Creepy - A White Horse

Episode Date: July 29, 2019

Try not to think about it...***Written by empyrealinvective***See how you can get rewarded by supporting the show at Patreon.com/Creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced by Steve Blizin, Puzzle Audio***Title music by Alex Aldea***Artwork by Dakota Miller *** Intro/outro narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing. Caribbean creepy pastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents a white horse written by MP Real Invective. Before I begin all this, I'm going to ask you to play a mental game for me. In this game, I want you to not think of a white horse.

My psychology professor told us to play this exact game as it means of learning something about our memories and our mind. The object of the game is to continue thinking and go on as long as you can without picturing a white horse. Some people try to distract themselves by thinking other things and some just try to blink their minds of everything. Just keep the results of that game in the back of your mind. I'm a student at Washington College in Chesterton, Maryland. My major was psychology, and before you go about judging me, I had a practical use planned out from education. I wanted to be an analogical therapist. Please don't combine those words, who gave therapy sessions the less fortunate.

Before all that could happen, I had to pass my senior year in college, and that meant coming up with an original study from my senior capstone project. I don't want to get too in-depth in the field of psychology for fear of alienating the less knowledgeable or less interested. But just so you know, there are a lot of different branches of psychology, and I was interested in Jungian psychology. The major difficulty was that my professor was more interested in Freudian psychology, and he directly influenced my senior capstone experience using his authority. I had originally wanted to focus on the Jungian archetypes and their role in dreams. but my professor had steered me in another direction. He instead wanted me to focus on the subconscious and its impact on human behavior.

I think some part of him was driven to find some aspect of Freud that was still valid in modern psychology. It was unfortunate, but my desire to pass quickly outweighed my interests, and I found myself carrying out my professor's study while he was masquerading it as my own thesis project. We debated the multiple possibilities that we could employ to better know the collective unconscious that he insisted on calling the id, a Freudian term, to define a hidden part of the mind that's made up of impulse desires.

We bought it heads a few times on this subject because of our Jungian and Freudian interests. I wanted to study the collective unconscious, a portion of the psyche that's interconnected in all of humanity, and commonly referred to as inherent knowledge. And Professor Pank-Juff wanted me to focus on the id, the subconscious desires.

The difference created an ever-present riff between us, which heavily impacted my study. I had wanted to focus on a group of subjects to better understand my concept, and Professor Pink Jeff was more interested in doing a case study using a single person. We bickered about this for so long that the due date for my senior thesis snuck up on both of us, and I had to relent and accept his idea of studying a single person. Due to the slow start, there were no available participants, and I had to volunteer myself as a subject with Pink Jeff being the observer.

I'm going to explain the problem. that we use to try and connect the subconscious. My subconscious. We employed Franz Anton Mesmer's concept of animal magnetism and trans-like states to put me into a somambulistic state. The closest thing I can compare it to would be hypnotism without the cliched pocket watch or phrases like, You are under my control and will do my bidding. I know it sounds like bullshit, but to see it in action is another thing entirely. When I went in for the first session, Professor Pank-Jeph was waiting for me with a Richard Matheson book in his lap.

He continued to thumb through it while I set up the camcorder to record the session. I sat down. He closed the book and said, Are you ready to make that long-distance call? All you have to do is pick up that phone. I shrugged my shoulders. He had a tendency to make a little known book and movie references to feel smarter than he actually was. We started the session.

My next conscious moment was Pink Jeff snapping his fingers in my face. I sat up slowly and inquired about how the session went. He said in a deadpan manner, turns out you're crazy. I gave another shrug. Tell me something I don't know. We reviewed the session and I was disappointed. I guess I thought we would have had a breakthrough

or some big revelation about the human mind. But it was just 30 minutes me looking dead eyes. and mumbling responses to our planned-out questions. That happened for the next two sessions as well. He would put me in a trance and ask a battery of questions like, how do you feel? What do you like to do in your free time? And what are you thinking about now?

He'd follow up with a moral quandary question to gauge my ethical understanding. After each session, I would sit down and record my findings in a red journal I bought from a nearby store. I responded the first few sessions in the same, Dopey manner, giving only one-word responses to the questions. I was getting ready to abandon the whole project until our fourth session. I was brought out at that session with Professor Pink Jeff snapping excitedly in my face.

