CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "My therapy patient is incurable" Creepypasta

Episode Date: January 6, 2022

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by terrible_punchlinev: 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►RapterT: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/PE8dBSUGGESTED 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-

It's like, I don't know, this thing that I've developed. I can't even explain it. Jason was skinny and tall. He sat on the couch in my office, his eyes sunken in, bags beneath them hanging like rotted fruit. I was sitting behind my desk in a swivel chair, a clipboard on my knee with a sheet of notes on top, a pen in hand posed to write. I was relaxed and calm, mainly because Jason reminded me much like my little. my previous patients, nervous, a bit paranoid or depressed, just like the ones that I had cured before. I was confident that if Jason were like any of those patients, that he would

be cured as well. All it took was a little bit of time and commitment. To me, Jason was just another patient in my long line of successes and accomplishments. Could you try to explain it? I asked. I'd sound crazy, he replied, rubbing his neck. I smiled at him, and he caught the drift. How many crazy people have told you that they can see things before they happen, that they can see the future? He asked, his head bent toward the ground,

his hands rubbing up and down on his forearm and legs. I shifted in my seat, watching him, waiting for something else. But there was nothing. I'd heard many stories. stories, delusions, fantasies, and much like this one. I knew, I was sure, confident. That it was all fake. I've seen clients who suffer from disorders that can cause them to have those beliefs.

I remember one client who had the belief that there were little fairies in his house that had disguised themselves as spoons. I replied calmly, adding in the example at the end to lighten the mood. But my example had no effect on him. Jason looked up at me and he had the look in his eye, the one I'd seen in all my patients, that he was convinced his ability was not only incurable, but completely and totally real. Have you ever cured them? he asked. Every client of mine has ended up in a much better place than they had been, I replied. Jason chuckled.

I'm not talking about your clients. I'm talking about their delusions, their fantasies, Jason said, and I stared at him, my light smile gone. Have you ever cured them? Well, if they are better off than they were, that would either mean the delusion is gone or at least kept at bay. Medications help with such things as does therapy. I replied calmly and motioned at my office. Jason was quiet. Not for me, it doesn't, he muttered.

Medications? Yes, and therapy. Have you tried other medications and other therapy before? I had my pen ready to write. Many meds and many therapists, just like you as well. And so far, no good, he replied. With one hand, I checked the paper on my desk at his background. Inside, it was a list of all his medical background and therapy and medication.

And there was none. It had no trouble until this first appointment with me. His claim of no medical and therapeutic help was another fantasy and delusion, but for now I could go along with it to see if Jason would open up more toward our session. Did your previous therapists claim this as well? That these medications didn't work, I asked. Of course they did. I see.

What? I was just saying I understand. Okay. I wrote some more down on my paper. So tell me about this power. You said you can see things before they happen? I said, turning the subject back to Jason. He straightened up in his chair, his posture standing taller,

flattening out his shirt and fixing his hair, as if he was about to give a very important lecture. It started a couple months ago. I had a dream, and in the dream I saw a mug fall from a table. in a kitchen. The mug shattered and blood washed out of it, mixing in along with a shattered glass. I woke up in a sweat, but thinking nothing of it. Then, a couple days later, I'm in the kitchen and my mom is washing dishes, and she sets a wet mug on the table counter. I remember my dream, but by the time I do, the mug falls, shattering on the floor. My mom hears this and sees the mess

and goes to pick up the shards, and then she cuts an artery on her hand. blood mixes with the shattered pieces. She almost bled to death before we could get her to the hospital. I wrote all of this down as he went, only sure to highlight the main points and plots of the story. I make a note to discuss this with his mother before they leave after the session, just to make sure if his story is accurate in its telling. What you're saying is that your dream predicted what happened that day? The day of the accident, I clarified.

Not just this dream, many of them. Hmm? What? You've had multiple dreams where events have been predicted? Jason nodded. Do you want me to tell another dream? Jason asked. It's entirely up to you, Jason, I replied. Do you?

I looked at him. This is your time. You can choose whatever you wish to talk about, I explained. I know. I'm not stupid. He replied. I know you aren't. How?

