Creepy - Don't Use the 5th Room

Episode Date: February 4, 2021

Heed the warnings...***Written by Stolen_Faces_Kabal***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Title music by Alex Aldea***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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Creepy Presents. Don't use the fifth room. Written by Stolen Faces Cable. For the record, I loved my grandfather. Growing up, he was always the one willing to watch me on the weekends or take me out some more fun. He was a phenomenal storyteller. He was the one who taught me to drive.

He was the one who bought me my first beer. So that's why I admit I'm an asshole for not wanting to take care of him now. I know it's selfish. And after all he had done for me growing up, it only seemed fair. I think my resentment came from the fact that no one else in my family was in a situation to take care of him. Between myself, a couple of deadbeat uncles and uncles. aunts, my own separated parents that I hadn't spoken to in years, the list of potential caretakers gets narrowed down really quick.

Financially, I could take care of them, although it meant my life would be tight. With that in mind, I made a few moves to try to accommodate, to include transferring jobs, and moving to a new town. That's why I bought the house. It made sense at the time. plenty of space for my grandfather and I fairly close to work and it was a steel for how the market was then the house was old built in the 60s the architecture was wonky and the floor plan was all over the place and it just oozed a dumpster fire that was the 60s interior decoration we're talking shade

carpeting a weird hodgepodge of vinyl and linoleum flooring earth love wallpaper the works the upstairs was odd. When you reached the top of the staircase, you came to one end of a long hallway. Along the left side were four bedrooms. The first two were in pretty good condition. The last one looked like it had not been used or updated in 50 years. Along the walls, between the doorways, were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with old books.

The dust jackets read titles like Oliver's Travels, Tom Sawyer, things like that. Not really my preferred genre, but I knew that it was my grandfather's bread and butter, so I left them in case he wanted to read them. I took the first room as my own. I put my grandfather in the second. He wasn't infirmed and didn't have a problem with the stairs. Really all I needed for me was tracking his daily pills. It was the usual elderly people cocktail, sleeping pills, arthritis, etc. But I figured I should still be now.

next door in case he needed help. The third room I planned on turning into an office for myself, but it sort of just became a cluttered storage room for my old junk. The fourth I left empty. My grandfather liked to write. When I mentioned he was a phenomenal storyteller. That was because he did it for a living. He wrote books, and even though many never got published, they never discouraged him from

plugging away late at night on his obnoxiously loud typewriter. That's what he did all day, every day, while I was at work. I'd sometimes come up to his room when I got home, and only then would he realize what time it was. Money was tight, like I mentioned before, and soon after moving in, I got the bright idea to rent out a room. In fact, I didn't really need that office either, so I actually had two rooms for rent. I grabbed my stuff from the first room and managed to cram it all into the third. I figured I'd have an easier time renting out the nicer first room, which needed work to be appealing. I got started with renovations soon after moving rooms.

That's when I found the warning. The first thing I did in the first room was pull up the old carpet. After only getting the first couple of square feet up, I found a message scratched into the wood underneath. The message was a warning, and it was written dozens and dozens of time into the flooring. Don't use the fifth room. What the fuck? Instinctively, I assumed it was a prank. Honestly, I wouldn't put it past my younger self to do something similar in the name of some old-fashioned spookiness.

Nevertheless, I decided not to tell my grandfather about it. The new carpet was installed, I painted the walls, and the room was done. I moved my grandfather into the fourth room. He volunteered. He didn't need a lot of space, and the second room would be easier to. fix up and get a renter into more quickly. Once he was settled in the fourth, I began the same renovations I did with first. And that's when I saw the warning again.

Don't use the fifth room. It was everywhere. That warning scratched frantically all over the flooring of the second room. The phrase overlapped itself over and over, and as I examined the marks, I got the sickening feeling that it had been done with fingernails. There were stains, too. Dark brown all over. Alarmed, I ran into the hall and, like a child,

I started at the first room and counted down the hall. One, two, three, four. Okay, I wasn't crazy. But because I was thoroughly freaked out, I went to the end of the hall by the fourth room. I could hear my grandfather in there. his typewriter chugging away. Like an idiot, I examined the wall adjacent to the fourth room's door, as if I'd magically find a door I somehow missed before.

