Gamble
As the sun sets in the distance, dark clouds hang in the sky above, absorbing the last glimmer of daylight. Ben, a middle-aged man with tired eyes and a thin beard, stares through the windscreen of his small, worn-down car while he waits at the traffic lights. He thinks about something his dad used to say:“Red light, green light, son. Gambling’s all about instincts. You train yourself to recognise the signs until your brain tells you one of two things – red light or green light.” The truth is that his dad lost a lot more than he ever won, and then one day he was just gone. No warning, no farewell. Ben swore he’d never do that to his family. But now, here he is, transporting something for a loan shark he owes £5,000. All he has to do is get it past airport customs and into the right person’s hands, and that debt disappears. If he doesn’t – it’ll be him that vanishes. Betting on that horse seemed like a risk worth taking. He’d done the research. The odds weren’t even that long – 5 to 1 – a modest gamble on a horse with a great track record. He would have made £20,000 for his family after giving back the £5,000 loan. But things don’t always work out the way they should. It was only a few hours ago, and the pain of it was still fresh. His mind couldn’t help but replay the end of the race over and over again. His sure-thing horse had slipped back into second place on the last corner. One part of him accepted the loss, but the other was still in denial, still trying to spend those imagined winnings on a holiday for his family and paying off a mountain of bills. The race had barely finished before a message from the loan shark appeared on his phone:‘Unlucky. But don’t worry – I’ve got a job just for you if you want to clear that debt. Unless you have £5,000 to pay me back in 7 days?’ They both knew he didn’t. The only thing that Ben had of value to this loan shark was his job as a maintenance worker at Glasgow Airport. He had access to the building’s employee-only areas, making him the kind of man who could sneak a small package past security and into the departure lounge. In the car, Ben reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a palm-sized box, etched with intricate gold patterns. “Don’t lose the box,” the loan shark had told him at their meeting, “or your family loses you. Understand?” Of course Ben understood – he knew exactly what it was like to have your father disappear. He inhales and exhales slowly, trying to calm himself. But as the loan shark’s threats leave his mind, it only brings into focus a feeling in the pit of his stomach telling him that there’s something wrong with this box. What’s inside it? He holds it closer to his face, examining the unusual, gold patterns which covers its surface. They look strange, almost otherworldly. As his fingers move around the box, a deep dread grows inside of him. The last time he felt this way he was eleven years old, standing over the open casket at his grandmother’s funeral. The fear he felt that day wasn’t because he missed her – she had always treated his mother terribly, and for that he had never forgiven the old coot. No, it was something else. A horrible feeling he had that the haunting spectre of that old witch was standing right behind him. Lurking over his shoulder, watching him with a wicked grin as he looked at her corpse. That horrible feeling stayed with him for months after. Each night he would stare out from his bed, certain he could see his grandmother’s menacing eyes gazing at him from the corner of the room. Back in the car, he hears a horn beep loudly behind him. Ben looks up and sees the traffic light has long since turned green. Shaking his head, he quickly drops the box into the seat beside him and presses his foot down on the accelerator. For another ten minutes he follows the road ahead, before a car in his rearview mirror begins to distract him. He narrows his eyes, a frown on his brow. “You’ve been there for a while,” he says aloud. He sees an exit up ahead and turns left, leaving the road. The car behind does the same. Ben grimaces. After a moment of deliberation, he reaches for his phone and begins texting. ‘I think I’m being followed. Big car. Red Toyota,’ he types in, sending it to the loan shark. Sighing, he puts the phone in his lap and peers up at the rearview mirror again. Half a minute later, his phone vibrates. Ben grabs it and reads the incoming message: ‘Could be. That box is very valuable. Had a few buyers asking for it. Don’t lose it – or your family loses you.’ Ben drops his phone in his lap, then smacks his hand on the steering wheel. “Fuck!” He says aloud. Seeing a turn up ahead, he signals left and exits the highway. Behind him, the trailing car makes the same turn. Ben quickly surveys his new surroundings, seeing rows of closed warehouses on either side of the road and little else. Sighing, he curses his luck: “Couldn’t have picked a worse fucking place to be right now.” The car behind him starts revving its engine, speeding up as it overtakes him, before swerving suddenly and stopping in front of his car. Ben slams on his brakes, bringing his car to a halt in the middle of the road. Two thuggish men get out of the car in front, one slim with a hammer in his hand, the other broad-chested and carrying a crowbar. Ben looks around his car for something to use as a weapon but sees nothing. As the men close in, Ben locks his doors. “Open up!” Shouts the bigger of the two thugs as he pounds his fist on the driver side window. Ben looks up at him through the glass, shaking his head. The other thug grins as he spots the gold box sitting in the front passenger seat. Ben turns quickly, reaching over to it, but just as he wraps his fingers around the box, he feels shards of glass spraying one side of his face. Wincing, Ben turns to see the driver side window smashed and the larger thug reaching through it to open the door. He unclips Ben’s seatbelt and pulls him out of the car, onto the road. Soon a flurry of blows rains down on Ben as blood begins trickling into his eyes, blurring his vision. He feels another pair of hands pulling back the fingers he has wrapped around the gold box, prying it from his grasp. The punches slow to a stop. Ben’s attacker breathes heavily, waiting to see if his bleeding victim has any fight left in him. On the ground, bruised and dazed, Ben barely moves. “Let’s go,” says the scrawny thug. Images begin flashing through Ben’s mind. He sees his wife and daughter at home, oblivious to his current situation, with a pile of unpaid bills on the living room table. He imagines his wife working day and night to support their daughter alone. Suddenly, his eyes open. He sees the thugs walking away from him toward their car. A surge of energy pours through his body. Ben pushes himself up off the ground and rushes forward, before lifting up his leg and stamping his foot down on the side of the large thug’s knee. With a crunch and a snap, the man’s leg breaks beneath Ben’s foot. The thug roars in pain as he collapses to the ground. Startled, his skinny partner runs towards his car and jumps into the driver’s seat, revving the engine and taking off. Turning quickly, Ben leaps into his own car and races off after him. As he follows the man along the winding road, Ben grips the steering wheel tightly, his mouth snarled in anger. He knows what will happen if he doesn’t get that box back. His family will think he’s abandoned them, while his body rots in a hidden grave. Ben presses his foot down on the accelerator, racing as quickly as he can down the road towards his target. Suddenly, up ahead, the thug’s car lights disappear from view as it veers to the left, obscured by a derelict building. “You won’t get rid of me that easily,” Ben says aloud as his car flies down the road. He sees the sharp turn and swings the steering wheel to the left, his tyres screeching. Barrelling down the road at speed, he spots the thug’s car lights up ahead, stationary. Confused, Ben slows his car and pulls up beside it. Smoke billows from the car’s bonnet, its left side embedded in a wall. Ben quickly gets out and approaches the crashed car. Leaning over, he peers through the window but can’t see anyone inside. He looks around for signs of the thug fleeing on foot. Nothing. Ben grabs the door handle and opens the passenger door, gazing inside. In the footwell, lying by the accelerator pedal, he spots the glistening edges of the golden box. Wasting no time, Ben scrambles over the seat and grabs it, then gets out of the car and looks around again. “Where the hell did he go?” He asks aloud. Shrugging, he turns around and gets into his car. Sat back in his seat, he stares at the box in his hand. He can’t help but wonder what’s inside it. The loan shark never told him, and Ben got the feeling the guy didn’t even know himself. He just said he had a “foreign buyer” willing to pay “silly money” for it. Must be something small and very valuable. Probably diamonds. Rare ones. Enough to change someone’s life for good. He finds himself imagining a fresh start for his family, a new life somewhere better, somewhere far from trouble. He could give his daughter the opportunities he never had. He could make it up to his wife for a decade of broken promises. Then he remembers the loan shark and shakes his head. It’s just another gamble – not worth the risk. Grabbing his phone, he checks the distance to the airport. “Not far,” he says, before putting the golden box into his jacket pocket and re-starting his car. Ben inhales then exhales, collecting himself as he drives the car down the quiet road lined with derelict warehouses and sparse foliage. A mile up ahead he sees an exit which leads back to the motorway. He feels a trickle of relief setting in. Then suddenly, he spots something on the side of the road. Ben narrows his eyes, peering at it as the car moves closer. It’s a long, thin figure. A person. “Oh, what now?” He says aloud, slowing the car slightly in case it’s someone in need of help. But, as he approaches the figure, a horrible feeling begins stirring in the pit of his stomach. An old, familiar sense