Advertisement
Please wait...

Dust



Estimated reading time — 11 minutes

The last storm was already on the horizon when I woke that Sunday morning. It hung in the south, a solid black wall of dust, churning and seemingly motionless. I’d every intention of sleeping late into the morning, as had been my Sunday custom since Adele and the girls had left, but the distant rumbling and crackle of lightning drug me from the bed just after sunrise. I shuffled drowsily around the farm in the early morning, lashing the doors of the barn, rounding up the two stubborn hogs, and shuttering the windows; but soon I found myself rooted in place, captivated by the writhing shape in the sky. It stretched impossibly wide across the open sky, rolling across the border from Nebraska. The air had a dry, electric chill, and already the sickly yellow wheat swayed in anticipation.

I was in a trance, eyes locked on the distance when I saw a small light dust plume to the west, picked out in stark contrast with black beyond. The horse and rider at the base of the little dust devil approached the farm at a sharp trot, and my dust bleary eyes registered the silhouette. Carl Jordan had owned the farm next to mine for as along my family has been in the Dakotas, I grew up with his great booming laughter warming our home nearly every night. His usual broad, yellowing smile was absent beneath recently trimmed mustache and broad rimmed black hat; his dark suit was blotted with fine layer of grit that he brushed absently at.

“Eddie.” His voice was tired and small as he looked down at me. “No church today?”

I hadn’t been in months and he’d once admitted to envying me. I just didn’t see the need any longer, and I’ve relished the extra hours. I ignored the question.

“What’s troubling you, Carl? Mattie all right?” I asked.

He turned towards the south, to the storm and sucked loudly on his lower lip. After a few moments of thought he sighed deeply, with a phlegmy rumble.

“The Hattersons are dead. All of them, ‘cept Saul.” He said evenly, not returning his gaze to mine. I drank this in for a moment, feeling the insides my sinuses beginning to burn in the cold and arid breeze. I briefly dwelt upon the image of the youngest Hatterson, a tow headed toddler with the dim looking smile I’d seen at the general store with Saul and Molly a few days prior.

“How?” I asked finally. He grimaced slightly, still gazing south.

“Saul’s missing. No one seen him since last night. Molly and the kids are dead, and Saul’s gone. It don’t sound good.” Carl slumped forward a little, and I saw, not for the first time how, old he was. “The whole hornet’s nest is stirred up over in Pickton. He was gonna lose the farm they say.”

Fleetingly, it concerned me that I could easily see the connection between these facts.

“Mattie’s fine,” he said after another silent moment. “Just a little ill this morning, thanks for asking.” He broke from the black clouds, and fixed his eyes on me. He offered a pale imitation of his familiar smile, but his eyes remained squinted tight, haunted. He looked as if he had more to say, but at last, he just nodded and gathered the reins.

“Be safe, Eddie,” he said, a phrase worn smooth by repeated use, and turned towards his farm, trotting quickly, head still crooked towards the storm.

By noon, I could only watch as the it reached up and blotted out the sun.

* * *

The dust storm enveloped us, obscuring the sky like the hands of God. I did my best to ration the allotment of bourbon I’d poured off that morning, watching the black wind scour the earth through a broken shutter slat. During the storms of the years before, pale and weak compared to this tempest, Adele would huddle with the girls to read scripture, inevitably ending with the Revelations in hushed reverent tones. I’d tried not to scowl at her fear and awe before, but now I could feel a little tremor of doubt in me, as I looked out at the sackcloth sky.

When the sky darkened a few shades at nightfall, I prepared a small meal of bread and fried eggs, and drained the rest of the bourbon. Later, I laid in the unmade bed with the world spinning, and the sky howling outside and tried not to think.

The storm raged stronger than ever the next morning, the sun winking through the maelstrom, a fat circle of hazy orange like a fading coal. Late in the day, it showed no sign of abating and I resigned to leave the house, if only to feed the animals. I tied my goggles to my head, and a damp bandana around my mouth, but I still gasped at the ragged burn of the dust when I stepped outside into the storm. The lining of my throat seemed to crack and bleed within moments.

