The Red Room

📅 Published on November 28, 2021

“The Red Room”

Written by W.B. Stickel
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 — 15 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.
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5/24 12:18 a.m. – Christ what a haul! I honestly don’t know how truck drivers do this day in and day out. Sitting for eons on end, bored out of your skull. Navigating legions of douchebags in minivans and SUVs who think they own the road. Enduring construction zone after goddamn construction zone. And doing all that through eastern Wyoming? I only did once I want to put a shotgun in my mouth. No thank you.

Anyway, I’m here finally. So you can quit worrying.

Well, it’s late and I’m pretty bushed.  I’m going to sign off now, get a good night’s rest and buzz you in the morning. Love you guys. Give Katie a kiss for me.

* * * * * *

5/24 8:47 a.m. – Dammit! I had you there for a sec but then you were gone. Looks like the signal’s too weak way out here in Bumfuck, Montana. All right. Until I can figure something else out, I’ll drive into town every couple of days and call you from there. In the meantime it’ll have to be dictated texts and emails. Luckily, I have a decent app for that. And as long as I can get a single bar for a few seconds I can at least send those.

In other news, as Chalmers promised all the basics are in good shape here. The power is on, the heater puts out warm air, and the plumbing works fine. There’s no cable or internet but Chalmers says if we decide to keep the compound we can get satellite service.

Okay. I’m off to do some more in-depth exploring. Thinking I’ll start with the bunker and work my way topside. Wish me luck. Maybe there’s gold in these here hills. Talk later.

* * * * * *

5/24 12:58 p.m. – Quick break for lunch. Figured I’d squeeze in my first update while I’m at it. The verdict so far? Thumbs all the way up. I mean, yes, it looks like something from that Doomsday Preppers show, with all the pipes and conduits and shit running everywhere. But it’s clear a ton of work’s been put into the place. Apparently in addition to being a complete fucking whackadoo, old cousin Hank was a regular Bob Vila.

I’ll send some pics later. For now here’s the gist: the property runs about 20 squares acres and it’s mostly flat woodland terrain. In the center of the acreage sits the compound—a huge fenced-off plot of poured concrete the size of a football field. Scattered about the concrete are several piles of rubble where various small buildings used to stand. In the middle of it all are a pair of massive generators and a rounded turret-like structure that reminds me of that place in Star Wars where Luke lived with his Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru. The one on Tatoonie. Anywho, inside this turret thing is a small vestibule and a heavy vault door. And beyond this door is a marble stairwell that descends to a second vault door, which finally leads to the core bunker facility.

Here’s where things get interesting. Through the final door you enter a large oval chamber which Chalmers told me originally served as a security checkpoint. A place where badges were checked and personal belongings were stored. The original purchasers completely gutted the chamber and fashioned it into a sort of common area, which Hank then beefed up after taking it off their hands. In addition to installing a fully furnished kitchen and a full bar, he brought in a pool table, several fluffy sofas, and two 60-inch flatscreens.

Hanging off this ultra-awesome central hub are what Chalmers referred as the facility’s “Nine Fingers”: three full bathrooms, three converted bedrooms, a utilities room, what used to be a communications room, and a library. No, Elle, that’s not a typo. There’s a library here. A decent one at that, containing every manner of book imaginable. Novels, biographies, encyclopedias, high-level math and science texts. Plus a whole slew of radio and communications manuals. Kookie shit, huh? I mean Big Hank MacAuley was no dumdum, but I severely doubt the inclusion of such titles as Advanced String Theory and The Wave Mechanics Almanac was his doing. My guess is the Air Force left most of it behind when they skedaddled and the first owners just opted to keep it all.

Aw crap! My alarm just went off, reminding me of my two o’clock with the Missoula PD. I completely forgot to tell you. One the sergeants heard I was around and asked Chalmers to have me come retrieve Hank’s personal effects. I guess there’s several boxes worth of stuff they no longer need to store in their evidence warehouse.

Well, I better get moving. Love you.  I’ll keep you posted.

