19 Sep The Inkist

Posted at 11:00h in Strange and Unexplained by CreepypastaStories.com 2 Comments

📅 Published on September 19, 2024

“The Inkist”

Written by Eli Pope
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on CreepypastaStories.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 16 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.

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Timmy stood close to the shiny champagne-colored box, his hands trembling as they cautiously gripped the smooth rounded edge. His eyes wide-open with shock, his lips clamped tightly, fighting every urge he could muster to keep from squealing out in horror. He knew what he’d just seen. He also knew no one else would believe him. Even his mother said what he’d witnessed last night was just his imagination. “Timmy—the mind plays tricks on us when we lose someone we love so much. I know you want your uncle Robbie to be alive. I know you think you saw his lips moving.” His mother hesitated a moment before she continued. “Honey, the human body still moves sometimes, even when there’s no life left inside. There are gases that cause slight tremors. Add our minds toying with our emotions like games telling us we see what our heart and eyes ache to see and feel. Uncle Robbie is gone though, Timmy. His soul is no longer inside his old shell that is left behind. He’s in a better place now. He doesn’t hurt anymore, son.”

“But Momma, I saw his mouth move, I swear, and I heard him say to me, “Don’t let them bury me, I’m still here! Please Timmy.”

Timmy then burst into uncontrollable tears. And now as he remained trembling, he suddenly knew what he’d seen last night at the visitation, and he knew what he’d just witnessed. Uncle Robbie’s soul was still in that damn box, that steel casket. Helplessly held in his body and begging him to save him. He thought to himself, but what could a ten-year-old do? No one was listening to me. No one was doing anything about it. They’d all said their goodbyes and were relieved in some weird sense of the word—that he was now home with Jesus.

But I wasn’t. I saw his lips move. I watched as the paintings on his arms began swelling like waves that rolled up the beach, coming to life. The snake that surrounded the dagger in the bright red heart began to slither, the wheels on the Harley spun. I saw them! I know I did. Because the skulls that always scared me, called out in desperation on his behalf… “Save him, Timmy… save him, we’ll never frighten you again.”`

Timmy’s grip on the metal casket began to slip as his mom tugged on his forearm, “It’s time to go sit down, honey. It will be okay—we’ll get through this, I promise. I’ll help you.”

“But, Momma, he’s….” Timmy suddenly looked out across the crowd of seated guests, friends and family of his uncle. Why wouldn’t any of them listen to me or even look at me? He asked. And then he saw familiar eyes that always had given him shivers. Eyes that shouldn’t be here. Eyes that belonged to the demon who etched all of those colorful cool and scary images onto his uncle’s skin. The Inkist. A man whose presence always brought fear into his heart, shaking nervousness to his body he couldn’t control upon seeing him. He was the man responsible for today. He knew it in his heart, body, and soul, and there was nothing—nothing he could change. Timmy’s mom tugged harder on his arm until his fingers could no longer remain clamped tight. He was failing at helping his best friend, his closest real family, the man who had been with him through all of his turmoil. The only person who truly understood him, all ten years of his life.

His mom navigated closely behind Timmy and steered him down the row of seats to the only two empty places on the second row back. He wanted to scream out so desperately, but he knew it would do no good. He knew it would bring harsh punishment when they got home. His mother hated being in the spotlight in embarrassing ways. She despised unruliness in any fashion. He’d already pushed his luck last night when he hollered out that his uncle was begging him to help save him. “Timmy! I know it’s not easy. I know you’re only ten. But damn it! Don’t act in this outrageous way in front of Robbie’s family. Robbie’s gone. I know how important he was to you, but he’s gone. It’s all your imagination. If you don’t straighten up—I won’t be able to let you attend the funeral tomorrow. I’m sorry, Timmy, but it’s time for you to grow up just a bit and accept that all life comes to an end at some point. Robbie isn’t suffering like he would have, had he lived through that horrible accident. I’m sorry, son. It’s life and we need to be brave, say our goodbyes, and be thankful for all that we still have and then move on. We’ll always have memories of him. He’ll always be in your heart, Timmy, if you invite him to stay, and I know in my heart, Robbie wants to remain in your memories and soul.

