20 Oct Melancholy
“Melancholy”
Written by Jasyn Turley Edited by Craig Groshek Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/ACopyright 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 — 12 minutes
Part I – What, When, and Where
Joseph Emerick shambled down the street. Today, of all days, he should find himself to be hopeful. The sun is bright, the wind is cool, he has enough rations to get through the week, and he isn’t on labor detail until the next day.
But each step is yet another trial. When he’s shoveling rubble or hauling debris, he’s not blue, but neither is he content. Perhaps it is the structure, the routine, the oversight of the guards as he helps to clear the ruined city that keeps the malcontent at bay. But when he is alone to his own devices, when it is Joseph Emerick, convicted felon and exile, who has only himself to answer to—well, he can’t find peace.
The path, the remains of a two-lane street, cluttered with old sedans and trucks covered with weeds and bush, makes a turn. There is no other way back to the barracks but forward, and as he makes the turn, he stops cold in his tracks. The path dips down, over the tops of rusted vehicles and shrubbery, beneath an overpass. Old rail tracks cross overhead. But it is the shadow under the pass he stares at. The voice he hears inside his head, an echo that emanates from those shadows, harkens to him: Let me in, it says.
Already, he is weary. The few calories the daily rations provided have already been burned through by the labor. And still he elects to go up and over the shadows. The chain link to his right has a hole in it. He cuts through, climbs up the dirt, and bushes till his feet hit gravel. He reaches the rails, and underneath him, so close that the echo harkens just a bit louder, the darkness longs for him.
I don’t want this, he thinks back to the darkness. But already, it sinks its fangs in. It holds on, and he’ll drag it with him, all the way to the barracks. As long as he had the light of day, he weaves in and around ingots of golden light, through broken buildings and cracked earth, until he arrives at the barracks. The shadow of the building holds him away from the door.
“Still scared?” a familiar voice asks.
Joseph feels Arnold’s presence before he even sees him. Arnold, who thinks of him as a “loony.” Arnold, who has the compassion to retrieve a storm lantern from a hook next to the entrance, light it, and give Joseph the light he needs to cross the distance.
Once inside, Arnold puts out the light and replaces the lantern. “You know, they’d confiscate a day’s ration for using fuel in daylight like that, right?” Arnold asks, turning to Joseph.
“And you know I appreciate your help,” Joseph replies, his fingers fidgeting inside his pockets.
“C’mon, buddy.” Arnold gives him a nudge with his shoulder. “I’ll make sure the way is lit.”
Later that night, lying in their bunks, Joseph frames his sheets and blankets around the bottom bunk. A lantern inside is lit, so as not to disturb the others. He lies without a blanket, his head on the pillow. The warm light comforts him. Arnold’s voice comes from above, providing assurance.
“It’s all in your head, buddy,” Arnold says.
“I know,” Joseph murmurs.
Arnold was right. Well, half right. It was in his head, parts of it. The other half were outside. The other half that begged to be let in.
“But you still think I’m crazy,” Joseph continues.
“Buddy,” Arnold sighs. “Everyone here—hell, everyone in the mainland—are crazy.”
“Do you believe me then?”
Arnold scoffs. “I don’t think I’m that crazy…”
“I’m not making it up, Arny.”
“I know that. But remember why you’re here in the first place.”
Joseph did remember. He’d never forget. Arnold wouldn’t bring such a painful memory up if he didn’t have a purpose. But bringing it up, that was a low blow, one that made Joseph silent, stewing in the memory of why.
Why was he exiled? Why was he here, in this shithole of a destroyed city, clearing rubble for daily rations? Why was he in a job field where the mortality rate of was well over 150 deaths per 100,000 exiles? In the old world, before everything fell apart, Joseph worked for the Federal Census Bureau. The metrics they used were per 100,000 people. Dangerous jobs like those on oil rigs or lumberers had high mortality rates per metric. And so why was he here?
His melancholy, to put it simply. The death of a loved one. Bada-bing, bada-boom, here he was. Joseph supposed his previous occupation had made the roots of that melancholy. The percentages of suicides. The percentages of those suicides that were male and female. The percentages of people who experienced sexual assaults. The percentages of pet owners who abused their animals. Every census, every statistic he was a part of, was dark. There was no light in his life.
