The Dark Somnium - "Cry of the Mockingbirds" Creepypasta | Scary Stories from The Internet

Episode Date: September 22, 2021

This creepypasta scary story was written by Michael Paige--- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/darksomnium/message 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.

I was eight years old and in the hospital. My mother was caressing my shoulder, familiar worry etched into her face. The white room we were in smelled like flowers dipped in rubbing alcohol. Next to her was the doctor, hunched toward me and taking his sweet time suturing the final stitches in my fingertip, the one I foolishly sliced open with a can lid. It hurt. Even with the shots they gave me, it still hurt. But behind the mild tux,

and the sharp jolts of pain, my mind took notice of something moving in the room, a small, grainy shape floating by the doctor's head, an orb like a snow globe. Aimlessly, it wafted around the room, a helpless bubble caught in an unseen current. The inside of it fluttered with swarming specks of light that made me think of fireflies. All at once, the specks condensed in the orb center, throbbing brightly with the pulsing of light, and then continuing to swarm in their different directions. They did this at a steady pace, just like the pulse in my finger. Mom?

I finally asked, do you see the fairy? Both she and the doctor exchanged puzzled looks. That was the first time I saw them. The second time was at my friend's house back in seventh grade. It was a school night, and we'd spent the evening shifting between scary movies and reaction videos. What had started for me as a slight ache in my temple soon escalated into a pounding migraine. My head was absolutely killing me. I dreaded the walk back home and my friend's dad let me sleep on his couch until the painkillers sedated me. In the quiet darkness of his stairway,

I caught another orb in my peripheral vision. Its hazy, light-filled body drifted by the stairs. The same clustered specks, the same whisking, clueless movement. But one thing was different. This time I could smell the strong, musty smell of an ashtray. When the painkillers kicked in, both the orb and the smell were gone. It wouldn't be until later that same month that I found out my friend had lost his mother to lung cancer caused by her favorite cigarettes. There is an eerie comfort in realizing you aren't crazy, but the things you'd noticed all

your life weren't just figments being up-chucked out of the imagination. Pain. That's the trigger point. It's the only way I can see the spirits, entities, or whatever you'd like to call them. I've always considered that a blessing. Without my endorphins working as an off-switch, I'd see them everywhere, coasting all over the place, bumping into each other like jellyfish corpses. I've tried touching them, even going as far as to try to catch one in a jar, and no dice.

They're all incorporeal. Not all of them have their own distinct smells. Don't ask me what factors into that either. Sometimes, if I'm close enough to one, I can make out something reflected off its transparent surface, a faint glimpse of lips, hair, maybe an eye staring back at me. I don't consider myself a medium or anything high-browed like that, nor do I talk to anyone about these sorts of things. Attention isn't something I seek.

To be honest, I'm just someone used to being out of the ordinary. I was born with cat eye syndrome in my left pupil, an abnormality that elongates its shape. Contrary to the name, my pupil looks more like a glob of ink sliding down my iris than the eye of my gray cat. Because it can't dilate on its own, I'm also extra sensitive to bright things. For the most part, I've gotten used to the double-takes from people, the look one more time than snap away approach. School thickened that tolerance.

Kids called me cyclops and liked to spread rumors that I was infected with some horrific disease. I'm not sure if that's the reason I can see the things I do, but one thing is certain. My left eye can spot them a lot more clearly in the dark. On Thursday evening, in the faint point of summer, my uncle contacted my father and asked if I'd like to visit him for a few days. My uncle was looking for some last-minute assistance renovating a new home he was getting ready to move into and offered me a chance to make some extra money. Considering that he'd cover the flight to Mississippi, I took him up on it.

Being a fresh graduate out of high school, I was scrounging up whatever funds I could find for college. The trip from Los Angeles to Delta, Mississippi, was over three hours, and Uncle Davin was already there at the pickup spot. I wasn't just there for the job. Getting to see him was worth the flight all on its own. You'd never meet a brighter spirit than his, always smiling and lending a helping hand, despite his own personal troubles.

When he wasn't preaching at his local church, he was giving back to the community, somewhere, some way. Catch the Southern Spirit, a dented sign said, welcoming. us to Holmes County. Whatever that was, I hoped it wasn't contagious. We reached where I'd be staying for the next few days, a farmhouse that could easily fit a family of five. Uncle Davin's backyard opened up to a large field with tall trees lining the borders. In the distance was the decaying corpse of an abandoned barn. The closest neighbors were miles away between vast cotton fields and cypress swamps. If anyone ever asked my uncle why he chose the backwoods of Mississippi, he'd merely shrug and say,

We were sick of all the noise, I guess. Ironic, considering the obscene number of mockingbirds surrounding his property, you couldn't take two steps out of his front door before hearing them whistle at you from the tree line. Even at night, the lonely male sang. I'm sure my uncle did need help with the refurbishment, but more than likely, he just wanted some company. Aunt Rosie, his wife, had passed away due to heart conditions not long ago. They'd moved there together some time ago, to the land of flat glades and blues music, only for one to be left behind all alone.

