CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I found a crypto currency that pays for pain" Creepypasta

Episode Date: August 6, 2022

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by ChristianWallis: https://www.reddit.com/user/Christian...Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►Raphaelle Deslandes: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/oO...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

The screen, the same one that had lit the young man's face a pallid blue, painting his tortured features like a bad Halloween decoration, showed a column of numbers that ran down the left-hand side. The row started on 318.23 and ended on 83,290.86, each entry increasing by small but seemingly random increments. At the bottom was an old-school block cursor, flashing over and over. I was still trying to make sense of it

when the text turned the lights on and began to work while Jack, my partner, approached. He made a despondent sigh as he swung the desk chair around and got a good look at our victim. Jeez, he cried. Be careful where you stand, I said,

gesturing to the pile of old tissues and tied up plastic bags, their contents leaking carelessly over the floor. Jack nudged one of the sudden lumps with his foot before looking to me for confirmation. Diapers, I said. Why? he asked. Nature called, I shrugged. What happened to this poor guy?

I pointed to the legs, the tripophobia's nightmare. A pen had been used to punch holes in the flesy muscles of his thigh. There could have been a thousand holes in each leg, enough to render a sponge-like effect. They were clean the close he got to his crotch, and so gangrenous by the knee, I was surprised nothing had fallen off. Any idea who did this to him? Jack asked. Him, probably. He's still holding the pen. My partner checked and quickly looked away with grimace.

Could someone have made him, gun against the head, that kind of thing? Why not, I said, but there's nothing to say there was anyone else here. Besides, there's worse hanging around. I'd stay away from the kitchen if you ever want to look at a microwave the same way, and those diapers have all sorts of funny stuff in them. Nearly got pricked by a needle earlier. All of it suggests self-inflicted injuries. I think that if someone made him do this, it was through the computer.

He lived on it. A few years ago, he dropped out of college to stream some game, got caught up in some crypto investing, and then lost so much money his parents had to remortgage. eventually his downward spiral led him here. The apartment was one room and too small to even be called a studio. It was a run-down hellhole with peeling wallpaper and a sagging ceiling. I understand very little of that explanation, Jack said, but I think I got the gist.

He lost out, went recluse. I nodded. Fancy himself some kind of mathematician, I think. I flipped through one of the kid's notebooks. $1.38 seconds, I muttered. Whatever that means. So, was he nuts? Or was he coerced?

He asked. Maybe both, I said. But you got to figure he was in that chair for a reason. The caller, his sister, by the way, said it all started after he got into something new about a year ago. A package from a friend he'd been excited for. I'm guessing it's got something to do with this. I bent down to the tower and pulled out an off-white USB. The screen immediately turned black.

Huh? Jack grunted, and I could see that it was perking up a little, now that we had a lead. What's on the drive? Let's find out. They weren't happy, but they did it. They made a copy, I said, placing two cups of coffee down on Jack's desk. They said it was a silicon brick, no firmware, No OS.

And when they cracked it open, they complained it was full of wires that connected to nothing. And it was all riddled with bits of soldered metal made into random shapes. You should have seen their faces when they put it back together, plugged it in, and the forensic program just sprung to life and started copying. They looked spooked. Well, it was plugged in at the scene and doing something, Jack said. Something important must be on it. Hopefully they'll find where it came from.

They've got the original, but this copy. I held up the new drive, is ours the take. Without asking, I spun Jack's laptop around, made a point of closing his 38 open tabs and plugging in the drive. Some of those pages were research, Jack said, hiding a smile with a quick sip of coffee. I was about to say something. Some minor upkeeping of this running joke we'd been sharing for years.

When the computer beeped and reset with a start, startling thunk. You could hear the hard drive go dead with a little click, and then after a few seconds, the screen came to life. Ritt coin. Each letter was typed out one and a time, the font's huge and green like a bad vision of the future from the 80s. After a few seconds, the words were erased and something new was written. Let your wealth be writ, a bit, upon your flesh. And then again, on a new screen, enter bank details below. There were several underlying spaces asking for input, and I noticed they were just enough

for a bank account. I'll get a card from forensics, I said. Something that scammers... Ah, screw that, Jack said, grabbing the laptop and typing away with one finger on each hand. Anyone wants to ruin my credit score, they're free to try. He punched in his details, and after a few seconds of tiny wearing motors, something new flashed up on the screen. 1,914.45. Well, Jack cried, genuinely surprised.