And that was that. There was nothing more I could say. Were his last thoughts. There wasn’t anything else after that mom-speech. And He knew it. It’s why he’d only looked out across the somber faces, instead of screaming bloody hell like he really wanted to do. Yell to them that Uncle Robbie was still trapped in his dead body. The body that would be put in the ground and covered up later this morning. Timmy held these horrors inside. Like a grown man, he kept a tight lid on his desire to create a horrible scene that may possibly delay burying him long enough to save him.

To a stranger who happened to be watching Timmy, as he sat, would see a boy who was strong, polite, even though grieving. Inside though, Timmy was fighting desperately to hold himself at bay, words he’d heard his momma tell him in the past. To be the grown-up she expected him to be.

But inside—well, inside he felt like a frightened traitor pointing his uncle out to the enemy, like Judas. After all, he must have been the only one Uncle Robbie was able to reach out to for help, and he was failing miserably as he was quiet as a church mouse.

There are so many things a ten-year-old boy faces in his young life that no parent, friend, or even pastor at the only church they’d ever been to hears about or for that matter, has any inkling even exists. After all, a young boy never really knows who he can trust his deepest thoughts with no rebuke. No unjustified wrath doled out upon himself if what he shares of things he’s done or just thought about doing. Simple things like—the fact he knew every square foot of the church’s rooftop he attended. Fact was, that roof during summer days was his and his best friend, Billy’s, secret fortress. They could shimmy up the rock siding onto the flat roof’s asphalted top and after sitting behind the air-conditioners in the middle, would remain unseen from anyone pulling into the lot and going in. Walk quietly and slowly with careful calculation, and no one inside would ever notice the footsteps lightly pitter-patting from place to place like squirrels or pigeons. Or maybe the time they actually put out a fire in the field out back. Of course, they were also the ones who accidentally started it by playing with the can of Lysol and a lit candle, which makes one hell of a flamethrower they’d learned about on some Saturday morning news show. Or maybe the crazy daredevil jump from the railroad crossing over the creek he and Billy had ridden their bikes off of and barely survived. There were all sorts of stories he could tell if he wasn’t afraid of the butt whooping, they would bring, along with the possible laughs and awes. The secret life he lived being afforded to pretty much roam on his own until the nightly dinner bell was rung. He didn’t feel like he was any different than any other kid his age, and that made him think their parents would probably be like his and not believe a word of such crazy things like he’d seen and heard.

This was different though; this was the first one he didn’t know how to tell and make it believable enough for someone to listen past the inconceivable parts to even begin to listen all the way through and take the word as gospel from—just a kid. The pressure that this was causing as Timmy sat blankly listening to the preacher’s words go on and on, knowing that as much as it were just a blur in time, as soon as it was over, the drive to the cemetery would follow. And that would bring the end. The point past any time of saving his uncle. He pictured in his mind at how he’d feel once he reached the point the last scoop of dirt was piled onto the champagne-colored casket holding his very best friend who would be trapped forever inside, as he was forced to get back into the car and leave him there. Starting over like Momma had said, until Uncle Robbie was quietly forgotten by all of those attending today. All except for him. He would live with the horror of knowing his uncle could have and should have been saved by him. The only one who knew the truth, other than that fucking Inkist. He believed the artist must certainly be the devil himself. He also felt as if that devil was watching him very closely, ready to pounce if he attempted to act again upon what he was asked to do. “Save me, Timmy…” were the words he heard over and over as he pictured his uncle’s lips quivering and straining to push those words out, all the while his painted pictures on his arms played out stories of their own, vying for his attention to realize his uncle needed his help. If his mother only understood the pressure laid upon him. She’d act differently. He knew she loved him deeply. He just wished she believed him

The preacher’s lips seemed to drone on and on with talk that didn’t feel like anything Uncle Robbie would have wanted or been interested in. Words that rose in volume going up high and then dropping back down to the tempo of tissues being pulled from the various locations throughout the pews. A sigh here, and a sniffle there like notes being directed from the maestro standing at the pulpit. Uncle Robbie was a loved young man, and young men shouldn’t leave this world in such a quick and unexpected way. He would definitely be missed, but there needn’t be any damn sermon uncorked from a preacher faunching at the bit to gain souls when he’s supposed to be talking about the man in the box. It seemed inappropriate in Timmy’s eyes. He wasn’t sure he’d ever look at the preacher in the same way he did before today. He knew the important thing happening, the fact time was ticking down like a timer wrapped around a stick of dynamite, closer to triggering the explosion of the package and he needed to be the hero by warning the bomb-defuser the minutes were short. But then again, the longer he preached his sermon—the longer it was until burial of the casket. A quandary any kid could buckle under and fail.

