Slow Clap

📅 Published on April 18, 2020

“Slow Clap”

Written by Jon Thomas
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by Otis Jiry

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: Scary Stories Told in the Dark – Podcast (Standard Edition) | 🔑 Podcast (Extended Edition) (feat. Otis Jiry)

ESTIMATED READING TIME — 6 minutes

Rating: 9.75/10. From 4 votes.
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I sat down on the padded stool. It was cushioned and made of black leather. As I lifted the sticks, I couldn’t help but shake the feeling like I was being watched. Like there was some sort of audience staring at me just outside of my field of vision. A chill ran down my spine, prompting a quick shudder as I tried to shake the feeling.

I took a quick glance around, reassuring myself that I was, in fact, alone. When I turned to face the snare drum between my thighs, I let out a long, deep exhale.

I started easy, playing a simple 4/4 beat. As I began to warm up, and my limbs loosened a bit, I started to throw in a few fills. Before I knew it, I was engulfed into a world of intricate paradiddles, heavy double and triple bass notes and lots of cymbals. It was my happy place.

The solo went on only for a minute or two, but during that time, I’d played some of the greatest beats I’d ever come up with. The ideas for transitions and different rolls came with each strike of the stick against the drum heads.

My setup wasn’t anything profound. It was quite simple, actually. I had a single bass drum, two tom-toms mounted atop. A floor tom sat to the right and a snare drum to the left, nestled between my legs. The hi-hat was just to the left of the snare, raised a bit higher than most people liked. It was comfortable, in my opinion.

The cymbals were my signature, though. A lot of people have differing opinions about cymbal use. Some are of the camp that a good drummer need not rely on their cymbals to make the songs, others believe that, if used correctly, the cymbals can actually provide a great accent to the drums themselves. I feel like I’ve found a balance.

I don’t have too many cymbals, but I have a decent variety. Two simple 16 and 18-inch crashes, a tinny-sounding 19-inch ride, the china makes for a great switch-up when you’ve overused the crash a bit and finally a bell chime, which works as a great accent to heavy, blast-beat laden metal songs.

As I finished up, rolling the cymbals out at the end of the set like some sort of Rock God, the sound slowly died down.

What came next froze me in place.

The sound of a slow, methodical clap emanated from one of the bedrooms on the far end of my house.

Ice filled my veins, the blood drained from my face and an immense sense of foreboding spread across my body, gripping me like a vice. My breathing echoed in my ears as the sound of slow clap after terrifying clap resonated throughout the tile-floored living room of my home.

I slowly rotated in my seat, maintaining an upright, distressed posture. My eyes darted around in my skull, but my head remained frozen in place, awaiting the horrific noise to cease.

Finally, it had stopped. Silence filled the air, but was not welcomed. Now, it was tainted with horror. Soaked in the thought that there was someone or something else in this house with me.

My mind raced with possibilities. An intruder? Maybe a ghost? Some sort of monster?

I took a long, deliberate inhale, trying to search my mind and find my bearings as I rose from my seat. I began to walk toward the back side of my house, where the noise came from, but quickly came to the realization that if it was an intruder, I had nothing to defend myself with.

I made my way to the master bedroom, which was closest to me, quickly pulling an old wooden Louisville slugger out of my closet. It was one of my most prized possessions, signed by Campy himself, Roy Campanella. I prayed I wouldn’t have to use it, but I knew if it came down to it, I could make the decision.

I exited my bedroom slowly, stepping through my echoey house as the blood surged through my veins. My body vibrated intensely with nervous shivers as I took step after gut-wrenching step back toward where the noise had been coming from.

I arrived at an empty bedroom that my girlfriend had sworn she would be converting into her office once she finally moved in. I wasn’t sure if it was this room, or the next one down the short hallway that the clapping had escaped from.

The hinges creaked as I slowly opened the wooden door. I thought, for a fleeting moment, that I saw a shadow dance across the corner of my eye, shoot across the room and enter into the closet. A bright light shined in through the blinds mounted in the window, streaking the room in lines of white.

There was nothing in the main area of the room, sending my gaze toward the closet. I could feel my heart rushing in my chest, speeding up with each methodical step I took across the slightly shagged carpeting and closer to the accordion closet doors.

I stretched my hand out, reaching for the small knob. As I grasped it, I couldn’t help but notice a spike of anxiety clamp down on my chest. My breathing became rushed and shallow. A slick layer of sweat found its way to my forehead.

I took a deep breath in and tore the door open. Relief washed over me when the small closet was empty, save for a couple of boxes stacked off to the side. I let my breath out, but soon found myself in the same predicament. There was still one room left to check.

I found my way out of the bedroom and back into the hallway, which felt far too dark for the mid-afternoon. I gripped the baseball bat in my hands, squeezing at the slick handle.

As I stepped slowly up to the door of the bedroom, my hand found its way to the knob and grasped firmly. I tried my best to contain my nerves, but the tremor had returned with a vengeance, causing the knob to rattle in my grip.

I turned it, popped the door open with a click. As I slowly pushed the door open, the same white light poured into the room, partially blocked by the blinds.

The room itself was empty. Neither myself nor my girlfriend had any plans for it. I’d thought about making it my music room, setting up my drums and mounting my guitars on the wall, but had never gotten around to it. The acoustics in the living room were too good to pass up.

I stepped toward the closet, terror clouding my mind with thoughts of a malevolent specter jumping from the closet and tearing me limb from limb. The image of a man wearing all black and hiding out with nothing but a large butcher’s knife was the next to enter my mind.

I reeled, hesitating to open the closet.

“H-hel-hello?” I called out in a terrified whisper.

There was no reply. Nothing but eerie and unsettling silence filled the air.

As I reached for the small handle, shaking violently, I heard something come from the living room. The sound of my drums began ringing throughout the house. The beat that played was familiar. It was a quick 4/4 that slowly worked its way into a smooth solo. Intricate paradiddles, singles, doubles and even triple bass notes blared throughout the home.

The dreadful horror gripped me, but I couldn’t work my way out of the room. I couldn’t move from my position as the somewhat soothing notes rang through the air. I found myself with my eyes closed for a moment, basking in the sounds.

It didn’t take long before the solo was complete, maybe a minute or two. I slowly opened my eyes and set the bat at my feet, freeing my hands to do as they pleased.

Before I knew it, I was slowly and methodically clapping my hands together. The loud sound rang out of the room and echoed through the house.

I heard something shuffling around in the living room, then the air became still and silent again. I knew whoever, or whatever it was would come looking for me. They would seek out the source of the noise.

I ran to the bedroom door and closed it quickly, keeping it silent as it swung back into the frame. Then, I ripped open the closet trying my hardest to keep the door from squeaking as it slid along the track.

I knelt over, grabbed the bat off the ground and, forgetting the fear I once felt, stepped inside.I sat in there for a moment. The sheer terror of what would come searching began to rip through my mind.

I could hear a faint creak as they opened the spare bedroom door.

After a grueling minute or two, the door to the bedroom I was hiding in had begun to shake on its hinges before swinging open. Someone stepped inside, holding something long and cylindrical in what appeared to be human hands. They paused just outside the closet door, hand outstretched as if they were about to open the door and reveal my hiding spot.

Then I heard a voice.

“H-hel-hello?” they whispered.

Then, everything went black.

Rating: 9.75/10. From 4 votes.
Please wait...


🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: Scary Stories Told in the Dark – Podcast (Standard Edition) | 🔑 Podcast (Extended Edition) (feat. Otis Jiry)


Written by Jon Thomas
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by Otis Jiry

🔔 More stories from author: Jon Thomas


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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