That's my balance. I checked it this morning, and there it is. Start of the First World War with the end of the second for change. They shouldn't be able to get that from an account number, I said. maybe it's just a coincidence. Jack looked at me like I was an idiot. Ain't no coincidence. I've been hacked.

He said that last word like it was both dirty and hilarious. I've heard what people can do on the internet, stealing identities. So, now what? He asked. They're going to drain my account and use it to retire early. I heard there are some real nice super yachts going for just under two grand. I tapped the keyboard. Nothing happened.

I don't know, I said. I don't know what's next. Jack scratched his head and reached over for his coffee. He took a sip and we were both surprised when the screen changed. 1,911.72. It just went up, he cried. I saw, I said, but I don't understand. It's, what, free money?

Maybe it's a crypto mining thing, I asked. Hijacks the computer to use it to mine and then deposit a small feedback into the user's account. Like another language, Jack mused as he took another sip of his coffee. Once again, the number went up. 1,911.96. Wordlessly, I slid my glass of water over and he took a sip. Nothing changed. He tried the coffee once more.

whining at the heat. And there it was. The number jumped up again. Jack realized first. It was always a little better at seeing things through another's eyes. Without saying another word, he held his hand over the cheap linoleian floor and slowly poured what was left of the coffee over his skin.

He hissed at first, but through sheer will kept his hand there until the last dregs of coffee had drained. Before I could shout at him, he nodded towards the screen. 1,913.03. It's pain, he said, drawing his hand on his shirt. The balance increases with pain. That's why he was hurting himself so bad.

Every poke of that pen was another deposit. You need to go to forensics ASAP and tell them to check the kid's account and then mine. I want to know if something's out. actually been deposited. It'd be a hell of a joke if this turned out it was just numbers on a screen. Huh? Chris said, staring at the screen

as Jack plucked her hair and the tally went up. Well, you look at that. It had been an arduous few hours convincing the computer friend's guy we weren't messing with him. Bank statements were pulled out for both Jack and I picked him, and we formatted three old laptops

before he was finally willing to even consider that the stick was the real deal. Jack accepted the premise the easiest, because he knew the least. All computers were magical to him. I knew enough to be skeptical. But Chris, our resident expert, was completely baffled by the whole thing. I just don't understand where it's coming from, he said. We've got accountants on that, I replied.

But why? he cried. Let's accept the cash is there. It's real. Why would anyone pay for? For what? Pain? Maybe it's like proof of work, right? I asked, leveraging my night's research into crypto in the hope of offering some insight.

Maybe they don't want computational work to prove the new blockchain is authentic. Maybe they want pain. No, sure, whatever, Chris said, throwing up his hands in the air. But that still doesn't answer how. This machine is a brick as far as it. internet is concerned, no webcam, no Wi-Fi. Can you do it again? He turned to Jack for the last part and mined pulling out another hair. I don't have unlimited supply, Jack groaned before yanking an eyebrow hair-free. Sure enough, the computer's tally went up once again. Chris stared at the

screen for so long that Jack wandered off and began poking at the vivisaded computer's that lay all around us. All right guys, Chris said, suddenly sounding unusually helpful. Leave it with me, I'll have to see what I can dig up. Something inside me tensed up at Chris's suggestion. I wanted to instinctively say he couldn't have it, but that was ridiculous. How could he help without keeping hold of it for at least a few days? One look from Jack told me he hadn't registered anything strange about the request, So, I decided to just let it go.

We'll leave it to you, Jack said. See you, Chris. But Chris didn't even look up at us. He was already wheeling the USB drive from one laptop to another while muttering to himself. What's eating you? Jack asked as we waited in the elevator. Did you know Chris gets migraines? I asked. What of it? I don't know, I shrugged.

but he gets them down near daily, spends hours each night in pain. Huh? You don't think, I asked. I doubt it, Jack replied. Chris is a smart guy, long way from poking holes in his legs and Jerry rigging his microwave to cook with the door open. Yeah, but sometimes the darkest pits have gentle slopes. That came a kid, I reckon he started off small before he got all creative. Yeah, I nodded, creative.