Timmy’s body began to quake with more thunder as he heard the preacher ask if anyone would like to share a memory they held involving Robert Sparry, his uncle who had been brought to this specific point in time because of a terrible motorcycle accident only mere days earlier. Imagining the scene had kept Timmy up into the wee hours every night since he’d been told. He of course, wasn’t allowed to go to the scene, but he’d stolen glimpses of what was left of his uncle’s twisted and broken Harley from the television news and newspaper photos. He’d heard how the driver of the vehicle who’d hit him had been an old widow and how she was twice the legal limit of driving intoxicated. She of course, had suffered only minor injuries and been arrested at the scene, not even able to remember the pain and suffering she’d brought and the fact that pain and emptiness would grow ten-fold and spread wider as the news made it across the tiny tight-knit community.

Would my momma kill me or disown me, or maybe hold my arm tightly in her grip if I attempted to stand up and run to the altar proclaiming Uncle Rob was alive inside his casket and begging to be let out and saved? Would anyone even listen to me? Would they rush up and check for proof after I re-opened the lid to show them? Or, would they all just shake their heads feeling pity for the poor little broken nephew who couldn’t accept the fact a person doesn’t often survive the massive injuries involved in a motorcycle accident, such as his uncle’s. Timmy was in a very difficult position to be. Especially for a ten-year-old. It was a situation of life and death. It was his uncle, by God! There was a huge mistake being made and there would be repercussions of an irreversible nature if the plans proceeded in the way they appeared they would.

What to do, what to do—the answer I see, so hard to chew, hard to chew, the silly limerick rang out in a macabre echo trapped inside his head from way back in nursery school.

Harsh decisions being laid upon the shoulders of a typical young boy in a small one stoplight town. Serious weight being laid upon the shoulders. For God’s sake—no adult, let alone a youngster, should ever have to face these kinds of dilemmas.

Tick, tick, tick. The minutes melt into seconds as they slip away faster than grains of sand can drop through the tiny funnel of an hourglass. The world Timmy lived in seemed to have come to a slowed stop momentarily, allowing all of that pressure build—brick after brick being stacked on top of him. Images of his uncle clawing desperately at the satin lined interior of the pretty metal box he never would have allowed being placed in if he were capable of denying. Timmy knew the oxygen was being stolen at a fast pace. The thought of his ordeal overtook his senses and his abilities to remain seated in silent quivers of agony. The walls moved in closer and closer, pushing the other guests all dressed in their Sunday black, ever so much closer to him. He could feel the fabric of his mother’s dress nestling tighter into his arm, the roughness of the wool jacket sleeve of his grandfather’s suit being shoved closer into his other arm. The room was shrinking, no doubt about it. This wasn’t just his imagination. The devil was controlling this sanctuary. It were as if he was being squeezed together by those he loved, pinched between the walls of some great huge vice, the spindle being turned in 360-degree tight twists, wrenching everyone tighter and tighter into one. What in hell is happening? Timmy questioned inside his thoughts.

Timmy struggled to look around the room as it shrank, the air becoming more difficult to suck in as the ceiling compressed closer to all of their heads while the floor continued rising up to meet somewhere in the middle, moving the jaws of the vice ever so closer, clamping everyone together ploddingly. He struggled to turn and spy where the Inkist was in all of this, the demon he knew was responsible. What debt was he collecting to bring such a horror to Uncle Robbie and the people of his home? What curse was being fulfilled? Timmy begged internally that these questions be answered quickly. He begged for the strength and ability to rise above all of those pinched so tightly together in their seated positions—so he could run to the podium and ring out the urgency of stopping this horrendous action. But then their eyes met. His and the Inkist’s. Everyone in the room blended being dressed in their Sunday best except for him. Timmy’s momma had even made him dress up, knowing his Uncle Robbie expected him to be in jeans so he could take him riding on the Harley every other day he’d meet him.

