Creepy - My Soul is in a Paper Lantern

Episode Date: December 17, 2020

When you have no soul...***Content warning: child abuse***Written by Tobias Wade and narrated by Michelle Kane***To learn more about the Angel Flight Centeral visit AngelFlightCentral.org***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Produced by Steve Blizin***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.

This is the Bloody Disgusting Podcast Network. Before we get to the story, today's narrator Michelle Kane is going to share with us the charity of her choosing. Hey, everyone, this is Michelle Kane. I'd like to tell you about Angel Flight Central. They are a small nonprofit organization that arranges free flights for people in need. The majority of the flights that they arrange are for people who need long-distance medical care. you would probably be surprised at the number of people who require long-distance medical care. And a lot of these folks aren't going just once.

They have conditions that require them to go back and forth many, many times. And while some people can't afford to get themselves or their child or their parent back and forth a couple of times, they can't afford the next 10. And that's where Angel Flight Central comes in. They arrange absolutely free flights for the patient and a caregiver. It does not cost the family a single penny. I used to be the flight coordinator for Angel Flight Central, so I can tell you that the need is huge. And I can also tell you that AFC fills that need.

I talked to multiple people every single day who without AFC wouldn't be able to get the care that they need. And so I really still like to support Angel Flight Central because I know how much of an impact they make, how many lives that they have made better, and how many lives that they have saved because they've been able to get people the treatments that they needed. Thanks, Michelle. Creepie's donated $100 to Angel Flight Central.

To learn more, please visit angelflightcentral.org. No. This is creepy. A podcast. dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing 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 My soul is in a paper lantern Written by Tobias Wade And narrated by Michelle Kane Do you know what it's like To live without a soul Because I do It's like

Watching a romantic comedy That's so perfect You find yourself falling in love With the character Then the lights come on and you suddenly remember that this person doesn't exist. And even if they did, they would never care that you exist. It's like running the wrong way on a racetrack.

It doesn't matter whether you ever finish or not, because everyone else has already crossed the line and gone home. You've run further than anyone else. Your legs are agony. and there's fire in your lungs, but you're still running because you're afraid of the silence when you finally stop.

Living without a soul is sitting in the eye of a hurricane. Life is moving all around you, and sometimes it feels like you're part of it when it passes too close. But in the end, nothing and no one can ever move you. And though the wind,

howls fierce in its savage glory and sweeps all the world from under your feet, you'll never know what it feels like to join that wild dance. And that's okay. You tell yourself that at least you won't be hurt, like all those other fragile humans burdened with their souls. But deep down, you wish you could feel that hurt just for a moment, just so once in your life, you know there's something important enough to be hurt over. I lost my soul when I was only six years old. My father didn't want me. My mother told me so. She said I was the reason that he left, and I believed her. I was in first grade at the time, and our class project was to make a paper lantern, which was closed at the top.

The hot air from the candle was supposed to lift the lantern, although mine wasn't sealed properly and couldn't leave the ground. I was getting really frustrated, and after the fourth or fifth attempt, I got so mad that I actually ripped the whole thing to shreds. My teacher and Mr. Hansberry, a gentle dumpling of a man with a bristly mustache, squatted down next to me and gave me the lantern he had been building. I was so mad that I was about to destroy that one, too. But he sat me down and said, Do you know what I love most about paper lanterns? They might seem flimsy, but when they fly, they can carry away anything that you don't want anymore. You can put all your anger into one of these, and the moment you light the candle, it's going to float away and take that anger with it.

That sounded pretty amazing to me at the time. I settled down to watch him glue the candle into place, concentrating all my little heart on filling the lantern with my bad feelings. It started off with just the anger at the project, but one bitterness led to the next, and by the time Mr. Hansbury was finished, I'd poured everything that I was into the paper. All the other class lanterns only hovered a few feet off the ground, but mine went up and up and on forever,

all the way to the top of the sky. The other kids laughed and cheered to see it go, and my teacher put his hand on my shoulder and looked so proud. But I didn't feel much of anything. How could I, with my soul slowly disappearing from view? I remember asking Mr. Hansbury if I could go home and live with him after that, but he said he didn't think my mother would like that. I told him that she would, but he still said no.

I don't suppose it would have mattered one way or another, though, because it was too late to take back what I did. There's something else besides the numbness that comes when your soul is gone. I didn't see them the first night, but I could hear them breathing when I lay down to sleep. Soft as the wind, but regular and calm like a sleeping animal. I sat and listened in the darkness for a long while, covers clutched over my head. The breathing seemed so close I could feel its warmth billowing under the sheets. I cried for what seemed like hours, but Mom didn't come, and I was too afraid to get out of bed.

I don't think I fell asleep until it was light outside. Mom was angry at me in the morning for keeping her awake. She had heard me, but she thought I would give up eventually. I didn't get any breakfast that day, and I didn't mention the breathing again. That was only the beginning. I think a soul does more than help you appreciate the things around you. It also protects you from noticing the things you aren't supposed to see. And with it gone, they were everywhere, beady eyes glinting from under the sofa,

a dark flash at the corner of my eye, scuffling in the drawers and late-night knockings on doors and windows. I never caught a good look at them, but they were. were always watching me. I'd wake up in the middle of the night and feel their weight all over my body, pinning me down, rough skin against me, dirty fingers digging into my nose and mouth. Or still, their touch penetrated my mind. Inserting thoughts so vile that I knew they couldn't be my own. Although the longer they were in my head, the more difficult it was. to be certain of that. Did I want to insert a needle into my eye and see how far it would go?

