The Dark Somnium - "I keep looking for Michelle but all I find are plastic faces" Creepypasta | Scary Stories

Episode Date: May 19, 2021

This creepypasta scary story is from the nosleep subreddit, written by Marta Abromaityte--- 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.

Patrick, are you really this drunk again? Diego's voice sounded far away, muffled, as if submerged under water. I opened my eyes and my vision immediately blurred. I looked up at Diego and I saw double. His skin swelled and morphed as I looked at him. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was made of plasticine. I reached my hand out to touch him, to feel his skin under my moist fingertips. I wanted to know if he was real.

He hit my hand away. The pain was sharp, instant, and undeniable, and it brought me back to reality somewhat. Dude, what the fuck? I managed to stammer. My head felt a little clear, less foggy, and I fumbled around for my phone. That was when I realized I was on the floor. I didn't know how I got there. The last memory I could grasp was being at Diego's flat for his leaving party.

I remember drinking the vodka red bulls, drowning my lungs in them. Then the memories danced in my mind, forever out of reach. I don't remember much after the twelfth drink, except for waking up with Diego's crinkled face looking down on me. He looked really mad. The blackouts were becoming more frequent, severe. The guilt rose in my stomach. I could feel the acidity traveling up my sternum, but then again, it was probably the alcohol.

What did I do this time? I wondered to myself. The shame threatened to engulf my body in its cold, dispassionate grasp. The familiar feeling of dread swirled and swished in my stomach. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to vomit, but I could feel the bile rising in the back of my throat. I'm done with you, Patrick. I tried so hard to be sympathetic to you to hold on to that feeling because of what you've

been through, but I can't excuse this constant shitty behavior anymore." He said. I could hear the gall in his voice. How you behaved tonight was unforgivable. Shit, man, what did I do? I croaked. My voice sounded raspy like I'd been screaming all night at a concert. Let me guess.

You don't remember, huh? Diego said, rolling his eyes. In that moment, I really hated him. You know I don't. I said, the irritation apparent in my voice. My body ached and throbbed like I'd been hit by a cement truck, and maybe I had been. Who knew? I couldn't remember anything.

Before I could stop myself, the dreaded words just rolled out of my mouth, the words I knew that Diego didn't want to hear, the words that nobody ever wants to hear from someone like me. I'm sorry. Fuck you. He said and walked off. His words cut deep and I winced, but what did I expect? There's only so much a person can take, and in his case, Diego had been taking a ton of shit

from me ever since Michelle. Michelle was my sister, and she's been missing for three years. It's my fault entirely. There isn't a doubt in my mind about that. I don't remember much about that night. My mind is a blank canvas every time I dare to try and grasp those miserable moments. The memories are sporadic, distant, and blurry. I remember being in a bar with Michelle and a couple of other friends from work.

I remember feeling happy, elated, like nothing could touch you. me. I remember Michelle crying, shouting, telling me how much she hated it when I drank that much. I remember feeling anger, sorrow, and denial. I remember staggering to the underground, getting into the night tube. I was sure Michelle was there with me. Then the memories are too scattered, a puzzle I struggled to piece together. I think I passed out on the tube. I did that a lot back then, and when I woke up, Michelle was nowhere to be found. It was as if she was swallowed up by the earth itself. There was an extensive search over zealous news coverage, and naturally I was under suspicion.

When the CCTV was reviewed, though, I was quickly ruled out, when they saw me pass out with Michelle next to me and then wake up alone. Everyone was at a loss. There was no sign of her. I knew it was my fault, though. The guilt had been eating away at me like a cancer, just savaging my organ. and stripping away at everything that made me human. Metaphorical necrosis, that's what I called it.

I should have been there watching out for her. I was her brother and I should have protected her. I didn't though, and I messed up. Something awful happened to her. I knew it, could feel it in the very fiber of my being. The heavy drinking didn't stop there. You'd think that after something so utterly inconceivable, the trauma of it would break the cycle for me.

