Wake up
Title: Wake up
Pairing: Jon/Tracy
Warnings: It's creepy pasta so I'd say blood, death and mind games.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Prompt #8 This is all just a dream. Please wake up.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
A/N: A continuation of my comment fic from the Creepypasta prompt open thread. (It's contained within so no need to have read it.) You get a prize if you can guess what's supposed to be happening.
'Wake up, please wake up'
Jon gasped as he sat bolt upright. He kept hearing it, that voice. It haunted him.
He was covered in a cold sweat; the thin sheets clung to him. His wife lay next to him, at first he used to wake her up, see if she heard it too, but when she began to worry about him Jon started lying. 'Of course I don't hear it anymore; I'd tell you if I did.' 'I'm sure it was just a nightmare, I did stay up and watch horror movies.'
What scared him wasn't how close the voice sounded, or that sometimes he swore that he could feel warm breath against his neck; it was how familiar it was.
His entire body shook as he lay back down, staring at the blaring red numbers of his alarm clock until they became nothing but distant blurs.
'Wake up, Jon, please, you have to wake up.'
For the second time that night Jon's eyes shot open. He felt a hand caressing his head and heard Tracey talking calmly and quietly to him.
"Please tell me that was you." Jon's hand shook as he reached to hold hers. Wordlessly she took his hand and ran his fingers down the back of his head. Raised skin and stitches.
Jon rolled to look at Tracey, her face was emotionless, and her eyes looked almost hollow and dead.
"Trace?" Jon tried to lift his hand and touch her face. "What's going on?" Jon felt his pulse racing.
"Wake up." Her mouth moved but it wasn't her voice.
Jon pushed himself away and fell off the edge of the bed. His head smashed into the bedside table. Blood began gushing from the wound. More than it should from such a superficial injury.
"Wake up!" Tracey stood up on the bed, she screamed at him in such a terrifyingly alien yet comfortingly familiar voice.
Jon grabbed the back of his head, he could feel something shaking him, he could feel the blood seeping through his fingers.
He felt the darkness closing in, like it did almost every night for the past month, just before he went to sleep, just before he heard that voice.
His eyes fluttered closed.
“Wake up, Jon... Please, wake up.” Stephen shook the limp body in his arms, his shirt was stained a deep red.
The alarm clock screeched an obnoxiously loud, grating tone.
Jon felt soft lips against his temple, a hand running through his hair.
“You’re gonna be late.” He heard Tracey call as she closed the door to the bathroom behind her, the shower started shortly after.
Jon sat up slowly and surveyed the room. It always looked so different the morning after. The colours were soft and warm; the smiling family photos on the walls and dresser no longer looked so empty and distorted.
Still, something felt like it was wrong - lacking. He knew there was nothing there, but Jon still had to run his hand across the back of his head. The vivid nightmares, sometimes it was hard to tell what was real, even in the day light.
The shower shut off and Tracey appeared with a towel wrapped around her in the door to their en-suite.
“Seriously sweetie, you’re going to be late.” Tracey warned, walking over to their closet, her clothes for the day already hanging on the door.
“It’s not like I can get fired, I’m the boss.” Jon joked, laying back on the bed, mulling over the idea of showing up a few hours late, calling in ill, or hung-over.
“Don’t lie. You haven’t had a promotion in years.” Tracey threw her towel at Jon as she pulled on a pair of jeans.
Jon blinked a few times and scrunched his eyes - the dream - it wasn’t real. Jon growled and rolled out of the bed.
In the bathroom the mirror was already clouded with steam. Jon wiped away the condensation with his right hand as he turned on the tap and cupped some water to splash on his face with his left. He gasped. The water was ice cold; he felt the chill sink through his skin and run down his spine. He physically shook, holding the sides of the sink with his hands.
Looking up he shrieked, stumbling back across the wet tile floor and slamming into the scorching towel rack. He hissed as he grabbed on to the burning metal to steady himself. Breathlessly Jon risked a glance back at the mirror.
There was nothing there.
