They are going to kill you. You just know they are. You sit here, in the back area of the white van. It’s devoid of anything, except the chair you sit in, and a white, metal floor with a screwdriver laying lazily near the wall. A fluorescent bulb hangs on the ceiling nearby, casting an erie white glow around the place. There are no windows, and everything not illuminated by the bulb is pitch black. You can’t move anything.
Solid metal bands hold every one of your limbs in place, their hard, sharp surfaces digging into your skin despite your clothes covering it. They cover every area where a joint would be, restricting your movements, forcing you to keep the limbs straight. The bands are even around your fingers, one for each knuckle you have. Including the little knuckle that’s near your fingernail. The joints of your wrists, elbows, knees, hips, ankles and toes, completely kept in place. Everytime you try to move, the edges of the bands dig into your joints, cutting them. It’s a futile effort. You can hear screaming. A person’s voice can be heard, just outside the double doors of the van. They’re screaming and you can hear laughter. “It was only a midnight walk”, you think, remembering what happened earlier this night.
You and your date meet up at the beach, for a long walk in the moonlight, wanting to be cliché. You two have been dating for quite a while now, and things are getting serious. You see your date, and walk up to her. After a quick greeting, a kiss and some dumb quips, you two begin walking. When you two had initially planned the walk, you guys expected the night to remain clear. But as you guys talk, you pay no mind to the ever thickening darkness, and the clouds over head, and the gentle fog forming from the ocean. Before you two know it, you are both lost in a thick, dark fog, completely disoriented. You two look around, and to no avail see a familiar landmark. Even the ocean’s gentle ebbing seems to be deafened by the silence of the fog. The air is thick, moist, and cold. In the distance, you hear a sound begin to form.
It’s quiet at first. Then it begins to grow getting louder and louder. You both recognize it as an engine. Two lights appear out of nowhere. In relief that you have found someone to take you home, or at least give you directions, you two both walk out into the road, waving frantically. A white van appears from the fog, casting it’s high beams, making the surrounding fog look like glowing clouds. It comes to an abrupt halt in front of you two, its wheels screeching. You two both sigh in joy, and wait for the two people to emerge. Your date goes up to the driver’s side, just as the white door opens. A man with a taught and skinny face comes out. He has sores on his face, and he’s smiling real big. He has a stained cap on, and a tattered red checkered vest over his tacky leather jacket.
His eyes are widened maddeningly, containing sickly yellow tinges. You disregard the black and brown slime covering his teeth, and the 5 o’clock shadow on his chin. He looks like some kind of stereotypical hillbilly truck driver. Seemingly unfazed, your partner tells him your situation and he lets you both into his car, his friend shuffling to the back seat. His friend seems to share the driver’s sense of style, having the same expression and everything, like he’s some kind of clone. An acrid smell of cigarettes wafts around the car.
They begin to drive. As you drive, you notice the friend in the back seat staring at you, smiling. His orange brown teeth glinting as he passes a loogie in between the cracks. Your date clutches your arm, in fear. Disturbed, you turn to face the front, trying desperately to ignore the two filthy men. The man in the back seat seems to be getting closer. Slowly. Every time you check the mirror he’s in the same place. But out of the corner of your eye you see him move. The driver is doing the same. You suddenly feel arms wrap around your face. You fight against them, grabbing at the bony, cold flesh. A hand forces a cloth to your face, and suddenly everything is black.
And now you’re here. You stare in desperation at the two white doors at the end of the van bed. The screams have gotten louder. And you can hear something ripping. Liquid can be heard splattering on cold metal, as if it were raining outside. Your eyes widen in terror. And your heart beats in panic. The rush of adrenaline seizes your chest, your breathing quickens. YOU’RE GOING TO DIE. They are coming for you next, and they will not be merciful. You know you have to escape. You struggle weakly against the restraints but it’s no use. You try rocking back and forth, trying to get the chair to knock over. But then you realize it’s bolted down.
You hear the screaming stopping. Your date’s only sound is their gurgling, and the sound of foam forming. The two men are making sounds that are reminiscent of choking old men. You know as soon as your partner is dead they’re coming for you next. And by the sounds of it, it isn’t going to be fun. You realize there’s no escape. You realize what you have to do. You can’t let them kill you like that. You can’t let them torture you like they did your partner, no YOU HAVE TO KILL YOURSELF. You won’t let them take your life. Your going to take your own, before they do. But that’s not going to be easy, seeing as your tied down to this chair here. You look around the van. You see the screwdriver but nothing else.
Outside, you hear your partner begging for mercy. They cry and scream weakly for the men to stop whatever it is they are doing. You hear a drill, and something cracking. You don’t want to find out what that is. You dart your eyes around, trying to think of a better plan. And then you notice something. You look down at your fingers, stretching your eyes down, pressing against the forehead band. The bands for your fingers are thin. Razor blade thin. They are as strong as diamond but as thin as paper. You also notice you can move your fingers forwards, through the bands, just not back, as your wrist stops you. You know what your gonna do.
You press your fingers forward, scraping them against the rough wood of the chair, slowly making your way towards the edges of the bands. The edge of the band hits your right hand first. It hits right on the web of skin between the index finger and the middle, and it slowly pierces the skin. Your eyes well with tears, and the pain starts. The band is like scissors, gently going through like you’re cutting cheese. You can hear the little bit of skin tear like thick construction paper, leaving streams of blood flowing onto the arm of the chair, soaking into the wood. The other webs of your hands feel this too. You curve your right hand, and the makeshift blade cuts perfectly between the two fingers. You grunt and tears break free of your eyes, whilst you carve your fingers away. Past the knuckles it goes, and then it hits something hard. You saw against the little hand bones, but you stop, as the pain is too much. Soon you stop. You now have a long, 4 inch long cut between the two fingers. It looks like someone is trying to cut a hotdog in half. It hurts, but it isn’t enough blood loss. This isn’t going to do it. You bite your tongue in frustration. YOU HAVE TO DIE. And then you get the idea.
