The Man in the Other Room (rewrite)

A rewrite of a creepypasta written by MrHyde on the Creepypasta Readers Unlimited forum (http://www.creepypastareadersunlimited.com/). You can find me on the forum under GLKnight. It's a worthwhile group that's trying to improve and continue the tradition of the scary story for a modern generation. Check it out, you won't be disappointed.

Unless you're scared to...

With that out of the way, MrHyde posted this story on the Writer's forum section. As of this post, I've officially worked on 8 stories in 17 days, with many more to come, but not before I take a small break. I'm cranking these out really quickly, and I'm not wanting to burn myself out on these, as well as the books I'm working on, on top of videos (both review and purely entertainment wise) that I'm trying to get started. Yes, I'm trying to keep myself busy. Better than being alone with my thoughts. They're constantly whispering things to each other when they think I'm not looking...

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The Man in the Other Room by MrHyde

    Ever since Harold was young he had always been afraid of leaving his bedroom door open while he slept. His mother always opened the door after he was asleep in case he called for her, only to have it slammed shut in the middle of the night, and Harold remaining awake for the rest of the night. Harold never told anyone why this was. and as he got older and after he had moved out, he had completely forgotten about it, spending the next few years working and living alone in his small downtown apartment.

    Early one morning Harold’s landlord knocked on the door to tell him that the apartment was being fumigated and he had to find someone else to stay for a few days. His first thought was to call his mother, since she did not live far away. Of course, she accepted his request to stay for a few nights as she hadn’t seen him since last Christmas, and thought it would be a good chance to catch up. The rest of the night was spent talking to his mother, playing catch up in each others lives, but Harold eventually decided to turn in early. But sleep avoided him that night, after he awoke around 11:55 with an overwhelming sense of dread, feeling as if he was being watched. Shrugging it off, he tried to fall back to sleep, but fitfully wasted the rest of the night. He didn’t think anything of it the next day, and attributed it to sleeping in a different bed than his own. But Harold knew there was something there. He just knew it, and it haunted him.

    The next night, he woke up at 11:55 once more, the dread washing over him once more. Pacing back and forth in his room, the absolute tension built, suffocating him. Pace building, breath struggling, his pulse pounding in his ears, he opened his door to head outside for some air when he made the mistake of looking out into the hallway and into the other room. That’s when he saw him: the man in a old tracksuit holding a rusty cleaver. Harold jumped up and slammed the door shut, quickly barricading himself in his room with his large dresser. The door jostled and slammed, threatening to move the dresser and Harold aside, but Harold dug in. With fervor, the man on the other side threw himself more and more at his bedroom door, but Harold put himself more into keeping him out.

    And just as quickly as it began, the house became still. Harold strained to hear the man in the tracksuit, moving slowly to get up. But try as he might, Harold didn't hear a thing. He put his ear towards the door. But all he heard was silence.

    That was, he heard silence, until he heard the sound of metal chopping wood met where he placed his ear.

    Harold scrambled back as the man began chopping at his door, slowly working his way through the wood. The man chopped at the door, the rusty cleaver doing very little, but enough to work his way through the door. Harold ran to brace the dresser, hoping that even making a hole, the size of the blockade would stop the man from getting in. The man hacked and chopped, the cleaver making it's way in. Harold stared at the floor, praying to whatever deity there was that he would be saved from whoever this guy was.

    That's when he heard it, a soft chuckling on the other side. Harold looked up and saw the eye of the man in the tracksuit, full of malice and intent. The eye blinked, stared at Harold, then quickly flitted behind him, and the ran from the door. Harold did his best to hold his place, but then saw what the man in the tracksuit did: daylight. Harold turned towards his window, staring at the daybreak, not noticing the tears streaming down his face. He collapsed to the floor, laughter and tears mixing together, thanking God that he survived, and passed into a slumber from exhaustion.

    Waking up hours later, Harold saw himself on the floor, stretched out from the previous night. Picking himself up, he wondered if it was all a dream, but when he turned towards the door, the door was intact, but the large dresser was blocking it. Quickly asking the residents if they heard anything last night, even the landlord told him that they were undisturbed. He hurriedly contacted his friends to recall the events of the previous night for them, but they all just thought he was taking the piss. He thought it was something odd, but he shook it off, letting them know that he would be spending the next few nights back with his mother.

    At his mother's house that evening, he made sure his mother and him were the only ones home, and all the doors and windows were securely locked. He fell asleep almost instantly, but awoke at 12:00 with the same sense of dread as the two previous nights. Reluctantly, he looked through his keyhole into the hallway. The man was there, staring through the keyhole as well, a wicked smile on his face. Moving as stealthily as he could, Harold grabbed his old baseball bat from when he was a child. Tonight he would take the fight to him. Tonight, he would be free from the man in the tracksuit. Tonight, this ghost would be put to rest.

    "You can do this. You can do this. He's just a man. You can do this. You can do this..."

    Charging into the hallway, the man retreated into the other room. Harold gave chase, but was surprised that the room was empty, the room locked from the inside. It was like he vanished into thin air, but Harold knew that was impossible. Men can't really do that. So Harold stayed awake the rest of the night, finally falling to sleep at dawn.

    In the afternoon, Harold told the police what had happened the past few nights involving a potential stalker that attacked him, and they stationed a unit outside to watch the house for intruders. Harold struggled to sleep, but eventually it came. Once more, he awoke in the night, but this time he had no sense of dread. He checked the clock.

    "1:00 AM..." he thought to himself. "Maybe the police scared him off."

    He closed his eyes and rolled over to get to sleep. But that sense of dread crawled across him again. He carefully climbed out of bed, and slowly opened the door into the hallway. To his disbelief and satisfaction, there was nothing there. No man in a tracksuit, no rusty clever. He was finally alone. The thought of just scaring himself worked it's way through his head, and he laid back down. Getting himself comfortable, he closed his eyes, and turned towards the wall by his bed.

    "He's gone. Nothing to be scared of anymore...."

    A soft chuckling, and the feeling of warmth on his face made him open his eyes. He was eye to eye with the man in the tracksuit. His face contorted into a horrifying grin, his eyes full of malice.

    "It's time, boy..."

    Harold did the only thing he could.

    The police unit outside his house responded quickly to Harold's screams, but Harold was gone. No sign of a disturbance, no sign of an incident. Just an unmade bed to show that someone was once there. In the woods nearby, the police and search and rescue teams canvassed the area. But in the heart of the woods, only two things were found: A neatly folded tracksuit, clean and new, and a rusty cleaver, placed gently on top. Both Harold and the man in the tracksuit were never seen again.

    ...Oh, I'm sorry. I meant only Harold was never seen again. You're probably wondering about the man in the tracksuit, huh? Well, Harold wasn't the first, and he certainly wasn't the last. Check your clock. Could you tell me what time it is? Nah, that's okay. I'll find out soon enough. I just hope I don't wake you when I do.