Grease
You stepped into the darkened house, picking through the broken pieces of glass from the shattered window you crept in through. The rest of the windows were boarded up, the electricity long cut off from the decrepit old building, rendering it as black as pitch. You don’t remember how long this house has been here, on the edge of the forest, with its long winding driveway and old crumbling pillars that made of the remnants of a gate. You don’t even remember a time where anyone had been in it, it had always been that abandoned house, sitting alone and untouched at the edge of the forest, slowly falling in on itself as time ticked by. It sat there, a time capsule, waiting for someone to enter it. You finally had the guts to do it today. With a flashlight and a tackle box to store things in, you crawled in through the window and shined your light about the house. It was a disaster. The floor was covered in old clothes and forgotten papers, scattered across the house wall to wall like scraggly carpeting. Old pictures hung crookedly on the walls, the glass sometimes broken, the frames covered in a thick layer of dust from all the years of just sitting there. Some show happier times, the family that was once in there, sitting around tables, standing in front of buildings and monuments, happily gazing out with permanent smiles fixed on their faces. The couch in the living room, you noticed, had been moved, shoved up in front of a door near the stairs. The couch was actually laid sideways up along the door, as if specifically put there to hold something inside of it. You aren’t sure you want to see what is behind that door, so you avoided it, slowly climbing up the stairs to the attic above it all. The attic was in a similar state of disarray, things scattered here and there. In the corner, there was an old, rotting crib, its white bars turning yellow with age and some strange bundle laying in the center of the crib. You shined your flashlight over it, inspecting closely what it could be inside. Something was swaddled in old, moldy blankets, moth eaten and dark with dust and age. You almost reached out to grab it, but thought otherwise. You were superstitious, nervous about trespassing into this old abandoned house. You swore you  could feel eyes on you in every corner of the house, staring at you, becoming angrier and angrier with every passing moment of your stay here. Instead, you reached down and picked up a small fallen board from one of the walls, and prodded the bundle of blankets tentatively. And it squirmed. You leaped back, gripping the board like a sword as the pile of blankets twitched and writhed for what felt like ages, until it finally settled again, crooked and cocoon-like on the crib. You hadn’t imagined it. It had definitely moved. Your heart still pounded from the sight, but you stepped forward again, boldly using the board to try and unwrap the mass of blankets. Again, it began to squirm and writhe, almost attempting to pull those blankets tighter around it, fighting every attempt to roll it over and inspect it fully. Finally, at last, something gave way, and the blankets fell away. A dark, greasy stain sat heavy in the center of the blanket, and a foul smell rose from it, some strange mixture of bodily excretions and dust. The bundle had been empty. It was as if the space had been occupied with nothing but air, but the stain sat there, filling the expanse with the scent of dead flesh and sweat. You gagged, and backed away from the source, staring at the yellowish gray stain in the middle of the blankets. This had now become too strange for you to enjoy, it was certainly past time for you to go. Abandoning the old attic with its strange contents, you went back downstairs, skipping steps as you hurried to find the window you had slipped into the house from. You could have sworn it was in the kitchen, but that was now boarded up, no sign of broken glass anywhere. You paused in there, frantic, shining your flashlight from corner to corner, looking for the sign of entry, but there was nothing. Just silence, and the sudden, approaching scent of rotting flesh and old sweat. Your nose burned, and you stumble back out of the kitchen, kicking at the front door to see if that would give. It was boarded from the outside though, and your meager little attempts to break them down were in vain. There was only one door left to try. The basement. The couch was still laying up against it heavily, covering up the entirety of the door. As you got closer, you could smell that disgustingly familiar scent. Decay and sweat drenched one of the cushions of the couch, the cushion itself sunken. Even the back of it was depressed back, and the dark stain left there was in the shape of a body. But how had you not noticed this as you passed it earlier? You were at loathe to touch it, as if in fear that the stain would creep over onto your hands. You could imagine the filmy grease slipping along your finger tips, gathering under your nails as you tried to wrench the couch away from the door. You stifled a shudder, and grabbed the arm of it, as far