Of course, there was nothing. Huffing to myself, I again brushed it all away, shaming myself for getting scared so easily. I covered the warnings and finished the second room. That night I was woken up by thumping coming from the wall adjacent to the fourth room, where my grandfather was sleeping. It was rhythmic and loud.

I didn't hear his typewriter either. Just a loud. Sump. Sump. Sump. Sump. I got out of bed and went to his door. I called out first.

Hey, Grandpa? Is everything okay? Silence. Can I come in? Silence again. I hesitated for a second before cranking the door open. But when I looked in, I saw my grandfather lying in bed asleep.

His chest was rising and falling, and I could hear him snoring. I waited a moment, watching him, before I decided I go back to sleep. As soon as I lay back down, I heard his typewriter going off. I almost felt like he timed it. It wasn't slow to start, too. I heard him taping furiously, loud, and chugging. I could hear him almost slamming the cartridge in place over and over. I was afraid he was having some sort of insomnia-induced episode.

I ran out of bed and started knocking frantically at his door. Still no response. So I tried to open the door. It was locked. Hey, grandpa, let me in. Come on, what's going on in there? Still met with only the abusive sounds of this typewriter. I tried the door again and again.

Fuck. I wasn't a nurse. I didn't know how to deal with this shit. Grandpa was exceptionally healthy for someone his age, and this didn't make sense. The keys to the room were somewhere downstairs. I ran down, also figuring I could grab his meds and find something that could help. I started fumbling around in kitchen drawers. That's when I heard a door slam and running feet.

I jumped and turned, and then heard another door upstairs slam, followed by side. silence. This time I didn't call out. Instead, I decided to creep up the stairs slowly. When I got to the top, I was met only by the hall, pitch dark, and all the bedroom doors closed. Several of the books had fallen from the shelves and were scattered across the floor. One was lying at my feet. For some reason, I decided to pick it up and open it. The dusk jacket had fallen off, but when I opened it, but when I opened it, I realized it wasn't a book. The pages had no printed text, but they were filled with a warning, written over and over from top to bottom of every page.

Don't use the fifth room. Don't use the fifth room. Don't use the fifth room. No fucking way. With a growing sense of dread, I grabbed another off the shelf, then another and another. All were the same. Each one was in different handwriting, but all had the same message. Don't use the fifth room.

Don't use the fifth room. Don't use the fifth room. Don't use the fifth room. I placed a book back on the shelf end with a sudden unexplainable weight on my ankles. I made my way down the hall. I tried each door, one after another. One, two, three, four. Each one was locked until I got to the fourth.

The door opened without fourth, and I stepped into the room. It was how it always looked, but my grandfather's typewriter looked like you've been beaten to death. Sheets and sheets of paper were piled next to it, and one was still on the paper rest. I request this time, repeated across the page. Let me out. It was written over and over on hundreds of pages piled on his desk. I wondered how long it had taken him to do this. All those nights of hearing him typing,

a rock hit the pit of my stomach as a realization came over me. I grabbed the shade carpet at the edge of the floor and pulled. The old stitching tore from the tax strips with ease. And underneath I saw the same request, crisscrossing, repeated over and over, scratched, into the floor with feverish claw marks. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Let me out. Fuck this, I thought. I had to find my grandfather. I stepped out into the hall and tried all the

doors again. All were still locked. After getting to the first and finding it's still lock, I pounded my fist on the door. Damn it, Grandpa, let me in. There's some crazy shit going on, and I got to get us out of here. A book on the shelf to my left fell and landed on the floor with the pages open. Don't use the fifth room. Don't use the fifth room. Don't use the fifth room. Don't use the fifth room.

Don't use the fifth room. Don't use the fifth room. I looked at the shelf and I saw the books packed into it. So many warnings. I grabbed another book and pulled it down in another and another, letting them fall to the ground. Their cryptic warning yelling at me to not do something I hadn't done. I know I didn't use the fifth room, but that's when I saw it.

After pulling more and more books off the shelf, I could finally see behind the shelf and the wall behind it. Only it wasn't a wall. It was a door. A door to the actual first room. Fuck. Fuck! I turned and counted again like a child never whined being correct so bad. as I did then.

