The Mind
The mind. A realm that is mysterious to me even to this day. Though I take refuge there during long, hot days to get away from the bright, burning sun, escape there in the afternoon, when the sky is gray with storm clouds and the sun has all but receded, the mind’s true nature eludes me. Never will it let me in to see it’s shadowiest depths, gaze at loftiest mountain peaks. But, as of this writing, I still can not say for sure what it was that I saw. Strange dreams of bright, white lights peering through my window still wake me on quiet, summer nights. I shudder to even think of it. Now, I will share my story with the world. Perhaps someone will listen. The true beginning of my story started with the day I was born. My fascination with thought and the mind had always confused my parents, as well as my friends and classmates in my school in a small hometown in western New Jersey. They never u`nderstood the possibilities that the human mind held. If only they could see me now, the wreck of a human being that I’ve become. “Insane” is what the tall men in long, white coats call me. But I assure you, I’m much more than sane. I’m the only one
that sees. As I grew up, my love for studying the human mind did not waver. My obsession only grew stronger. I was given all the books on psychology and human anatomy I could read, soaking up the precious drops of information. I was thirty-two years of age when I was finally satisfied with my research. Finally, as my studies (and my prolonged childhood) came to an end, I decided to conduct what I consider to be my first, true experiment. My first subject was a young woman with dark hair and blue eyes, probably about twenty years old. It was a simple matter of getting her to cooperate. Having knocked her out, I simply put her in the trunk of my car. I drove home. Night replaced evening as my subject regained consciousness. the first part of the experiment was to run a few tests. Simple things. I exposed her to electric shocks and slashed at her limbs to test her ability to withstand pain, monitoring her brain’s reaction with a homemade device. The one question she asked, the only words she spoke to me throughout the whole process consisted of one word: “Why?” Alas, the tests proved too much for her and she perished, bloody and mangled. Her body was cut up into manageable pieces and disposed of. And I needed a new tester. My second subject was a bit younger. sixteen years of age at most, I lured the brown-haired, bright-eyed youth with promises of fame as the star of a television advertisement. I proceeded to hit his head with a crowbar, leaving him unconscious on the ground, a few feet away from my vehicle. Again, my subject was taken into the testing room, where he was exposed to rigorous tests, having his skin punctured with wires to test his skin’s resilience and having his brain probed through a small cavity that I had drilled in the front of his skull. This time, I put the subject under a strong anesthetic to minimize complaints and screaming. The subject did not survive the tests, but I did gain some valuable data. I disposed of yet another body, this time, feeding the scraps of flesh to the rats that had made their home in my cellar. My third subject, I knew by name. In fact, he was one of my best friends. Clide Armburg, a stout man with a short, white beard, fifty-five years of age. Once again, his head connected with my crowbar. Once again, anesthetic was administered. Once again, limbs were strapped in, apparatuses created loud buzzing sounds. This time, I did no tests. My neat, round hole was drilled in his skull. The other end was connected to a large box, containing the components of the device, which was connected to the output: a pair of glasses, modified so that the lens were small LCD screens. A switch was flipped and my device began decoding his brain’s signal. I was about to unravel the mystery of human thought, read a mind, discover humanity’s true nature. Or so I thought… Large, red eyes suddenly appeared to stare me in the face, they moved away from me to reveal a scarred, pale body. It smiled. It moved forward a step. It didn’t stop smiling. Behind waves of emotion and a sudden excruciating pain that pervaded my chest, I slowly began to understand that what I was staring at was the true face of madness. Three bright lights appear from the solid, white ground and float up to the level of the figure’s head, blinding me and obscuring his still-smiling face. As I slowly became accustomed to the spheres of light that radiated in my direction, I looked up again to see that the pale, red-eyed figure in torn, gray clothes looked somewhat familiar. Oh, wait, it was the face of the one I welcomed to my mirror on cold, early mornings when the sun’s rays had not yet warmed the ground, the one who kept me comfort in my hours of loneliness… it was me. and I welcomed my transformation. My modified glasses had fallen off of my face hours ago, and yet my vision was unchanged. Finally, after an amount of time that seemed like months, the visions faded away. I was only out for about a day. I was satisfied with my discovery and I began to write of my work for the world to marvel at it. Two years passed before the face appeared again. Smiling, cheerful as ever, the figure opened the door to my study, leaving it slightly ajar. It ambled towards me, extending it’s hand. Suddenly, a shining, thick, metallic blade appeared from it’s chest and extended into mine, puncturing my skin. I awoke in a hospital. My neighbor appeared to have heard my screams. The doctors insisted that I had stabbed myself with a letter opener and that though no vital organs were injured, I still needed rest. My work remained unpublished. The images of the man and the lights still haunted me. And now, even in this padded cell in which I am often allowed to practice my writing, I am sometimes visited by the pale, red-eyed figure. But even he just sits and smiles at me now, shaking his head in disgust. Credit To: freeasinspeech 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.