“Jon? Are you okay?” Tracey urgently hit on the door. Jon didn’t answer, he was busy staring at the mirror, he was so sure he’d seen something. “Jon, damn it, answer me!”
“I-I’m okay, just lost my footing. Someone forgot to lay down the mat.”
“Okay...” Tracey sounded unconvinced.
Trying to forget the mirror, Jon turned on the shower water and stuck his arm out under the steady, low pressure stream. After a few minutes the water was still ice cold.
“Trace, did you use all the hot?” Jon called towards the bedroom, unsure if his wife was even in there.
There was no answer.
Frowning, Jon turned back to the shower, it was still quite cold but the water did feel like it may be getting slightly warmer. He climbed into the bathtub and stepped under the shower.
Jon allowed his mind to wander as he stood under the water, listening to the white noise. He closed his eyes and sighed, it was all probably just stress from work, his team had a pretty big presentation coming up and they were all working overtime.
“Jon.”
Jon’s breath hitched in his throat. The voice was there, he could feel it, he could feel arms around him, holding him tightly.
“Jon, wake up.” The voice sounded scared and sorrowful. It continued talking but the words became distorted by the sound of blood thumping in Jon’s ears and his own heavy breathing.
The room began to spin and he felt light headed. Jon focused on his feet and tried to steady himself.
The water began to run red. Jon looked up to the showerhead, the water seemed normal. He stepped out of the shower and touched gently at the back of his head. His hand was covered in blood.
Jon turned and looked at the towel rack, maybe he’d hit his head and didn’t notice. There was no sign of blood.
He shook his head and closed his eyes.
“Wake up, wake up, wake up.” Jon muttered to himself before cautiously opening his eyes again. He was standing in the shower, staring at the wall in front of him. The water was clear and room was still.
Not caring that he hadn’t properly showered, Jon quickly turned off the water and wrapped a towel around his waist before walking back into his room.
He got dressed into one of the many cheap suits hanging in his closet and grabbed his satchel from the vanity chair.
In the small kitchen Tracey was washing her cereal bowl as Jon walked in.
“Not shaving today?” She ran a hand across the small layer of stubble. Jon mimicked her, he’d entirely forgotten.
“Yeah, trying a new look.”
“What look? The ‘disheartened middle management who no longer sees his job as having any real meaning, and therefore by extension, his life has no meaning, so he no longer feels that he owes it to his long suffering wife and co-workers to shave in the morning’?”
“Something like that.” Jon nodded; he opened a cupboard and pulled out a box of pop tarts. “Where are the kids?”
Not getting an answer Jon turned and saw Tracey staring at him. Her eyes were intense as they bore into him.
“What are you talking about?”
“Nate and Maggie?” getting nothing but a look of confused concern in return Jon elaborated, certain that Tracey was playing with him because of how he’d been acting recently. “There are pictures of them on the dresser in our room.”
“No. There are pictures of Monkey and Shamskey, pictures of us, pictures of our parents, but no kids. Are you feeling okay?” Tracey reached out to touch Jon’s forehead, he leaned away from her touch.
“I’m fine. Just a little tired I guess.”
“I’m calling your boss. You’re staying home.” Tracey took the phone off of the receiver and started dialling Jon’s work. “Now, get your butt back in bed, Leibowitz.”
“Leibowitz?” Jon repeated to himself as he fell forward onto the unmade bed. He kicked off his shoes and pulled the suit jacket off, letting it fall to a heap on the ground.
“Your boss said it’s fine. Just be in tomorrow and make the most of the day off. Can I get you anything before I go?”
“No. I’m fine, I’m just gonna shut my eyes for bit.” Jon could already feel the energy draining out of him. “Wait. Actually, can you tell me something?”
“Of course.” Tracey answered nervously; worried it was going to be another strange question about something he should know.
“Why did you say Leibowitz? I haven’t used that name in years.”
Humouring him Tracey asked, “Then what name do you use?”
“I... It’s...” Jon scraped his memory trying to recall it, he knew the answer, it was just there, just out of reach. “Leibowitz I guess.”
