Terror in the Mind of the Abyss

📅 Published on June 28, 2022

“Terror in the Mind of the Abyss”

Written by Blake Blizzard
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


Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.
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“Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”

–Friedrich Nietzsche

There’s something looking at me in the corner of my room.  I throw one bleary half-opened eye toward my ancient alarm clock in an attempt to see what time it is.  3:00 AM.  Of course.  We all see things late at night.  Things that shouldn’t be there.  Because they usually aren’t.  Maybe after a stressful night of sleep, I’ll wake up to see something just dart out of my vision.  I’m sure people have seen shadows and heard weird noises in the dead of night.  I can explain most of these away.  After your brain has been in “sleep” mode, for lack of a better term, your perception is not calibrated as it is during your waking life.  How many times have you seen what you know is a pile of clothes in a chair or in the corner and mistaken it for one of the devil’s most heinous creations?  I hope what I’m seeing now is just a pile of dirty laundry.

It is not a pile of laundry.  As my eyes and brain were working overtime trying to assure me it was not an intruder, or a demon, I heard a quiet expulsion of air come from the pile of clothes. A snort.  A tiny stream of air leaking out of what would appear to be small holes in the face.

Can you imagine how many voices and thoughts go through your head when you realize that someone or some possible deity is in your home, watching you sleep?  This thing was dark.  As I said, it’s in the middle of the night right now.  This thing is a mass of bad energy.  Blacker than night.  I think I can barely perceive two almond-shaped eyes with just the slightest yellow tint. Staring back at me.

My bedroom is fairly spacious.  I think that is making this more unsettling.  For context, if I, for some goofy reason, had a basketball next to my bed, I could easily toss it at the being.  I’m not the most accurate, but I know I could smack it in the…chest area, if it has a chest.

He or she or it just sits there.  Now that my eyes are adjusting to the night, it looks like this thing is perched on the dresser in the corner.  I can barely make out what look like legs in a…squatting position, I guess.  The arms blur into the mass of black, but I can clearly see fingers gripping the counter of the dresser.  Tendrils might be more accurate.  The eyes I mentioned.  I don’t want to describe the mouth.

Sweat forming.  I fight to control the shaking in my extremities.  I’m lying on my back, arms at my sides and legs straight.  I could be King Tut right now.  I dare not move.  But I have to see how long has elapsed since I awoke to such rudeness.  The slowest, most painful eye movement in history and I see that it’s 3:02 AM.  Fuck.

I can feel tears start to slowly cascade from my eyes down my cheeks.  I still dare not move.  At this point, all I can do is shut my eyes and forcefully pray myself back to sleep.  Before I do, I catch one more glimpse of the thing.  Still perched, still staring in my direction.  I could probably still hit him with a basketball with a decent amount of effort.

As I somehow drift back to sleep, I remember being nine or ten years old.  One of the many dumb moments of my childhood comes to greet me.  I was showing off my new 4-10 air rifle pellet gun to my friend that was staying over for the night.  After blowing away some helpless coke cans, my friend said it would be cool if we started shooting stuff inside of my family’s barn. Seemed harmless.  We fired off some rounds into the wood exterior.  Then I got one of those brilliant young boy ideas: Let’s shoot some windows.  Our barn didn’t have glass windows.  The only opening was meant to lead to a contraption for feeding hay into the second level, but my dad kept a collection of windowpanes ready for assembly in the summertime.  It was for our greenhouse, something he and my mom were very proud of.  They cultivated multiple beautiful botanicals along with a plethora of fruits and vegetables.

I remember hitting the first window, dead center.  It didn’t shatter like you would think.  The pellet round was small, and the greenhouse glass was thick.  Maybe a half inch.  It made a tiny hole where the pellet penetrated.  My friend and I had a laugh and moved on.

Only, a day later, my dad brought me to the barn.  He calmly asked me who had shot the windows.  I was blown away.  How did he even see the hole?  And why did he think it was from a gun?  Kids.  We thought we were so much smarter than our parents.  I did what any stupid kid would do.  “I…I have no idea,” I stammered.  I remember looking into his eyes.  Seeing the look on his face, bordering on rage, but containment.  “I’ll ask you again, son, why did you shoot my greenhouse glass?”

I panicked.  I blamed the whole idea on my friend.  Shameful.  He wasn’t satisfied, maybe not one hundred percent sure if I was telling the truth, but he knew that I had something to do with the shooting.  He thankfully dropped it, and I received no punishment.  I blamed my friend, who did have the idea to shoot stuff in the barn, which was stupid, but I was the one who decided to impress my friend by shooting out some glass panes.  None of it makes sense now to my adult brain.