I couldn't escape the feeling of dread building up in my gut. What if Chris started out just letting his migraines do their heavy lifting? That'd be something. Hell, it'd be a force for good. Guy was in pain anyway. Might as well make money. But the payouts were small. Anyone could see that.

That kid hadn't earned billions. He'd sold his health and his sanity for what seemed like a money. for what seemed like a pittance in comparison to the suffering he went through. And yet, the potential of earning cash for pain? The idea stayed with you. Every ache in your gut and every twinge in your spine could have a dollar value attached to it, and who wouldn't want that?

I knew I would. But would the average person just sit back and let it tick upwards day to day, content to live on whatever meagre payout is through their way? I told myself that's what I'd do. I'd be smart, but I also knew you could go through a lot of pain and heal up just fine. Wouldn't it be better to take some time and figure out what the USB stick really wanted? Once you knew what sort of injuries gave the biggest payout,

then you could plan out a safe way to make as much money as the body could physically handle. And it was probably that kind of thinking that led that kid to start experimenting with sharp things. He hadn't even made a withdrawal. He just kept letting the money pile up. Something about that struck me as truly insane. I could tell the implications hadn't completely escaped Jack, because he pursed his lips for a few seconds and finally offered an opinion. Remind me to check up on him tomorrow.

It's mine! A gunshot rang out and everyone ducked around the barricade. Even the paramedic being wheeled into an ambulance flinched, and he was doped up on painkillers. He'd been shot just 15 minutes ago, but he was still a lucky man. Whoever was up there had fired blindly around a corner and clipped his leg. Could have easily been a lot worse. Above us, a pale-looking head stuck out the window and screamed, It's mine, it's mine, my flesh, it's written on my flesh.

I noticed Jack's hand on his holster. He'd never fired, of course, way too dangerous. But damn, if it wasn't tempting. The ratty-looking asshole had spent the last few hours taking pot shots at cops and doctors after wounding the first response team. They'd been on their way up there, reporting to neighbours' complaints of a missing person

and an awful smell. When he first opened fire on the very people supposed to help him, Any news on the infrared? Jack asked. I looked towards a special response team. A large man in a black visor gave me a thumbs up. He's alone, I said. No hostages.

They want to take the shot. I'd like it if we could keep him alive. Could they disarm him? How the hell are they going to do that? I asked. But before Jack could reply, the officers around us began to cry out and our attention was back on the shooter above. Didn't take him for a jumper.

Jack said, as we watched, his skinny torso wriggle his way out of the tight confines of the open window. You think it's like the last one? I asked as I gestured with one hand for the cleanup crews to get ready. He's been yammering on about wealth written on flesh. I don't know, he said. Can't really get a payout if you did. Just doesn't make any kind of set. The pup finally pushed himself past the point of no return.

and his body entered free fall. My memories of it, in hindsight, are turgared and stuffed with too much detail. I can close my eyes, even now, and the image, and imagine the look on his face and the neon lights of our patrol cars flashing against his back, none of which I would have been able to actually see. Still, the memory is very ingrained in my mind, and I suspect most of the vital and lively details have been layered, on fresh with each new recollection.

What I do remember for sure is thinking to myself, What the hell is in his mouth? Half a second later, I found out. It was a bit of rope he'd been slowly feeding himself for a few days. I don't know how that works exactly, but the text assured me that it's something the body can easily do. Bit of training with your gag reflex and just about anything. can pass your gullet, and then, if it's long enough, it goes right out the other end.

It was that end he'd tied to the fridge just before he jumped. How are they? Jack asked, and it was a grave sign of how bad things were that he, of all people, would be asking after the cleanup crew. Angry, I said. Not like angry, angry, angry, just not very happy. Jack walked over to the window and looked outside. Yeah, I get that, he said. Anything off the doctor's looking at the guy? Ah, yeah, I replied.

Confusion, for sure. No post-mortem, obviously. Although they're adamant it's coming. Guy can't possibly survive those injuries for much longer. Still, they did as we asked and looked for prior injuries. We've got what looks like a lot of broken bones, many partially healed, just one break piled on top of another. It's a miracle he could walk, let alone do that.