I looked at him and he shrugged his shoulders. You don't believe me, Jason said. I never said that, I assured him. I can tell. I nodded. I'll tell another, he decided. Okay, I said. Jason squinted at me and rubbed his hands on his pants and started to talk again.

In this other dream, I'm inside a garage somewhere. and there's a chair in the center of the garage and it is all surrounded by this lawn equipment in the chair there is someone sitting and it looks as if it's a child I tried to move the chair but I find I can't move at all and I see that in the figure's hand there is a shotgun and I watch as the figure slowly puts a shotgun up to the chin and pulls the trigger and brains and blood shatter up against the ceiling and all over me as well then I wake up up, he said quietly, saying nothing else. A sudden sense of anxiety started to flow over me, and I felt clammy and unkempt. Waves of heat washed over me, and I'd started to feel sick. There was something in the room that was warming up, building up. An urge to stand and leave overcame me for a second.

I considered taking the trip to the restroom to get myself together, although I decided against it entirely. I became anxious to finish the therapy session and to get on with my day. That sounds very serious, Jason, is all I managed to say, and I wrote the dream down as much as I could remember. Do you have a wife? Jason asked. I stopped and looked up at him.

What's that? I asked, but I heard him the first time. You have a wife, Jason repeated. and he nodded to my finger. A gold ring enclosed around. I do, I replied. A child? A son, he's eight.

That's good. Jason smiles and I took a deep breath and relaxed. I was unaware of how tense I'd become under all his questioning. I started to think that this might be more serious than I previously thought. That was when I remembered that I hadn't finished with Jason.

Jason's second dream. So, what happened? I asked. What do you mean? I poised the penitim. The child in your dream. He died by gunshot from what I'm interpreting, I specified. Jason smiled at me.

Go on, he said. It was as if he were the therapist now, and I, the patient. Did anything happen, Jason? I asked quietly. He looked at me and leaned forward toward me, with his palms on his knees, like he might be sick. A couple days later, a friend of mine, this girl, is all upset and crying. She hadn't been to school in a few days. I'm a friend, so I ask her what's going on.

And that's when she tells me that a younger brother had died in some sort of accident. I pressed on, and she says that he died because he'd gotten his dad's gun out of the closet it and fiddled with it, and it shot himself by accident. I listened to his story, and it took me a moment to write all of it down. The thought that maybe Jason was right about the condition, and that it was real passed by me, but I shook it away as soon as it came. No one can see the future, let alone in their dreams. But the way Jason looked at me, the way he told his dreams in that dull,

motionless, monotone and yet vividness. How real it sounded. I shook my head again. Then it also occurred to me that Jason could be lying about all of this. There had to be a reason why though. There was no other explanation, except the impossible. Jason? Can I ask you a question?

I asked. You just did, he replied. I smiled wanely. but I didn't feel confident. I still had that awful dread that there was some power he had over me, a power I couldn't quite see. Jason smiled at me,

and then he said, I'm joking, go ahead. It was as if I was waiting for his permission. Are you lying to me about these dreams that happen in real life? Jason's face darkened, and then it went away, and he smiled at me and chuckled, I wouldn't be here if I wanted to lie, Jason said.

I know, I just had to ask you because I'm certain you know that all of this, and what you've told me sounds pretty unbelievable, does it not? All of the dreams predict in the future. Things like this don't happen in real life, Jason. It's impossible, I said. He stared at me, studying me. You don't believe me, he whispered. I took a deep breath.

I just want you to be honest, I replied. What if I told you that I am being honest, that all these things did really happen? Would you call me crazy? Would you think of me as the rest? He asked. Of course not. What do you mean by the rest?

Jason was quiet. What would you call me? He asked again. I wouldn't call you anything, I said. Really? Yes. He looked at me and smiled and then leaned back in the office couch. He kept looking at me.

When I was young, I used to have nightmares. Did you know that? he asked. I began to write. No, I didn't, I replied. What I have aren't nightmares. They're real and they happen. This fabric of reality around you and I in this room is the only thing that keeps us here together, yet separate at the same time.