What happened? He only responded, something amazing. I sat down and watched the recording with bade of breath. It began normal, but at the beginning of the questions, I responded in a more lucid, state. How do you feel? I feel great. What do you like to do in your free time? Whatever I'm feeling like at the moment. He was about to ask the third question when I sat up from the bed. He explained that he thought I'd woken up until he saw my eyes were just as glassy as before. I answered the moral quandary questions in a self-serving manner. I said I would have kept the

wallet I phoned on the street and told no one. I ignored people that were broken down on the side of the road. I agreed with taking food out of the lobby fridge without permission. Pink Jeff spoke excitedly. I think we did it. I think we got in touch with your baser desires. Five or six more sessions and we could really be on to something. He shook my hand and we planned out our next session. I was really pumped about the whole thing. A case study like this may be enough to be actually published in a reputable psychology journal. We could actually be closer to understanding the human mind. The next session started off differently. Professor Pink Jeff sat me down and told me that we were going to try and create a pevalovian trigger to make it easier to slip into the trans state.

If I imagined a certain object before every session, we could make it easier to go into a trans state so we could have more time to explore the id. I wanted to correct him and say collective unconscious, but I bit my tongue. I told him that I would imagine a white horse in my mind before every session to help ens to get the transition. He grunted. The young Ian archetype for instinctual urges and based desires. Have it, you are away. I spent a half hour before every session thinking of a white horse in the hopes of expediting the process.

A few sessions later in the Pavlovian response were really starting to work for us. Thinking of a white horse calm me down and help me enter a hypnotic state more expediently. We continued to get intriguing responses from my mesmeric self. We spent hours. is planning out what we would ask. I recorded all my responses in the Red Journal for future reference. On pure whim during one of the sessions as I was slipping away to that state

where I could commune with the collective unconscious, Professor Pinkchief asked me what I was seeing. My response was so intense and unnerving that I sat down and transcribed it here. I don't know what influenced me to say what I did, but it alarmed me. I am sitting in a room. facing a window.

What's beyond the window? I am at the edge of a rift staring into immutable darkness, looking into the yawning abyss whose stignant depths have never been plumed before. I want to look away. I want to shriek of what I am seeing, but the male-formed abortions shriek for me. The homunculi screech is something tumbles from the void, disgorge from their writhing, uluating mastic. It was entangled in the creaching, copulating, clashing amalgamation.

But it has felt my gaze, and it is approaching. Detangled from the writhing forms it moves towards me with a lurching but vaguely human gait. What did it look like? It is here. In my tape, my eyes glazed over as I entered the familiar fugue state. I must have watched and re-watch that tape five times. I couldn't figure out what it all meant. Each time made me shiver.

I was looking through that window into that chasm like peering into my subconscious. If that was the case, what were those writhing masses? Were they subconscious thoughts competing to make their desires known to me? If those homunculi, as I so eloquently put it, or subliminal thoughts, what was that one that rose into my consciousness? I decided that at my next session with Professor Penchaff, I would bring this up and see how it feels. I'm not sure why I wanted this, but I had the urge to ask him if I could be restrained during the sessions. I think it was just how I described the homunculey as a shadowy figure that made me feel such sinister undertones toward it.

The fact that I hardly knew anything about it and that it was communicating through me probably unnerved me the most. As I walked through the campus courtyard towards the psychology lab, I took in the temperate environment and reveled in feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin for the first time in months. It was the first warm day we had had in months, and it greatly affected my morale. I think it was the dark, dreary and cold weather that had so profoundly influenced my mental state. I felt reinvigorated, and I realized I had spent so much time indoors, writing notes and barely eat. eating anything. Winter was finally waning, and the students were out in droves to celebrate the change in seasons.

Students were throwing frisbee's and basking in the sun. If you had even brought out their radios and were listening to the campus station. Students ran the radio station, and every now and then they would play old songs from the 80s. I was walking by when I heard a snippet from a song with a catchy kind of electronic beat. It went like this. If you want to be rich, you gotta be a bitch. Don't ride the white. I walked out of ear shot of the music and kept going on my way towards the cycle up.