I'd met Aunt Rosie a handful of times, and each visit she'd be nothing but kind and generous. It was unfortunate we'd been unable to make it to the funeral, due to my father's poor planning with flight tickets and mixing up the dates. Despite that, Uncle Davin had no bad feelings towards his brother. By nightfall, I'd finished unpacking in the guest room and waited for the forlorn songs to put me to sleep. The next morning we got up early, ate breakfast, and made our way to the job. We spent the whole afternoon clearing rooms, tearing out carpets, and sanding down hardwood floors.

By the end of the day, we'd managed to finish a few rooms and get started on the bathroom tiles. I was exhausted. On the long stretch of road back to my uncle's house, he gave me a hefty pat on the shoulder. Thanks for the help, pal, and just for coming by in general. No problem. I yawned. He averted his gaze back to the road and started to whistle the tune, home on the range. That was her favorite song, you know.

He said. The same one she'd always sing after church. Of course, the little beak bastards learned it. So I can still hear it in the driveway. The hard sigh blew out of his nose. It's hard being honest with yourself, isn't it? What do you mean? I mean, having to accept that things change.

No matter what you do or could have done, it's good to embrace life to accept the fact that it's both cruel and beautiful. I watched his neck slightly turned toward the pale orange tint of the sky. You can thank God you still have eyes that can see the sunset, but it will never look as pretty as it used to. He then switched on the radio, and we drove the rest of the way in silence. That night, instead of sleeping, I was doodling some sketches on the writing desk in my room. I'm no artist, but it was a nice distraction from Uncle Davins' long, slow snores floating down the hallway. Something then grazed my nose.

A lingering fragrance of floral and citrus, perfume. I looked around the room and spotted movement at my door. A small, dancing orb, its center seemed to wink when it got my attention. The lamp on my desk flickered slightly, but I wasn't in pain. In fact, I felt fine. An icy worry crept down my neck. Was I in pain somewhere and hadn't even noticed? The orb lazily approached me and then hastened back to the doorway.

I never seen one move like that before. Curious, I moved toward it and watched it as it made its way toward the stairs and stopped, waiting. It wanted me to follow it. Another realization sparked inside of me. This was Aunt Rosie's perfume. I trailed down the steps after the orb and watched as it sank through the door to the backyard, Grabbing my jacket and my shoes, I stepped into the cold of outside. Sharp air brushed my cheeks.

Cicadas made song sounds from the underbrush, underscoring the mocking bird's whistles. The orb was in the field, blinking like a distant lantern. When I finally reached it, the thing dropped and sank into a dead patch of grass. Then the birds started to scream. A whiteness swelled out of the ground. It lit the surrounding turrets. earth, still inflating like an oversized balloon about to burst. I raised a hand to shield my eyes from the intense glow.

It was huge, a large round tumor of vibrating, pulsing light. And inside the white-pastored center of its haze were black twisting shapes, vague, shadowy objects forming like blots of ink on a canvas. What do you see? Rorschach asks, hands, fingers, all form. coming out of the white milky haze, clawing at its insides. Tormented, wailing faces were pushing outward against the orb stretching yet unyielding inner walls. Their silhouetted mouths stretched open in soundless agony.

The brightness shot pain into my left pupil, but I didn't dare look away. I felt dizzy like I needed to grab onto something, to clasp a little bit of reality back into my hands. But there was nothing. me, the field, and the orb full of terrible, riving things, a playground of pure hysteria. Then, out of the squirming void formed a woman's face, Aunt Rosie's face. Her features as clear as day. Her eyes held the desperate look of someone helpless. Her skin was pasty and loose like melting wax. Her hair was tangled and clumped with dark clots of mud. I watched her

Colorless lips opened in close, speaking, but no words reached me. My legs trembled and I staggered back. I felt like someone on stilts about to snap their neck along the pavement. I was going to faint. Before the dizziness overtook, I craned my neck toward the house. The lamp in my room was flickering rapidly. Then... Nothing.

I'm not sure how long I was out, but when I came to, the orb and my aunt's face were gone. On. Needless to say, sleep was a non-existent thing that night. Every so often, I'd once more peer out the window, wondering if I'd see that glow in the field again. When morning finally came, it didn't take long for my uncle to notice how exhausted I was. You all right, pal? He asked as I dozed off in the passenger seat. Yeah, I just, I didn't get much sleep. I'm all right. I wasn't. Not by a long A part of me wanted to tell him the truth, that hours ago his deceased wife had somehow

made contact with me, that she looked distressed like she needed help. But what would that do for him? He'd been through enough as it was. No, I needed to ruminate on it some more. Another hard day's work, and we completed a good portion of the house. To celebrate, we went out to eat and watched some late night stand up. Two and a half hours after that, I was sitting at the desk, still eyeing the field. I wasn't sure what to expect, or even how to digest the information I had already.