You bite your tongue harder, and harder, your teeth making it seem like it’s a piece of bubblegum. Blood gushes from the muscle like a balloon, and all you can taste is warm metal. The pain is unbearable, but you press on, chewing your tongue like it’s birthday cake. You use your molars next, pushing the stripped flesh to the back of your throat, slowly turning your tongue into the equivalent of bloody ground beef. The sound is like when you scrape your teeth against your tongue. Blood flows from your mouth down your chin, over your neck into your chest. You gasp, and blood fills your throat. All you can feel in your mouth is great pain and a mash of flesh. It reminds you of eating an extremely tender steak. THIS ISN’T ENOUGH.
You won’t die fast enough. The place is silent outside, and you stop your work, hearing footsteps. You panic, not knowing what to do. You then remember the metal band around your head. It holds your head in place. But not your neck. You twist your head in one direction, to the left, as hard as you can. The base of your neck feels like a thousand men are standing on it but you don’t care. You hear a crack. You see stars fill your vision, and through them the doors. The doors jostle as the men start to open them. You force your head as hard as it can. You know it’s done when you feel the your head is facing an odd direction. You can’t feel your sliced hands and shredded tongue anymore.
The doors open, and out of the corner of your eyes you see the two men, covered in blood. The men enter, and you realize how dumb you are. Now you are paralyzed. You must have broken the wrong vertebrae, because if you had gotten the right ones, you would be dead right now. The driver comes up, grabbing the screwdriver in his hand.
“Thought you could escape huh? That’s too bad,” he says, his putrid teeth glinting in the light. He thrusts the screwdriver into your trachea, right above the Adam’s Apple. You choke on the blood. Your vision fades. Then everything is gone.
15 Comments on 'Before They Do'
Why? Just…why? This isn’t creepy. This isn’t paranormal. This is disgusting. You can compare mindless violence to hotdogs, bubblegum, and birthday cake as vividly as you want, but what is the ultimate purpose? I’m certain others will enjoy this “gorgy,” but even my relatively strong stomach can’t endure this.
Really good, very detailed considering the idea of the story itself,
Is it weird that I enjoyed this?
The descriptive writing fluctuates sooo much. It’s extremely detailed, then you get to something like, “A man with a taught and skinny face comes out. He has sores on his face, and he’s smiling real big.” There’s no point, no characterization, and no creepy factor. It’s like going to see what you’re assuming is going to be a scary movie, but instead, you just watch an autopsy. No pasta, just flavoring.
This was pretty twisted, yet fascinating. I liked it.
I was on the fence when I reviewed this story. On one side, this genre isn’t something that I personally enjoy. On the other, the quality of the writing is good and I know some people enjoy this more graphic, gore-ridden type of thing. I find myself wondering what the point is … perhaps a more twisted ending? While I was reading I thought having cops or rescuers open the doors instead of the killers would’ve been a nice twist.
MAKE IT CREEPY.
I believe I rejected this one when reviewing it. Seeing it again, it seems it was worse than the first read through. I think the story was supposed to be about “desperate times calling for desperate measures”; but the set up, the “villains”, the second person view, and the ending made it a poor attempt.
What happened in the story was completely useless, and since there was no actual creep factor or supernatual stuff, it makes it even more disappointing. Yeah, kidnapped is frightening, but not in a horror sense. Sending the wrong text to someone could make your heart jump, but you won’t see a horror story about that… I hope…
The “dirty teeth hillbillies” is kind of creepy, but only with an actual personality attached, like in Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Unless you get to interact and get reactions from their insanity, their appearance alone is nothing more than a simple “person who is not clean”.
The second person narrative is horrible, and I wish there was a way to let everyone know that it should be avoided unless it is incredibly, and I mean incredibly, relatable, such as getting a text or awake in bed. Other than that, it is just going to lose the reader and make them wish it was in another perspective.
And for the ending… I… I don’t know. Just, this story was a mess. I feel you read a good amount of creepypastas and wanted to make your own, but you kind of took the worst parts of them.
Also, for me at least, the gore was pretty tame. Some people hate the little things like finger damage and tongue loss, but I am more of a “broken bones and gouged eyeballs” kind of guy(hence the Jason avatar). But, who knows. Maybe you could do better on a second attempt. I suggest looking up phobias people have or ghost stories or urban legends and make your own twist on it. You like gore, you put it right in. Just give it a reason to be gory.
I remember rejecting this because of the lack of consistent narrative; the first person narrative kept leaping back between active and passive voice. This is a rookie mistake, but still was consistent enough to remove me too often from the story. The second was the needless pitfall of violence. This is another rookie mistake of the genre. Violence in a story can up the suspense and stakes when used correctly; however, when used as plot it diminishes the overall effect. What remains is just shock value and it’s too cliche a method.
I would recommend reading other short stories; Stephen King has a great collection of true horror stories then there is Shirley Jackson.
The more you read the more it’ll influence you as a writer.
Side note, their is possessive like your: you’re is directive, you are, like they’re, or they are.
When I first read this I was skeptical. However, after rereading this story over and over again, I find myself in love! I’m so happy this is a success! <3
She made art with her imagery, its different ….and you reject it ?you guys act like you’ve created stories that became as popular as this .
“Art should comfort the disturbed
and disturb the comfortable “
Wow, that was great!
i liked it
This is..just gore. Disgusting, bloody. The idea is alright, but jesus.
who is they, sir?