I was a couple yards away from the building when I started to feel busy. My head swam and my vision seemed to grow blurry. I managed a few more steps before collapsing onto the stairway that led to the building. I woke up in the hospital with a pounding headache and overall felt nauseous. The nurse calmly informed me that I was to take better care of myself. I had apparently passed up from exhaustion. I told her that I was working on my thesis and I'd neglected myself a bit to get completed in time. I was released on my own recognizance.

I went home and sent an email to Professor Pinkchiff explaining my situation. I told him I was going to take the next day off and get myself back to health. I went to bed and woke up the next day. I felt better. The nausea had passed and my feelings of fatigue were gone. Professor Pinkchief hadn't responded to my email, but I knew they didn't. he had a tendency to read an email and not send anything back confirming that he had received it. I would show up to the lab the next day and schedule another session with him.

I watched some old sci-fi B movies on YouTube and relaxed the rest of the day. I went to the psychology lab the next day with my apology I prepared in my mind. Typically, I could find him in his laboratory with his DSM-4 book laid out in front of them or grading paperwork. He wasn't there. I went to his office and found the door closed. There was a note down the door. It perfunctorily stated that he was taking a leave of absence to deal with some family issues. My heart sank at reading this.

I'd wanted to discuss the relevance of what had said during my last trance state. I got in contact with the co-chair of the psychology department, who advised me to review our notes and began compiling the results while I waited for him to return. She seemed slightly disappointed that he left on such short notice, but was understanding of the situation. She gave me a couple weeks extension and expressed her interest in seeing the final results of our study into the subconscious mind. I went back to my room and began focusing on writing the thesis. The notes I'd written about our sessions and my hypothesis flowed easily out onto my computer.

Before everything was said and done, I was on page 20 and had supported my hypothesis of the Jungian concept of collective unconscious with multiple psychologists, both current and antiquated. After that, I began watching the tapes. Now I found that whenever I watched the recordings of our sessions, I was extremely anxious. Things that I had said well in my trans state that seemed harmless, albeit selfish earlier, we now tainted with an almost sinister quality. The line that had nerved me the most was in the fifth session when Professor Pinkchiff asked me in my trans state, What do you do in your free time? To which I responded,

I do what I always wanted to do. I spent those 10 days writing and review. doing my thesis. I only had one conclusion left, and I was fairly certain I can complete it in one or two more sessions. I was glad that Professor Pink Jeff had decided to set the camera up to record after I've been put into the trance state. It saved some time, and it seemed disconcerting to me the idea of drifting out of consciousness

to commune with my unconscious. I was also secretly glad that he decided to take some time to deal with family issues. This whole experiment was beginning to feel ominous and unsettling. A few days later I decided to swing blind see a professor paint-chief had posted any update. There was nothing new there, but I did have an interesting encounter with another student. She saw me hanging outside his office and asked me, You've been working with a professor a lot lately? Do you know when he's coming back?

How would I know? She was caught off guard for a second before responding. You were the one that put up his message on the door. I thought he must have told you something about when he'd be back. back. My heart started to beat faster. I asked her the question despite realizing how crazy it sounded. You saw me put up the note? She raised the eyebrows and answered, Yeah. Are you all right? You look pale. I told her I had passed out two weeks ago and was still recovering. I told her that I didn't know when Professor Payne-Cheff would be back,

but I would try to find out. I found out her name was a name was. Teresa, got her email address, and we parted ways. A horrible thought was festering in the back of my mind. It didn't take much work to get onto the Washington College website and look up Professor Paynec Jeff's information on the directory. I tried calling his home number, but there's no answer. I reasoned with myself that he could have been out or away from the phone. I called him two more times with the same results.

I proceeded to look up his home address using his phone number and decided to drive down to his house, unsure of what I would encounter there. It was a 20-minute drive that gave me a lot of time to let out the horrible thought festering and growing unfettered in my mind. I knocked on his door, but there was no response. I knew I was overstepping with my bounds, but I had to know. I turned the knob and found it was locked.

I looked around the yard and found a key under a conspicuous white rock. I unlocked the door and opened it, and almost immediately my nose was assaulted by a sickening smell. I lied to myself and prayed that it was just the odor of an ill-kept house. But I knew better. I found him in the kitchen. It appeared like he'd opened the front door and then fled and tear her back into the kitchen looking for some means to defend himself against the assailant.