I gestured to the fridge that had been dragged away from the wall before it was used as an anchor. Although at least some of that distance had been the result of his dead weight hitting a snag in the rope. I shuddered at the thought and let my eyes roam the walls. They were covered in hundreds of thousands of the same simple equest of. repeated in a brown, greasy scroll, each one slightly different. $1.12 equals 35 seconds, $1.14 equals 39 seconds, 87 cents, 26 seconds. I tried to focus on the numbers, tried to make sense of the clues, while recalling the ancient history of entry-level stats.

Normal distributions were part of a general scroll in some parts, along the with what looked like some kind of beige equation. But none of it stuck for long in my mind. My eyes, no matter how hard I tried to keep them in one place, kept coming back to the glowing CRT monitor on the aging kitchen table. 252,038.136, 252,000-39.09. It was still rising.

But for all that he'd gone through, the shooter had barely earned 250K. Scrolling up, I found his grand finale. It netted him just over a few grand. It was so little, it felt like a deliberate act of humiliation, and my eye began to rise. I took some satisfaction in watching the numbers disappear when I yanked the thumb drive out. Then, when I thought that wasn't enough, I started kicking the crap out of the tower. Whoa, whoa, whoa, Jack cried out while stepping over. Calm the hell down.

This is bad, I said. Whoever made this knew what they were doing. Right now, it's just two guys. But if it gets big, the desperate, the greedy, and the plain old stupid will line up around the block to play with this thing. How the hell do they even know? I cried, and I could hear the anger. in my voice. How does anyone even know the guy in the other end is hurting himself? I didn't usually find myself fraying at the ends like this, not in front of Jack, who had a good

15 years on me, and was the kind of guy who you always wanted to see you at your toughest. But after what we'd just seen, there was a helplessness building up inside my chest that felt like being buried alive. Calm down, Jack said. I'll finish up here. You go home and get into bed. get your head straight. I'm going to hear that noise every single night for the rest of my life. Yeah, well, you're not alone, he replied, and I'm not sure if you meant to or not,

but he found the one thing that managed to comfort me. It was 11 a.m., and I'd been in bed for six days, using up my annual leave when the phone rang and Jack's name lit up on the screen. Jack, I groaned, surprised at just how bad my voice sounded. It's me, he said. I need you to come in. I'm not doing that, I said. Not until someone threatens to fire me.

Tell me when someone who gets paid more takes this case off our hands. Did you know Chris has been working from home all this time? My heart sank. No? Well, he got permission the day after we saw him last, you know. The day we gave him the stick with Rick-coin. on it. Then three days ago, at about lunchtime, he stopped responding to all emails and stopped answering his phone. His friends are talking about him like he might be ill, but... Jack didn't have to

finish his thought. How long's he been home? I asked. Three weeks. Damn. Okay, I'm coming in. Chris? A few heavy knocks, and we heard nothing in return. We weren't exactly light touches either. Jack's hand boomed against the woods so hard I thought the door would bow inwards. Chris, I cried again, but there was still no answer. No surprise there. Jack grumbled as he stepped around the stony front garden and tried to peer into the open windows. Who's he live with? Parents, I said.

Originally, anyway. They passed away a few years ago, so I'd have to guess the place is all his now. No wife? Nope, I shook my head. Doesn't look like there's anyone else living in there. Jack replied, stepping back from the grimy pane. Back way in. Let's look, I answered, while moving towards a rusted side gate

that led to a small and stony garden. Surrounding the house with decrepit apartment blocks that towered above, lending the garden a feeling of urban mysticism. Like this one overgrown patch of brambles and greenery was the city's dirty little secret. We soon found a concrete flight of stairs that led down to a cellar door. The steps covered in old broken bottles

tossed from up high, probably by some jealous neighbours. Jack and I kicked them aside while we descended to find the door open. Jack, I said, as we took our first steps inside. The basement was quiet and filled with old junk,

curtains drawn across most of it to try and hide as much as possible from prying eyes slowly we made our way through it while my heart took the tap dancing in my chest when are we going to someone else with this with what the case oh he grunted we'll have to see

maybe it goes big viral like you said in which case we won't have to do a damn thing it'll be out of our hands in no time But so far, these guys, they've all had some kind of connection. Fingerprints show those two drives are handled by the same person at some point. I was working and IDing them when I heard the news. Maybe whoever left those prints, maybe they're the source. If so, we could stop it before it gets bad.