Five rooms. I counted them another three times. The panic set in, the rock in my stomach turning into a knot coiling around itself over and over. I pulled the shelf away from the wall until I made a gap wide enough for the door to open. The doorknob turned.

It wasn't locked. It revealed a room covered in dust. It looked barely used. I heard another door slam. I turned and looked down the hall, barely able to make up my grandfather in the dark, standing there, staring. Grandpa? Hey, where were you?

Are you okay? Silence. Come on. Some crazy shit's going on. I don't know what, but we need to get out of here now. He stepped towards me. I still couldn't make him all clearly, but his hands glistened in the dark. and they were dripping onto the floor making dark stains in the wood.

Grandpa, what? He ran straight at me. I barely had time to think before I felt an impossibly strong vice-like grip wrap around my neck and shut the air off to my lungs completely. Between the dark, the panic, and the lack of air, I could barely see anything. And I swear that must be the reason why his face looked the way it did. His features were there, but... strained like he was fighting with every muscle in his body.

Then there were his eyes. They were gone. Not like they'd been torn out or bloody wounds. Where his eyes were, there were now black holes surrounded by scratches. It was as though something had clawed and scratched its way into his eyes, but with no blood and no torn flesh, leaving just dark caverns. behind. That was all I saw before I felt myself lifted into the air and carried down the hall. My breath was cut off absolutely, and I couldn't see anymore, but I knew where he was taking me.

I kicked and punched, but had no effect. And in the dark, it felt like he was eight feet tall. I felt a stop in front of the fifth room. Still clinging to consciousness, I could hear him open the door with his other hand and walk in. In the dark, he just stood there, and I must have passed out for a moment, because in the pitch darkness, indistinguishable from unconsciousness, I heard voices,

so many voices, whispering the same thing, almost as if they were speaking directly into my ears. Let me out, let me out, let me out, let me out, let me out, let me out. Consciousness rushed back into my head, and the rush heard so bad I had to speak, squint. I looked up, realizing my grandfather had loosened his grip. His non-eyes were squeezed shut in pain, and he was shaking his head back and forth as if trying to throw

something off. Finally he stopped, and opened his eyes. They were there again, but his face was still strained in pain. He looked at me, then without warning shoved me out into the hall. Lock the door! That was the last thing he said before he slammed the door shut. I heard a Titanic crash, as if some massive objects slammed into the door on the other side. I fumbled for the keys of my pocket, hands shaking as I locked the door as quickly as I could. I heard more slamming, and I swear I heard multiple voices on the other side, all screaming to be let out. As I backed away from the door, the voices and the slamming stopped and were replaced with one sound. Thump, thump, thump.

I spent the next three days in a motel room on the other side of town. I didn't leave once, hating myself for not trying to get my grandfather out and leaving him behind. Simultaneously hating myself further for not going back for him, I couldn't even bring myself to call the cops. What would I say? Nothing made sense or was believable. I'd sound like a crackhead more than anything else. On the third day, I finally went back.

The house was unchanged, exactly how I left it. When I went inside, I stood at the door for a minute, somehow thinking I would hear another door slam or running feet. But no. Just silence. I went upstairs, and everything was right there where it had been left that night. The doors were all open. And the first three rooms were exactly how I'd left them.

All was the same, except for the books. They had all been meticulously placed back on the shelves, and the real first room had been covered back up. And then the fifth room. The fifth room was empty. All my grandfather's belongings were gone. The carpet I'd pulled up was put back in place. His typewriter, the paper is everything.

There was even a layer of dust on the floor. I decided not to walk through the door. I shut it and left the house. Grandpa, if somehow you're alive in hearing this, I'm so sorry for what happened. I've thought about this for a while now. And I know what I have to do. I stop by the gas station on the way here,

and I'm currently standing outside the house with 12 gallons worth of gas cans. my trunk. I hope this will permanently fix whatever it is that's wrong with this house. But as I stand here, I somehow get the feeling I'm not the first person to have stood here, thinking they can burn this house down in the fifth room for good. If I leave after this, and somehow someone else comes across this house like nothing happened, I just have one piece of advice. Don't use the fifth room. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast,

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