“I remember,” Joseph said, feeling a single urge to turn off the light. Quick as it was potent. Then gone. The light remained on. But the effects of that impulse lingered, haunting his thoughts. “I remember everything. But I’m not crazy.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Arny sighed, the closing exhale of one ready to fall asleep. “Because if you were, then I’d think I was the sane one. And I know sure as shit that I’m not.”
Part II – Where, Why, and How
A year ago, Joseph had been standing outside an auditorium at some high school. The old brick structure was run-down but stable. The wall of windows was fogged over, but enough light shone its way through that he didn’t feel nervous. But what he did feel was something on the other side of the doorway.
The doors were missing. The deep dark of the auditorium was before him. He stared inside, feeling something moving. But he couldn’t tell what. He shone his light inside, but the beam caught only dust particles and the rows of seats. His squad leader, Sergeant Gaulden, came up to him and looked from him to the inside.
“What in the hell are you looking at, Private?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Joseph replied.
“Well, get your ass inside. You’re running point.”
“I can’t go in there, sir,” Joseph said.
“The hell you can’t.”
Joseph tried to swallow his spit, but his throat was dry. The dark called out to him. He was too scared to even approach. “Tell me to do anything else, Sarge, and I’ll do it. But I can’t go in there.”
Sergeant Gaulden grabbed him by the arm. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re under orders to clear this secto—”
“I’ll stand guard with Anderson, sir. Please, don’t tell me to go in there.”
But in the end, Joseph folded under his sergeant’s pressure. Into the darkness, he took point, swimming with a single oar of bright white light, looking for threats that may lurk in the dark. Not physical threats, but for the thing he sensed.
Later, they secured the high school. It was empty. Sergeant Gaulden reported it to high command, and they waited for their next objective. Probably the next building across the street, a dilapidated gas station. But as they waited, Joseph retreated, finding himself a nook of the building’s brick exterior where he could be alone.
For a long time, he’d been sick. For a long time, he’d been surviving, but not living. He’d survived nuclear catastrophe, the dead rising, and the birthing pains of anarchy that preceded the rise of the new state. And today, it all felt too heavy for him to keep bearing. He wondered, with some morbid curiosity, what the barrel of his pistol tasted like. Felt himself cry as he took the gun from its sheath.
Let me in, he’d heard from inside that auditorium. The more he heard it, the more inviting the gun looked. He detected the familiar taste of a pennies as the barrel reached his tongue.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” His Sergeant barked, coming at him with all the speed and force of an abusive father.
There was no time to react, no time to try and explain it away. I was just blowing dust off my gun, he might’ve said. That’s why it’s to my lips. But instead of waiting for him to respond, his Sergeant was already upon him. The gun was pulled from his mouth, but his fingers remained locked. They wrestled for control until, in the confusion of the moment, BANG!
Sergeant Gaulden fell dead. His squad mates came charging to the nook where they saw him standing with the smoking gun and their dead leader on the ground. He thought they would’ve executed him via firing squad then and there. But Staff Sergeant Enrick simply detained him. Later that day, he and the dead Sergeant were picked up by Casualty Collection and MPs. Bada-bing, bada-boom, Joseph Emerick was stripped of honors and sentenced to spend his time here, clearing the rubble and debris of destroyed cities.
That was only the ‘how.’ The why went further. Dug deeper. It had nothing to do with his childhood. His parents, God rest their souls, were good to him. His family, wherever they were or lay dead, were, or had been, good people. On paper, Joseph Emerick lived better than most people did across the globe. His job with statistics and numbers would later inform him of that. Whatever the source of his melancholy, he didn’t expect it to be of one singular event, but the end product of a recipe that he just so happened to have followed. The why was simple. He was hollow inside, the torn bark of a tree.
Whatever Sergeant Gaulden’s intentions had been that evening, he’d traded Joseph’s life for his. Joseph got to live. And he found himself content. After the dishonorable discharge, verdict, and sentence to this exile, he was content, too busy to be plagued by that hollowness. His dayshifts kept him in the sunlight. He made enough rapport with the guards to keep a steady supply of kerosene for his lantern. And he had Arnold.
Then came the shift in schedule. Rotations of duties. Joseph had been transferred from debris hauling to interior clearing, where the dark of abandoned buildings and rot abounded, and the voices of long ago continued to haunt. Where Joseph was heard ‘let me in’ time and time again. And today, he didn’t know how much further he could go. He was exhausted. God, was he tired, and he just wanted to rest, in whatever form that rest would take.
