The Thing in the Fridge is now a video.

FILLER!

Original here.

Doctor Bastard: now a major You Tube creepypasta reading with a cast of thousands

Doctor Bastard is now available to make house calls in video format.

The original pasta can be found here on this very blogge.

Doctor Bastard

The first weeks of your therapy went better than expected. You would easily recommend this guy to anybody, unfortunate name withstanding. No one ever seemed to get inside your head so quickly, or with such polite detachment. Deft with words, like a surgeon with his hands. The things he could elicit from you practically without any effort, it was almost disconcerting even as it reassured you. In the first hour you cried. The next time you went back the weight was lifted, and you felt you could get down to some real talking. By the third session that ticking clock went by unheard, and you were surprised, even a little sad, to come to the end of your immersion in that little room.

At some stage you began to really think of him as a surgeon, so clinical and so precise with where he took you, doing light exploratory work on your half-open mind with God knows how many other cases to juggle. You know how they say those experts make it look easy?

And then there's the funny smell coming from his desk some days, and those surgical gloves in the bin over in the corner. At first you thought maybe a surgeon used the room sometimes for whatever reason, but given your read on the guy, maybe your first instincts were right.

You asked him about it once, trying to keep it casual. He said he practises surgery every once in a red moon. Dropped the old joke about leaving his watch in a patient, maybe to play it off. But he didn't really laugh about it like it was a joke - more like when you're remembering a story from your college days or some shit. It's a cautionary tale against the pace of modern life I guess. The guy doesn't know something's wrong until he finally sits down in the quiet of his own home, and he hears it deep inside himself.

Tick, tick, tick, tick...

You can picture this guy walking around like the fucking crocodile from Peter Pan. Whoever heard of a surgeon practising therapy in his spare time? Or the other way round?

People talk about a sixth sense. Everything appears to be well, but there's a voice in the back of your head insisting it's wrong. It's paranoia, and it doesn't want you to get better. You've got to keep telling yourself that. Voices in your head and talking to yourself too now. Wasn't this supposed to be going in the opposite direction? This is the best progress you've made in years and you're starting to feel like he's not a real doctor.

And you can tell the anxiety's kicking in again, cause there's that clock on the wall creeping into your consciousness, driving you crazy. It was all going so well, like you were scaling the heights, and then you backslid halfway down the fucking mountain again. You don't need this shit in your head, and now you're thinking that your therapist is leaving shit inside his patients for real. Well why couldn't it be possible? He's doing open surgery on your deepest trauma centres every week, right there under the lights. Who knows what could've slipped in?

Tick, tick, tick, tick...

One day you'll find yourself heading to the twins' room with a kitchen knife in your hand. You'll do a double take, and stare at it in horror. You don't remember anything for the last couple minutes. You're a parent now. You can't be blacking out and listening to commands left rattling inside your head. You start to hope your dreams were dreams. You had to physically stop yourself there. You don't know what the fuck is up.

So you call in to the hospital and they talk to you like you're some fucking kid asking to see Hugh Jass. You're getting madder and panicking now. You swear to them you're not fucking around. You drive for miles on nothing but muscle memory from the times you used to drive there every week, you're fucking shaking so much.

You practically march up to the reception desk. She's looking over those glasses at you like it's the reason she bought them. But her attitude changes when she learns what you're there for. Her face turns grey, and she mutters something about checking with her boss. Then in the quickest time you've ever waited in a place like this, she's back with an administrator saying you'd better leave. Since February they've been getting these calls in from people asking for a Doctor Bastard. No such person works there. There's no one named Bastard in any hospital in the county. It's starting to scare them.

Everything you've read for months there's something in the margins, links or targeted ads, like creatures milling at the limits of your vision, all about surgical malpractice. Lawyers. Tales. Stories about people with live animals and infant forelimbs sewn up inside them. Somebody was admitted down in Kettering. They found a baby's arm was pressing on his lungs. Another lady had a mother rat inside of her deliver a litter. She came in shitting blood from what they'd gnawed out from inside of her.

Tick, tick, tick, tick...

Every night you sleep later and later. Every corner of your room there's someone's shadow. In your dreams a man in a white coat stands there, in your kitchen, in your home, watching you, smiling. You don't want to sleep. You won't go to the twins's room. You hear them crying in the night and pull your knees up like you don't trust your feet not to go. Everything's plastic in your kitchen now. You eat with sporks and shit. Takeout every night you can get it, and he's still at that conference in Chicago, totally unaware. You want to turn yourself in, have someone open you up, take off the top of that head. Maybe you'll do it yourself. You don't know what the fuck you'll find in there. Maybe no one should be exposed to it. Doctor Bastard? Was he a symptom of this madness? Or did something ancient as fuck find a new way to fuck with the sad world? There's a wailing from the room you never step foot in, down that corridor you walked every day before you ever thought to open up your mind.

The Thing in the Fridge

It's been there for six months now. Every time I open the door I try not to look at it. I must have bought it when I arrived.