I could barely see the barn but I set out instinctually towards it. A tall hillock of fine black dust was pressed to the side, and it took me a few kicks to clear the door. The dust had seeped in everywhere, and the hogs and cows were covered in a layer of grime. They stood still in their pens, eyes red and glassy, shuddering and jerking with each loud creak from the roof beams. They ignored the food.

There was a twisting coil of anxiety in my chest when Carl arrived, leading the terrified horse behind him. His beard was matted with dust, and he had to sweep the lenses of the googles clean at my doorstep, but instead of entering, he only waved me out to join him.

“You need to come with me!” he shouted over the storm. The dust between his teeth had formed a thin black mud that flecked at the corners of his mouth. It was his tone, flat and even, that terrified me. I didn’t argue, but pulled on goggles, and offered him a second bandana.
I followed close behind him, one hand on the horse’s haunch. Carl picked his way down the path, navigating by some uncanny memory of the curves in the little road. We walked cautiously and deliberately west for the better part of half a mile, past Carl’s own farm, towards the leaning shape of the Collins farm. A throbbing dread began to stir in my breast as we approached.

The door was thrown wide open and off one of its hinges, swinging violently in the wind. I could see Roger Collins, slumped in the door frame, the congealing blood on his forehead caked with the fine dirt. His eyes were open, the left eye beneath the bullet hole was flooded red and tilted wildly skyward. Clutched in his curled hands was a rifle with one spent casing.

Abigail Collins and her youngest were inside, curled tightly around each other in the corner of the room. The flowers of blood that bloomed on the fabric of their dresses was bright and vivid.

Slumped upright at the dinner table, as if ready for a meal, was another figure, filthy and caked with black dust. He seemed composed, sitting upright and proud, despite the pinprick bullet hole, clean and bloodless, standing starkly in the center of his throat. His grimy skin was dried and shriveled, his eyes were closed, the lids sunken over the pits. It took a long yawning moment to recognize the desiccated face. Saul Hatterson, hands clasped around a little revolver, looking for all the world like he’d been dead for a week. Saul Hatterson, grinning obscenely wide, showing dried black gums.

Despite the roaring storm, there was a unearthly stillness in the little house, and I could hear my heart thudding in my ears. I turned to Carl with pitiful expression, a plea for some sort of understanding.

“I was bringing them some canned food. Roger was worried about being able to last out a long store,” he shouted from the front porch, where he was closing Roger’s eyes and wiping the blood from his hand. He looked up at me and stood. “Jed’s missing.”

I gazed around the room again, before turning to Carl. “You don’t think that Jed…” I began, letting the idea remain unsaid. Jed was a quiet and sickly kid, but something about him had always set my teeth on edge.

“No,” he barked. “I don’t think a 15 year old could be capable of this. But I didn’t think Saul was either. None of this makes any sense” He brushed the lenses of his goggles clean once more.

“No, it does not.” I agreed.

“We should head into Pickton to tell someone, but I- I need you to drive the Collins’ Ford. I can make it between our three farms on foot reliably enough, but I don’t think me or that horse could make it all the way into town.” Carl looked mildly embarrassed, hidden as he was behind dust and beard, and I followed him to barn.

The Model A made a few grinding rasps before dying completely, refusing to respond to anything. When I opened the gas cap, a damp and clumping mixture of dust and gasoline tumbled from the little opening. My breath came in increasingly shallow gasps as we moved to the Collins’ tractor, unscrewing the cap. The same reeking clay was stuffed to the top of the tank.

The walk back towards our farms was silent, my heart pounding as I struggled to keep my breathing steady, as the inside of my sinuses were scoured raw. First Carl’s tractor, then we checked mine, both were useless and clogged with dust. If Carl was as panicked as I was, he refused to show it.