Probably not. But then why could I not stop thinking about it? Were they making me think about beating my classmates into bloody pulps, or setting fires to people's homes to watch them weep on the sidewalk? Or was that all from me? The first few nights I lay awake and cried to myself, but I soon learned to be more afraid of my mom than I was of the creatures. As much as I hated the shadows, they never hit me, after all. I wouldn't call it living, but I continued to exist for years like that. During the day, I kept myself, exhausted and numb. All colors seemed muted except for the glittering eyes,

which tracked me from unlikely crevices, all sounds muffled, but for their scrapings and breathings. The only times I could really feel was when I lie awake in the darkness, but these were the times I wish I felt less. Neither screams nor silence brought any comfort from the intrusive probings,

and my mind was flooded with persistent images, of violence, self-destruction, and despair. Over time, I found a trick to help me get through the insufferable nights. I convinced myself that my body was not my own and that nothing it felt could do me harm. The real me was flying safe somewhere high up in the sky inside a paper lantern. And no matter what happened to my flesh, no matter what my flesh did to anyone else, that had nothing to do with me. I kept everything below the surface as best I could until I was 14 years old. By then, I'd lost all ability to distinguish the origins of my thoughts.

All I knew is that I wanted to hurt someone, hurt them as badly or not. as I wanted to be heard in return. I picked fights at school. I pushed my classmates around, and they stayed clear of me. I once drove a pencil into someone's hand, when they weren't looking, grinding it back and forth to make sure the tip broke off inside the skin. I heard the creatures snickering at that, but it was a disdainful kind of laugh.

When I was called into the principal's office afterwards, I was surprised to see Mr. Hansberry there, too. The principal was all rage, lecturing me and stamping around like the Spanish Inquisition. Mr. Hansberry didn't say much. He just looked tired and sad. He didn't speak up until the principal dismissed me, at which point he put his hand on my shoulder and leaned in real close to ask. Have you looked for it? I didn't have the faintest idea what? what he meant. I gave him a stare that a marble statue would find cold. Your lantern,

did you ever try to get it back? I told him to go fuck himself. I'm sorry for telling you to send it away, he added, gripping my shoulder to stop me from leaving. I thought it would be easier than facing, but I was wrong. People can't hide from themselves like that. The pencil was good, but it wasn't enough. My thoughts matched the sardonic tone of the laughter, mocking me for my pitiful attempt. As the creatures crawled over me at night and their intentions mingled with my own, I decided to bring a knife next time. I considered a gun, too, but resolved that it wasn't personal enough. I'd rather look into one person's eyes when the blade slipped into them, then shoot a dozen scream figures from a distance.

And what happened to me afterward, it didn't matter, because the real me was safely floating in the breeze a thousand miles away. It wasn't going to be at school this time. I wanted to take my time and not be interrupted. Instead, I went out at midnight, the taste of those dirty fingers still fresh in my mouth. I didn't care who my victim was, as long as they could feel what I was doing to them.

My neighborhood was quiet at night, and there weren't a lot of options, though, so I decided to head down to the 24-hour gas station on the corner. Kitchen knife gripped between my fingers, cold air filling my lungs, goading laughter and applause from the creatures thick around me in the darkness. I almost felt alive there for a second,

just like I did with the pencil. but this would taste better. Holding the knife, I felt like a virgin on prom night, with my crush slowly unzipping my pants. I wasn't in the eye of the storm anymore. I was the storm. And tonight would be the night that I saw a paper lantern floating in the air

just a few feet off the ground. The shell was so filthy and stained that I could barely see the light. light inside. It was impossible for the fragile thing to have survived all these years. More impossible still for the single candle to have burned all this time. But I knew, without a doubt, that it was my light by the way the creatures howled. They hated it with a passion and would have torn it to shreds if I hadn't gotten there first. I plucked the lantern from the air, and guided it softly to the ground.

The shades screeching as they whirled around me, feral animals cowed by the miraculous flame. Holding the lantern close, I found the note that was attached. I found this in the woods. Took a couple of days to find it, Mr. H. I collapsed on the sidewalk, trembling for all the time I'd spent away from myself,

blubbering and sobbing like an idiot. until the flame guttered out from my tears. The howling creatures reached a feverish pitch, and then silence, all rising together in the sky with the last wisps of curling smoke from the lantern. It hurt like nothing I'd felt in years, but it was a cleansing kind of hurt.

I didn't hide from it. I didn't send it away. I didn't drown it with distractions or fight its grip on me. I won't go so far as to say that pain is a good thing, but it is undeniably a real thing. And I'd rather hurt than send it away to live with the hole it leaves behind. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, please visit creepypod.com. If you'd like to submit a story for consideration or recommend a story,

see our submission page at creepypod.com slash submissions. All stories told on this podcast are done so through creative comment, share-a-like licensing, or with written consent from the authors. No portion of this podcast may be rebroadcast or otherwise distributed without the express written consent of the creepy podcast production team and the stories author.