I couldn't do it. The voice was startling enough that I went for a gun I didn't have. God bless Jack. he hadn't let me command. I hated to be someone he couldn't count on, but it turned out to be the right choice because I would have fired into the source of that voice without hesitation. It was one of those Microsoft Sam jobs,

robotic enough to almost be funny, but loud enough, it damn near scared me witless when I first heard it. What the hell? I muttered. Nick, Jack, I hope you find this, the voice said without intonation. At this stage, Jack drew his gun, albeit in a safer and more sensible way than I could have, and he stalled quietly over to a small knock covered with a red curtain. He peeked inside and let out a soul-draining sigh.

Slowly he pulled the curtain aside for me to see. We found our head of computer forensics slumped in the desk chair, facing two screens. One was a text document, the other was Rick coin. A muddy splash of brown and red across one of Chris's shoulders spoke of a fatal bleedout, one that must have occurred days before. It soaked his clothes, the chair and the floor, draining him so thoroughly, he looked like something dragged out of a lake. I had to assume it was rigormortis that kept him upright, but his pose was unnervingly natural. The robotic voice spoke up once more.

I'm unborrowed time, it said. It's a text file, I said, pointing to the other screen. A note said to read out loud. A letter, I think. It must be on a loop. I miscalculated. Jack bent down and picked up a kitchen knife, covered in rusty blood. Self-inflicted, he asked me.

I have wanted to die for so very long, the voice said, almost in answer to Jack's question. But I was scared. When I saw Rick Coin, I thought the money might balance out the pain. I left instructions for it to all go to charity. If my death could help people, I thought it would make it easier. I have tried before, but could never go through with it. I always thought of the bad I'd be leaving behind.

I thought Rick Coyne could change it, make it easier knowing some good would come. come of my suffering. At first I tried pills, but it did not work, so I took more and it still did not work. I tried to hang myself, but I stayed there alive for two days before the light fixture broke. I tried my wrists. I tried electrocution. In the end, I used a knife. I thought it would be definitive, opening my neck up ear to ear. I was wrong. I've been bleeding out for two days and I am still not dead. Something is slowing it down and the numbers keep rising. I am alive even as my body shuts down. Soon I will have no blood, no oxygen to work the cells to move my muscles. I hope that will be the end. But if it was so simple, I should have died days ago. At least I have

time to think. And I have a theory. I think the money is secondary. It is just the way to get you started. I had been stood, rooted to the spot, as the weight of Chris's words sank in. He had ended himself and we'd given in the tool that had pushed him past the threshold. The thought of it left me dazed. Even Jack, not a man often given to flight of sympathy, was shocked into silence by the thought of this man's death. It is giving us time, the voice continued.

Pain in the exchange for time added onto your life. The money is just a law. The real payout is time. The worse the pain, the longer you'll get added onto your life. And if you hurt yourself bad enough, the pay becomes self-sustaining, even as the injuries kill you. More suffering means more time. More time means more suffering. My only hope is that if the program is a problem is.

interrupted, the cycle can be stopped. If you find me, Nick or Jack, or anyone, please pull the drive. I'm still aware somehow. I should have died days ago, but I can see the numbers still going up bit by bit. In the end, I think it will leave me here, stuck in a rotting shell. Whatever this thing harvests, it isn't just physical pain. It's leading to something darker. I think something is out there and it is. The document ended. The final statement left unfinished. Both Jack and I looked at the Ripcoin screen.

You don't think he's actually in there, do you? I asked. Somehow, the tally was still increasing. Without saying another word, Jack bent down and pulled the drive out with an angry grunt. Just like that, the monitor went dark. and a heavy silence filled the cellar. I don't know exactly what prompted the following. Maybe it was a shift in temperature caused by us opening the door,

or maybe just a build-up of gases. But as soon as the clicking of the computer had stopped, Chris's body fell forward out of the chair. He hit the keyboard face first, and there was a blurt of computerized consonants spoken before his body awkwardly gaved into the gravity and landed on the floor with a wet thud. Jack dropped the drive and stamped it into pieces on the floor.