Then, sure is how, just as I started to feel that pinprick of ease, the small orb floated by. Its delicate light blinking at me. Perfume wafted in my face. Still, there was no pain. I swallowed hard. Aunt Rosie, is that you? No response, just more drifting.

I tried again. If that's you, make a sound. Move to the hallway. Give me a sign or something. As I said that, the lamp on my riding desk flickered. Can you do that again? I asked. The light spasmed once more.

I need to know if you need help. As though harness to my voice, the lamp started to flash its light again. It stopped, then started again, repeating the same. exact pattern twice more, pulses that were short, long, and distinct. Without thinking, I grabbed a sheet of paper and started to write. It was a jumbled, seemingly random flicker to most, but to me it was a signal. I should thank my time as a Boy Scout for that. We used to spell out swear words to the neighboring troops with our flashlights. I scribed the sequence the orb was repeating. Help. That was it. We were communicating.

You need to tell me more. I said, why do you need help? The lamp flashed again steadily, adding to the pattern. Help us. I twisted my head toward the orb, which was now circling the room like an intoxicated sprite. She was calling to me, pleading for help, but it was not just Aunt Rosie. There were more of them. There was us.

Before I even asked another question, the message shifted. Killed. I felt a sharp pang of anxiousness. Why that word? Why that awful, awful word? A cold, jagged word that punched into me like cold metal. My heart lurched painfully as if pumping excess fluid from my chest, trying to save itself from drowning.

I didn't want to ask the next question. I didn't want the answer. Who killed you? Husband. No, no, no, no, no. I crossed the word out, as though that held even an ounce of power. That wasn't possible. My uncle was a saint, the most selfless man I knew.

He cared for people. He gave sermons at church. He'd never heard anyone, let alone the love of his life. My brain rejected the notion. It was wrong. It had to be. The light blinked out another sequence, pausing because the bulb was starting to go out. Just as its last speck of life shorted out, I got the final message.

When I checked back on the orb, it was also gone, fizzled. Gathering my thoughts, I quietly made my way to the basement door. The stairs shuttered under me. It had to have been four, maybe five in the morning. I didn't know and didn't care. Sleep was the last thing on my overloaded brain. The basement was cold and spacious, with concrete walls, gray cabinets, and a workbench against the wall.

That was just a small square window to the backyard. I paced the room, unsure of what I was even looking for. On the right side of the room was a door propped inches open. I pulled it open the rest of the way to reveal a small closet with a chair in the center. The chair had thick leather straps made for wrists and ankles. The legs were firmly nailed into the ground. It looked like something made for a hysterical patient in a psych ward. The wooden arms were perforated with deep grooves where fingernails had scratched into them.

Surrounding the chair in the closet was a rough circle of salt, lined with rows of now melted candles. I had to step back and remind myself to breathe. The thought of being strapped down in that small vertical space gave me a choking, suffocating feeling. I went back to my bedroom, where sleep would never find its way back to me. Before I knew it, my uncle and I were making the final trip to get the remaining rooms refurbished. Throughout the day, there was an evident awkwardness between us. The chair was a constant overtone in my thoughts. I was thinking of a thousand ways to bring it up to him.

It felt like a dangerous question, like one I should save for after I was gone, one for over the phone, but even then, what would that do? During the drive back to his house, I couldn't hold it all in anymore. I had to say something. Uncle Davin? Hmm? He tilted his neck toward me. I'm sorry to ask this, but it's been eating at me for a while now.

How did Aunt Rosie die exactly? Something stirred in his eyes, a subtle fleck of surprise that quickly slunk back to the corner it was hiding in. Sorry. I wasn't expecting a question like that. She had heart problems. Didn't I tell you and your folks already? No, not me. I lied. You probably mentioned it to my parents, though.

Ah, yeah. You're probably right. What has you so curious? He gave me a quizzical look. Just the chair in your basement? My thoughts pestered. Yes, just the chair with the leather straps and nailed legs. Who was that for? No reason. I shrugged. Just a bad dream I had last night. The conversation dwindled after that and didn't spark again for the rest of the evening. I was sitting at the writing desk. chewing my nails down to ragged stubs, the bulb I had replaced had not yet blinked or fluttered. My flight was tomorrow, and I couldn't tell if I was dreading it or yearning for it. I rang my dad's phone, to no avail, and my mom's was going straight to her voicemail.

I just wanted to talk, to hear another voice in my head other than my own. There was a knock at the door. Come in, I said. My uncle lightly pushed the door open, a glass of dark wood. whiskey in his hand. Hey, pal. He sighed. It's your last night up here.

