A Wonderful Friend

📅 Published on July 3, 2022

“A Wonderful Friend”

Written by Samuel Jack
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

ESTIMATED READING TIME — 10 minutes

Rating: 8.00/10. From 2 votes.
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Friends like Quinn Perser were hard to come by, especially in Stonedirt County.  He was one of those spectacular people, the kind you meet once in your life, if you’re lucky, that knew how to complement every aspect of you.  Held a good conversation, shared your interests, and even went out on a limb every now and again, just to prove how decent of a companion he was.  It was as if the Lord Almighty saw everything missing from yourself and formed a fella who filled every spot.  And Quinn Perser was perhaps the best man I had ever met, and that was precisely the reason he had to die.

You may look at me strange, but you ain’t never been in Stonedirt County.  Population teetering on the low side of a hundred, harboring only hermits, addicts, bums, and peanut farmers.  Now, Quinn and I were prideful in our role of peanut farmers, knowing that the alternatives weren’t so pleasant.  We held no intellect (no more than the common man) or talents beyond that of reaping a good peanut.  It wasn’t glamorous, but it was pleasant enough.

We took to them fields day in and day out, planting our seeds and ripping weeds.  We shared the silence, indulged in delightful conversation, and shared every moment of that simple summer and fall. And after a long day of sowing our fields, we’d return to one of our homes, caked in dirt and grime, and share a can of soup.  No wives, children, dogs or the like to share our company but ourselves.  This was our ritual.  This was our life.  And we cherished these little niceties and talks all the way until November.

See, in November, the grounds would change.  The air took a crisp chill, and the green leaves of our land turned to a despicable orange.  The bright blues of our skies that we shared faded to gray and left us staggering through an eternal twilight.  But more than that, the ground quite literally froze.  If I were a smarter man, I’d say it was something wrong with the clay or silt layers that made the ground so tough.  Some of the smarter folks in town said it was ‘cause of overfarming that took the nutrients out of the soil and turned it to stone.  ‘Course our mothers told us it was the spirit of the mill owner’s wife, murdered by her lover on these lands, that forced the lot to reject life, and that whenever we met the anniversary of her death, she forced us all to see the fate of eternal stillness, just like her.  But I don’t believe in that nonsense.  I think if someone was to be a ghost, they’d be a pleasant one.  No sense in staying around if you didn’t want to.

So maybe that gives you a little idea of why Quinn had to die.  See, when you don’t have anything to fear going over the side, it’s a little easier, isn’t it?  Like peeking out of a pitch black window at night. It becomes a little calmer and less unnerving to know that there isn’t anything staring back at you from the darkness, at least nothing sinister.  Death became a solution to a problem we’d never thought we’d have.

See, there was this winter where the soil truly turned foul.  We’re talking about breaking a shovel right down the center tough, and damn near nothing could force it otherwise.  So, Quinn and I would normally head to one of our houses and spend the snowy winter playing cards and talking like we always did.  But this one winter, something fierce was let out of the skies.  The snow started on a Thursday, I think.  So, expecting nothing more than a few inches, we holed up and my place, sharing soup and stories.  After the first inch of snow, we were nearing the end of some of our favorite tales. After three feet, our soup can had run out, and we were using the lit stove to ensure our hands didn’t fall off from the cold.  After the next seven feet, we struggled to find things to say.  It’s impossible to be a good talker when you’re cold, after all.  And after a year of looking forward to our winter talks, I began to grow restless at the thought of losing these precious days to awkward silence.

Quinn understood as well; I’m sure he did.  We never spoke of the unpleasantness, but if it was clear to me, it had to be to him.  See, when you’re snowed in with someone you know that well, you understand their little idiosyncrasies.  The thoughts they never knew they had, you see as clear as day.  After the first week trapped in that cabin, I could see it on his face that he missed our good talks.  When the food ran out, we hardly spoke.  We stayed in our corners of the room, solemnly missing our once vibrant friendship.

Once upon a time, we would’ve huddled for warmth, but the sheer animosity of losing our wonderful companionship drove a wedge between us.  And when you have no food for nearly three weeks, it becomes easy to want to jump to a harsh decision.