I wake now, queasy and heart pounding.  The beast is still here.  Shit.  It’s moved closer.  Now, if I, for some reason, had a baseball near my bed, I could peg him with minimal effort.  I’m not the most accurate tosser, but I’m confident I could hit it right in the center mass.

The panic really starts to set in now.  What is this?  Why is it here?  Why won’t it just kill me already?  I try to get a better look now that it’s closer.  Still dark, still staring.  It’s like a statue with a heartbeat.  Watching, seething, judging.

Twenty-four-year-old me.  I’m working security for a well-known pizza mogul.  I didn’t work for him directly but for one of the many companies he created.  I’m stationed outside one of his buildings while the Thanksgiving parade commences.  This parade is cherished by those of us in this area.  I grew up watching this on television every year.  In the midst of making sure our area was safe, I caught vision of a homeless man walking through the crowd.  Not at all an unfamiliar sight, but he seemed…enthralled.  He was taking in the spectacle just as anyone else was. Tattered, bruised, broken, he still took a moment out of what I would assume was an awful existence to enjoy the day of thanks.

I jolted up.  I momentarily forgot that I was sharing my bedroom with a creature from the unknown.  I have not moved since I noticed it.  Now I’m propped up on both of my elbows, breathing much more heavily than I’d like.

It’s moved much closer to me now.  So close that I could take a golf ball, if I had one near my bed, and just toss it into the demon’s face.

I am fully conscience now.  My thoughts run into my fiancée.  Asking her to marry me on the Cuyahoga River in Ohio.  Her spirit, her love.  I’ve never known any human person that has so much love to give.

I am now entangled in a staring contest with this thing.  Shockingly, it moves slightly back.  Still not making any more noise or giving up any emotion.  I decide to blatantly look at the time. 6:30 AM.

Why won’t this thing just kill me?  I am losing the will to go on.  Whatever game this is, I don’t have the mental capacity to compute.  I’ve never been more afraid in my life.  It slowly slides back off my bed, to its original position.  Its movements are sickening.  Cracking and slimy. Correction: I’ve never been more afraid in my life, until right now.

My once-dark blinds are now turning a gradual yellow.  Moonlight gives way to daylight.  The sun is quietly making its daily debut.  I notice that I don’t have my blinds fully closed either. There looks to be an exposed space of about eight inches that allows the natural light to shine. Enough light to expose just the most gradual essence of my intruder friend.

The light shows only a portion of his left side.  I know now that I wish I had held onto the perception I had of it.  A being, an entity, a spiritual disaster.  The light exposes something that looks…human.  Feral, but human.  Its arm has hair up to the shoulder, like a dog.  Its oblique is strong and scarred.

I don’t know if this is mental, but the smell of swine intrudes my nose.  I follow the new vision of this entity…human, from its torso back up to its face.  A face that now is more illuminated. It’s…smiling.  Several teeth bared.  Teeth dripping with blood and saliva.  I didn’t think seeing a human would be worse than seeing a monster.  I wish it wasn’t human.  It’s so close the smell is making me feel lightheaded.  Like a dead animal carcass baking in the desert heat.  The worst part is how bad this smell makes me feel.  Physically it makes me feel nauseous.  That part I can try to deal with.  Mentally, the smell makes me feel…fear.  I’m afraid.  I should have been better. Better to everyone.  I’m such a disappointment.

“What…what do you…what do you want?”  It starts to crawl toward me…smooth, but jerky.  Like a windup toy.


“What do you think, Detective Lungo?”

The tired, senior inspector side-eyes his new partner.  He knows a cornucopia of vomit is coming.  It might not be now, but it’ll be soon.  The new detective holds his mouth with a tissue-draped hand.  “Well…the cut on his neck is jagged.  It’s like someone strangled him with barbwire.  His entire throat is…oh, God!”

The grizzled vet waits for Lungo to return.  “You were saying?” “Right.  So, the vic looks like he died from strangulation.  That’s for sure.  But the violence needed to filet his neck would need the strength and determination of…” Junior Detective grabs his CVS bag to puke into again.

“If your guts are empty now, do you have any theories of what happened here, rookie?” Lungo has grown to hate his new promotion to detective.  Eighteen years on the force, ten years on the department’s SWAT team, several high-risk warrant arrests, and two huge high-profile media-covered convictions.  Anyone would call his service “veteran” status.  But he’s a “rookie” detective.  That’s the way this fraternity works.  And always has.