Tell me he wasn't still in there, I cried, that all that nonsense about having extra time was just his brain running out of oxygen and he was just rambling. It was gases or some post-mortem twitch or something. Just coincidence he fell, he replied. But I don't think even he believed that. Maybe he had, or hadn't realized at this point, but it was firmly in my mind the jumper we'd seen just a week before had died in hospital hours later while we were still in his apartment. Had that happened at the same time I'd pulled the USB drive?

I told myself it was impossible, but everything we'd seen so far was impossible. Call this in, he said. We've got work to do. they should have burned this place down years ago. The evergreen high-rise was notorious for its squatters. It was a place where a certain kind of person went and the city preferred them behind closed doors rather than out on the very public and visible streets.

Before being condemned, the people who lived there were tenants. Now they were called squatters. To Jack and I, the evergreen high-rise was the hiding place of our supposed distributor. It had taken days to get an ID due to the partial print match, only to find out the owner's listed address was no longer accurate. After that, we had to work our usual contacts and informants, and they helped, but they could only get so far.

Rumors and hearsay was what we had to go with, leading to a list of several squalid hellholes we'd been forced to trapes through one by one. Evergreen was by far the worst. Want to take the elevator? Jack smirked as he asked, both of us stopping to look at the wrenched open metal doors and the black water flooding the shaft. I tried looking for the car,

but only saw my reflection cast in inky ripples. They said the seventh floor, right? Above me, somewhere, a door slammed shut. We both waited for sounds of footsteps, but none came. After a few more silent seconds, Jack spoke up again in a hushed voice that still sounded far too loud in the derelict lobby. Let's get going. I found the climb up easier than Jack, who huffed and puffed after a few short flights.

I considered asking him if you wanted a break, but I didn't fancy the idea of hanging around in that graffiti riddle stairwell. It would have been bad enough if we were alone in that concrete tomb. but we weren't. The sounds of fleeting feet and locking doors told us that the inhabitants of Evergreen were well aware of our presence and most likely watching us. So far, we could be thankful they were staying out of our way, but I wondered if it was just because they hadn't figured out

what they wanted to do with us yet. When we reached our floor, we both waited by the open door for any signs of an ambush before venturing into the dark, torches raised. Over here. Jack walked over to a closed door and put his ear close to the gem. He was listening to something, and as I got closer, I heard it too. There was a gentle thrumming behind the door,

and an occasional blurt of bright and colorful electronic music. Gun drawn, Jack tried the handle and found it open. He took point as he entered and found a bare apartment with a carpet ripped up. The only sign of habitation was a computer station set up in one corner, its five multi-sized monitors lighting up the room in an array of neon blues and pinks. A screensaver was looping over and over as a little pixelated cat chased mice, bursting into joyful song each time it caught one. Nick, I see it, I said.

I'd seen it the second I entered, a patch of shadow that seemed to eat the light from our torches. It had been a person, once. Some part of my rational mind told me this had to be true. Two arms, two legs, a pair of crusty old jeans tied around the waist with string. Thinking of the first case and the needles he swallowed and past, I checked the victim's hands. Sure enough, there were several shots of glass clutched in their fist. That explained the distended belly that hung toad-like below a bony rib cage.

A classic sign of PICA. How long has he been here? Jack asked. A while, I answered, as I paid attention to the festering mess of scar tissue and coagulated blood that coated everything above the neck and shoulders. The face was inhuman, lipless and skinless. The features warped from what must have been an endless cycle of injury and healing. No soft tissue spared.

If it could be peeled, pierced or tenderized, it had been. One injury laid on top of another for what must have been several months or even years. Even the eyes were lidless and had dilated to such an extreme, they looked all black with no Irish or Sclera. I wanted to be professional, but it made my stomach not and my heart race just to look at. Jack? Yeah.

I can't stop thinking about what Chris wrote. Yeah, he said with a wary sigh. Me neither. Whether it's true or not, there's something... I don't know, spooky about this whole thing. But we need to fix it no matter what. Over by the computer, he nudged the mouse and the screensaver faded to reveal a standard Windows desktop on all but one screen. That one turned black with green text.

