CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The average weight of the human soul is 21 grams" Creepypasta

Episode Date: September 13, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORY►byt Mr_ErasmusDecay: https://www.reddit.com/r/libraryofsha...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...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-

Well, what do you think about that? Excuse me? The drunk across the bar had waited until Gareth Brooks was whining down on the old whirletzer in the corner to settle over to me, bringing the stink of night-time streets, an noxious cloud of menthol and cheap liquor with him. I said, what do you think, ever see something like that before? He stabbed a finger at the smudged and crumpled half-page of ad print, torn from some local penny-saver, tapping a staccato little drumbeat. with one dirty nail.

Probably some kind of scam? I'm used, pushing it away with the flat of my beer. A chance to start selling Herbalife or Lulero head of the trunkier car or something, you know. He slashed precariously in his seat, eyes spinning like glassy marbles. Some kind of scam, sure. He slurred, slapping what looked like a crisp air of $1,000 notes down by my elbow. A scam, with 16 identical brothers and sisters stacked up. for home. How's that for a scam?

Christ, are those real? I turned one over in my hands, tracing a finger along the unfamiliar contours of Grover Cleveland's profile. Bank certified and all. I've been trading them in for smaller bills all week. He called for another beer. I looked the guy up and down, this sloppy bum in his old thrift store suit, and grabbed her cross the bar for that scrap of the classifieds. So, what?

I asked, skeptically, as I skimmed the ad again, You really went? You let this Dr. Kendall guy just buy your soul? The drunk nodded, rolling an empty Hineken bottle between his palms. Easiest payday I ever had, too. In and out in a few minutes. What's he do? Some kind of black mass voodoo stuff?

Make you sign your name in blood? Nah, it's all legit like. Operates out of this little junk shop over in the 10th ward. should see the place. Anyway, you go in, answer a few questions. The guy hands you an envelope full of cash and you're done. All under the table, tax-free. You should give it a try, huh?

The address is right there. There's gotta be a catch. Nobody just gives away thousands of dollars for nothing. The drunk belched heart in my face. Exactly. I figure it's some promotional stunt, some contest for the internet or something. You should give him a call.

before this thing falls apart, I'm telling you. Easiest money I ever made. You can say I sent you. I don't know, man. I picked absently at the damp cocktail napkin in front of me. Sounds sketchy. Suit yourself, kid. The drunk swigged down the last of his beer

and lurched unsteadily to his feet. Does it feel any different? I asked as I watched him settle his tab. Not having a soul, I mean. The drunk was silent. for a long minute. You tell him I sent you, huh? He mumbled finally,

tucking Dr. Kendall's ad into my front shirt pocket and giving it a firm pat. If you decided to go, tell the doctor I sent you, okay? You tell him, tell him who was me who recommended you, right? You won't forget? Um, yeah, sure, man, sure. You got a name?

But the drunk was already gone, rolling a path with a little clumps of late-night drinkers, laughing wildly and tossing wadded up $20 bills over his shoulder as he moved toward the exit. A week later, I took an Uber out of Magazine Street and found myself in front of a dilapidated old stucco building, just a couple of knocked-together rooms, really, with peeling and faded gold lettering slapped across a dirty plate-clasped window. Dr. Candle's Consortium, purveyor of fine and exotic oddities. A bell jangled overhead, announcing my arrival into a ruin-king.

kingdom of chip ceramic dishware, sagging furniture and kitschy costume jewelry, the picked over remnants of a thousand forgotten estate sales, all stacked haphazily in dim corners or left and moldering dusty velvet pillows under scratched placid glass displays. Everything stanked faintly of mildew and neglect. Hello? I called as I made a full circuit through the Warren of narrow dusty shelves, piled high with broken, mismatched junk. Anybody here? Something catch your eye, sir?