Did you want to watch a movie with me? No, thanks. I'm pretty tired, actually. His face gave a faint, troubled look. What's going on between us? I feel like you're upset. No, I'm not. Sorry.

I just have a lot on my mind right now. You were in the basement, weren't you? A lump of panic formed in my throat. What? He sighed heavily and stepped toward the bed. practically stumbling into it for a hunched seat. I realized then how drunk he already was. That's why you ask, huh?

He muttered. Because you were worried. I wasn't sure what to say. This wasn't Uncle Davin sitting across from me, but a cheap carbon copy of him that drank itself silly and hid secrets from people. I'll share something with you. He said dryly. Something I haven't shared with the rest of the family.

To be honest, I've been rather self-conscious about it. His eyes wilted toward the whiskey between his hands. I used to be an exorcist. You know what that is, right? I nodded my head. Good boy. I figured you would. He chuckled nervously. I understand if subjects like that are fairy dust to you,

but if you'd seen what I have. Maybe you'd get it. People harming themselves, screaming at me with voices that didn't belong to them. Eyes rolling back in their sockets. Foam spewing out of their mouths. People came to me for help. Yeah, they came to me. And I helped them. He repeated sullenly. I helped all of them. What does that have to do with Aunt Rosie? He twirled the glass in his hand, spilling some liquor on the floor.

This house never liked me, hated me from the start. Something was wrong with it. Something was here first. In the basement, Rosie found it, and it got to her, made her act strange. He choked out the end of the sentence, pausing to wipe a tear. from his cheek. She wanted to hurt me. She wanted to hurt herself. I had to do it. I had to get it out of her. And I did. But her heart. His body lurched into his lap. It was already so weak. She couldn't make it. I can't go back down there. I can't. That's why you've been helping me renovate the new house

because I can't be here anymore. It's too much for me. The rest of the words drained into incoherent sobs. I'm sorry, pal. I'm sorry. I helped him off the bed and let him down the hall to his room. His breath reeked of disgusting alcohol. Tried. Couldn't get rid of it. He mumbled as I got him to bed. I had to bury it.

The door clicked shut behind me. I couldn't take it anymore. It was too much to break down. My legs brought me to the garage. Enough was enough. My uncertainty, every last bit of it, had graduated into a searing clarity. Find the truth. I trudged through the backyard, shovel in hand.

The cold air couldn't reach me. The mockingbirds were whistling and singing from the tree line. I marched onto the dead patch of grass in the field and started digging. The birds shrilled and a choir of high-pitched whistles. Shut up! I barked at them, pushing the round-pointed blade deeper into the earth. Then, I heard the subtle scrape of it hitting something. I dropped to my knees and raked the wet dirt aside.

It looked like a wine box, absolutely caked in a red, waxy substance. Things clattered around inside of it. This was it, the truth. I cracked open the seal and peered within. There were old pennies, a lock of black, brown hair bound with a cord, and a single candle holder. Light. A wave of light erupted out of the box. It washed over my wrists, slipping inside my sleeves like burning ice.

It crawled up my arms, gushing out of the box like blood from an artery. The light swelled and expanded, converging over me in the roundish shape of a large sphere. My body went numb. The world melted into vague, swirling images. I could still hear the cry of the mockingbirds converge into a piercing, rhythmless pitch, louder and louder. It slid into my ears, blotting out all senses and understanding, drowning me inside out. I couldn't breathe anymore. I couldn't taste the cold air. My feet no longer felt the ground under me. I was falling down a deep, airless shaft. No more light, just an endless, hungry darkness.

The muscles in my arm tense painfully. A voice that wasn't mine started to scream. When I came back, I was standing in a dark room. The screaming had stopped. My heart was pounding my ribs like a caged animal. I was sticky with sweat. Whatever I was holding suddenly clattered onto the floor. A kitchen knife wet with blood. Dread swallowed my thoughts.

My eyes traced the room, my uncle's room, and settled on the bed, where a bundle sat stationary beneath the covers. A body. The sheets were doused in red. and torn greatly with newly opened slits. My trembling hands were coated in it. Help! My ruptured mind managed to pull together.

We need to get help! I twisted toward the door and stalked. A slew of blood smeared over the wall in crude, wet letters read, thank you. I called the police, but my uncle was long dead before they arrived. I was taken in and arrested, since I was the only one in the house, the only one with The murder weapon. My prints were all over the crime scene. I'll be going to court for manslaughter charges pretty soon. According to my appointed lawyer, our best bet in the system is an insanity plea. Whatever had been inside that box had taken my body for a ride and stabbed Uncle Davin

20 times. I'll never forgive myself for letting that happen. Thank you, it had told me after I let it out. I'm sorry, Uncle Daven. I'm so sorry for it. what I've done to you and for whatever hell I've released into the world. Forgive me. Please, forgive me.