It didn't. If anything, the overwhelming grief made me want to drink more, and that's exactly what I did. After Diego's outburst, I knew that I would never see him again, but somehow I didn't care. What's one more burnt bridge? I thought to myself. There are only so many times a person can hear the word sorry before it begins to turn their stomach, before it becomes meaningless, before they can no longer bring themselves to ever forgive you.

But Diego, that time was then. I picked myself up off the floor and looked around. It was late. The night was mild and balmy. I could feel the sweat from my brow leaking into my parched mouth. I licked it absentmindedly and the salt stung my arid tongue. I checked my watch. It was 11.44 p.m.

I still had time to catch the last tube home. I stumbled towards the old street station, which was my usual haunt. I knew the twists and turns of the time. station by heart. The putrid, hot air pummeled me as I entered. It was like stepping off a plane somewhere tropical. I suddenly felt so tired. My legs wobbled like jelly, and I struggled to carry my own heavy body.

I felt like I had bags of lead attached to each limb. I walked in a day's completely unaware of my surroundings. Thankfully, the station was empty, which didn't surprise me since it was a Wednesday. Not many people drank their lives away on a Wednesday. Wednesday night. When I got to the platform, I noticed how eerily silent it was. The normal hustle and bustle of rush hour entirely absent. I glanced at the schedule and the last train was arriving in two minutes. I felt relief. The night was nearly over. I was desperate for sleep. I looked around and saw that there was no one else there but me. That felt wrong

somehow. It made me feel uneasy. I desperately wished to see another human face. I couldn't fathom why. It wasn't long before I heard it. The unmistakable sound of the approaching train. The screeching sound of the wheels grated my eardrums. My head felt like it was being stabbed repeatedly with a blunt knife. As the train approached, I found myself frowning. It looked curious.

Most of the tubes nowadays were rusted over and covered in filth, but I'd never seen one quite like this before. It was historic, something you'd see in a museum. The decaying paint was the color of oatmeal and flaked in odd patterns, like someone had attempted to scrape the color off with a penknife. The windows were oddly shaped too, not your run-of-the-mill, long, rectangular design. They were small, oval, and tinted. As the train pulled up, I saw my own confused face staring back at me.

I looked utterly deranged, eyes wide and bloodshot. I felt my breathing fasten. I was nervous and I didn't know why. I didn't want to get on the train, but I felt I didn't have a choice. It was either that, or I slept on the streets, and that would have been an entirely new low for me. The train doors creaked open, and I gingerly stepped inside. The doors shut briskly behind me as I did so.

I found myself sweating profusely. I couldn't tell whether it was this alien anxiety I was feeling or the alcohol excreeding out of my pores. I looked around and something immediately struck me. There was no smell. Usually the underground always had a scent. You always got a whiff of something recognizable when you stepped on. Whether it was the sickly scent of perspiration, stale dampness, or the unmistakable, faint

aroma of vomit, there was always something there, something undoubtedly human. But there was nothing there that night, and it terrified me. I tried not to think about how uncomfortable I was. was and sat down, hoping for the journey to go as swiftly as possible so I could get off, but I couldn't help but feel like I didn't belong, like I shouldn't be there, and I couldn't pinpoint why. The bright fluorescent lights of the train hurt my eyes, formulating a raging headache. I closed them just for a moment, and before I knew it, I fell asleep. It was the sudden jerking motion of the train stopping that woke me. For a brief moment, I forgot where I was, and when

it dawned on me, I panicked. Shit, did I miss my stop? I thought to myself and looked around. My eyes were still blurry, and everything danced and swirled in front of me. I rubbed my eyes, willing them to adjust. When my vision cleared, what I saw nearly made me pass out. Throughout the entirety of the carriage, on each individual chair sat a mannequin. Their plastic skin glistened in the looom. luminous light, looking slick and sweaty like they'd been doused in gasoline. Their bodies were bereft of clothing, and their rigid limbs were positioned at odd, twisted angles.