Tracey nodded, he was already half asleep. She quickly closed all the curtains and turned off the light. She took one last look at the sleeping man before rushing off to her work.
There was screaming and pain; searing, agonising, pain. He could taste blood, like pennies. Thick smoke clogged his throat, the smell of burning rubber and skin, like over cooked beef, there was something almost sweet about it as he inhaled the smoke he could almost taste it.
The screams were warped, they sounded distant and echoed. Something grabbed him and pulled him. Jon couldn’t see anything but a veil of red.
He didn’t need to hear clearly to know what the voice was saying as he was rocked back and forth to constant cries and pleas.
Jon groaned as he sat up, alone in his dark room. The paint on the walls was chipping, the furniture was rotting and dust covered. The entire room smelt mouldy and musty. The photos in the room were all faded into unrecognisable yet heartbreaking blurs of yellow and white.
“Tracey?” Jon called. He opened the doors to the closet and saw rows of moth holed suits and mould covered shirts. There were none of Tracey’s clothes.
In the bathroom something horrible had grown up the side of the wall, it seemed to move out of the corner of Jon’s eye. The mirror was cracked and its sides rusted.
Suddenly it felt like someone hit him across the stomach with a baseball bat. He doubled over, heaving. It came down across his back. His arms and knees gave out and he fell onto the grungy floor, every breath he took ripped through with the strength of thousands of knives tearing through his chest. He tried to push himself up, but the slightest of pressure on his arms or legs made him scream out in pain.
He could see blood pooling around the tiles, slowly creeping outwards from him and seeping across the floor. The edges of his vision became blurred and dark. The blackness encroached from the sides until all he could see was pool of blood.
Pain, screams and smoke. It was back, but it all seemed dulled. The screams were muffled and the smoke not so thick, he didn’t hurt anywhere near as much.
As it all grew less there was one, soft quiet voice which grew steadily louder. Jon smiled weakly, he knew who it was, he finally recognised them.
“Come on, Jon. Wake up. Think about Tracey, your kids, think about home. Come on, Jon. Wake up, please, you have to wake up.” It echoed on as everything else disappeared.
Pairing: Jon/Tracy
Warnings: It's creepy pasta so I'd say blood, death and mind games.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Prompt #8 This is all just a dream. Please wake up.
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
A/N: A continuation of my comment fic from the Creepypasta prompt open thread. (It's contained within so no need to have read it.) You get a prize if you can guess what's supposed to be happening.
'Wake up, please wake up'
Jon gasped as he sat bolt upright. He kept hearing it, that voice. It haunted him.
He was covered in a cold sweat; the thin sheets clung to him. His wife lay next to him, at first he used to wake her up, see if she heard it too, but when she began to worry about him Jon started lying. 'Of course I don't hear it anymore; I'd tell you if I did.' 'I'm sure it was just a nightmare, I did stay up and watch horror movies.'
What scared him wasn't how close the voice sounded, or that sometimes he swore that he could feel warm breath against his neck; it was how familiar it was.
His entire body shook as he lay back down, staring at the blaring red numbers of his alarm clock until they became nothing but distant blurs.
'Wake up, Jon, please, you have to wake up.'
For the second time that night Jon's eyes shot open. He felt a hand caressing his head and heard Tracey talking calmly and quietly to him.
"Please tell me that was you." Jon's hand shook as he reached to hold hers. Wordlessly she took his hand and ran his fingers down the back of his head. Raised skin and stitches.
Jon rolled to look at Tracey, her face was emotionless, and her eyes looked almost hollow and dead.
"Trace?" Jon tried to lift his hand and touch her face. "What's going on?" Jon felt his pulse racing.
"Wake up." Her mouth moved but it wasn't her voice.
Jon pushed himself away and fell off the edge of the bed. His head smashed into the bedside table. Blood began gushing from the wound. More than it should from such a superficial injury.
"Wake up!" Tracey stood up on the bed, she screamed at him in such a terrifyingly alien yet comfortingly familiar voice.
Jon grabbed the back of his head, he could feel something shaking him, he could feel the blood seeping through his fingers.