So, as Joseph listened to Arnold snore, he tried to drift off to sleep.
No rest would come.
Part III – Next
The day off from labor detail wasn’t exactly a day off. But one where Joseph got lighter duties. This could be either laundry for other exiles, mess hall duty, or facilities maintenance. Or, like what he received after reporting to his duty station with Arnold, “sentry duty.”
“I should go with him,” Arnold said.
The MP shook his head and handed Joseph a piece of paper. “No can do, Mr. Fetter.” The MP said, looking at Arnold. “You’ve been scheduled for maintenance.”
Joseph took the paper and stared at it in silence.
“Can I at least be stationed nearby? My buddy here, you see, he’s a bit of an invalid.”
The guards shrugged, as if to say they didn’t care, and Joseph understood.
“I’ll be okay,” Joseph said to Arnold.
They went their separate ways, but not before Arnold grabbed him by the arm, and their eyes locked. “You ignore those voices. You hear me, you crazy bastard?”
Joseph smiled. It was weird, he thought, how a smile felt. But today, the sun was shining, the wind was cool, and he felt better than he did yesterday, better than last night. Why? How? Was it the rising of mania from depression? He’d have these swings. These highs, then lows. But he felt confident enough to lie to Arnold as he gave his friend a pat.
“I’ll be okay,” he said.
That seemed to satisfy his friend, and they parted ways.
* * * * * *
His sentry duty station was a wide-open stretch of highway. In the distance, the cracked, weedy highway broke off into a large parking lot and a larger building. Here, only one person was required to watch. Any zombies, any threats, could come from this single direction. But if one did, Joseph had only a radio to relay the information. No exile was trusted with a firearm.
As he looked up and felt the sun’s bright warmth against the cool breeze, he thought maybe he could push back the melancholy. Maybe he could come to terms with his life. But the shadows grew long as the daylight waned. The boredom of monotony dulled the mind, and hours passed. Evening drew nigh. He thought if he were to go crazy, as Arny thought he might, it may very well be the duty station that caused it.
Then he heard an engine revving. The Jeep that arrived was not his relief, but rather MPs. They didn’t stay long. The passenger, a Sergeant, glared at him and barked, “Your relief’s been redirected elsewhere! You’ll be pulling a double.”
“My labor shift starts at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow, though.”
“Tough,” the Sergeant remarked and tossed a duffel at him. Joseph caught the bag. “Stay posted until relief arrives. Radio headquarters for any developments.” And just like that, the Jeep sped off, leaving Joseph alone in the gathering dark of night.
He looked around. If a horde of the undead arrived, they would be able to ambush him in seconds. If wildlife attacked, he would be defenseless.
He unzipped the duffel and rummaged around. There was something hard and metallic inside. Something familiar. A single six-shooter. At first, he thought he was mistaken, but as sure as he could feel the cold gun steel, he’d been allotted a weapon. At night, he supposed certain liberties could be given. But to a man who killed his own Sergeant? He stared at the gun, knowing already what it would taste like, and closed his eyes.
No! he cried. But that familiar voice, coming to him from the dark, harkened still. Surrounding, all-consuming, ever vain and repetitive, it called. Let me in.
“Leave me be,” he muttered.
As the evening thickened, he could sense something moving in the dark, something present and yet non-corporeal, if that was even possible. Or maybe Arnold was right and he was crazy. Maybe, he didn’t know it just yet, but he really wanted the lights turned off.
Joseph looked through the rest of the duffel, desperate to find any source of light, and found a single torch, along with a poncho, a woolly blanket, an MRE, and some water, among other items.
With the final breath of day, he located the nearest tree with low-hanging branches. He climbed well out of arm’s reach and found a cluster of branches. There, he set up the blanket as a windshield, and the poncho to shield him further from the elements. There he huddled with the flashlight on and shining brightly, its beam fully illuminating the neon-red material. He wished more than anything that Arnold’s request to be stationed nearby had been permitted. But at least, he reasoned, Joseph had managed to keep himself illuminated.
All night long, prowling outside the poncho, something stirred. It didn’t climb, nor did it walk or fly, yet it had wings, claws, and feet. It found him as it always did, lurking in the dark, harkening to him. Let me in, it called incessantly.