He must have tripped or been dragged into the center of the room where he'd been brutally beaten with an old metal coffee pot. The viciousness of the attack left his face a broken mass that looked like an abstract painting, how many blows it had taken to kill him. But I know the assailant had kept beating him even after he died. The pot was discarded next to his bloody, bruised, and putrefied corpse. He must have been dead for at least a week. My worst fears became a reality when I turned from the broken and brutalized body

to see that someone had painted something on the back of the front door. I can only stare at it in abject horror as those pieces all clicked into place. Painted on the door using a white out was the outline of a white horse. It was drawn so it looked like it was in McGillop. That image scared me more than the thought of the professor's body pulverized with a blunt object. As I watched the white horse outline on the door, I started to feel dizzy. At first I thought it was shock setting in. And then I realized in a supreme moment of terror that it wasn't.

And I was slipping into a trance. I came to in my room. I was lying in my bed and for a single transcendent moment, I convinced myself that it was all some horrible nightmare. That idea deteriorated like ashes when I sat up and realized that my hands were stained a crimson red. I watched an utter revulsion as I made a fist and winced at the pain that elicited in my hands.

The caked blood crumbled from my fists. It felt like I'd fractured a few bones in my hand. I knew that I'd lost control to whatever that thing was and done something horrible. I washed the blood off my hands, revealing bruised knuckles underneath and tried to understand everything. I realized what was happening. Our idea of using a white horse as a pevalobian trigger to make it easier to put me in a trance state head horribly backfired. Now any extended thought of a white horse was enough to put me into a trans state and let that thing take control. I can think about it for only a few seconds before I start to feel myself losing control.

I'm still not sure what I did in my latest trans state, but I have an idea of who the target was. On my email account, I had sent an email out to Teresa a few hours ago while I was still in the trans state. I don't want to know what happened. I have enough clues to piece it together. My fists are bruised and sore. I'm missing a hank of hair from my head. I have a long scratch starting at the base of my neck that trails down to my chest. And I got sick a few minutes ago.

And I vomited up a pint of a reddish substance with a bunch of crumpled up pages from a small book. It didn't take too long to connect the ingested pages to the red book where I've been keeping my thesis notes. It was soggy and illegible from soaking in my gastric juices for a third. few hours. I opened up the red book to see if there was anything left and it might be able to give evidence to the police for these absurd events. But there was nothing except a few pages left. Anything I do now will make me some stock-raving man. I can't go to the police or they'll lock me away. There are a few pages left in the red journal. They all have the same phrase written on them, repeating in a repugnant mantra, I'm here now. I'm here now. I'm here now.

Now, I'm here now. I realize now that the homunculus, that a barren thought, is trying to take control of my life to live out its vicious urges. I have no doubt that my thesis has probably been erased from my computer should I go and check it. My only hope is to go as long as I can without thinking of it and hoping that it fades away. The passing of time should lessen the effects of it in time, like I had once read about the Ladovico technique that was. used to condition ultra-violent used in England to have a physically nauseating reaction to violence. In those studies, the Pavlovian effect only lasted a few weeks. I still have a chance of not losing myself to these subconscious desires.

Days of past. I've pulled myself up in my room and I now realize how much of a fool I had been. I thought that I could escape, falling into a trans state by not thinking of my trigger phrase. But that is foolish. If you remember the mental game I asked you to play earlier, I knew the mechanics, you would realize how foolish of a thought that was. I tried to distract myself from the white horse trigger by thinking of other things, but that only linked that different thought to the image of a white horse. Now I know that every thought is like a chain that leads back to those trigger words that are capable of sending me into that trance state. My rapture is approaching me like a wave, and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

It's not going away. Every thought is starting to make me feel faint and I'm growing tired of this mental cat and mouse. I have a feeling the next time I go under, I'll wake up in a jail cell. I'll find out what the world after death is like, or worst of all, I will never come out from under the homonculus' control of fighting it. I've been awake for days now. There's a line of music rattling around in my head, and it's infectiously catchy, and I feel myself growing we hear you by the second.

Where's this song come from? Here I lay. Still and breathless. Just like always. Still I want some more. Nearer sideways. Who cares what's behind? Just like always.

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