He felt the darkness closing in, like it did almost every night for the past month, just before he went to sleep, just before he heard that voice.
His eyes fluttered closed.
“Wake up, Jon... Please, wake up.” Stephen shook the limp body in his arms, his shirt was stained a deep red.
The alarm clock screeched an obnoxiously loud, grating tone.
Jon felt soft lips against his temple, a hand running through his hair.
“You’re gonna be late.” He heard Tracey call as she closed the door to the bathroom behind her, the shower started shortly after.
Jon sat up slowly and surveyed the room. It always looked so different the morning after. The colours were soft and warm; the smiling family photos on the walls and dresser no longer looked so empty and distorted.
Still, something felt like it was wrong - lacking. He knew there was nothing there, but Jon still had to run his hand across the back of his head. The vivid nightmares, sometimes it was hard to tell what was real, even in the day light.
The shower shut off and Tracey appeared with a towel wrapped around her in the door to their en-suite.
“Seriously sweetie, you’re going to be late.” Tracey warned, walking over to their closet, her clothes for the day already hanging on the door.
“It’s not like I can get fired, I’m the boss.” Jon joked, laying back on the bed, mulling over the idea of showing up a few hours late, calling in ill, or hung-over.
“Don’t lie. You haven’t had a promotion in years.” Tracey threw her towel at Jon as she pulled on a pair of jeans.
Jon blinked a few times and scrunched his eyes - the dream - it wasn’t real. Jon growled and rolled out of the bed.
In the bathroom the mirror was already clouded with steam. Jon wiped away the condensation with his right hand as he turned on the tap and cupped some water to splash on his face with his left. He gasped. The water was ice cold; he felt the chill sink through his skin and run down his spine. He physically shook, holding the sides of the sink with his hands.
Looking up he shrieked, stumbling back across the wet tile floor and slamming into the scorching towel rack. He hissed as he grabbed on to the burning metal to steady himself. Breathlessly Jon risked a glance back at the mirror.
There was nothing there.
“Jon? Are you okay?” Tracey urgently hit on the door. Jon didn’t answer, he was busy staring at the mirror, he was so sure he’d seen something. “Jon, damn it, answer me!”
“I-I’m okay, just lost my footing. Someone forgot to lay down the mat.”
“Okay...” Tracey sounded unconvinced.
Trying to forget the mirror, Jon turned on the shower water and stuck his arm out under the steady, low pressure stream. After a few minutes the water was still ice cold.
“Trace, did you use all the hot?” Jon called towards the bedroom, unsure if his wife was even in there.
There was no answer.
Frowning, Jon turned back to the shower, it was still quite cold but the water did feel like it may be getting slightly warmer. He climbed into the bathtub and stepped under the shower.
Jon allowed his mind to wander as he stood under the water, listening to the white noise. He closed his eyes and sighed, it was all probably just stress from work, his team had a pretty big presentation coming up and they were all working overtime.
“Jon.”
Jon’s breath hitched in his throat. The voice was there, he could feel it, he could feel arms around him, holding him tightly.
“Jon, wake up.” The voice sounded scared and sorrowful. It continued talking but the words became distorted by the sound of blood thumping in Jon’s ears and his own heavy breathing.
The room began to spin and he felt light headed. Jon focused on his feet and tried to steady himself.
The water began to run red. Jon looked up to the showerhead, the water seemed normal. He stepped out of the shower and touched gently at the back of his head. His hand was covered in blood.
Jon turned and looked at the towel rack, maybe he’d hit his head and didn’t notice. There was no sign of blood.
He shook his head and closed his eyes.
“Wake up, wake up, wake up.” Jon muttered to himself before cautiously opening his eyes again. He was standing in the shower, staring at the wall in front of him. The water was clear and room was still.
Not caring that he hadn’t properly showered, Jon quickly turned off the water and wrapped a towel around his waist before walking back into his room.
He got dressed into one of the many cheap suits hanging in his closet and grabbed his satchel from the vanity chair.
In the small kitchen Tracey was washing her cereal bowl as Jon walked in.