of dread. From neck to toe, the figure is dressed in a long, blue, funeral gown. Their head turns towards Ben’s car, staring directly at him. His mouth falls open, his eyes wide as he gazes at his long dead grandmother. Without hesitation he slams his foot on the accelerator and turns his attention back to the road. “Stress,” he says to himself, “it’s just stress.” But as he drives away, he can feel her gaze burning into the back of his head. A flood of memories washes over him, each tinged with pain. He remembers being nine years old, stood in his mother’s kitchen when his grandmother turned to him with a sour expression. “You remind of your father,” she told him, coldly, before adding, “what a pity.” But she was wrong – he wouldn’t make his father’s mistakes. He would stand by his family. He would provide for them. Up ahead, he sees the turn onto the motorway and takes it. Fifteen minutes later, Glasgow Airport finally comes into view, its lights illuminating the sparse countryside which surrounds it on all sides. Excited holidaymakers move through the parking lot dragging suitcases behind them, while Ben grows ever more anxious with each passing minute. He parks the car then reaches into the back seat, grabbing a bag filled with his work clothes before pulling on his hi-vis overcoat and affixing his employee badge to the card holster on his chest. Ben looks at himself in the rearview mirror, seeing streaks of dried blood on his face. He grabs a small cloth and wipes them off, then gets out of the car. A minute later, he’s in the building, approaching a door marked ‘Employee Access Only’ and swiping his card on a panel, stepping through onto the concrete walkway on the other side. Ben’s heart is racing, but he knows he has to act calmly. Pretend it’s just another day at work, he tells himself. He inhales then exhales, then tries to look as bored as possible. His footsteps echo against the bland, stone walls as he makes his way deeper into the basement, through hallways dotted with security cameras. Suddenly, he spots another worker headed in his direction, an older woman with a tired expression on her face. Ben’s heart beats faster, sweat tingling his forehead. He unconsciously taps the box in his pocket, checking it’s secure, before swiftly moving his hand away. “All right?” he says to her. She gazes at the employee badge displayed on his jacket before nodding solemnly. He soon reaches another secure doorway, scanning his employee card again, and walks through into a labyrinth of hallways until eventually he reaches a door labelled ‘Waste Disposal’. Entering the room, Ben looks up at the ceiling, relieved to see no security cameras. He approaches one of the large bins, unlocking its wheels then pulling it out of the room and down a wide corridor until he reaches a large set of doors. He stops and looks through a small, square window. On the other side he can see two waste collection workers are stood, relaxed, cigarettes in hand as they chat to each other.Nervously, he watches the two men. One long minute later, the pair of them toss their cigarettes onto the ground and stamp them out. “Go the other way, go the other way,” Ben whispers aloud in prayer as he stares at the workers through the door window. Suddenly, they turn, walking over to a different exit, leaving the area without seeing Ben or the bin he’s dragging behind him. He sighs in relief, wiping sweat from his brow. Composing himself, he opens the doors and drags the bin along another corridor before pushing it up against a wall, right beneath his target – a large ventilation duct. Ben climbs on top of the bin and reaches up to the metal grate covering the vent. Grabbing a screwdriver from his pocket, he carefully removes the screws from each corner, occasionally stopping to listen out for footsteps, before returning to his task. Breathing heavily, he removes the last screw and slips it into his pocket, then lifts off the metal grate and places it on top of the bin. Taking a deep breath, Ben pulls himself up into the vent and moves forward a few metres, until the vent is wide enough for him to turn around and wriggle back over to the entrance. Leaning out of the vent, he grabs the grate from on top of the bin and carefully puts it back in place, before turning around once more and dragging himself forward, deeper into the ventilation system. Ben moves onward determinedly, keeping track of his location by peering at the rooms below through gaps in the vent. As he slides through it, his waist moving from side to side, the box in his pocket begins knocking against the metallic surface. Hearing this, Ben slows his movements, worried he’ll draw someone’s attention. But, as he does so, another sound filters through to his ears. Something scratching the vent somewhere behind him, like a pair of talons digging into the metal. He stops, turning his head, peering over his shoulder. Anxiously he stays still and listens. “Ben, my boy,” says a slow, croaking voice. The rasping sound echoes through the vents. A shudder runs down Ben’s spine, chilling