away from the dark stain as you could get, yanking with all your might. The couch fell with a heavy thud, rattling the whole house as it hit the ground. Frankly, you were surprised that the floor didn’t crumble beneath it.. Dust flew up in every direction, and you backed away from the couch quickly, as if in fear that something, somewhere, would hear it and come to inspect what had happened. Then, you dragged the couch away from the door, breathing through your mouth heavily so as to avoid smelling the stain. It got into your mouth instead, you could practically taste the rotting, slimy grease, slipping down your throat and laying heavy on your tongue. It was good enough where it was, the door would open. The door was stuck where it was. It hadn’t been opened in years, so it seemed, and the hinges were rusted with time. You yanked and pulled as hard as you could, before suddenly, with a snap and loud creak, the door swung open, and the dark expanse of the basement behind it yawned open. That smell suddenly exploded upwards, forcibly invading your nose and mouth, and you coughed and gagged terribly as the flashlight revealed a greasy door, gouges torn out of the interior, as if something had been fighting against it with all its might in order to escape. Grease was smeared along the wooden banister leading down into the darkness, and a filthy hand print had been placed at the wall. No dust touched it, there was a clearing circle around the hand print itself, as if the passage of time didn’t dare lay a finger upon it, it was so appalling. But, this way might be the only way out. With the flashlight and tackle box gripped tightly, you began to descend down into the darkness. The terrible smell just grew more powerful with every step taken down, threatening to force you to vomit. Was it really all the grease that was making that smell? Or was it something else? You reached the bottom, shining the flashlight around the small space. Dark, cold, the walls made of stone and leaking brackish water. Old cobwebs hung from the ceiling, with dead and moldy spiders hanging from them like an assortment of arachnid gallows. Still no sign of where the smell was coming from, but there was the faintest filter of moonlight coming from a crack somewhere. You peered hard, and swept the light over, and there, you found the door to the outside, hopefully not boarded up like the rest of the main doors. You take a step towards it, only to hear a sickening, awful squelch. Something crunches under your foot as well, as if whatever was sealed inside that sticky, oozing mess was hard and brittle. You jerk the flashlight down to see what you step in, before bile rises in your throat. It’s a hand. Or the remains of one. Sealed inside a great, foul, yellowish grayish mass of grease. It’s an entire body, the grease translucent and in the shape of what might have once been a body. Obese and filthy, things writhe inside the grease, trapped inside of it. You don’t have the stomach to see what they are, and you yank your foot up quickly, gagging and spitting as the shattered bones of the hand stick to the underside of your shoe. You don’t want to know. You never want to find out. You dart past the body on the ground, or what you think was a body, and try to head on, but your flashlight gathers more on the ground. Another grease covered skeleton, laying propped against the wall, its eyes partially jellied and staring balefully out back at you. There’s the remains of skin on this one, purple veined and bloated, but the grease seemed to have actively eaten away at everything else. Stringy, greasy hair dangles down in limp, lifeless curls that might have once been so bouncy and vibrantly blond. You can’t hold it anymore, and you violently empty your stomach onto the ground, that smell just compounding the scent of death and decay in the basement. You have to get out. You focused on the door, and went to shove it open. Once, twice, three times you try, the hinges groaning and the wood creaking. Finally, at the point where you were sure it was all for naught and you’d be trapped in this awful house with the corpses, the door gave way, and fresh air and moonlight streamed in through the open door. You rushed outside, and didn’t even bother to shut the basement door behind you. You left that dark, black house with its strange secrets and returned to your home, crawling into bed before falling into a restless, difficult slumber. Weeks pass, and the house was slowly pulled out of mind, as other things came up and life in general took over. You returned home one day to your house, unlocking the door and stepping inside, and all at once, a familiar scent greeted you. Of decaying flesh and old sweat. Your stomach instantly tightened up in knots, and you instantly turned on all the lights, desperately seeking out where the smell was coming from. You didn’t notice the greasy hand print on the wall, or the dark, filthy footsteps leading down to the basement. But you will. Eventually. Some secrets want to be known. Credit To – Squid 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.