The Poet

Please note: This is the first time I’ve posted a creepypasta, and what I have to share is an actual event that happened earlier this year. No one knew about this because I was afraid of being called crazy. But then I found this site, a whole community of people who share crazy shit like I’m about to do. So, here it goes.

Considering my obsession with composing literature, I have a strong love for poetry. I often write my own based on my emotions, or thoughts of the day. At the start of 2013, I was diagnosed with depression and I’m currently being treated for it to this day. So, during the duration of the year, the poetry I wrote was considered exceptionally dark by most. I enjoyed reading my poems aloud, but only to those who can genuinely appreciate it. To make a long story short, I stumbled upon a community of people with similar taste in poetry; people who organized meetings weekly. Based on the Dead Poets Society, obviously, we gathered once a week in a church (branch of the calvary chapel the founder purchased) precisely at 11:30 P.M on Saturday. You had until 11:37 to be inside and seated. Failure in doing so meant absolutely no entry what so ever because those big church doors were locked and bolted. I’ve always been good with time management so showing up on time was no big deal. We called our selves The Voice in the Dark. A few months after my initiation passed and I began to feel happy, like I had my family to see on Saturdays. For the first time in a long time, I was happy.

Our schedule inside the church was very uniform. One person would read their composition, then the next, then the next, and so forth. We just had to be done by 12:30. Our set of rules was easy: applaud after each reader, and use inside voices, no verbal interruptions. Most importantly though, outside the church, there was no church. Under no circumstances did we ever speak of it at all. This rule had the most emphasis for some reason; I guess they didn’t want just anybody walking in there. And to this day I still have no idea.

One night, well, my last night at the church was something I will never forget. I was in the church; a few readers got up and read, and proceeded to sit back down shortly after. But then something different happened. A man I’ve never seen before approaches the podium, he spoke Spanish. The first person I had ever seen who didn’t speak English in the church, “weird” I thought to myself. He took his spot and began to read. This is when events became a little too disturbing for me to handle. The stranger began to smile as he read. But I couldn’t understand why, after all, I am definitely not bilingual. He began to smile even wider, even started laughing. About five minutes passed and it was making me too uncomfortable. I got up to “go to the bathroom” until I knew he had finished. From the restroom I could hear his voice muffled, but couldn’t make out the words. As the stranger proceeded reading his poem the volume and intensity of the man’s voice began to raise, louder and angrier by the second. He began to scream in a sinister like tone. I can honestly say at this point I was terrified.

Then instantly, the voice completely stopped. Thirty seconds passed and then a different voice started again, but this voice wasn’t muffled. It was crystal clear but there was no way it was a different reader. Like I said, only thirty seconds had passed, no way they could transition speakers that fast. But I wasn’t hearing anything I had ever heard before. This language is what I thought to be someone speaking in tongues; I couldn’t make it out to be anything else. The intensity shot up. Far more loud and angry then the first voice. I heard screaming in this bizarre language, I sat there, completely mortified. And then once again, silence. The sweet feeling of relief overcame me. I stood up and reached for the doorknob of the little bathroom. Suddenly I fell to my knees, my ears ringing, I’ve never been so stunned. I heard the loudest banging sound I had ever heard in my entire life. With my hands covering my ears, I open the door and stumble out. Down the aisle, smoke misted up from each of the benches. I stumble off my knees and onto my feet towards the middle of the rows. What I saw will haunt me forever. My heart sank when I witnessed all 36 members slouched over in their seats, completely and utterly lifeless.

In all their laps lay a .44 magnum, all smoking from the openings of the hot barrels. The 36 members have a gaping hole in the top in their head from the multiple suicides. My body sank. I was appalled at this horror, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The man reading was nowhere to be found, dead or alive. He was gone, vanished. I called the police and I was taken in for questioning. I can’t explain these events. What happened? Who was that man? Why was I the one not killed? But the last thing I can remember hearing from that man was “I am the voice in the dark”.