him to his core. The image of his grandmother’s corpse dragging itself through the vent burns into his mind. He shakes his head, trying to will the idea out of his brain, but the scratching sound only gets louder. Whatever it is – it’s getting closer. Hurriedly, he starts moving again, picking up his speed with each passing second. The box begins tapping against the side of the vent as he crawls forward, but Ben doesn’t care – he has to get out of there. Half a minute later he sees the men’s toilets below and presses his head against a grate, quickly scanning the stale, brightly lit room. He can’t see anyone below. In the vent, Ben begins quickly unscrewing the grate as the scratching sound gets closer and closer behind him. With the last screw undone, Ben hurriedly pulls off the grate and lowers himself down into the cubicle. He shuts the cubicle door then stands on top of the toilet, pulling the grate back over with the tips of his fingers. He stops, listening carefully. Nothing. “It’s just stress,” he whispers to himself, before stepping back down onto the floor. Ben pats his jacket pocket, feeling for the small, golden box with his right hand, while his left reaches into his trouser pocket and grabs his phone. He lifts the phone closer to his face, scrolling through his contacts list before pressing on one titled ‘Drop Off (Delete After)’ and selecting the Send Message option. He quickly enters a short message:‘I’m here now. Men’s toilets. Middle cubicle.’ Ben’s finger moves toward the send button below the message, but he pauses. He looks down at the box, moving it around with his fingers, looking over every corner. A dark line where the box would open runs around 3 of the 4 edges. A vision of the box’s contents drifts through his mind. A small pile of diamonds – enough to start a new life with his family if he sold them for himself. He’d disappear, yes, but he’d take his wife and daughter with him. A surprise holiday, maybe. He could tell them he’d won the lottery. Pack the bags and don’t look back. He shakes his head. “It’s not worth the gamble,” he assures himself. But then he looks at the box again, its golden edges reflecting the bright, halogen lights above. He feels the edges of it in his hand. On one side, its golden pattern points upward towards the dark line running around the middle. Ben gently runs his thumb over it, imagining the diamonds inside. Too many to count. Too many to notice if one or two went missing. Not right away. Not if he and his family were on flights the next morning. Pack the bags and don’t look back. His eyes begin to glaze over as his thumb runs across the edge of the box. “Just a peek,” he tells himself, as he pushes against the top half of the box, lifting open its glistening lid. Ben furrows his brow, his lips pinched. He stares at the open box, confused. Inside, there’s nothing. Every edge of the interior is as dark as a black hole. He turns the box in his hand, looking over each side of it. Suddenly, tiny spores begin to float out from the box, drifting like a dark mist towards the nearest surface – the cubicle wall. As they make contact, small sparks appear and disappear, the surface bubbling as the spores burn into it, transforming it into something else. Mere seconds pass as the spores quickly spread and consume the surface, creating a dark window into nothingness. Ben stumbles backwards, his back pressed against the other side of the cubicle as he drops the box to the floor. He turns his head towards the door lock, quickly placing his fingers on the latch and sliding it back. Suddenly, two crimson, ragged arms reach out of the black hole towards him. Barely a second later, their jagged fingers slice into his body, gripping him like a cooked chicken thigh. Ben’s left thumb tenses in pain, unintentionally pressing the Send Message button on his phone before it falls out of his hand. A second later, his body is pulled violently toward the dark void. He tries to grip the cubicle wall, but he’s completely overpowered, disappearing in an instant, before the void vanishes along with him. On the floor, the box’s lid slams shut. Outside the cubicle a set of footsteps can be heard entering the toilets and approaching the door. “I’m here,” says a gruff voice. Slowly, the door swings open. A rough-looking man peers through the doorway tentatively, expecting to see Ben. He scans the banal looking cubicle with his eyes, then spots the golden box on the ground and grins to himself. Leaning forward he grabs it off the ground, giving it a quick look over before sliding it into his jacket pocket. He grabs his phone and types in a message:‘Got the delivery. Guy’s not here. Probably left already.’ Satisfied, he quickly turns towards the exit and re-enters the departure lounge. In the toilets, the halogen lights gently buzz, the air-freshener sprays another dose of pine-dew odour, and barely a shred of Ben remains, save for a few specs of blood splattered on the cubicle wall. Credit: Emmet K Young WordPress 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.