My uncle hates suits! He hates all this bullshit going on while he’s trapped and counting on ME! Words he was thinking, and for a brief moment, wondered if he’d spoken them aloud. The Inkist, on the other hand, wore dirty faded and grungy blue jeans, a grimy old-man t-shirt, while his multiple tattoos stood out against the dirty white background of that sleeveless tank top. His “wifebeater” is what Uncle Robbie always called them. The tattoos on the Inkist’s arms were not welcoming or pleasant to the eyes like his uncles. These instantly invaded his soul with scary, evil, and twisted darkness begging to reach out and suffocate the life from any who were unfortunate enough to lay their sight upon them. They were also moving, slithering throughout his skin, interweaving amongst themselves like a ball of snakes knotting themselves together in their nest. The sight was mesmerizing at first and Timmy had to fight in order to reel his focus back from them. His heart pounded a big bass drum thump inside his chest. He felt himself being hypnotized. Was it an attempt to refrain the actions he knew deep inside he needed act upon?

The Inkist’s face snarled a hissing smile as if he knew his power would choke any desire from Timmy acting on and making his move towards the front. Timmy suddenly felt he could face his fears of what his mother might do to him afterwards, if he failed his ludicrous attempt of saving the soul from the one who was already dead and gone. His uncle’s withering sanctuary was now likely fermenting through the aid of the formaldehyde injected into his body so it could stay a mummified tattooed carcass entombed in that goddamned metal box forever. The contents held an eternity within the deep, dark, dirt hole with no memory left behind other than the flat marble stone with his engraved name quickly hidden by the weeds overtaking the once painful memory before fading into wilted decaying dust left blowing in the wind.

“NO!!” Timmy’s word innocuously shattered the loud silence. Eyes began to snap open from the entranced attendees. It appeared as if his voice had been loud enough to draw some attention of the surroundings pushing slowly against them. A shattered barrier awakened enough to push back from being slammed closed. The action unable to be put back inside the boy it was once held.

The Inkist rose from his seated position midway from the front and surrounded by a sea of black that somehow reflected his crimson red eyes, those of evil demanding the attention of all. “You conniving and conspiring little misfit of a fuck! How dare you interrupt what I’ve created and enabled. What’s happening here? Do you even know what you’re doing? Do you not recognize who you are fucking with? I could twist you into a pretzel, boy.”

Timmy sidestepped his way slowly down the row of stiffened legs until he reached the aisle. He was mere steps from his uncle’s casket. He watched the devil that had inked his uncle’s artwork over his body through the years. The images he’d once revered but now despised. Their eyes interlocked as the Inkist began to step to his right towards the same aisle, mocking the young boy’s movements. What he apparently did not notice, were the small agile steps Timmy took backwards, edging himself closer to his uncle’s smooth metal container.

The devilish artist continued to spit his arrogance from his cold lips as Timmy became within reach of the lid. The preacher’s lips continued to move as if he were still speaking his sermon, yet there were no syllables escaping his mouth. He was nothing more than a mime devoid the thick painted white-face with the droopy black lips, his hands and arms propelling in jerky movements mimicking string tied puppet limbs being controlled by an unskilled puppet master. The congregations’ faces remained frozen in time, appearing as if they were watching, but unable to respond with any emotion whatsoever.

Timmy watched as his nemesis pushed his way through the ocean of legs blocking his path to the aisle as they bobbed back and forth like buoys being bounced by waves on a once calm lake. He took the oddness of the entire moment into his young psyche. He’d dreamed nightmares like this in his past and now wondered for a second if that was exactly what this eerie happening was. Could all of this just be a dream, he questioned internally.

Timmy spied the cross that was placed on top of the lid earlier after closing it. He coyly reached, grabbed it quickly and in one fluid motion, drew back like a pitcher’s windup for the delivery of a fast ball and threw it with all his might. End over end it whistled through the air with a dead aim headed for the intended target. He swore he could hear every turn and twist of the wooden crucifix spinning through the air like a thrown axe. Whoosh… whoosh… whoosh… and then… thud.

The Inkist smiled a wicked and satisfied grin. He had bested the foolish young boy who actually thought he could outwit an age defying angel of darkness. In only took seconds for Timmy to see the devil had snatched the crucifix from mid-air inches from the chest it was targeted. His grip was tight, his hand white-knuckled. He hissed, “Such a wily little pest you are. I admire your tenacity, I suppose. I’ll take great pleasure of turning you to my side—the dark side. Your uncle succumbed without ever realizing. The ink became the vehicle that overcame his strong will. A slow poison, a therapy, if you will.” He cackled in the otherwise silence of the shrunken cube they now resided. “My inked masterpiece he became! It took hours upon hours of dedication on my part. I had to place more focus on Robbie, letting others pass to the next level that I’d had my sights set on. Your uncle is a fine specimen, Little Timmy.”