* * * * * *

5/24 5:26 p.m. – Tried calling when I was in town but it just kept ringing. Guessing you went to lunch with the girls. Anyway, get this. The police had three boxes waiting for me. Inside the boxes were journals. Stacks upon stacks of them. Belonging to Hank and his two sons, Daryll and Jody, both of whom lived in the bunker with Hank up until the Hazelton Mall Massacre.

At first I thought Detective Hamill was fucking with me. Hank, Daryll and Jody MacAuley writing in journals? But then he showed me some of the writings. Told me how clearly they chronicled the men’s deterioration in the months leading up to the mall disaster. I must have made a weird face because the guy grabbed my shoulder and recited some platitude about how we can’t help who we’re related to. Then he helped carry the boxes to the car and wished me well in the future.

As I drove back, I started thinking about what the detective said and it really hit home that I truly am Hank MacAuley’s closest living relative. Of course I knew this before. I just don’t think I allowed myself to fully process what that meant. Well, on the ride home I sure processed it. And as I approached the compound I grew disgusted and furious and decided I would burn everything associated with The MacAuleys. The boxes. The compound. The land. Just raze it all.

As I parked the truck, though, I had an abrupt change of heart. Or maybe it was an epiphany. Either way, I figured fuck it. Why let this all go to waste because my cousin was a murderous piece of shit? It wasn’t my fault. I have nothing to be ashamed of. Why not let a windfall be a windfall, you know?

Besides, while I hate to admit it, part of me is curious to know what was going on in Hank’s head prior to his sniping twenty-seven innocent people. So rather than raze it all, I sat down with the journals and began reading. And reading and reading.

Baby, the MacAuleys were far worse off than I ever knew. Worse than anyone other than the police ever knew. From what I’ve gleaned so far, the boys came to believe some seriously freaky shit near the end. Like “I’m-slowly-changing-into-something-non-human” freaky. Going by the dates recorded at the start of each journal entry, it all started about two months prior to the mall incident. Right around the time they discovered something called the “Red Room”.  I’m not sure what this Red Room is exactly, as I’ve only seen it mentioned a couple of times, but all three men seemed to revere and despise it in equal measure.

That’s about it for now. Will do some more reading and get back to you soon.

* * * * * *

5/24 9:13 p.m. – Interesting quote from Hank’s journal: We found the Red Room by accident, and because we are not cowardly men we went inside. In that cave-like place, which I reckon is somehow very far away, we saw things. Things that looked like red dust or moss. Things that moved. Damn fool that he is, Darryl decided to stir some of it up with his boot. Like dust will do, it flew up into the air making a kind of red cloud and we all breathed it in. We’ve all been coughing since and all of our lungs hurt. Things feel different. I think we’re infected now.

This “infected” claim is echoed by both Darryl and Jody in their journals, with each blaming the same red moss. And it only gets loopier from there. According to Hank’s squirrelly thinking the infection was completely unlike anything he’d ever experienced. It could think and communicate like a human, and its onset was quite peculiar. Hank said it started subtly, producing symptoms that were actually quite pleasant. Claimed it felt like floating in a haze of nitrous oxide. After that, though, it was far less enjoyable, with the infection spreading slowly through the rest of his body and soul. As it spread it stripped away all traces of civility until there was nothing left except the primal self. At this point the journal entries became erratic, hard to follow. Outright gibberish in places.

Crazy, huh? Just keep in mind all of this comes with a fairly large caveat: when the police raided the bunker after the mall shooting, they found massive stores of prepackaged meth “hidden” in the storage shed located topside. My guess is the MacAuleys were just blitzed out of their minds when they wrote in their journals.

Goddammit. There it is again. Sorry, Elle. Something I need to go check on.

* * * * * *

5/24  9:41 p.m. – I’m starting to think there’s a problem with rabbits or gophers on the property. I’ve seen a bunch of holes topside and I can sometimes hear the varmints tunneling through the earth beyond the bunker’s walls. One wall in particular. The one at the back of the room that used to serve as the comm room. For some reason the wall in there is whiter than the rest, like it has a fresher coat of paint. Yeah, yeah, as a writer I see some odd connections between everything I just recited, but come on now. If anything’s freaky it’s that I used the word “varmints” like I’m Yosemite Fucking Sam.