“Leave me alone!” Joseph demanded. But it wouldn’t, and there all night, Joseph wouldn’t sleep nor find rest from the vain rapidity of that haunting echo. The longer the night, the more he found himself staring at the revolver. The more he craved the taste of pennies and nickels. The more he found himself curious about what may have happened had Sergeant Gauldren not interrupted him a year ago.
Part IV – Light
When Joseph failed to return to the barracks, Arnold was immediately on edge. Only, he couldn’t venture outside, not at night. And yet, that poor crazy bastard was left out on sentry duty alone, and with night creeping in, no less.
He’d gotten a look at the paper given to Joseph and knew the location. When the sun began to set, he laced his boots and crafted a crude spear out of materials he had on hand. He snuck out a window in the restrooms and found his footing, ducking at the exact moment MP patrols came around a nearby building.
They talked and took their sweet time. Arnold counted each pulse in his neck until the bastards finally moved out of sight. He broke from cover and ran, every second matched by the crunch of his boots across the ground. Every second, there was potential for a spotlight to surround him with blinding light. He anticipated the moment the MPs would see him with a weapon, engaged in what they would assume was an escape attempt, and mow him down.
But Arnold had evaded detection, up until the point where he was forced to take cover behind a rusted dumpster, one half covered with moss, the other with rust. A patrolling Jeep came to a stop. Arnold counted all four doors opening, five voices in chatter, and heard the sounds of three streams splashing against cement. Two lighters flicked on, and the smell of cigarette smoke came, reminding him how much he missed the stuff. God, they were taking too long.
He peered around the dumpster and spotted several of them near the Jeep. A gap of only a few meters separated him from the rear of the vehicle. He took in a deep breath and decided to take the risk, and took soft steps to the back of the vehicle. There, he rammed the sharpened end of his makeshift spear into the side of the tire. A loud pop followed.
“The hell was that?!” one guard yelled.
Joseph could feel the tension in the air. He withdrew the sharpened end of his spear and hurled it in the direction he had come from.
“Over there!” one of the MPs yelled.
“You two get the Jeep! Everyone else, follow my lead!”
Arnold fled into the dark, hearing cursing and yelling about the flat tire.
* * * * * *
The morning twilight was coming, and one end of the horizon brightened from black darkness to the deep blue that heralded the dawn. But Joseph didn’t think he wanted the dawn to come. Not for him. At the same time, a part of him wanted to see it, if only one last time. And maybe that was why he had held off the melancholy for so long, why he was able to not only ignore the voice but to forget about it, if only for a time. The promise of inevitability satisfied it.
And when the sun rose, Joseph felt a tear fall from his eye. The salty taste of it hit his lips, with the metallic tang of pennies and nickels. Just another exile dead. Another number added to the casualty list. Another addition to the statistics for a census that didn’t mean a thing. Nothing mattered, not even when he heard the footfalls, the running.
His finger hastened to the trigger, ignoring the voice. He recognized it but wouldn’t give it a name. Doing so would delay the inevitable and prolong his empty suffering. Yet, at the same time, Joseph wanted that voice to reach him before it was too late.
There was a skid. Then a hand met his.
He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
He felt a finger forcing its way behind the trigger. The hammer didn’t slam into the firing pen. The bullet didn’t explode from its casing. The quick, sudden lights-out he thought he wanted never arrived. But when he pulled that trigger, Joseph realized he didn’t want it. He didn’t want to die, but was empty all the same.
“You crazy bastard,” Arnold said beside him.
Joseph released the gun. Arnold took it and threw it aside. An arm around him as Joseph cried. The sun’s glow hung low beneath the rapidly brightening blue. But still, he was hollow. Still, the melancholy was there. But so was the hurt he felt. He leaned into Arnold and wept.
He heard Arnold sigh, felt his hands around him. And his friend mumbled to him, “I got you, buddy.”
🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available
Written by Jasyn Turley Edited by Craig Groshek Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek Narrated by N/A🔔 More stories from author: Jasyn Turley
Publisher's Notes: N/A Author's Notes: N/AMore Stories from Author Jasyn Turley:
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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).
REALLY GOOD EXCELLENT START had me involved from the 1st couple paragraphs