CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I found a survival guide for 2021 in an old bookstore" Creepypasta

Episode Date: December 31, 2020

AUTHOR'S SUBREDDIT► https://www.reddit.com/r/Bryceverse/CREEPYPASTA STORY►by WeirdBryceGuy: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comm...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►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-

I found the guide in a bookstore that was closing down. Most books were 50 to 75% off. Even the old and ordinarily expensive leather-bound tomes kept behind glass in the rearmost section of the store. I hadn't gone in with any particular book in mind. I'd simply meant to browse and pick a few books up with the $20 I'd reserve for the occasion. I crossed row after row, pulling, inspecting, and returning several volumes. Nothing too interesting that I hadn't already read, owned, or planned to own.

own in some other more preferable fashion. There were other shoppers, most appearing to be casual readers or first-year students. There is a college not far from the bookstore. The shop owner and his assistant were visibly melancholy, so I smiled warmly upon arriving and made efforts not to cross their paths. I'm terrible at consoling people, and figured that my plentiful patronage of the store would be better than any funding words I could offer. I made a few rounds of the store.

It was in a large place by any means, before finally settling on a few horror collections, Mackin, Blackwood, Lovecraft, Biers, Stroker, and some books of Eastern mythology and mysticism. Satisfied with my hall, I made my way towards the register at the front, but stopped short when I saw the assistant wheeling out a cart on which sat some particularly old-looking books, the single pricing sign listing them all as being 90% off. Immediately attracted by the discount alone, I asked her if I had to have, I could take a look at the books, and she happily obliged. She left me with a cart and went over towards a group of shoppers down an aisle.

Most were first or second editions of books by authors I hadn't much interest in, but whose values were inarguable, and I felt sorry that the owners hadn't the means or time to sell these books more appropriately priced. My eyes scanned the withered and warped spines, reading the titles with a casual literary appreciation, but finding nothing of relevance to my book. my somewhat specific interests. I had almost left the cart when I spotted on the second steel shelf,

a book that seemed of an extremely advanced age, armored in dust with a spinal lettering fading, ashen. I withdrew it carefully so that the row in which it had sat did not totter. The book was averagely sized,

oddly enough heavy, and, as I had initially observed, it was of an age much older than its leather-bound companions. Upon brushing away the dust, I saw, with no small shock that the title read, How to Survive the Haring of 2021. The lettering, once relieved of his ashen coating, glimmered faintly in gold, and was styled in a pseudo-cursive that flowed beautifully across the faded crimson cover.

There were no other designs or markings in the book, front or back. Only that bizarre title, whose message seemed an impossible thing, considering the book's obvious age. No authorship had been assigned to the book either, and this immediately inspired the idea that the book itself was some sort of joke. A thing made to appear severely aged, a novelty that would have assuredly been a hit to younger readers

if the store had had time to market it. I had no doubt that other copies sat in a box somewhere in the store, never to be sold as intended. I was about to open the book, where I expected to find fittingly contemporary messages of hope, faith, determination, and positive thinking, but phrased archaically, styled anachronistically. But, before I could crack open that expertly aged guide, I felt a sudden sensation of foreboding, an ominous and vague prescience, which not only stopped my hand, but removed it from the book's surface.

Through no conscious thoughts of my own, I had withdrawn my hand from the cover, and yet the compulsion had been immediate and incontestable. A fear mounted within me, swelling almost to the point of actual dread, and I considered unceremoniously tossing the book onto the cart and leaving. But some other impetus, equally powerful, impelled me to not only hold onto the book, but purchase it. I stood there for a while, and the baleful apprehension which had entered my mind faded away, and a curiosity, morbid if not scholarly, took its place. I added the book to the bundle in my basket and took my hole to the front. Surprisingly, the sum amounted to only $17, and I happily allocated the change to the tip jar at the register.

The owner thanked me gratefully, as if I'd thrown in double the amount I'd brought in and wished me a happy new year. I bid him the same farewell and left the store pleasantly encumbered with the new literature. It was a nice day, cold but not uncomfortably so, and sunlight fell plentifully upon the world. I decided to sit in a nearby coffee shop and read rather than go home to my stuffy apartment to do the same. I walked down the sidewalk,

contemplating which book to begin first. Looking back, I now think that I had always planned on reading the strangest book first, that guide which I had believed to be a fake, a bookstore's joke. Perhaps if I'd read anything else, I might have avoided the horror which was born from the pages of that truly decrepit and sinister tome.