The Inkist reveled in his accomplishment, all while placing blame for having to let so many pass to gain that win with Robert Sparry. His eyes penetrated Timmy’s as he stood faltering beside the casket holding the soul won over by the demon.

“I see the same value in you, Timmy.” He hissed. “You can be with Robbie once again, you know.” A heavy sigh was released as he continued, “… all it takes is submitting your skin to become my canvas… like your uncle did…” He suddenly held a small, needled gun in hand and pulled the trigger causing a buzzing sound as the small needle moved up and down in tiny bursts. Bzzzzzzzzzzz.

An image filled the white wall behind Timmy. It was huge and blank except for the crucifix attached and hanging in the center. The image was of Timmy lying on an odd black chair, his arms stretched out as the Inkist huddled over him, tattoo gun in hand, buzzing as it etched bloodied images into his young soft flesh. Bzzzzzzzzz. The cackle of the artist rising above the buzz of his instrument.

Timmy began feeling nauseous. His stomach rolled as he felt the tiny burning vibrations upon his arm. It forced him to look, checking to see if there were in fact lines being inked into his skin. A look of shock washed across his heated face as he watched a dark black line appearing on his skin. It traced across and began forming what appeared to be a bird. Maybe a crow or raven. His arm burned. His intestines rolled. Tears began to form in the corners of his eyes. He looked out at the congregation, seeing nothing but rigid unchanging bodies seated in a frozen and emotionless trance. He scanned them all until his eyes fell upon his mother’s. He quickly spied matching tears that had formed on her face, darkened mascara inked droplets sliding down her cheeks. She knew. She somehow comprehended what was happening. The snatching of her boy’s soul right before her eyes. Timmy’s heart ached at the devastating sight. His muscles unable to be moved. He closed his eyes in defeat, unable to face the pain of seeing his mother’s brokenness.

The Inkist stood in victory as he viewed his spoils being turned. His darkness had won once more. He smiled at the ease of his mastery. He understood at this exact moment, after all the millennia, the reason the Creator had hurled him to the darkness in rebuke. The Creator had feared his power had become stronger than his own. He was cast aside in hopes he would shrivel in fear and loneliness and die in extinction. “Well…” He cackled. “I guess you were mistaken!!” He laughed as he took in the power of his moment, overlooking the scene he’d created. Not just one soul, but two-for-one!

The Inkist was so busy boasting his own evil accomplishments, that he never noticed little Timmy reaching up and slowly pushing the lid of his uncle’s metal sarcophagus’ up and open until the Inkist felt the crucifix still held in hand becoming cold, numbingly frigid. A feeling opposite to what made him thrive. He looked down at the burning sensation, seeing ice crystals forming on his spindly fingers, spreading to his wrist, and quickly crackling up his arm and spreading like a conquering army invading with intention. His eyes were the last part of his body to freeze solid. They were wide open in distressed shock just before a final chilled mist exited the open casket and surrounded the Inkist. In an instant, his body made a crackling sound and crumbled in from the top down, topplied to the wooden floor in a tiny pile of dust that quickly slipped into the cracks of the oak planking.

Timmy leaned over and, on his tiptoes, peeked into the metal box. The crowd that was once frozen like silent statues, returned to a moving mass of congregants listening to their pastor’s words as he pointed to Timmy and his uncle who now stood outside the casket that once held him limbo.

“It’s a miracle fellow believers. He lives.”

Robbie looked down and watched as the last of his once ink-filled arms held nothing but disappearing scar tissue receding back under the skin to reveal clear uncolored and virgin flesh. He looked to his ten-year-old nephew and stared into young fresh eyes. He was speechless. He knew what Timmy had faced and conquered. He felt the love and strength that lived within his young best friend’s soul, and he was thankful for him. He knew words didn’t need to be spoken between them. They both understood, even though no one else could ever fathom the battle they’d shared. Sometimes it’s best to just leave things be and give thanks.