CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "I spent 12 days in the world's quietest room" Creepypasta

Episode Date: June 15, 2020

It was deafening. AUTHOR'S FACEBOOK► https://www.facebook.com/richard.saxo...CREEPYPASTA STORY►by RichardSaxon: 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- Gareth Jensen: ►https://www.artstation.com/artwork/n11K6►https://www.instagram.com/garethjensen/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-

As I slowly regain consciousness, I felt a wave of dullness wash over my fractured mind. I couldn't move, much less remember what happened before I passed out. My eyes burned as I opened them. I spent too much time in the darkness to quickly adapt to the incessant flow of light. Hello? I tried to call out. But what emerged from my lips was merely a whisper. Once I could finally see, I took note of the light. of the room I'd awoken in.

The walls, floor and ceiling were all covered in weird, sound insulation foam. I tried to get to my feet, but my legs refused to cooperate. They weren't atrophied, but had weakened significantly. That fact, alongside my groggy mind, made me realize I must have been drugged. Is anyone there? I asked, a bit louder this time. response. I tried to think back, clawing at my own memories, hoping for even the faintest scrap of information. I'd been heavily sedated, that much was clear, but why they'd placed me in a soundproof

room, I didn't know. After what felt like an eternity, I finally managed to pull myself onto my feet. Still feeling wobbly, I started to look for an exit. Alas, everything around me was perfectly sealed in that ridiculous foam. I collapsed back to the floor, still exhausted from sleep. That's when I truly realized how quiet it was. The room wasn't just keeping sound in, but it kept everything out as well. No people talking, no traffic, not even the sound of water pipes built into the walls. It was deafening.

I held my breath and pressed my ear against the wall. Nothing. All I could hear was my own heart beating and the sound of my intestines churning away at whatever I'd eaten the day before. What seemed almost fascinating at first quickly became my worst nightmare. Within the room, I was the only source of sound

and, in the absence of any external stimulus, the silence got louder. Please, let me out of here, I begged. Then I remembered something. Nothing more than a faint hint of a distant memory, a glance into time long since past. It was a meeting, a conversation I'd had with a man I couldn't recognize.

Why are you here? The man asked. I'm sorry, sir. This isn't a good place, Ryan. You're young, healthy. shouldn't you be out there in the real world? Maybe find a wife? I had one.

The brief memory was cut short by a paper floating through the air. While distracted, someone had delivered a note through the ceiling. Hey, what the hell is this? Let me out. I called, as I looked, for whatever hold the note had come from. Without a response, I picked up the paper. It was oddly soft, producing a word. almost no sound as my fingers brushed over it. On it was a single line of text.

Day one. Listen. Listen to what, assholes, I called out. I started running around the room, desperately trying to pry the foam off the walls in search of a way out. It was a futile task, and before long I collapsed to the floor in exhaustion. The drugs still lingered in my breath,

body, and I couldn't think clearly enough to form a coherent escape plan. There was a significant difference between being deaf and living in absolute silence. Same goes for being blind versus being put into darkness. With functioning sensory organs, but no input, your mind takes it upon itself to come up with stimuli. Anything even remotely audible gets amplified a thousand times over. As my mind drifted away, another memory greeted my shattered brain. So, that's it? The man asked.

You lost her, and now you're here. He paused. What happened to her? I... Killed her, I responded with a trembling voice. Once I awoke, I was immediately assaulted by the sounds produced by my own internal organs. God damn it, shut up! I yelled at myself. There were no echoes within the room.

Each word I spoke simply vanished into the insulation foam. I had to constantly keep talking to myself, just to keep my own bodily sounds at bay. That's the first time I noticed how desperately I needed to use the bathroom. What if I need to take a pee then? I asked out loud. With that, one of the foam panes popped up from the ground. Beneath lay little more than a small foam-covered tunnel. Even my own stream of urine fell silently down into the darkness below. Once I finished relieving myself, another piece of paper fell from the ceiling.

Alongside it, a stream of water appeared. It hit the ground almost without producing a sound, and was immediately absorbed by the foam. Nevertheless, I dove under it, parched from a day without liquid. After the stream stopped, I picked up the second piece of paper, Day 2. Do you hear them yet? It read, What the hell are you talking about? I yelled to no one in particular.

Still, no response. Not that I expected anything else. I spent most of Day 2 investigating me. the room. With the drugs cleared from my system, I could finally think, though despite being clear of mind, my memories remained hazy. There was no way out. No cracks in the horrendous facade. I was alone in an isolated room. The churning sounds of my intestines, the only thing to keep me company. I tried lying in different positions to muffle the sounds, but it felt as if they just grew louder. Confused and trapped, I had another memory flashed by. It's an anadonic

chamber, the quietest place in the entire world, a concrete block resting on a spring plate, isolated with soundproof foam to make sure not a single sound can get in nor out. While one exists in Orfield Laboratories, this one is special, one by my own design. The man said, It must have been expensive What's the point? I asked To make people hear the truth On the third day I didn't wake until I heard the faint sound of water

hitting the foam I shot to my feet and started drinking From the short-lasting stream That time they even dropped down some weird loaf of bread It was heavy and packed with strange bits of vegetable and seeds Some kind of neutral loaf A note also dropped down alongside the food and water. Day 3. Accept it, it read.