We'd found it again. Another row of numbers starting small and getting bigger. Well, there we go, Jack said. What did our lucky contestant win? He thumbed the down arrow and the text scrolled for what felt like an obscene amount of time. Knowing that each row of numbers was another injury made, the weight for the bottom was very uncomfortable. There we go, he said when he finally found the bottom. He got to just under nine million. Geez, you'd think he'd retire after like, what, three? Probably saving up for plastic surgery, I replied.

and Jack gave a tired laugh, the kind you only do with your nose. 8,879,332.79, the screen read. And then, soundlessly, it ticked over again. 8,879,335.26. Jack's hand reached for his gun. 8,8779,338.95. I nearly said something but stopped myself. My mind stuttered like a flooded car engine and I tried a few different explanations for what I was seeing.

But it all came down to what Chris had already told us. The tally was rising because whoever was sat on that floor, they were somehow still in pain. Quietly we both waited for some sign of life. When it finally happened. It was fast, lightning fast. Whoever or whatever it was that lunged for us with childish giggles that left no doubt as this thing's state of mind, it wanted to hurt us. Broken legs trailed behind it as it shuffled forward in a blaze of shaking lights and terrified cries that I would later realize were mine.

The sight of that thing coming at us froze me to the spot, but Jack stepped up. Gun drawn, he aimed and fired, and fired and fired and fired, before he could close even half the distance. When the gunshots finally stopped, it came as a relief. All motion and sounds ceased as if the normality of gunpowder cancelled out the madness we were seeing. Lead and fire versus pain and greed. Jack and I were left standing there in breathless quiet.

The tension was so immense that when it finally broke, it did so with a chuckle, and it was Jack who went first. Guess he wasn't dead, he said after a nervous laugh. But, uh, he is now. And how couldn't he be? Half the monster's skull had been pulverized. Its head looked more like a houseplant than it did a piece of human anatomy. Just like that, all notion of extended lives.

washed away, and it felt as if an enormous weight had been taken away. Yeah, I laughed with him. Maybe I've just let this one get to me. All said and done, their bullet did the trick. He isn't getting... The creature sat up. Slowly, its flower bulb head turned towards us, and it spoke. Would you like to live forever?

It hissed, its words shaped by flaps of skin and muscle that I'm not sure ever began their life as part of the mouth. Jack lifted his gun up, but I stopped him. The computer, I whispered. You can skirt oblivion, it tithered. You do not have to wait to see hell to start paying your dues. Shoot the computer, I hissed at Jack. No need. The thing held out his hand as a gesture to stop us.

Mishapen fingers spayed outwards at stomach-churning ankles. I knew you were coming. There is not a soul in this building who hasn't shared in this gift. Do you think you would have made it this far if I hadn't wanted you to? So take the drive and know that the promise of extended life is real. Am I not proof enough? The creature used a hand to flick back a strand of something that had fallen across the few inches of meat and bone that remained above its jawline. Not only of coin, but of other higher powers.

Death is not the end. It hissed, and you can hold it back for a little while, and earn the amusement of what awaits to collect us on the other side. That sounds like a bad deal, I said, as I ran towards the computer and pulled the stick. Only when I turned back, the monster was still sat there, and somehow, even without a face or most of a head, I could tell it was smiling. Mine is elsewhere, it giggled. I told you, that one is meant for you, detectives. I turned to the screen and saw it hadn't changed.

Frustrated, I kicked the computer and found it was a decoy. Just an old tower with nothing inside. The monitors must have been wired up to something else. With more time, I could have found it. But, with every fibre in my body begging me to leave, there was no chance I was going to stick around just to ferret that thing out. But you were right, it could. It is a bad deal

But take it from someone Who knows what is on the other side I advise you to suffer now And delay the next world Take your time and think up novel torments Nothing you come up with Will compare to an eternity spent with them Carefully it dragged itself across the floor

To give us access to the door But they do so enjoy watching us try. Outside, sat on the hut of our car, Jack and I smoked. Whatever's up there, I said, pointing to the high-rise. Did you believe anything it said? It painted a pretty grim picture of the afterlife. I don't know, he replied.

Nothing else, just another puff of smoke. What do you want to do now? I asked. That thing, its legs were. Out of action, I told him. Disgruntled, he stood up and walked to the back of the car. When he came back, he was speaking. How easy do you think those stairs would be for him? Let's say, if it was in a hurry.

I don't know, I shrugged. Not easy at all. I finally saw what Jack had fetched from his trunk. And despite everything, I smiled. It was a gas can and a box of matches. Let's see how they cope when all their computers are melted plastic.