Lungo wipes the last remaining trace of clear drool and mucus from his face.  “He got his dang neck almost cut in half, Sal.  You don’t need a gold badge to see that, old man!”  He knows he should not have snapped at a veteran officer.  The man who’s volunteered to mentor him no less, but he’s not sorry either.  He doubts Sal has seen something like this himself, even in all his years in Homicide.

Sal looks at Lungo, smirking a bit.  “Yeah, kid, it doesn’t get any easier.  You just learn how to compartmentalize and move on.  Come on; the Uniforms have something to tell us.”

Lungo eyes the old man, now dropping his anger down a few notches.  He knows Sal wants the best for him.  He should appreciate that more.

Lungo finishes up jotting down what one of the first responding officers told him.

“So?” Sal asks, trying to study the new detective to see if it’s bad news or worse news.

Lungo looks up from his notes, shaking his head.  “No forced entry.  Fiancée is a complete mess, of course, but she says there’s multiple cameras on the property, so that’s good.  Poor girl, even hearing the worst news you could ever hear in your life, she wants to help us pull up the camera feeds.  Officer Ramirez smartly told her we got a guy that can figure it out.  She’s on her way to the station now.”

“Good,” Sal spoke.  “Your idea to get her out of here?” Lungo gave a confused half shake of his head.  “Um…yeah, we can’t have her here right now while this is so fresh.  It’s not good for the investigation, and more than that, she shouldn’t be here while her husband-to-be has already started the decomp process.” Sal tries to stop, but a half smile materializes on his face.  Maybe only the Hubble telescope would be able to spot it to the general population, but Lungo noticed.  You bet he noticed.

“This doesn’t make sense; we need to get to the office and start finding out what this guy was into.  No prints, no note, no known enemies in the most basic preliminary calls I’ve made.”

“What are we still doing here, Senior Detective?” Lungo is unkempt.  He’s more of the “go in first, ask questions later” type.  Now he’s had to do a 180 and focus ONLY on questioning.  Sal takes a seat at the edge of the bed, hoping not to sit in any DNA even though most of it has been cleaned up now.  The CSU guys got what they needed, and the “cleaner” they always use is already well on his way to making this bedroom look like none of this horribleness ever happened.  That’s his gift.

“You think it’s a good time for a sit-down, old man?” Lungo spits out, cocking his head to one side, not taking his eyes off of his mentor.

“You’re right about one thing, Rookie.  We have been here a little longer than usual.  I thought you’d find it way before I did.  You’re 20 years my junior.  People don’t “write” notes today, bud…”

Lungo immediately gets that rush of “Oh, shit!  I knew it the second it left your mouth.”  He slowly moves his head toward the victim’s laptop.  Open, but sleeping.  “God fu- how did…I even looked…why didn’t…”

Sal mercifully waves a helping hand at Lungo.  “It’s ok, kid.  We all do it.  You didn’t think it was that important, I get it.  Open it up.

Lungo does, embarrassed that he made such a huge mistake on a delicate case like this.

He hit some random keys to unlock the computer from its slumber.  The lock screen appeared. A scenic view of a mountainside.  Several Tachigali Versicolor plants dot the foreground.  Lungo only knew this because he had a passion for plant life…something he definitely kept from his brotherhood on the force.

It’s been such a long night, Lungo had forgotten they had already looked at the computer, but it was password protected, like every device in the last ten years.  “It’s locked, Sal.  We already knew this.  Ramirez said he’s got someone at the station that can figure the password out when we bring it in.”

“Look at the back of that notepad beside the laptop, son.”  Lungo did.  Scribbled on the rear of the pad were four bold letters: VALE.  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Lungo asked. “It’s Latin for goodbye, Lungo.”

“So you knew this was here the whole time?  What the hell is wrong with you?  We’re trying to figure out a robbery-gone-wrong, or a senseless murder, or a sui-” Lungo stopped.

“You needed to put it together, son.  Type that in for the password.  I bet you’ll find something as soon as you do.”

Lungo, now feeling a sadness creeping from nowhere, did as he was told.  Four quick keystrokes and the lock screen dissipated.  Open was a word document.

“It looks like our victim was writing something.  Describing…describing something wicked coming for him…I don’t fully get it, I…”

“It’s a…note, Sal.  Son of a bitch.”

Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.
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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

Written by Blake Blizzard
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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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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