“Not shaving today?” She ran a hand across the small layer of stubble. Jon mimicked her, he’d entirely forgotten.
“Yeah, trying a new look.”
“What look? The ‘disheartened middle management who no longer sees his job as having any real meaning, and therefore by extension, his life has no meaning, so he no longer feels that he owes it to his long suffering wife and co-workers to shave in the morning’?”
“Something like that.” Jon nodded; he opened a cupboard and pulled out a box of pop tarts. “Where are the kids?”
Not getting an answer Jon turned and saw Tracey staring at him. Her eyes were intense as they bore into him.
“What are you talking about?”
“Nate and Maggie?” getting nothing but a look of confused concern in return Jon elaborated, certain that Tracey was playing with him because of how he’d been acting recently. “There are pictures of them on the dresser in our room.”
“No. There are pictures of Monkey and Shamskey, pictures of us, pictures of our parents, but no kids. Are you feeling okay?” Tracey reached out to touch Jon’s forehead, he leaned away from her touch.
“I’m fine. Just a little tired I guess.”
“I’m calling your boss. You’re staying home.” Tracey took the phone off of the receiver and started dialling Jon’s work. “Now, get your butt back in bed, Leibowitz.”
“Leibowitz?” Jon repeated to himself as he fell forward onto the unmade bed. He kicked off his shoes and pulled the suit jacket off, letting it fall to a heap on the ground.
“Your boss said it’s fine. Just be in tomorrow and make the most of the day off. Can I get you anything before I go?”
“No. I’m fine, I’m just gonna shut my eyes for bit.” Jon could already feel the energy draining out of him. “Wait. Actually, can you tell me something?”
“Of course.” Tracey answered nervously; worried it was going to be another strange question about something he should know.
“Why did you say Leibowitz? I haven’t used that name in years.”
Humouring him Tracey asked, “Then what name do you use?”
“I... It’s...” Jon scraped his memory trying to recall it, he knew the answer, it was just there, just out of reach. “Leibowitz I guess.”
Tracey nodded, he was already half asleep. She quickly closed all the curtains and turned off the light. She took one last look at the sleeping man before rushing off to her work.
There was screaming and pain; searing, agonising, pain. He could taste blood, like pennies. Thick smoke clogged his throat, the smell of burning rubber and skin, like over cooked beef, there was something almost sweet about it as he inhaled the smoke he could almost taste it.
The screams were warped, they sounded distant and echoed. Something grabbed him and pulled him. Jon couldn’t see anything but a veil of red.
He didn’t need to hear clearly to know what the voice was saying as he was rocked back and forth to constant cries and pleas.
Jon groaned as he sat up, alone in his dark room. The paint on the walls was chipping, the furniture was rotting and dust covered. The entire room smelt mouldy and musty. The photos in the room were all faded into unrecognisable yet heartbreaking blurs of yellow and white.
“Tracey?” Jon called. He opened the doors to the closet and saw rows of moth holed suits and mould covered shirts. There were none of Tracey’s clothes.
In the bathroom something horrible had grown up the side of the wall, it seemed to move out of the corner of Jon’s eye. The mirror was cracked and its sides rusted.
Suddenly it felt like someone hit him across the stomach with a baseball bat. He doubled over, heaving. It came down across his back. His arms and knees gave out and he fell onto the grungy floor, every breath he took ripped through with the strength of thousands of knives tearing through his chest. He tried to push himself up, but the slightest of pressure on his arms or legs made him scream out in pain.
He could see blood pooling around the tiles, slowly creeping outwards from him and seeping across the floor. The edges of his vision became blurred and dark. The blackness encroached from the sides until all he could see was pool of blood.
Pain, screams and smoke. It was back, but it all seemed dulled. The screams were muffled and the smoke not so thick, he didn’t hurt anywhere near as much.
As it all grew less there was one, soft quiet voice which grew steadily louder. Jon smiled weakly, he knew who it was, he finally recognised them.
“Come on, Jon. Wake up. Think about Tracey, your kids, think about home. Come on, Jon. Wake up, please, you have to wake up.” It echoed on as everything else disappeared.