I sat at a table nearest the window for optimal sunlight, ordered a cup of Earl Grey tea and freshly baked oatmeal cookie, just one, they were quite large, and laid the contents of my bag onto the table. I went through the performance of considering each book, but my mind had already decided upon the 2021 Survival Guide. I stacked the other books nearby to my left, cleared a space to my rights for my food and drink

and placed a book immediately before me. In the brief time that had elapsed, I'd forgotten the intense feeling of apprehension that had come to me when I first considered opening the book. When I reached for the crimson cover, the feeling again returned, albeit to a lesser extent. But this time, curiosity prevailed

and I enjoyed the unsettling sensation and gently opened the book. I was taken back, by what I saw on the very first page. There were lines upon lines of tiny strange runes, scribed in letters that seemed entirely alien to human language. The writing, I'm sure that these letters had not been mechanically printed, was done in a deep red ink,

absolutely sanguine against the thick and time-yellowed paper. The spacing, placement and script were all immaculate, despite my certainty that a hand of some nature had written the words. I was nonetheless amazed at the impeccable penmanship of the author. My eye scanned this first page several times, and yet I could intimate nothing of what it said. So, I flipped it, and was again shown a language entirely unrecognizable. Though no hints or clues as to the meanings of any of the words, and, after flipping to the very end of the book, no cipher was found with which I might have decrypted them.

I flipped pages at random finding only that odd, unfathomable language written beautifully and yet eerily upon the sallow pages. My order arrived and I set the book aside not wanting to stain it,

which, despite its age, was in a decent condition within. My fruitless scrutiny of its content had changed my mind entirely in regards to its nature. I had abandoned my belief of its literary duplicity.

There was no way that anyone certainly not a small-scale bookstore owner would have gone through the efforts necessary to create such a thing for the purpose of novelty. The language, though unreadable, seemed to be an inhumanly real one in a way that is inexpressible. The colour and feel of the pages

were indistinguishable from the pages of other incredibly old books and the smell was similarly genuine. I ate and drank, absorbed in thoughtlessness, thinking neither of the book nor its enigmatic language but vexed by an undefinable impression imparted to me by the book.

A similar sensation, though to a much less unnerving degree might be the apprehension one feels as a child on the day in which school report cards are mailed, confident that your grades aren't abysmal, but nonetheless fearing that some unforeseen or miscalculated grade still might appear and invoke the ire of your parents. I felt that I was for the moment safe, but that certain actions or certain knowledge to be obtained later

would place me in the way of some terrible yet unforeseeable harm. Once I'd finished my meal, I returned my attraction to the book, this time determined to uncover some meaning or message from its previously inscrutable contents. Minutes passed. I finished my tea and ordered another,

this time getting an infusion of lemon grass, citrus herbs and ginger, among other things, and really scan the pages. but my efforts were pointless. The pages yielded nothing to any interpretation I tried to force. I was about to give up when a woman entered the coffee shop

and immediately passed by my table, which I had chosen due to his proximity to the front windows. She glanced down, and in my natural shyness I had averted my gaze. My eyes fell up on the pages. And for a moment, a brief yet clarifying moment, I found some sense in the words. Nothing that I could really reproduce in my own thoughts and language,

but there'd been for a moment a glimmer of... Readability. Instinctively, through an instinctively, through an instinct I hadn't understood, my attention returned to the woman who'd suddenly worn an expression of confusion, intermingled with intense interest. Meeting my eyes, she asked what I was reading, and I admitted that I wasn't exactly sure.

I noticed the logo on the place. classic bags she'd been carrying and pointed out that I had bought the book from the very same bookstore, but that it was written in a language totally unfamiliar to me. Her curiosity peaked, she glanced at the chair beside me, and I nodded, granting her permission to join me. One of the cafe staff came and took her order, and once that was done, I slid the book towards her so that she could comfortably read it. Initially, I'd watched her face as her eyes crawled over the pages. Confusion and excitement illuminated her green eyes, and a mouth twitched, as if the lips were attempting to read long, but hadn't any basis upon which to form the unreadable

words. A few seconds of this passed, and she sighed in defeat. I laughed, commenting my own inability to decipher a single word of the thing. It wasn't until I glanced back of the book that the sudden sensation of literacy returned. For a moment, my eyes and her eyes had rested upon the same line, and I realized, in both excitement and horror, that the script was readable when looked at by two persons. She must have intimated the same, because she turned to me, eyes wide, with the very same emotions that I'd felt.