Speaking of writing, I’ve somehow managed to get a little writing done here. In my downtime I’ve cranked out eight pages. Seems this place and all the red moss nonsense suits my muse.

Hey, tell Katie I’m sorry about her nose. Tell her I promise it’ll heal correctly. Poor honey. Not only does her face hurt, she has to go three whole weeks without softball.

Love you tons. I’ll call later on when I head into town.

* * * * * *

5/27 12:23 p.m. – Quick email to say I’m okay. I honestly don’t know what happened. I lost over a day and a half.  Physically I feel fine so I doubt it’s anything medical. Maybe there’s noxious gas trapped in here or something. I don’t know.  I’m heading into town now to call you.

* * * * * *

5/27 9:56 p.m. – In and out of ER in record time. Love small-town living. Much to my relief, the doc couldn’t find anything wrong with me. When I was released, I asked around about getting the bunker tested for carbon monoxide and whatnot and wound up getting in touch with a local home inspector. Spoke with him and he agreed to bring his equipment out today. He stayed for a couple hours and didn’t find anything unusual. Go figure.

All right. It’s been another long day. Heading to bed. Love you.

* * * * * *

5/28 3:56 p.m. – Slept in. Managed to get some more writing done. Several pages worth. After these last few days, I almost want to scrap the novel and start over with an idea based around the MacAuleys. I won’t, though. I’ll keep it on ice until the next one.  But I seriously considered it. At least I don’t have writer’s block.

* * * * * *

5/28 7:11 p.m. – Sorry I haven’t called but I’ve been busy. The white-white wall I spoke of before? It’s vibrating softly. So softly it’s almost imperceptible. But it’s there. I felt it against my palms. I also tapped on the sheetrock with my knuckles and found that sounds and feels different than the other walls. Like it’s hollow. Like there might be a room hidden on the other side. I remember seeing a sledgehammer in the tool shed up above. No phone call tonight. I have my work cut out for me. Talk in the morning.

Give Katie a kiss for me and tell her I’m proud of her for not moping about the nose.

* * * * * *

5/29 5:02 a.m. – Took some work but I broke through the wall last night. I was only partially right, Elle. There is a hollow space beyond it. Two feet’s worth. But after that, there’s another wall with a vault-style door. Like the ones up above. Believe me, my mind has been spinning. Obviously, the brothers MacAuley put the walls up before going on their kill-a-thon. And obviously, the police missed it altogether. Idiots. Granted, their idiocy sort of works out for me because now I have a genuine mystery on my hands.

I know, I know, convention says I should notify the cops at once. But to hell with that. I discovered it. I want to be the one to see what’s inside. My hunch says it’s just another room with nothing in it. Like Al Capone’s secret vault. But it also says anything is possible given the lengths the MacAuleys went to conceal its existence.

After a few hours’ shuteye, I’m going to see what’s what. Talk to you when I know more.

* * * * * *

5/29 8:33 a.m. – Tore that fucker down! The whole damn thing! My next obstacle is to open the door. But to do that I need a key.  There’s a key ring around here somewhere. One of the keys on it is bound to work.

How wild is this? It’s like one of those things you always hear about happening to someone else. Yet here it is, happening to me.

* * * * * *

5/29 9:14 a.m. – Can’t find the key. Not a single fucking one on the ring works. Lost my shit big-time. I’m forcing myself to calm down.

* * * * * *

5/29 10:05 a.m. – Crisis averted. I checked the boxes with journals and found Hank’s car keys. On the ring was a funky-looking one. So I tried it and it worked. Next up: going in. Wish me luck!

* * * * * *

5/29 10:57 a.m. – Talk about a letdown. It’s just a room. A big room, bigger than the rest, with the lights still on. Except it’s empty and there’s nothing particularly special about it. Other than an odd smell. Like that of mold, grapes and rotten meat all rolled into one. I bet this was how Geraldo Rivera felt after breaking into Al Capone’s secret vault.

Hang on. Dizzy all of the sudden.