I could see it in his eyes.  He didn’t want to be my friend anymore.  Now, the Quinn I knew would have never abided that sort of thought, and I wasn’t about to allow this frail version of my friend to end what we had cherished for so long.

Beating his head in with my shovel was the kindest act of friendship I think I had ever expressed.  I’d rather go through all that unpleasantness than burden the rest of our lives with the end of our beautiful friendship.  He appreciated it too, I knew.  The Quinn I loved like a brother would have patted me on the back and thanked me for that.  One of those small idiosyncrasies I was talking about.  Every shiver and cough practically begged me to do it.  So, being a good friend, I obliged.  Sure, the Quinn he was now screamed and tried to stop me, but that man wasn’t my friend.  He was a liar that took my friend away to a hungry and cold place in the back of his mind.  He would have ended our lovely talks right then and there if it meant a little food.  That man was not Quinn.  So hearing his skull crack against the plate metal of my tool wasn’t a sound of harshness but of respect.

With every splatter of blood, I could almost feel Quinn thanking me, apologizing for our month of awkwardness.  Every fleck of hair that caked the floor was just another reminder that I was the perfect match for Quinn.  How many friends do you know that would do that for you?  No, I was his perfect friend, and he was mine.

The only problem, I was a little too eager to save our friendship.  We had barely cracked through the month of December, and the snow had long since covered the windows.  And even if I was able to get through the wall of ivory ice, I knew the ground was that of diamond.  Any hopes of a grave were fruitless, and the mere idea of one would have to wait until at least February.

So, using our now empty crate of soup, I fixed a temporary space for the remains of my wonderful friend to rest.  It was a big enough box, made of decent wood and sturdy enough to take the body.  But, getting him into the box took a little…work.  I knew he would understand, of course.  We all make compromises for friendship and comfort.  And, to be honest, I probably had a harder time making him fit than he did getting fitted.  After a few good hours of cracking and bending my dear friend Quinn, he wonderfully fit in the box, even with room to spare.

Thing is, though, the condition of his body left a little chill in the back of my head, one that even the cold outside couldn’t compete with.  Had he still been alive, I knew he would have been at least a little disappointed with how I positioned him.  I’d argue, though, that the use of his arms and legs was pointless, and the condition of them meant nothing.  It was his face, though, that strange face, I had trouble digesting.

Facing straight up, protruding from an entanglement of his legs and arms, was a concave mass of black. Though you couldn’t tell any details in his face through the black smearing of blood and the rot, you could see perfectly every single one of his teeth.  Only, because of our little compromise, they now speckled through the black blob like twinkling stars in a bloody sky.  But, I’m sure he understood when I spared myself of that sight by placing a square of burlap over his face.

So, a few nails later and my friend Mr.Quinn rested nicely in his box.  The next few days, I made up for his lack of conversation by talking for both of us.  I spoke of our summer and my plans for the spring, the first I would sadly have to work alone.  I mentioned an idea of maybe having a stop by a local taxidermist to compensate for his lack of life, but I said it was a discussion I should have when it warms up a bit.  I did have to pause every so often to refresh myself from the smell that emanated from him, but I do believe I was a wonderful conversationalist.

I spoke of the weather, the cold, the fire, the box, and even the starry teeth that I couldn’t seem to forget.  But, after a while, the only thing I could think about talking about was how hungry I was.  It had been a month since our last soup can, and I could see my ribs through my shirt.  I was somewhat jealous of Quinn, who needn’t worry anymore about warmth or food.  But, what are good friends for, other than offering solutions to the other’s problems?

I removed a few nails from the box corner just so I could slip in my hand and a carving knife.  I was surprised how easily I was able to salvage parts of Mr. Quinn that weren’t rotted yet.  Though, it’s hard for maggots to get to anything in our icy chamber.  Like living in our own personal ice box, I’m sure. A few minutes on the dwindling flame, and it wasn’t worse than some of the jerky we had tried last summer.

I don’t mean to sound unappreciative, especially after all the compromises he had made for us, but it took a few good strips for me to keep some of it down.  It wasn’t the thought of it, no.  The qualm of a friend helping a friend never crossed my mind.  After all, I’m sure I’d do the same if I were in his shoes. Just…the texture was something atrocious, like a thick jelly attached to rubber.  But, trusting in our friendships and compromises, I swallowed and lasted that much longer.