“Eddie, I don’t know what this means,” he yelled to me as we crouched over my tractor, the sky dimming. “But I think I’d appreciate it if you stayed with me and Mattie tonight. The storm has to let up in the morning I’m sure.” I could see at last the spark of fear in his eyes, and it brought me a little solace.

Advertisements

* *

Carl went ahead, panicky with thoughts of Mattie, sick in bed on her own, and I agreed to follow shortly. I entered my house to gather my shotgun and a tin of coffee. I don’t believe I intended to start drinking, but the bloody and crooked eye was shining wetly in my memory, and I drew from the bourbon a few soothing pulls.

I recall being tired and weary from the day’s grim business, but I don’t remember lying down on on the cool wood of the floor. When I woke gripping the gun and empty bottle, the sky was lighter, but the whirling black cloud still surrounded the world on all sides. Tuesday. I thought through a fog of pain. Or is it Wednesday? I groggily allowed the shame to flood in when I realized I’d left Carl and Mattie waiting all night.

After finding all the water drained the night before, I dressed for the storm and headed out to the well. The pump handle strained against me as I pressed downward bringing up the first sounds of water. What came out of the pump was black and viscous, a thin black paste. I dropped the tin bucket in disgust, feeling yesterday’s dread igniting behind the alcohol ache, and I turned quickly towards Carl’s farm.

On the road, with my destination not yet visible, I turned to see behind me. There wasn’t even the faint outline of my barn. In that moment, I was alone, surrounded by a wall of vibrating earth and wind all sides. It could have been all of creation and I would never know. It could be the end of creation, and I would never know. I turned back towards Carl’s farm and began to run in a panic, frantically hoping I had not altered direction.

As the small unpainted house came into view, I saw Carl’s horse, lying motionless on the ground, still tied to the railing on the porch. A small dune of black dust had formed against one side. The door was wide open, slamming into the wall with a sharp crack at each breath from the storm.

My panic spiked like a fever when I stepped inside, and my body began shaking violently.

Mattie lay spilled from her bed, trailing sheets and and a shredded fragment of her nightgown. Her head was twisted, the neck bruised and bent, and bulging glassy eyes seemed to stare directly at me. Her tongue was thick and black between her teeth.

Seated on the bed above her, spindly legs dangling over the edge, was the dried and leathery corpse of Jed Collins, the missing boy. His eye sockets gaped empty and black as he silently grinned out at the world.

Carl was nowhere to be found.

I backed out quietly from the house, at last truly toning out the chaotic roar of the storm. My mind spun trying to make sense of utter madness, and it stoked the fires inside me; panting, desperate dread flooding my limbs until I found myself propelled blind, running through the storm towards my home.

I continued past the hulking silhouette of my barn, legs flooding with fire as I sucked in great lungfuls of choking dust. I thought nothing of destination, I only wanted to get as far away from the storm as possible, far from the empty charnel houses of my neighbors, and from empty eyes and wicked grins.

I made it as far as thin fork of the Missouri that carves the far edge of my land. I saw, through the wall of shifting haze, the black outline of the river from a distance. When I approached, legs slowing and lungs burning, I saw the river more clearly, wide and unearthly still. The water was black and thick, and in mute disbelief I watched it flow, slowly like molasses, under a dark and churning sky. And then, I began to understand.

*

I nailed the shutters closed, driven by an animal urgency of purpose. The door I braced with Adele’s heirloom cabinet, allowing it to crack and splinter on it side as I stacked a steamer chest on top.

Advertisements

I didn’t really believe that this would slow whatever would come tonight, in the howling darkness, but I wanted to have the time to know, to be sure. The last bourbon bottle lay empty on the floor, and I was glad for this, for the chance to be clearheaded at last. I sat, back to the wall, facing the door with the shotgun in my hands and I waited.

The sky darkened and the storm continued to howl; I measured my breaths, trying to hold onto a that moment of calm, to stretch it out until it dried and snapped apart.