The voice that spoke at my elbows was thin and tremulous, belonging to a roomy-eyed scarecrow in a moth-eaten cardigan and crushed house slippers who'd shoveled silently in from some backroom marked, employees only. Oh, I nearly dropped the little salt server I'd been fiddling with. No, sorry, I, uh, I came because of your... Perhaps you're looking for something to brighten up the home. You know, I've got a lovely copy of leading the salt.

one around here somewhere. Sixteenth century, Michelangelo's masterpiece. Hang it in the house of an enemy, and they'll waste away in a matter of days. Very lovely colours. Um, no,

I'm not... You have a more discerning eye? How about an original 1902 gramophone and typewriter co-wax cylinder recording of Alessandro Mureshi, performing Monteverdi's famous Lament from Laudiana, guaranteed to give whomever it's played for

the most wonderful nightmares. Best price in this side of the Mississippi, No. I finally managed to find my voice and interrupt his sales pitch. I'm here because of, uh... Well, someone showed me your ad, but one in the penny saver? He said I should come by. The old man leaned forward and wrinkled conspiratorially. Up close, he looked like a dry crabapple, all withered and red,

with a mass of ugly burst capillaries under the skin of his nose. Ah, yes, I see. of course you don't have an appointment but I'll look the other way this time go to browse a bit more and shall we get down to business we uh

we can start I guess he cropped a gnarled finger and I followed him back to the front of the store there are a couple of rough wooden stools on the opposite side of the counter and he indicated I should take a seat

so he said steepling his fingers you wish to divest yourself of your anima. I mean, are you for real? I've done arm around the gloomy shop. This place, what do you say you'd do here? Dr. Kendall blink thoughtfully.

You seem surprised. I shrugged. Just how can you claim to buy something like that? A soul? Something you can't even... Like, don't people need them? Do you need your appendix? He touched his lower abdomen.

How about your spleen or gallbladder? Truth is, the human body is perfectly capable of grinding away for many years plus or minus a few of those original components. The soul is a lot like that. Absolute hardware. So, what are you paying all this money for then? If they're so useless. What's the catch? Dr. Candle's genial smile slipped fractionally.

I'm something of a collector, I suppose. only instead of a library of rotting books or piles of old coins. Well, I prefer to collect the intangible. I felt the long, buried Catholic schoolboy stirring in me. But don't our souls belong, like, to God or something? If they do, and you believe that, then what's the harm in humoring an eccentric old man? And what about the money? I asked.

That real, too. Dr. Candle's smile reappeared in full. His teeth were the colour of crumbling old piano keys. I wanted to reach out and run my fingers across his teeth. Maybe pounded out some Mozart on them. But I kept my hands folded on my lap. Of course, we pay top dollar here. So, how much for mine?

I shot a nervous glance back toward the front door. The old man reached out and clapped my wrist in a vice grip, turning it palm up. Before I could react or cry out, He raised my hand towards my face, forcing my middle and in his neck's finger to his open mouth. I've felt him sucking furiously. His red-hot tongue, racing like a thing alive, up and down the length of my fingers, and probing at the dirt under my nails.

Hey! I spluttered, jerking free and jumping to my feet. What the hell? Get off me. You're crazy. This whole thing's too weird. I'm... 32,000, interrupted Dr. Candle, wiping his lips with the back of one hand. What? He rummaged under the counter and came out with a tattered plastic grocery bag filled with those loose cringled dollars in every denomination. You asked how much your soul was worth?

Well, based on my assessment, I'll give you $32,000 for it. Right now, cash. Have you ever earned that much money before? I sat back down, watching the bag carefully. What do I have to do? Oh, nothing too. Too strenuous, said Dr. Candle.

Just lean back and close your eyes. Yes, like that. Good. Peaking is no fair. Relaxed. Excellent. Now, I want you to tell me about... Oh, let's see.

How about your first kiss? What do you want to know? I was feeling less confident with the arrangement by the second. Just describe it. Whatever you can remember. Go ahead. It's starting. I took a deep breath and thought about all that money. Okay, her name was, uh, Stephanie.

I was 12 or 13, and we were in a garage. It was night. I don't remember where her parents were, but it feels like we had the place to ourselves. It was raining too, I think. Something rustled behind me, and I felt the hair in my neck prickling. Keep going, said Dr. Kendall, please. We kissed and I, uh... She tasted like fruity lip balm, Jerry or something.

She wasn't pretty, her nose is too big, and the whole time I was thinking about another girl. Her sister of a friend wishing she was that girl. Yes, yes, I can just about see it. Dr. Candle's voice seemed too close in the dark. I could smell the stale, mothy stink of his clothes near my face, could feel his vetted breath against my ear. But when I drag my eyes open, there he was on the stool opposite me,

hands neatly gripping his knees. Shall we start again? He asked with a smile. It won't do it to keep interrupting the process. Reluctantly, I close my eyes. Tell me about your earliest memory. I... I don't think...

