Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/13566333.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Creepypasta_-_Fandom
  Character:
      Elias_Rosania_|_The_Nightwatcher_(Creepypasta), Victoria_De_La_Trémoille
      |_Demoness_Zerra_(Creepypasta), Ashe_Archer_|_Lucifer's_Angel_
      (Creepypasta), Maggie_Hanga_Felkat_|_The_Sleeping_Siren_(Creepypasta),
      Sasha_Von_Wirz_|_Srellik_(Creepypasta), Erikur_Aprils_|_Verus_
      (Creepypasta)
  Additional Tags:
      Mentions_of_Slenderman, Mentions_of_Zalgo, Blood_and_Gore, Psychological
      Torture, Stockholm_Syndrome, Anxiety_Attacks, Implied/Referenced_Child
      Abuse, Childhood_Trauma, Angst, Eventual_Happy_Ending
  Stats:
      Published: 2018-02-04 Chapters: 1/10 Words: 2966
****** Into the Dark ******
by SweetPoffin
Summary
     Darkness, that's all anyone could see in this realm. The darkness in
     the hearts and minds of the humans that lived in this world.
     Everything else means nothing to us. Some had little to no darkness
     in them, some have nothing but darkness in them. But everyone has a
     dark side. All through the dark void all we can see is the darkness
     of their hearts and souls. Then we saw a light, so bright it nearly
     blinded us.
     A small human child. The Mind, body, and soul. They were pure. They
     were the most pure thing we have ever encountered in our lifetime,
     like fresh snow that had just fallen from the heavens and have yet to
     be trampled on by the mistakes of mortals. Its gentle small form and
     flawless pale skin made it look almost as if it was a Porcelain doll.
     This child, this beautiful, beautiful child. Will be ours. Ours to
     keep safe and sound away from the destruction of the world and
     cruelness of its people, ours to cherish, to love, and to control.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
 
The air was crisp and cold, the morning dew that was on the grass wet his feet
as a mist was still resting atop the ground. These were the peaceful moments in
life he enjoyed, watching the small droplets of water slid down between his
toes and the base his foot. He sat on an old tire swing that father made when
he was still just a toddler, it was damp as well but he didn’t mind his clothes
getting wet or dirty. He was a child I didn’t care about those kinds of things.
Looking up at the almost clear baby blue sky, he let out a breath that he
didn’t know he had been holding. The chill of the air made it possible to see
it, at times he pretended to be a train while he swung, it was one of the few
forms of entertainment he had.

It was lonely where he lived, for he had no siblings nor any real friends and
with how high the fences were he couldn’t even hope to see if the neighbors had
any children his age. He doubted it, I never heard anyone ever even open the
backdoor they had, and the overgrown grass had started to poke through the few
holes of the fence. He was a normal child by all means, loved to run around and
play, draw, build things and watch television. However what made him different
wasn’t what was on the outside, but the inside. He was unable to feel any sort
of pain, may it be emotional or physical, that made him hurt people he was
supposed to care about when he didn’t mean to.
Sure he could smile or laugh, be happy or rather act happy. Emotions never came
easy to him, he didn’t understand them, he wanted to, but couldn’t. The way
another child would start to scream or cry if they fell, or smile when they saw
a small animal, it always made him sick to his stomach. He purposely did things
to see how each individual person would react, pushing one kid forward would
make them mad while another sad. Human emotions were intriguing even at a young
age he was fascinated by their reactions, especially the negative ones, he felt
was assumed to be joy or happiness when the first tears would streak down
another’s cheeks when the crimson liquid would escape from a wound.
That was how the first few months of Preschool had went, and it was then that
the parents began to act differently, the emotions they showed he was
unfamiliar with, so he observed and listened. He would no longer see other kids
his age or the friendly women that worked with them, nor would he see the
colored pictures that covered the walls of that building he had become
accustomed to, he would be locked up in his own home for his own protection. He
thinks it was to protect everyone else from him, the problematic violent child
that felt nothing.
While thinking of all those things, he would spin slowly around in his little
swing, feet up in the air kept him from falling out of the tire. Arms lay limp
beside his head, toes spread and he could see the dark clouds moving closer to
the house between them, it was going to rain again. He didn’t like going
inside, mother and father weren’t home yet and it was always lonely without
them, he just wanted someone to talk to. All he wanted in life was a friend,
someone who he couldn’t hurt no matter what and would never run away from me
when he said something no one else would dare say to another in public.
The outside world is one he does not remember, he doesn’t have any more
memories of what lies behind these fences or the big oak door that they have
that stands tall to protect the family from intruders. The most he see of the
world is the tall trees that hunch over the back of their yard from a small
trail that he hears women running with their dogs in the early morning or late
afternoon, there is a button that they push and for an hour lights on the path
light the way. Sometimes he stays up late, watching the lights go on and off
occasionally, watching the jogger’s silhouettes as they run by. He envies them
in way, getting to run free with no care in the world aside from if they will
make it to the end before the lights go out, trapped in darkness with whoever
or whatever creatures that followed them.