It felt like pure ecstasy to hear the bread tear apart as I bit into it. Finally, an audible sound that didn't come from my own guts. Unfortunately, it was short-lived. As soon as the bread had been eaten, I was once again plunged. into absolute silence. I tried to keep myself preoccupied by talking, but my voice could only keep going for so long before my throat dried out.

I realized then that they were purposefully keeping my water supply limited to prevent exactly that. I'd be too weak to fight back, too weak to keep talking, but healthy enough to remain conscious. There I sat, listening to my own organs

work. I hated them. Disgusting, pieces of flesh that produced squishy, sickly sounds that never ceased. Then, I heard something new, a faint voice hidden beneath the sound of my beating heart. Please, just make it stop. I can't take it anymore, the voice said. It belonged to that of a woman, oddly familiar, yet so strange. "'Hey, where are you?' I called out. "'It hurts so much. I don't deserve this. Why is this happening to me?' There was no discernible location for the sound. It almost felt as if it were coming from nowhere and everywhere, all at once.

"'Come on, I need to know where you are if I'm going to help you.' "'Ryan? It hurts so much. Please help me,' she begged, before the voice banished. into thin air. Linda? Oh my God, I called out, praying her voice would return. It had been my wife. The voice I'd longed to hear for so long. I almost couldn't believe it.

Through the immense silence, I heard the love of my life. And she was suffering. I cried as memories of her flowed back. How she had died. I'm so, so sorry. Sorry. Please forgive me, but she wasn't real. She had to be a figment of my imagination, or a hallucination brought on by the quiet room I'd been living in. As I sobbed into the phone floor, my mind wondered involuntarily back to my most recent, partially intact memory.

How did she die? The man asked. Why are you asking me these questions? I already signed the damp papers were Project Orcas. Because, you might be able to talk to her again. The fourth day arrived, and another piece of paper dropped from the ceiling. Day four, don't ignore them. They are as real as you and me, it read. I tore the letter apart. Not out of anger, but to enjoy the barely audible sound it produced as I ripped it to pieces.

I made sure there were only thin strips, keeping it going for as long as possible. I savoured every moment of it before I was forced back into silence. No sooner had the silence returned before I started hearing whispers all around me. At first, there were just incomprehensible sounds, voices that didn't make any sense. But, among it all, I heard Linda call out for them. for me. Ryan, stay away. It's not safe here, she begged.

But she wasn't the only one. There were dozens of muffled whispers all around me. I tried to filter them out, focusing only on my wife's beautiful, haunting voice. But as time passed, they kept getting louder. Day five arrived. I was in the brink of two. total insanity. The whispers had kept me awake for hours, only to vanish when the next paper quietly hit

the ground. The voices will set you free. It was a temporary relief. After I torn the paper to shreds, the voices immediately returned. Each hour gone made them louder, and I could do nothing to block them out. Day six came and went in the blinker. of an eye, the voices had fused together. The mess of sound that came from all around me just never ceased for a single second. Even as I shouted with my hoarse voice, they just kept coming.

The only real thing I remember from the day is the note that fell from the ceiling. Keep quiet and let them guide you. Once I lost my voice completely, I sat back and surrendered. I let the voices overrun my mind, still growing louder and louder and louder. That's when I realised they weren't whispers at all. They were screams. Each of the thousand voices that haunted me were cries for help. The people, wherever they came from, were in perpetual, unrelenting pain. They were begging me for a way out, but I could do it.

nothing save listen to their infinite suffering. In the midst of it all, I still heard the voice of my wife. I don't know why hers was louder or clearer than the others. I'd been clinging firmly to the idea that it was all in my head, but my sanity couldn't prevail for much longer. Soon, I'd have to give in. Let me get the hell out of here! I shouted as loud as I could with my hoarse voice. My mind was deteriorating rapidly. Day 8 was a haze of broken thoughts, and day 9 didn't fare much better. I stopped reading the notes. The screams kept going.

Among them, I could hear discernible words and phrases, but it wouldn't be until the 10th day before I could finally understand them. Help me, please, a child cried. You're not real. None of you are. but you can hear us you're nothing with figments of my broken mind you're all in my head that doesn't mean we're not real

I can prove it how the last note that fell from the ceiling it's a list of names I glanced over at the paper I still hadn't checked as I picked one up I realised he was right

Henry Jones Peter Dawson Alex Mores David Lawrence I dropped the paper and picked up another. The same list, same people, but no instructions. Who are they? I asked. They're the people you're supposed to find, the child responded. I'm one of them. My name is Alex.