I remember the unfamiliar sounds coming through my parents' closed bedroom door at night. I remember the feel of the old carpets against my hands and knees as I crouched there, listening at the crack to the grunts and the yips. It sounded like the dog when I pulled down his tail. You're doing wonderfully, Dr. Kendall spoke from behind me now. Somewhere high and away, his voice barely reaching me in the dark. There was this crack in the door, I heard myself saying, under the knob.

I remember watching them through the crack. My mom and dad they were naked. I thought they were dancing or playing a game without me. Something tugged

inside my guts. A hard, quick pull like a hot needle being threaded through my navel. A spool of jagged wire starting to unravel behind it. I wanted to open my eyes,

but Dr. Candle wouldn't let me. Keep going, he said. I don't think I want to. almost got it. I saw my mom all mashed up against the headboard

and bent awkwardly at the neck. She was flopping back and forth with these little wet smacking sounds and I thought she must be hurting. But my dad was laughing and growling gleaming like a machete in the dark. And then I think my mom she must have seen my eyes floating in the crack

because because it tore free inside me then. I felt it going for just a second a little black, empty space blooming where there had always before been something, and leaving an ugly, raw hole that pulsed and throbbed and ached with some unspeakable loss. And then... It was gone. I opened my eyes and looked around the dingy little shop.

Dr. Candle was smiling, wiping his hands neatly with an old napkin. I'm sorry, did I fall asleep? What were we talking about? You don't remember, he asked. I shook my head. Excellent. We managed to pull most of it, I think. Rather stubborn.

He thrust a bag of money at me and started hurting me quickly toward the door. You'll want to go home and rest. Might feel a little funny for a day or two, but it'll pass. That's it? I was confused. You're all done, said Dr. Kendall. Now, I've got to run. appointments all day, you understand.

Thank you for visiting Dr. Kendall's consortium. And remember, no refunds. The door clang shut in my face. It was a month or two later, maybe somewhere around midnight. Clocks and calendars didn't mean much anymore. I was in one of the rowdy tourist bars in the French quarter where I've been spending most of my nights. Lately, I prefer the company of strangers.

There was an overpriced cocktail in a souvenir cup clutched in my hand, but I hadn't sipped on it in a couple of hours. Didn't see much point in it. Kaviat Emptor, my buddy. I looked up from stirring my drink with a neon green bendy straw and saw a vaguely familiar pair of bloodshot eyes laring at me from the next stool. Oh, it's you, I said to the nameless drunk from a lifetime ago. "'Cavia Emptor,' he said again, "'darning a shot of whiskey. "'Baya, beware, eh?

"'He went, didn't you, to see the doctor? "'You got that look. "'Knew you couldn't resist.' "'So what if I did?' "'I asked irritably.' "'The drunk shrugged and offered to buy me a drink. "'I shook my head.' "'Yeah,' he sighed,

"'pushing his glass around absolutely with one finger. "'I'm the same way. "'You drink.' and you eat, and you screw, and at first, everything feels fine. But then you start to notice little things, see. Food starts to taste funny. Then it takes a fortune of liquor to even get you buzzed anymore.

And don't even get me started on sex. Everything's just flat now, like soda left out overnight. The whole world. He snapped his fingers for emphasis. Poof, flat, you know. I nodded. The drunk was crying now.

fat, silent tears running down his cheeks to nestle in the matted mess of his grain beard I was only 21 grams he sobbed, groping from my shirt sleeve smaller than a damn golf ball man you wouldn't think it would leave such a such a void you know 21 damn grams

and you didn't even tell him it was me you sent you that's why you won't help me anymore I put my arm free from his grip what are you talking about The doctor, moaned the drunk, bearing his face in his hands. After he took, after the procedure, I went back. He told me he, that he could fix me if I sent more people his way. He said he'd put it back.

Once he had enough souls. A trade, he said. You set me up? I pushed back from the bar and got to my feet. But he lied, said the drunk. He lied to me. I went back after. to your visit, I asked him to make me whole again.

He said he couldn't, though. Said he'd sold it on already. All he gave me was this. He pulled a folded slip of paper from his wallet, spilling crumbled bills and changed across the bar and slapped it into my palm. Here, I opened it slowly, a stained and yellow bitter receipt.

Dr. Candle's consortium, purveyor of fine and exotic oddities. All sales final.