There are times when he hears faint screams, or someone calling for help in the
dead of night. But no one is awake to hear them, except for him, sitting on the
windowsill and listening to the terrified shrieks of men and women of various
ages. It doesn’t happen often, it only ever happens every few months or so. He
doesn’t tell his parents, because then they would tell him not to stay up late
anymore, the men in the uniform would return to the house and ask more
questions about it.. He didn’t like those guys, they were a little scary,
something about them always made him more nervous than he should be. Usually he
doesn’t get nervous around people, but these people always seemed to give him
shivers down his spine. His would stomach clenched up, even if he had done
nothing wrong.
A light rain started, his ebony hair became damp, and felt his cheeks go cold,
nose starting to numb. He would have to go inside soon before he got too cold,
mother didn’t like it when he got sick because he refused to take that
disgusting liquid medicine. He was fine with pills but not that stuff, it made
him even sicker and because it was often pink if puked back out his vomit would
be tinted pink. But getting the pills would mean he would have to leave the
house to see the men in the white coats, he didn’t like them, they were just
like the men in the uniform but they would touch him. He doesn’t want people
touching him, he doesn’t want them even coming near him. He just wanted to be
left alone by them, though he wished for a friend being alone was what he was
comfortable with.
He never truly felt alone, feeling as if his shadow was his friend. It would
follow him around and never leave his side, they'd stay with him while he slept
and watched him while he ate. They would even stick with him when he would have
to visit the hospital for check ups to see if his 'condition' was worsening or
getting better.
He considered the shadows, or more specifically his shadow, as the only thing
that would ever really matter to him. As long as he had them, he would be
content with his life. Although it would be nice to have some real friends that
would respond to his questions, nothing could replace the need for interaction
with another human being that wasn't a parent.
Getting up from the swing he made his way back into his lonesome house. He was
odd, he knew that, a violent child that sat in the dark corner when his parents
had guests over. But he had grown used to the insults they would whisper to
each other behind his back, he doesn’t remember when he started but he began to
keep track of who said what and how many times. An odd hobby, but a hobby
nonetheless. His mother thought it was a cute little book with points on how
much he liked someone or something along those lines, father didn’t care much
about his hobby. The boy was just his sick and twisted child that he wrote
books about.
He hated his books, they were overdramatic and made him sound like he was a
depressed wreck that hurt people because he felt 'misunderstood'. Often times
he would read parts to him, and overall the book series made him sick. His
father made it sound as if he hated people all together, that he was just some
sort of monster that had to be hidden away. He guessed in some twisted way that
could be seen as the truth of his situation, mother always would scold father
if he started talking to him about his condition and what he thought on it.
Mother on the other hand was a stereotypical good mom, making sure he was
healthy and happy with the life he was living. Packing up snacks into little
baggies for him before she had to leave for work, he thinks she was a lawyer's
assistant if he remember correctly. Thinking back on it, she was the real
breadwinner of the family, much to his father's dismay.
Lavender was the faint scent you could smell once the entered home, every week
father would return home from his outings with his publishers with a bouquet of
them, since they were mother's favourite flower. He had grown so used to the
smell mixed with a wood polish, since his parents took pride in how clean they
could keep the house. Eyes looking down at the hardwood beneath his feet, a
small puddle started to form.
Guess the grass was wetter than initially thought, leaving footprints as he
stepped forward he made his way through the house to the laundry room where
father would keep the spare towels that weren't in the bathrooms. They were
rough and never used for anything other than to dry the floors if they got wet,
which happened often since the rain never seemed to stop for more than a few
days before coming back.
Drying his feet off along with the few wet spots, before disposing the towel,
he was left to his own thoughts with nothing else to do. He could read or play
with his toys for awhile, but he's read every book that isn't too complex for
him to read in the house. He would play with his toys but he has no scenarios
of what problems they would have to deal with that day, so it would be boring.
That's just the way life is, when you have so much to do, you have so many
ideas, then when you have nothing to do the ideas just suddenly vanish into
thin air. Although he must admit he's not exactly a creative child in general,
but he's not a lot of things that most children would be at this age. But
that's never bothered him, being different is a good thing in some ways.
With quiet steps he heads to his destination, upstairs to his bedroom. Steep
stairs acting as an obstacle between his room and himself, many times he has
fallen down them. Gaining a new scar somewhere on his body, adding to the small
collection he already had. Most from the stairs or counters he wasn't paying
attention to and walked into, causing injury to himself wasn't uncommon but his
mother worried for him when he was alone.