What happened to you? But it was too late. His voice had faded away, replaced by the continuous screams of torture. I get my eyes fixed on the paper, and, as I read the names one more time, another memory flashed by. Do you know what to do? The man asked. Yes, sir. We need to sedate you, and you'll undergo electroshock therapy. It's the only way you'll be susceptible to the environment. I understand, I responded plainly. It's dangerous. I don't care. It also means you'll be extremely disoriented when you wake up.

You might have forgotten who I am or even who you are. That's why it's of the utmost importance that you keep the mission in mind. Don't forget it. Let it be the only thing you remember. For the next day, I sat in a corner, barely drinking or eating. All I did was repeat the names on the list, hoping the mystery would somehow unravel itself. Henry Jones, Peter Dawson, Who the hell are you guys? I mumbled to myself.

Then, as if a switch had been flicked on, I suddenly understood. The screams, the whispers, the voices, everything I'd heard for the past 11 days, made sense. A veil had been lifted from my mind, and I could understand everything they'd been trying to tell me. Ryan? My wife called out for me.

Linda, you're still with me? I responded with a hint of joy. I don't have much time. It's hard to keep focused, she said, clearly struggling. What's happening to you? It's not important right now. I just need you to know that it wasn't your fault. Her words of comfort hardly massed the pain she was in. Yes, it was. I was. Before I could finish my sentence, I was interrupted by more, deafening screaming. It's time for you to leave, she said. Wait, are you okay? I mean, where are you?

She paused. No, none of us are. I'm sorry, she said with a trembling voice. With that, she vanished for the last time, and a final paper fell from the ceiling. Day 12 Did you find them? I took a moment just to listen. There, among the pain, I heard them call out for me.

They'd been a part of the same project as me, and had since died. Yet, they held the instructions I needed to get out of the room. There was something scattered around within the foam, seven buttons that had to be pushed in a certain order. based on the voices I could easily open the door just the act of finding them was a feat on its own so deducing the correct sequence surely meant I'd make contact with the other side of life

I stepped outside for the first time in almost two weeks I saw another human being welcome back Ryan you made it the man said I didn't rest I just walked past him and traversed the long hallways towards the end of the anodynic chamber.

Once outside, I just collapsed to the ground and listened to all the insignificant sounds around me. Water flown through pipes, the silent hum of fluorescent light bulbs, footsteps shuffling around the facility. It was all equally heavenly. Once I gotten used to the real world, the man joined me. join me. He was my boss. I could remember that much. But my memories still remained hazy due to whatever treatment I'd been given before entering the chamber. Are you ready to talk? he asked. I sat down by the table, listening to the chairs, scrape against the solid floor. The names, he said. Do you remember them? Henry Jones, Peter Dawson,

Alex Moore, David Lawrence, I responded without skipping a beat. And you're aware of what happened to them? I nodded. Tell me, Henry Jones, age 75, passed away from fourth stage lung cancer. He signed up for the Orcas Project about a month before his death. Payment was supposed to be sent to his family. Go on. Peter Dawson, age 32, diagnosed.

Nosed with ALS and immediately signed up for the Yorkers project. David Lawrence, age 56, passed away from heart failure. And? Alex Moore. He wasn't part of the project. He was a child. I still don't know what happened to him. Neither do we, the man said as he smiled at me.

A smirk born from completion of self-intentions. Good work. And how are they doing now? He continued. I thought back to everything I'd heard. Through the screams, I'd been given mostly bits and pieces. It took me a moment just to put it all together. They're in pain.

They say the last moment of consciousness they ever experienced is what they've been going through for every moment since they're passing. There's no safe haven on the other side, no paradise, only the everlasting pain they felt before death. He scribbled down some notes onto a piece of paper. A smile still occupied his face as if his theories had been confirmed. Thank you, Ryan. We at Artifex owe you a great debt for your services.

This marks the end of our partnership. As agreed, you'll be well provided for. He said, as he gestured for a couple guards that take me away. They escorted me towards the exit. My boss gave me a final glance. Enjoy the rest of your life, Ryan, he said. I packed the few belongings I had. There were still multiple holes in my memory spanning over the past year.

But I suppose that's why they let me go. I know nothing about the people in charge. Even my knowledge about the Orgas Project is scanty. Once I returned home, I started to remember the life I'd left behind, the rough memories of my dead wife. I signed up to get away from my failure to keep her safe, and, when the man first told me I could talk to her again, I was ecstatic. It was a mistake. Because, even now that I'm 100 miles away from the anodonic chamber, I still hear them screaming.

They never stop. They're in so much pain. And once we die, we'll all join them in their misery.