* * * * * *

5/31 4:32 a.m. – Lost time again. Woke up an hour ago but the phone was dead so I had to charge it. I just got all your texts and emails. I’d like to say I’m okay but obviously something isn’t right. WTF? I think I’m just going to pack up and leave. That makes the most sense. Shouldn’t take long. Just my clothes and laptop. Which I now realize I left in the hidden room. All right, fuck it. I’ll call you in a bit when I’m on the road. Love you baby.

* * * * * *

5/31 5:27 a.m. – The Red Room exists, Elle. I’ve seen it. It actually exists. It’s in the hidden room. You can only see it if you walk to the far wall and turn around. I don’t know how or why. I wouldn’t have even noticed it if I hadn’t turned the lights off on the way out after grabbing my laptop. See when I shut the lighty-lights off, it got darky-dark in there except not completely. There was a pussy pink glow on the far wall, with no apparent source. I like that. Pussy pink. And like a dummy dum-dum, I wanted to have a look-see. So I went to the wall, touched it and glanced back. And there it was, plain as day. The Red Room, how do you do? Very good sir. How about you?

* * * * * *

5/31  5:38 a.m. – Got a case of the goddamn giggles there for a minute. Right out of the blue. I think I’m okay now. Christ.

Back to what I was saying. When I turned around I was confronted with a perfectly circular doorway about eight feet in diameter, which you can’t see from any other angle in the room. Past the doorway is what can best be described as a large cave made of smooth, slightly translucent stone. All over the stone are splotches of blood-red moss. At least it resembles moss. Only this moss secretes red dust and can move on its own. Slowly but it can move.

Theories abound in my mind as to what the fuck this is. I’m attaching a pic I took. Am I crazy for wanting to go into the Red Room? I know it sounds bananas but I think it’s the right move. I have a feeling we have an epic discovery on our hands, Elle.  Hugs and kisses for my missus.

* * * * * *

5/31  5:55 a.m. – Got to the doorway but was too chickenshit to go through. I started to just leave but then it happened. The best I can put it, the red moss reached out and let me know it was okay. Told me to rest easy because we’re friends. Long-time pals that go way back. Elle, it needs our help. It wants us to understand. It wants us all to know, because keeping it a secret doesn’t matter anymore. In a month or so everyone will know anyway. Here’s the broad strokes of what it shared with me:

From what it has absorbed, the bunker was originally built as a hub to network the various missile silos scattered about Montana. In time a better site took over as the hub and the bunker’s purpose shifted. It became a Research, Development and Experimentation station, performing the kind of tests presently being conducted at the CERN facility in Europe, just on a much smaller scale. Most of the experiments they conducted here were fruitless, save for the assay they ran involving particle acceleration. The moss says the assay caused a microscopic perforation between domains, which none of the testers ever noticed because the experiment ruined their equipment. The moss was able to reach through the perforation, but it couldn’t communicate very well. Mostly it gave the techs headaches and induced nausea. Not that it had many chances to reach them. Following the incident, the government shut the program down and abandoned the bunker. For decades after that it sat in mothballs. Then the government began selling off its unused properties to the highest bidder. The first owner developed intense migraines soon after renovating the place and gladly sold it off to Hank MacAuley.

Prior to Hank’s arrival, the perforation had remained relatively small, growing no bigger than a dime. This changed, however, five years after the MacAuleys moved in. Evidently, my dipshit cousins had gotten into the business of making and selling homemade bombs to fellow doomsday enthusiasts. They stored the devices in the hidden room. One of them was poorly made and accidentally detonated in there. Even though it was small, its blast set off a chain reaction the likes of which my brain cannot fully comprehend. The perforation slowly expanded. And because it originated counter to the far wall, its expansion went unnoticed, until just a few months ago, when Hank happened upon the pink glow one evening while wandering drunkenly around the bunker. By then it was the size of a doorway.

Once the boys all saw it for themselves, they armed themselves with shotguns and marched right on in. The moss welcomed them and explained that it has lived for billions of years on a world similar to our own but with a sun in the process of collapsing. It also revealed that the Red Room is not so much a room or cave, but a sort of communal living environment.