That's when most of the injuries occur, but he don't like babysitters, most
were horrid women or men. The few he did like were liars that faked a smile and
acted only how he wanted them to act, only to run away the first chance they
got. After going through around twenty sitters, his parents gave up and started
teaching him how to stay home alone since he was seven. The basics on what
foods he was allowed to eat, not to open the front door for anyone even if they
say they know his parents those sort of things.
The old wood beneath his feet creaked to life as he took the first step up
those stairs, it made him cringe, hating the sound more each time he had to
hear it. Walking up the steps his mind continued to wander, never was he ever
not thinking about something. But at that moment, his foot was too close to the
edge of the step when he made a move to walk up another, he lost balance. Time
seemed to stop as he slid forward and in an attempt at balancing himself he
ended up pushing himself back. Falling backwards, nothing was in his mind,
never had it ever been so blank before.
Then he saw everything, his whole life flashing before his eyes was this what
fear felt like? Knowing that if he fell down the seventh stair backwards, his
weak spine would snap on impact, parents not due to be home for a few more
hours. The space around him seemed to vanish as he realized that this was most
likely how he would die, but he wasn't afraid. He realized what he was feeling,
he was anxious, ready to see what it would feel like to slowly lose life at the
bottom of these stairs.
He don't know why but he smiled, maybe he was crazy, all those times they
whispered behind his back that he was insane maybe they were speaking the truth
the whole time. Closing his eyes he was ready to see if snapping his neck on
these stairs would hurt or not, he almost wished it would. Counting the seconds
down, and noticing that he no longer felt the air moving around him, in fact he
couldn't feel any movement at all. Frozen in place, unable to move his arms or
legs, he opened his eyes.
All he saw was black. Looking around he couldn't see any signs of ever being in
his home, just a void of darkness that he was trapped in. It was cold, he could
feel that, it was so cold he could see the goosebumps already forming on his
skin. Faintly being able to see his breath, the anxiousness of dying turning
into curiosity of where he was.
That's when the limbs wrapped loosely around his body tighten, they were the
reason he couldn't move. Almost like a snake, it slid along his torso and
around his neck till he could feel something brushing against the lobe of his
ear. The whispers that followed were almost like a chant, something he could
barely understand despite them speaking so close to his ear. It sounded like
they were still so far away, but as it began to increase it volume the words
echoed in his head. The Thing began to push its way into his ear, into his mind
and god did it hurt.
The phrase was simple enough that even if he tried I would never be able to
forget, the pain had burned it into his brain. Don't be afraid of the Shadows,
as said before a simple phrase but not a common one. The thing squeezed his
throat and pressed down on his windpipe, his body began to thrash,
instinctively fighting back to get air. His vision darkened, until his eyes
shut completely, but as soon as it started it ended. He was at the top of the
stairs, both feet planted firmly on the ground.
It was at that moment he could confirm without a doubt that he was insane,
hallucinating an entire scenario of falling. But it felt so real, he could
still feel the leather like limb pressing against his neck. Fingers tracing the
soft flesh of his throat, he could only imagine the bruise that would appear
had it been real. But the whispered soon started, quiet like before but loud
enough that he knew that it wasn't his own thoughts. Turning away from the
stairs he rushed to his room, slamming the door shut loudly with his back
pressed to it as he slid down to the floor. Bringing his hands up to his face
he started to claw at his head, the voice was still there.
If he cleared his mind he could hear it so faintly like a whisper. All he could
do was scream as he rolled onto his back, pulling at his hair now to try and
drown out the voice. It wasn't real, he was just imagining it all, he was just
a little insane child with no parents home to rescue from the monster that
crawled it's way into his head. Breathing heavily he could taste the bile in
the back of his throat, slamming his hands down on the floor with nails digging
so hard into the wood he could feel them slowly being ripped off and the
splinters making their way into the flesh.
Ripping himself up he tried to stand, tried to get to his bed but ended up back
on his knees as the weights were dropped onto his back. Emptying the contents
of his stomach onto the hardwood, but the worst of what was to be seen was the
mix of red and black. The red was blood, he knew that for a fact, but the black
stuff. It almost looked like oil had it not been so thick, the blood made
perfect swirls in it.
He felt another scream rip from his throat as tears streamed down my cheeks
now, the voice was screeching in his mind and there was no possible way to
ignore it now. Letting broken sobs mixed with screams of agony escape him, he
crawled onto bed as best he could. Forcing himself under the thick covers, as
if it would become a barrier to help him escape. White dots began to cloud his
vision before it all went to black, the screeching stopped and he was once
again left in the dark void of nothingness.
End Notes
     First time writing a Creepypasta, I've had this saved for awhile just
     waiting to be posted. No beta, if you see any errors please let me
     know.
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