Quinn lasted another month, at least the edible parts of him did.  A little into January, I was sucking the marrow out of his bones, though it was difficult.  My hands had begun to turn a sickly purple, and it was difficult to get the fine movements to work the knife anymore.  After a while, I had to crack more of the lid open and use what was left of my hands to take what seemed good enough.

I made sure never to look in the box, though.  That I couldn’t abide.  There was an understanding between us that compromises had to have been made.  But, that respect only came through me giving him the space he needed and keeping my distance.  There were times where I’d get a little too close or take a rib too much that I’d feel something grab at me.  So, we had an understanding that we were to respect our compromises, and I wouldn’t be greedy.  Those little idiosyncrasies, see?  I knew my friend just needed his space to be the best friend he could.

Halfway into January, I lost the feeling in my lips and hands.  I used what was left of my black and green amalgams (I’d hardly be able to call them hands anymore) to cram bits of Mr. Quinn’s rot into my mouth; once every couple days, just to ensure my heart would still beat, and to make sure I didn’t swallow another bone (I would’ve choked, had it not been for a violent hacking fit I had).  Any day for sure, the snow would melt, and I’d take him to the graveyard and make him a proper home.

I’d build a real big cherry wood coffin, so he could lay out the way God made him.  Not this compromised mess he had to be.  I’d put pillows and soup in there so he’ll never feel discomfort again. And, I would make the lid extra thick, so the whispering he did at all hours would never be heard again. After all, it’s rude to nod off while someone’s speaking, so it had been a week since I had slept.  I didn’t mind, though; it was nice not being the only one speaking anymore.  I only regret the burlap over his face.  It made it impossible to understand whatever he was saying.

Towards the end of the month, the shingles of my roof began to give in.  Ice and wind started blowing through my cabin and tearing their sharp whips against my skin.  Even though almost all my body was numb, it was still agony.  Not long after the roof caved in, our months-long fire died, and the only light came from the purgatory gray of the sky.  The walls were useless without a proper roof, and my clothes were so stained with bile and grime that they hardly offered any protection anymore.  The lumps that were once my hands shook harder than ever before, and I prayed for a bit of salvation.  Not even warmth, just some respite from the wind.  But, without walls, there seemed to be no salvation from the eternal blizzard.  I looked for anything, any little compromise I could make to gain some shelter, anything.

Then my eyes fell to the almost empty soup box.

I had pried enough open for me to crawl in, and I was so thin that I hardly had to shift the lid aside.  I crawled in and nudged the lid back into place.  The gray light was no more, and my world became black.

There is no word for that stench.  There is no word for the sensation.  It was the farthest extreme of human experience one may ever be able to experience, and it was my only hope.  The moisture within the box couldn’t be blood; that had long since dried, and I didn’t know enough of biology to identify it. But after a few hours, it caked my face and throat.  My eyes stung with the saltiness of the air, and my body hummed in its discomfort.

Although the majority of the mass from my friend was gone and digested, his sharp remains stabbed into me and the brushing passes of something that could once be a finger or foot sent my skin aflame. And right at the back of my head, the little rattling of twinkling teeth spoke whispers of conversations I didn’t want to have.

I hated life at that moment.  This was beyond compromise; this was a punishment.

Mr. Quinn knew that.  He was my friend, after all.  He understood the little emotions I never knew I had.  He wanted to spare me of this agony, let me have a break from the cold and pain and hunger. That’s what I told myself when I felt what remained of his hands wrap around my throat and squeeze. The sides of the box were so small I couldn’t even fight back, other than a wasted gasp and a clawing at the lid.  But, wouldn’t you know it, Quinn was kind enough to nail it back into place.  As his bones cut into my skin and closed tighter and tighter, I wondered how wonderful of a compromise he was making.  To sit through this unpleasantness and share his space with me, just so I wouldn’t suffer anymore.  And as the word faded from blackness to nothingness, and my tongue felt ready to pop, I smiled.

What a wonderful friend I had.

Rating: 8.00/10. From 2 votes.
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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available


Written by Samuel Jack
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

🔔 More stories from author: Samuel Jack


Publisher's Notes: N/A

Author's Notes: N/A

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Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

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