Of medial intelligence, the MacAuleys fully ignored the scientific implications of what they had stumbled upon and instead began devising ways to exploit it. Jody in particular felt they could use the doorway to make a fortune by charging people to see it. Hank had other designs, however. He shared them with his brothers and soon enough women from all over Montana started disappearing.

Shit. Battery almost dead.

* * * * * *

5/31 7:01 a.m. – Plugged in and charging. So, yeah. Those sons of bitches kidnapped teenaged girls from all over, brought them down into the bunker and let’s leave it at that. When they were finished with their debaucheries, they dumped their victims in the Red Room, believing no one would ever find them.

The moss has since grown over the bones but it assures me it has preserved the skeletons. The flesh formerly on the bones? It seems human cells contain a host of nutrients the moss finds most useful.

Oh boy, it’s calling me.

* * * * * *

5/31  7:25 a.m. – Did something wrong. God my lungs feel funny, like I’m breathing grains of sand.

* * * * * *

5/31  7:42 p. m. – Well-rested and feeling good. Like that Gorillaz song. I’m happy, not feeling bad. Got sunshine all in a bag. I guess twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep will do that for a man.

* * * * * *

5/31  8:18 p. m. – Topside. Thinking clearly again. But I’m a little nervous. Something’s off. My chest. Breathing. Lungs heavy, and it feels like the air is laced with microscopic razor blades. Head starting to hurt too and my memory of the day is spotty. I know I sent you an email. Beyond that, it’s just fragments. It’s dark outside so I’ve missed time again. There’s something else too. Underneath it all, I feel different. Like on an atomic level. My hands don’t feel like my own.  Baby, I’ve got to get the hell out of here. Soon.

* * * * * *

5/31  9:25 p.m. – Down in a hole. Feeling so small. I was up above it. Now I’m down in it. Wait. I’m mixing up bands and lyrics. Alice in Chains and Nine Inch Nails. Alice in Nails. Nine Inch Chains. All the same, it’s in me now. Going for a test drive. It doesn’t want to die when its sun goes white dwarf. I don’t blame it. The test with my cousins didn’t go so well. I don’t think it’s going well with me either. Feeling sick.

* * * * * *

5/31  10:48 p.m. – Urges urges urges urges urges urges urges

* * * * * *

5/31/25  11:13 p.m. – I’m sorry, Elle! I’m so sorry!  Losing hold. I love you. I love Katie, sweet Katie. I love the moss. Not its fault. Stripping down inside. Layers peeling off. Layers I need. I think I see a path in my head. The way home. To you. To Katie. Leave, leave, leave. Get out of the house. Please, God. Run.

* * * * * *

6/1/25  9:55 a.m. – Gee whiz honey. Please, please ignore those last few messages! Got a bit drunk last night and wow. Really, I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine around the mulberry bush. I’m on my way home now. Should be there in a few hours. Can’t wait to see you. Call the cops.

* * * * * *

6/1  3:36 p.m. – Billings. You’re not answering my calls. Thinking about your slender neck.

* * * * * *

6/1  6:53 p.m. – Casper.

* * * * * *

6/1  11:29 p.m. – Denver. Go Broncos.

* * * * * *

6/1  1:34 a.m. – Made it home. There were cops outside the house. I kept driving. Why aren’t you answering your phone? Are you even home?

* * * * * *

6/1  2:06 a.m. – Going back. Needs me to provide sustenance. Lots of folks can go missing. I can’t stand it much longer. Love you and Katie. Maybe we’ll see each other soon. My head hurts, baby. Hurts so bad. Run as far as you can.

* * * * * *

6/1  4:23 a.m. – Oh, God, Elle. I just realized. The door will remain open. Whether it comes through or not, the door will remain open. And it will only get bigger. Do you know what happens when a star collapses? Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. It won’t be fast, it won’t be fast at all.

* * * * * *

6/1 12:17 p.m. – It’s all on fire now. The cave. The bunker. The whole thing. It’s screaming in my head. Stripping me away, I can feel it. It hurts. Tell Katie I’m sorry, so sorry. Daddy tried in the end. He really did. Oh, how it hurts. Call someone, anyone. The door is still open.

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


Written by W.B. Stickel
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

🔔 More stories from author: W.B. Stickel


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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