It was late at night when it arrived. I could hear the heavy footsteps circling the porch, pulling lightly, testing each shutter. My hands were suddenly slick with sweat on the barrel of the shotgun.

The shuffling footsteps stopped in front of door, and I saw the wood flex ever so slightly as pressure was applied. A scraping sound began to rise, hissing, from the small barricade as it began to slide slowly across the floor. The force on the other side of the door increased slowly, steadily, grinding against the heavy barricade until the door was open to the storm and to the night and beyond.

The figure swept into the room with a silent grace that surprised me, and stood regarding me. Carl’s skin seemed to crackle and go taut like paper as he moved, and in the hollow of his empty eyes were tiny twisting clouds of dust, blue ribbons of electricity arcing across the sockets. He was smiling, a smile I’d never seen from him, a wide obscene grin.

I felt a strange sort of calm then, the surety of knowing, despite the impossible madness of it all. I raised the shotgun.

“Eddie,” the thing inside Carl hissed, in a voice like grinding sand. The corpse took another step towards me, and I saw a black trickle of mud from the edge if its cracked lips. “Go ahead and shoot, Eddie. See what it gets you.”

I smiled back at him, seeing the solution so clearly at last. I took a moment to be thankful that Adele and the girls are gone; thankful, in an awful way, that I’d struck her hard enough for her to finally leave me. This would not be the night that they die.

It had moved halfway across the room now, shuffling towards me, the malevolent sparks of its eyes locked on me. The now-familiar dread reared up to swallow my temporary peace.

I saw, in the black whirlpool of it’s eyes, the great storm, covering the entire earth in a final gloom; I saw trails and chains of endless murder and atrocity crisscrossing the darkened world, into that last eternal night. I saw the end.

All I had left was a little sliver of hope, enough to spur me onward. I swung the shotgun up under my chin, feeling the cool of the barrel on my chin. The thing inside Carl jerked to a halt, and ceased to smile; and I knew I’d gambled right this time.

It needed me. And it can’t have me.

I made sure I was smiling, drinking in the thing’s rage and frustration.

The thing roared and with a leap, burst from Carl’s body, his drying muscles snapping and shredding into long fraying fibers, as it shed him like a coat, thudding to the floor behind. It was a swirling cloud, a flurry of dust, coursing with lightning and pure, elemental hatred that I saw then, surging towards me faster than I would have believed possible. Thin tendrils coiled, and tightened, and wound their way through air, twisting towards my mouth and nose. I could feel them caress the raw passages of my lungs, hot, twisting and unmistakably, horribly, alive as they slid into me.

I pulled the trigger.


CREDIT: Josef K. / Cameron Suey

Please wait...

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.

124 thoughts on “Dust”

  1. Reetika Biswas

    Wait….. I absolutely loved the story but there’s one little problem I feel. How will killing oneself possibly stop the entity possessing the killer? Assuming both the killers were killed before they took possession of the next human, wouldn’t this mean the being will just keep on scouring for another human or will reanimate the writer just like it reanimated Carl’s corpse? Urghh… my head hurts.

  2. Fantastic story, man! Even though the story was a little slow starting, I still found my eyes glued to the page, and satisfied with the ending. It really was up there with the “9” pastas.
    With that said… did an article kill your parents or something? I tried to do a dramatic reading of the thing, but I had to stop every third sentence for a grammatical error that killed the flow. Granted, the lack of an article in many sentences did something small to add a voice to the narrator, but too many times it obscured the meaning of the sentence.

  3. King and patterson? Great story tellers but definitely not literary geniuses. Cameron suey? This is what I call true literary talent! Love all your stories so far, and this one was no exception. But the gift? Still my favorite! Can’t wait to read more Josefk stories!

  4. Despite the few errors, this was incredibly well written. Read like really dark poetry.
    Not really that creepy, the ending seemed kind of rushed, but this writer is certainly good at what he does.
    Totally impressed.

