Five, Four, Three, Two, One

''Found this pretty sick Creepypasta at Reddit. Decided to share with you all.''

Here's the source: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/4ai4ej/five_four/

The Story
Five, four, three, two, one.

I say, my voice a mellow whisper. Mr. Baker repeats after me: "Five, four, three… can we stop for today, doctor?"

I'm afraid we can't, I say. This is really important, I say.

"… two, one."

I say, Now tell me about it again. From the start.

He shivers. "He had me in a chair. Tied up, me and others. For two days, nothing happened." He stops, swallows dry. Already he's crying.

I tell him I know this is hard. I tell him I hate making him live through this again. But, I tell him, he has to. Bear with me.

Again, I say. Take a deep breath, come on. Five, four, three, two, one.

And he tells me the story. This story I hear five times a day. They were trapped, strangers. All woke up in the same wooden house. Same smell of sulfur and ammoniac, they all tell me. Ropes around their bodies, chair bolted to the floor. No windows. They're all my patients, that's where I hear their stories.

"He'd push needles into my ear," Mr. Baker gasps, between sobs. "I can't hear out of my left. Five… four…"

Three, two, one, I help him. Go on, I say. You have to power through this, Mr. Baker, I say.

I got a hotel in town not a month after they escaped and the whole thing reached the news. Mr. Baker here was the one who broke them free, five days into the torture sessions. He told me, on his first session, that he woke up in this wooden house in the middle of God knows where, four strangers with him, all tied to a chair. And for four days this guy in a kitty mask tortured them.

No words.

No reason.

No ransom.

Just plain torture.

Then, on the fifth day, Mr. Baker caught a break. Masked man was out and the rope was a bit too loose, or so he told me. Covered in blood and shit and piss, he broke free and had the humanity (which I don't think I'd have) to break the others before he left.

Good news, bad news, good news. Good because they escaped. Bad because they're all fucked up in the head now, all five of them. Good because I get good business.

That is to say, this is a small Colorado town. No psychiatrist. I got the call after my article about dealing with torture survivors with PTSD caught the eye of the mayor himself. Got myself and invitation and a big pay check to treat the five.

"… four, three, two, one," Mr. Baker says, repeating the mantra I taught him.

Go on, I say. It is essential that they relive that moment with me. So they can get over it. They have to talk about it like you talk about your weekend, no barriers, no fear, no shivering. I say all that to him.

He shivers.

"The needles… it didn't stop in the ear. He'd stick them – stick them in between our teeth and gum, all the way to bone. And then he'd poke around. For hours."

He smiles an ugly smile, his mouth still carrying marks, his teeth much too big, the base of the gums poked in little scar tissues, pushed down.

Come on, I say. Five, four…

"… three, two – I can't doctor. I can't."

Just then the clock ticks two, anyway. I thank him, saying this was a good session. He shivers and shivers. He looks in bad shape as he walks out.

A few seconds go by with me alone, digesting what he told me. Again.

It's been like this for a month. All five of them, five days a week, they come here, they tell me their stories. Each day they try to deal with it a little bit better. They try to relive it as if that week had been just another nine to five week. Each day they leave a little bit worse than they walked in.

"Doctor?" Mary sticks her head in. "Your two o'clock… um…"

I ask her if she means Sarah. Sarah was another one of the five. She's been really struggling with my process, the last few sessions.

"Yes… huh… she won't be making it today."

I ask her why.

"She killed herself this morning."

I say, all right. I say I'll eat something at my desk, and she can take lunch. But be back before three. Jonathan's my three o'clock. Another one of the five. Well. Four now.

...

God help me for how easy it is to make a fake psychiatrist's website. God help me for how easy it is to translate some bullshit torture article and casually link it in a fake account on some idiot Colorado mayor's Facebook account.

God help me if I didn't say I'd kill them all, one way or another. Even if I had to leave and wait for my chance.

I don't leave jobs unfinished.

God help me. I grab a sandwich from my drawer and I bite onto it.

One by one. If I can't do them all at the same time, I'll do them one by one.

If I can't do it with needles all the way through, I'll finish it with words.

They were all dead inside, really. I'm just sealing the envelope.

It already worked for Sarah. Four more to go.

When the clock hits three o'clock, Mary buzzes Jonathan in. Already he's shivering.

"Can we not talk about it today, doctor?" he mumbles. "Just for today... please. Let's talk about something else."

I'm sorry, I say. You have to, I say. You have to relive that day, every day. Until you get better.

I say, I'll help you through this. I say, take a deep breath.

I say, count with me:

'Four. Three. Two. One.'