Creepypasta & r/nosleep Stories

The Crawling House on Black Pond Road

This is a place for people who can't sleep. I can't sleep. I have to share because maybe I won't feel if I share. Dr. Kirsch says to write and get it off my chest. Writing about it might release me from it. What should I title this? "Therapy"?

I'm currently seated at a computer terminal in a little, white, sterile room. There's about a half dozen other computer terminals here, all facin the same way like a classroom. There's posters on the walls with medical information. Everyone in em looks happy and complacent. Zombies. This place is called Sleep HealthCenters, just outside of Boston. It's a clinic for people with sleepin disorders.

I'm feelin a little loopy from the eszopiclone, so if my writing gets all garbled just deal with it and I can edit it when I'm clear-headed.

The doc wants me to do a little writing. He said that repetition can help with insomnia, and I gotta admit, if things were normal, this room and the clack of these keystrokes would probably make me pass right the fuck out.

Things ain't normal though.

It's not that I can't sleep, it's that I don't want to sleep. I actually doze off pretty frequently, but then I realize I'm falling asleep and I snap myself out of it. When I don't, when I drift off and can't stop myself, I dream, and that's what I want to avoid. If I could control what I dream about, I would sleep right now and not wake up til fuckin October. But I can't control it. And ever since May, ever since

Tom

That house on Black Pond Road

Fuck, just thinkin about it makes my skin crawl. And writin that makes me see it all again in my head. I don't wanna relive it. But Dr. Kirsch-- he's my doc. Nice guy, smiles a lot, practically whispers when he talks-- Dr. Kirsch said that if I write about the experience, it might "release me" from it. Like there's some sorta mental hold on me, torturin me. Guilt? I was as much a victim as Tom was.

Tom.

Tom was my friend from college. We both attended BU. Freshman year, his room was right across the hall from mine. I remember runnin into him on a bench late one night when my roommate was spending too long talkin on the phone to his girlfriend from home. Tom bummed me a smoke and we just sat and talked about our roommates' idosyncracies for a couple hours. After that, we just hung out all the time. Even after college we stuck together. Both got jobs in the city, lived near each other in Somerville.

When was it? It was May. Right. Friday the fucking 13th of all days. And Tom called me up after work and said

"Whatcha got goin on this weekend?" and I said, "Nothing." and he said, "Any chance you can help me clean out a house?" and I said, "Who we robbin?" and he said, "My dead aunt." and I said, "Friends help you move, good friends help you move bodies." and he said, "Unfortunately somebody already moved the body, but she's got a lot of other shit in her place and I need to clean it out so it can get sold."

So he picked me up that night and we drove and listened to tunes on the radio, stopped and ate and chilled and just drove and drove. And I asked him as we were goin,

"How'd she die?"

"She hung herself."

"Well I'm sorry for your loss."

"Don't be, she was batshit insane."

"I'm sure she loved you, too."

"Hardly. But she loved her brother, and he just happened to be my father. He needs to get the house sold but they live out in Washington now, so I agreed to clean the house."

"What a good son."

"Well, I'm gettin paid for it."

"Oh, I see. I help do the work and you get all the reward."