  5. i’m in love with the originality in this story. this by far is my favorite creepy pasta. i love it.

    if you were to write novels, i’d buy.

  6. a well cooked pasta a bit raw buy has enough sauce to keep me happy, its very well done i liked how the details were described, good story though i would luke to know what in blazes is the background of the killer (i dunno why but the killer caught my interests) i also liked your protagonist he’s a very heroic one, good job my friend, hoping to eat more pastas from you :)

  7. I throughly enjoyed this! I knew the missing people were killingn the next family, but I faild to think of a possession. I love how Joseph K. didn’t distract the reader form the story. Very well written =D

  8. How doesn’t this have a higher rating? From the first paragraph in, you could tell that this was publishable writing. I won’t lose sleep from it, but it’s top 3 on the site for sure.

  9. I can’t actually believe you typed this all alone in one day, in the little space Creepypasta gives you. I thought there was a limited number of characters, but I guess not. And probably this long comment is nothing for you, since you probably read a lot. And actually you thought of every small unecessary detail in the pasta. Good try, but too over cooked. It was hard to actually read and get through the whole thing for me. I had to skip the over detailed parts. If only you could get rid of the unecessary details then It would be good not perfect, BECUASE nothing and no one really is perfect but god and Christ.

  10. This was amazing. When I finished reading it, I had the feeling of “oh… ok. I’m back in the real world now”. You should really publish a full on book, I promise I’ll be one of the first to buy it.

  11. Addendum to previous comment:
    I realize using the word “label” may sound as if I mean that the story as a whole belongs in a poetry classification. That’s not what I intended to portray. I feel that the writing lends itself to a poetic style, which compliments the author and his eloquence in word usage. Again, bravo.

  12. Bravo to the writer, a very well-told story. I think I was distracted by the wordiness, almost too much color, if you will, for my taste. But the way he arranged and delivered it was delicious, just too much of a beautiful thing for me. I might label it fantasy-fiction poetry. Utterly fantastic description though, great tempo and what a fabulous story teller. Major kudos!!

  13. generic_placebo

    fantabulous story! i loved every moment of it. well done.

    MisterVercetti mentioned that this reads like a stephen king short story. he (king) actually wrote a story very slightly similar. it takes place on a desert planet, where the sand is somehow mildly sentient. that’s the only similarity (that i remember) but both stories gave me the same feeling of vague unsettledness and unease. wicked good. i love when stories do that.

  14. I have no words to describe how much this story captivated me. The sub-plot of his family leaving was the touch of an experienced and creative author. Everything pulls itself together gradually through small and intricate details. You are the grandmaster of short stories, there is no doubt.

  15. Really liked this one. Everything mostly matched up with all the stories my great grandpa would tell me about the Dust Bowl, regarding the dust cloud and all.
    Really kept me in suspense. c:

  16. Jeremiah Brown

    Josef K. You sir, are a genius! I love reading your stories. They are always very well written and extremely intriguing. Thank you for posting this! Look forward to reading more of your great work!

  17. I love this one. Reminds me of “The Ballad of Hollis Brown” by Bob Dylan. The whole story has a great sense of hopelessness.

  18. Mr. K, you are an absolute master of the English language. The stories you put to paper are total proof of that fact. If you are not already, I suggest that you put a little effort into writing a novel. It would be published, without a doubt. 10/10, easily. I think it is a sign of respect for your work that nobody uses memes in the comments here, they do not with to desecrate your work.

    Fear the Darkness

    -Nex

  19. Delicious. I always love Josef K’s work. Leaves me with the most unsettling feeling at the end…like I have to look over my shoulder -shudder-

  20. God … just reminds me of how fucking scary dust storms are … nice.

    I liked the corpse A LOT, and the way it was described. You knew as you read it it was just this thing full of grime and mud …

  21. Ok also I’ve read this a few times but I never quite got if he shot the dust cloud or himself as it went into him.

  22. also check out zero by josef, mindfucksy and creepy.

    except that probably everybody here already knows it.