We said nothing to each other, but my hand involuntarily turned the pages until it reached the beginning of the book, and my index finger came to rest in the book's first line. The moment our eyes landed on that first word, it was transformed from its alien text into English, or some interpretation simultaneously readable to us. I cannot earnestly say it was actually English upon the page.

My mind reeled at the idea, the concept that the text was only readable by two readers, but by one in possession of four, or at least four eyes, and covering the secret of that once in person, passable barrier was exciting, pride-inducing, and yet I felt that I had finally arrived at the moment for which I had earlier felt such apprehension and ominousness. I suppressed the rising terror mentally, and even physically with a few sips of tea, and, once she had seemed to do the same for herself, we began reading the previously unreadable book. The enigma unlocked before our eyes,

the word shifted, reformed, were unmade, as if by some cryptographic sense, born within us. Comprehension came immediately as if we were reading an ordinary book. We read in tandem, effortlessly trailing the lines of script without one falling behind or pushing forward. Our eyes and minds were locked together, our thoughts fused in some tether of previously undiscovered hypercognition. We read as one, interpreted as one, thoughts as one, and the sense was absolutely incredible, though entirely indescribable. at least in the language with which I composed this account. Pages flew by, and I'm sure that to unlockers,

we might have appeared very strange. Our heads practically touching, our eyes moving along with equal pacing, as if choreographed. In what couldn't have been more than 15 minutes, we had reached the middle of the thick book, and by this time I felt the indefatigable return of that monstrous horror. The things we read up to that point were nightmarish, unrepeatable, and though our eyes had easily discerned the words and our minds clearly understood

the meanings, our human mouths have been woefully inadequate for the vocalization of the ultra-alien text. It took a considerable effort to do so, but I pried my eyes away from the words, and they immediately resumed their inscrutable arrangement and forms in the corners of my eye. My reading partner sighed, exhaustion and terror clear upon her face. I glanced around, not really to see if we've been watched, but just to keep an eye away from the frightful book for a while. No one had seemed to notice our strange captivation. I turned to her and saw that tears had begun to form in her eyes.

I felt a similar deluge swelling within the ducks of my own, but tried to keep them at bay, if only to appear, comfortably composed to her. The things we had read, the things the book had foretold, were appalling, things no human being, regardless of how black-hearted, would ever wish upon the species to which he belonged, the only world he knew to be home. And there was still another half to read through. She looked at the book, then to me, her eyes clouded with tears, the once vibrant light dimmed by a potent, insuppressable terror. Despite my own feelings, I wanted, almost yearned to continue on, to read the rest of that dark, a capricient tomb. But, with each page, the horror detailed therein had grown, worsened,

and I knew that the trend would continue with each subsequent page. Conceding to her unspoken plea, I closed the book and set it on the table beside me. She smiled and nodded to me with a gratitude that was almost spiritual infurvency. Together, in silence, we finished our tea, both of our minds struggling to reconcile. the abysmal predictions of that baleful book with the relative normalcy of our present world. In a testimony to the weird unreality or the chilling hyper-reality of the event,

I discerned a sliver of crimson light from the book. My heart seemed to irreversibly contract, my chest felt tight and hot, as I realized that the glowing line was a supernatural bookmark, keeping the place where we'd left off. I did not point this out to my partner who had regained a bit of a composure and sanity. Instead, hiding as best as possible my distress, I packed my things and left that wicked book in a chair, tucked beneath the table.

I will not repeat in detail anything I read. I will not subject anyone to the horrific prophecies, the diabolical incidents, the cosmically inimical afflictions to the human race described in those sanguine room pages. I will only give this instruction, this warning, and pray that it will be sufficient to prepare us for the coming storm, if the book is to be believed. This woman and I, whom I have now befriended, as people who've shared a traumatic incident are often bonded, needed to read the book together to decipher its abominable contents. Similarly, if we are to survive the coming year,

we, humanity as a whole, must band together, intellectually, emotionally, perhaps even spiritually, or else we cannot hope to combat the horrors which will descend upon us from the unmatched tracks of side-reel space, which will emerge from the molten depths of our own planet, and, quite possibly, arise from our own, allegedly, human ranks. Our strength must be communal.