beyond that door beckoned me to peer inside, to open a little. it and cross over into that pale and sterile world. I dropped to my knees and I vomited. A lot.

By the time I had finished, the pulsing in my head had stopped. To my surprise, and shall we say complete fucking horror, the door was gone, as if it had never been there at all. An ordinary stall sat in its place. I wanted to write it off. A scary story, plus long hours on the road, and less than nutritious food could screw with anybody's head, right? Hell, I was even thinking that the cancer was back and spreading to my brain.

But if you believe that, you've clearly forgotten how I told you this was going to go and fuck you for that. Everywhere I've gone since meeting that kid, fucking N. and what kind of stupid fuck goes by Ann anyways I mean I know it's the alias I gave him but fuck I hate it it's too late to change it now though right focus the door

it follows me everywhere I go it's in Topeka it's in Nashville it's on the ceiling of my car when I sleep it's across the street when I'm getting a coffee it's even here now bolted into the wall

where the fridge used to be plugged in. And do you think anybody else can see the fucker? Of course they can't. They just see me, looking like a complete fucking psychos tearing at the wall. Every time I see it, I can feel it pulling me toward it, begging me to go inside,

but I'm not stupid. I know that nothing good is bound to come from opening a door that manifested itself into reality from some kid's nightmare. I will say this much, though. When something that otherworldly calls out to you for that long, it isn't always easy to refuse. As a matter of fact, it's getting harder and harder every day. This particular entry is getting long-winded, and I need about a fifth of scotch before I'm willing to write any more, so I'm going to close this one out.

If you've read this far into some stranger's ramblings, maybe you'll be willing to read, read, a little bit more. I hope you do. And if you come across a tired-looking, 20-something kid in a little town in Illinois, tell him to go fuck himself.

So that was once again, Diary of a Drifter, Part 1, how we got here, and let me tell you, holy crap, this is an amazing story. This is just a beautiful setup to a series, and Mr. Murdoch, you have done a tremendous job pulling me in and hooking me on this one because there is so much that I need to know about what happens after this.

So, so much. I need to know. These guys want to know too, but I need to know. So, you know, yeah. Thank you, good sir, for letting me narrate this and thank you for sharing because, like I said, dude, amazing. Absolutely love it. This is going to be so damn good. I can already tell.

All right. If you all enjoyed it, please do hit that thumbs up button. Hit the subscribe button if you're new. Hit the bell icon. Leave me a comment. Leave Mr. Murdoch a comment, letting him know what you thought of it. You can also follow me in on my social media platforms. Or support the channel over Patreon Coffee Memberships.

All patrons and members get early access to my content. Most patrons and all members get access to special content that not everyone else gets to see, including various shorter creepypastas and older creepypastas from the wiki that I don't think would do well in my channel. So all that said, friends, I hope you have a beautiful day. And I hope we'll see you on the next episode of As the Raven Dreams. Coming soon to a theater near you. That's a lie.

It's coming soon to probably your phone based on my metrics thing that YouTube. Anyway, I'll talk to guys later. Bye. Sleep well. Fan of soccer, you could assist a moment historic. You could get any of the final of the Cup of the FIFA 2020 with Visa. It's just to have a card of credit visa BMO for. participate.

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