  23. 1: i want to run a Deadlands game based off of this

    2: Josef K. you should seriously get some of these together and start sending them to publishing companies if you haven’t already

  24. “a bunch of guys are dead, but one isn’t.”

    “how?”

    “they died, the other one is missing.”

    maybe i’m interpreting that “how” wrong, but seriously, WHAT A FUCKING AWESOME ANSWER

  25. I really enjoyed this one. I’ve been reading a lot of the pastas on this site, and this is by far one of my favorites. It didn’t give me chills or give me the unnecessary sense of dread… but it left me wondering.

  26. god i love it so much when i finally finish a spectacular creepypasta and am greeted with the phrase “Credited to Josef K.” at the bottom

  27. YAYY MASSIVE SUICIDE PARTY YEAH

    Otherwise great pasta it was full of meat and it tasted good trough out and i had a bit of a kick in the last bite

  28. This makes me glad I live in a place that is too wet for dust storms. Although I’m sure not all of them come complete with murderous dust spirits.

  29. Josef K is one of my favorite short writers but that’s very much related to the fact I love terrible, gory, sadistic stories. Granted this story’s a little different from some of my more favorites from him, I greatly enjoyed it. Manly ending indeed.

    But I’ve got to ask, anyone else start thinking about the show “Supernatural” and how they portray demon possessions as you read this. I started thinking about it write around the point it described the dust filled eyes and the breaking down of the barricade. Just a thought.

  30. i read this on Josef K.’s site. 2nd time reading this, and it stil rox! Josef is the man! never has he let me down. is he gonna publish anything anytime soon? cant wait to buy it XD

  31. Ooh, this one went shivers up my spine. Very well done. Very nice. Might take this along on my next camping trip with friends. haha.

  32. that was really long.

    im kinda surprised that i read the whole thing.

    it was kinda predictable, but i still liked it.

    :)

  33. Ah….truly delicious. The absolute dessication of hope, the flawlessly secretive nature of the beast, the final showdown ending in such heart-wrenching pain. My humble thanks to the writer. I grow stronger with each passing meal….

    ….and I await my next one.

  34. I wouldn’t say that “it was obvious that something was possessing the missing people and making them kill others” It was fairly obvious that the missing people were killing the next household, but that’s a good thing. It’s exposition without explanatory narrative. Whoever wrote this actually knows how to write.

  35. That was pretty rad. I mean, the whole dust-storm being a cover-up is very nice. It was a tad obvious that something was possessing the missing people and making them kill others so it could take over someone else, but it was still spectacularly delivered.

  36. Oh my god. that was intense,i think i may need to use it for my student film thing im making ,if thats alright with josef.shall post his site asking,unless he r reply to me [email protected] me if u want,i dont care.

  37. I concur. Usually these long pastas are basically shaggy dog stories, building tension constantly but ending on a weak or completely stupid note. Yet everything about this one just felt right. It was almost like a Stephen King short story.

    Well done, Josef K.

  38. Oh wow. I really liked this pasta. Well written and descriptive. Kinda drawn out a bit, though. I really liked the last six paragraphs or so. Very nicely executed.

  39. Somehow, in some weird twisted way, I think the dude’s final move worked out pretty well :D

    But who was – ah forget it ._.

  40. Cool story bro

    Seriously though I enjoyed it to the end, could use a bit more drama and that bri/x/ kinda tone though.

  41. that was long…but it was good
    i cant really say anymore…i picked up one mistake tho…
    “By noon, I could only watch as the it reached up and blotted out the sun”
    one little mistake other than that, great work!

  42. I don’t know about this being a good creepy pasta, but it sure as fuck is a good story. Not even the typo or two I saw could take away.

    I enjoyed it immensely, even if I’m not gonna lose any sleep over it.

  43. Anytime I see a story credited to Josef K., I know it is going to be both a long pasta, and incredibly good.

    I am glad to see neither has deviated.

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published.

Scroll to Top