Holder of Eternity
In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself “The Holder of Eternity”. A sigh might escape the worker as they look upon you with the utmost pity. They will take you down a flight of stairs into what should be the basement of the building, and yet isn’t. As you press deeper and deeper into this under layer of the institution a chorus of screams will begin to be audible. Softly at first, as if from a great distance, but the closer you get to the end of the hallway, the louder it becomes until it drones so loud that it seems to consume all other noises, until you begin to claw at your own ears in pain. The worker will show you a door, covering both their ears. As swift as they can, they will unlock the door and run, leaving only you in this cramped, dark hallway. This is your last chance to run. If you decide to continue, and open the door then the piercing wail will end abruptly, leaving your ears ringing. The room is coated in an almost tangible, all-consuming darkness but for the far end of the room. There, manacled to the wall is an emaciated figure, covered in raw lashes. He stares directly at you, with a grin plastered to his face despite festering wounds and a scalpel still half-protruding from his chest. Now is your only chance to save yourself, and the only way is to ask “Who created them?â€ He will cackle, in a manner befitting the death throes of an animal before responding. His tale will be the most horrific tale you have ever heard, beyond such primitive concepts such as pain and death, into the very essence of wrong. Of evil. It is up to you to end this man’s life, to release his terrible burden. Remove the scalpel, and he will shudder once in agony before falling silent forever. That scalpel is Object 3 of 538. It is up to you if the rest should be protected or destroyed. Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.