Only the dreams I have are able to break that reality. If only you could see these dreams to experience it, would your reality break? Jason said, and he stared at me still, his eyes emotionless, blank. A sense of dread began to fill me like nothing had ever before, as of a bucket of warm, brown blood had been poised over my head and poured inside me, filling up my arms and legs and eyes and head. What are you saying? I whispered. I don't know. What am I saying, Doctor?

I stared at him. Jason sighed. The only way you would be able to understand what my dreams are like is if you experience it yourself, or if you were part of it somehow. You're still in denial. You think I'm lying that all these dreams don't exist. That's the fabric of this reality. Your unwillingness to believe. Jason said. You're saying I'm the one who is delusional, and that the only way to break it is to understand and experience your dreams, I asked. He pointed at me.

Precisely, he said. Well, I'm afraid that's impossible, I added. How so? I can't experience the dreams you have. But I've told you them. You just have to believe. I'm a therapist, not a dream interpreter. And then he leaned forward

And he looked over at my desk He studied the pictures I had sitting there A dozen or so All neatly placed I had them there like any man with an office would I was a good man I never did anything wrong That's your family

Jason said nodding at the pictures I glanced back at the pictures My sense of dread still tingling It is a replied, your wife and your boy? Correct. We said he was eight, turning nine next week. Or what's his name? I paused for a moment. Braden, I lied. It was the only lie I told him throughout the session. Jason laughed as if he knew, and then he quieted again, as if there was something else on his mind he wanted to tell me. This was only our first session, but I felt like I could

point out every small detail about him, even though I barely knew him. Maybe that scared me, and maybe that didn't. Maybe I saw what was coming and knew what was going to happen, and I let it. Maybe. Sometimes, I just don't know. That's a nice name, Jason replied. We thought so, I added. You love him, don't you?

Braden? And your wife, of course, Jason said. A flash of anger rose up in me, making me think he had done something to harm them, but it went away. I wasn't being rational. Something was happening. What's that supposed to mean? I asked softly. I had one more dream, Doctor.

Just one. Jason raised his voice up above mine, and he leaned forward off the couch, but enough to stay seated. I looked at him, and he looked back. care to tell me, I asked. I put my pen and paper down and lean forward, waiting. Jason smiled. I'm inside a car on the highway. I'm sitting in the back of the car

and I can only look ahead of me and not to the sides or back. It is very quiet and I can't tell if it's light or dark outside. It's hard to tell. But from what I can see ahead of me is a young boy in a car seat sitting down in its booster chair

and ahead of him is a young woman who I can only assume as his mother I watched the both of them as they wait in this car and then out of nowhere I hear a sort of screeching and a black in and out and then I'm on the ground outside on the road

I look to the side finally and see a shredded car with broken glass all over the place and all across it I can see blood and other types of matter I can not to describe I see this and then I hear the screeching of the mother, like a siren, like the sounds you'd hear where no God existed. My heart pounding in my chest like a drum.

I wake up. He finished abruptly. He stared at me and his mouth turned into a frown as he watched me closely. I think the boy got hurt, really bad, he said. You didn't see them in your dream? I asked. He shook his head. I should have seen it coming.

Maybe I did. When was this dream? I asked. Jason rubbed his hands and swallowed. I told you a couple days ago, he said. I looked at my watch and saw at his almost 8 o'clock in the morning. My wife and son should have been headed to school by then so she could drop him off. I thought for a moment that maybe my son would have a good day at school.

and my wife a good day at work. I imagined that when I got home later that night, I'd kiss them and hold them and love them and cherish them. Then those thoughts went away, and I remembered Jason's dream, his nightmare, his vision. My phone started to ring, and I took it out of my pocket,

and it was my wife. I thought that maybe it was a good thing that she was calling, that she was going to wish me a good day, day at work, and that I would say the same to her, that everything would be fine, but maybe I still had a chance that nothing had ever happened. I let it ring, not answering. Jason stared at me, and I looked up, staring back, and the phone rang, and rang, and rang, and rang,