I felt my chest tightened. My heartbeat was going a million miles per hour, and it felt like it was going to kick my chest open. I stood, unable to move. My flesh felt cold, clammy, and entirely not like my own. My legs managed to move a little, and I stumbled backwards, trying to put as much space between me and those pale, plastic monstrosities. I moved swiftly toward the doors in an attempt to pry them open, but my efforts proved

to be futile when they just wouldn't budge. They were sealed shut. I hit the emergency button and still nothing happened. I rushed to the windows, but everything outside was jet black, impenetrable. I fumbled the ledges of the windows, looking for an opening, but there wasn't one. There seemed to be no way out. I turned back around and immediately wished I hadn't. The mannequins were all facing me.

I realized then that I didn't notice their faces at first, and I desperately wished that it had stayed that way, because their faces... Oh, God, they were the most grotesque things I'd ever seen, something that I knew would be imprinted in my mind forever, like branding a cow. Their faces were human. The flesh that hugged their faces was bloody, loose fitting, like a badly matched suit that didn't quite fit. It didn't belong to them.

It wasn't theirs. The mouths were small, thin, slits adorned by dry, crimson-colored saliva. They didn't have any eyes, just blank gaping holes where the eyes should have been. But I could feel their gaze, and it terrified me. What do you want for me? I shouted. My voice was gravelly like I'd swallowed sand. That was when their human masks began moving, morphing into a horrifying smile that spread

from ear to ear. The dry blood that kicked their faces cracked and flaked, falling to the floor. Then one of them stood up. The movements were odd, jerky, and mechanical. I could hear its artificial limbs scraping and moaning. That's when I saw the sign. I didn't know how I didn't notice it before. It hung limply on the mannequin's neck.

The crudely written words sent daggers through my heart. Name. Constance Brewered. Reason. Pageant Mom. forced her own child to participate in harsh contests in a quest to alleviate her own failures, selfish, vain, duration, seven years and counting. I found myself struggling to breathe.

My chest was so tight as if grasped by a frosty mechanical hand. This had to have been some sort of sick joke. It couldn't be real. Nothing like this could ever be real, could it? Then the rest of them began jerking, convulsing. Their limbs were flying in all directions. Their bodies contorted in ways I could hardly fathom. The fleshy masks stayed firmly attached, but some of them lost legs, arms.

Some were nothing but glistening torsos swelling and distorting in the unnatural light of the train. I looked on in terror at the grisly sight in front of me when they all suddenly began moving towards me. In my utter panic I turned around and ran. I looked behind me for just a moment, and I saw that the mannequins were running too. They were so incredibly fast. It was unnatural.

I didn't see the door. I hit it head on and stumbled backwards, and then I fell. A sharp, sickening pain traveled through my body. My head felt groggy, full of cotton wool, and my vision blurred. Before my world turned black, I saw her. I saw Michelle. She looked skeletal, emaciated, and her skin glistened in the bright light. It sweltered just like the others.

But she was still human, her face was still her own. She looked at me and she was crying. Her tears shimmered and stained her pastel skin. Her body was bare, naked, but she had something hanging around her neck. It was a sign. My heart sank. Name. Michelle Garcia.

Reason. Wished for her own brother's death, resented her own flesh and blood, unfounded, discouraging. Duration. Three years and counting. And then everything went black. When I woke up, I was back on the old street platform. I looked around and realized that I was on the floor. Curious, worried faces gathered around me as I attempted to assemble my thoughts.

Memories of the previous nights swirled in my brain like cigarette smoke. And seeing Michelle there pained my already fractured heart. I glanced at my watch. It was 8.35 a.m. and I had no idea how I got off the train and back to that platform. The reality of seeing real human faces alleviated the fear and pain that I was feeling somewhat, but I struggled to comprehend the events that took place the previous night. I have tried to make sense of it ever since it happened, what I saw and what I experienced,

but can you ever truly understand something like that? I know I couldn't. I quit drinking after that night. I know that may be difficult to believe, but I did. The encounter gave me purpose, which is something. I've never had before and desperately needed. It gave me hope, hope that I will see my sister again. You see, nothing else matters anymore, only finding Michelle.

I will never make the same mistakes again. I don't know who the mannequins were and who put them there, but I vow to find out. It's 11.44 p.m., and I am an old street station, as sober as a dog. It's Wednesday night. Michelle, I'm coming for you. And this time, I promise I'll save you.