I think it must have been food once. Something you'd eat, or put into your mouth and chew and swallow. Some kind of vegetable perhaps? Or maybe a bar of something. It's so hard to tell under the foam and mould and eyes.

I try not to look at it, especially when it looks at me.

I wonder if it's actually alive. If it's developed a brain stem, or if it just moves unthinkingly. It wouldn't bother me, except...

...It's growing bigger.

I barely sleep anymore. The heater in my room is on full blast, but I don't dare to take it down, in case the thing comes in. Could it survive outside the fridge? I don't know, but I'm not taking the chance.

I haven't had anyone over in at least six weeks. The last time anyone came over they went into the kitchen together. I don't know if they saw what was in there, but when they returned they looked like they had seen a decomposing food item of unknown origin.

To this day I've never asked them what it did to them, but I received a message the next day. It read simply, "dude, clean out your fridge".

What did it mean? The words haunt me to this day.

Imagine...

Being a fan of horror movies, perhaps as a consequence of an active imagination as a child, you always check the backseat of your car before you drive at night. There's never anyone there, and it's reassuring. You won't feel the sudden urge to look behind you in the mirror as you're cruising down the yellow-brown-lit motorway.

What you don't do is check the boot, of course. You're five miles into the stretch and it's dark, and you're almost starting to drift a bit in your lane, as your eyelids flutter just a little. You shouldn't have left so late, but what choice did you have? It's not like you have time to do everything. There just aren't enough hours in the day.

So when you hear a bump coming unmistakably from the boot, you're easily startled. Did you leave something in there that's got loose? You try to remember and your eyes drift just a second from the road, and you quickly lurch to correct your idle drift. It's probably nothing the first time. Then it happens again, a deliberate bang, like a fist hitting, like someone trying to get out. Is there something in there? Or someone?

You check to the side. There's no hard shoulder for another mile, and no one on the road. You wonder what would happen if you stopped. And then did what? Opened the boot? You don't know what could happen. Who would see you? Who would stop for you? You'd be alone with whoever - whatever was in there.

You keep on driving, trying to ignore it. The banging increases. Your breath's catching in your upper chest now, and you try to correct it as you notice it. You'll get to where you're going. You'll get where it's safe, where there are people all around you. Then you'll call someone. You'll call the police. This sort of thing just doesn't happen. There's no way you're opening that boot by yourself, in the middle of nowhere. You've barely seen another car since you've been gone. You can imagine it being hours before anybody stops to check out the pulled-over car with the empty boot and the empty seats...empty of you. No clue as to what happened. You imagine everyone reacting to you as a missing person, all your friends concerned, your close ones crying. Anything but what might happen to you. Focus on their grief, that's easier. You're dealing with a known quantity there.

As you've been drifting deeper into this morbid anxiety you've failed to notice that the banging's stopped. It takes you a second to realise, like all the creatures in the forest suddenly went silent. What happened? Was someone in there? Did they stop? Are they OK? You can imagine rushing to their aid to find a killer, a grinning stranger reach out grabbing for your throat. No. Don't risk it. If there's someone there, they'll wait until you get to help. That's if there's someone there - it could have been some object, something you forgot to throw out. You're tired. It's late. Maybe there was nothing. There are no warnings on your dash. The car was locked when you got to it. There's no reason to suspect something's amiss. How would someone have got into the boot in any case? Who else has a key?

You shake your head to clear it of the thoughts. This isn't going anywhere. You're tired. You're stressed. It's probably nothing. And then that barrier of silence is broken by a voice coming from back there. "Pull over". "Pull over".

Your heart beats madly in your chest. You didn't recognise that voice. It's thirty miles to where you're going. You look for a sign to somewhere there are people. You fear that you'll be missing in tomorrow's paper.

Diary entry #2

There was a face at the window. I went downstairs to get a glass of water. It was dark inside and out but I was lit by the streetlights from across the road. There was a face there, not more than two feet from my kitchen window. I had never seen that man before. I still wonder to this moment what was in his eyes? Was it anger? Pleading? Fear? Was that face afraid of something in that big night, or was he the something to be feared? I didn't know. There was no knock, and he said nothing. He just looked at me, and my heart stopped dead. I don't know who he was or where he came from. No one else on my street heard or saw anything.

I have no idea who that man was, or what terrors his expression told.

Diary entry #1

I went to the bathroom in the middle of the night and was surprised to see my mother standing there in the hallway. She was wearing a long white dress like a nightgown and had a serious look in her eyes. She said to me "did you go to church today?" I hadn't seen her all day. Her mouth opened very wide and the back of her head tipped back as if it were flopping loose from its connection to her neck and spine. I walked very fast into my room and shut the door tight. She's been out there for a long time now and I've heard nothing. That was not my mother.

Diary entry #0

Today I saw a man dressed all in black wearing a cowboy hat walk across a busy box junction. I have no idea who he was or why.

Several days ago, I saw a lady pushing her dog in a stroller, like a human being.

Life is going slowly, very quietly, insane.