All language subtitles for [English] What If You Never Go Outside - Psychosis (Creepypasta Scary Story) [DownSub.com]

A man sits at his desk, writing a journal
entry on a notepad.

He's a programmer, but he doesn't trust his
computer, he needs to make sure he can write

his thoughts down in a place where nobody
can mess with his words.

Not that anyone's been doing that... he thinks,
nah that'd be crazy.

It just helps to have them physically written
down, helps him focus and think.

Plus memory can play tricks on you, best to
write things down to remember them correctly.

His apartment is too small, the walls are
closing in.

Maybe that's the reason for his funk lately.

He should've paid a little extra for a nicer
place, but saving money on rent was a powerful

lure.

Now he's stuck in one of the tiny apartments
in the basement of his building.

It doesnt' help that there's no windows to
tell day from night, only the clock on the

bottom right of his computer.

He's a programmer, so he works from home a
lot and keeps strange hours.

His only clue that the sun has risen or fallen
comes from that tiny clock at the bottom right

of his screen.

He's working on a big project, pressure to
just get it done is intense.

But just sitting and typing for hours and
hours on end can play tricks on your brain.

But he can't shake the feeling that that's
not really it.

He can't even remember when he started to
feel like things were just a little...

off.

Or how.

Lack of human contact isn't helping, and none
of his friends seem to have been online in

days to chat over messenger.

One of his few actual friends promised he'd
call when he got back from the store...

yesterday?

Yeah, yesterday.

But he never called.

Or maybe he didn't get the call, cell reception
is terrible in the basement.

Maybe he just needs to talk to someone, or
at least get outside.

He doesn’t bother shaving before going out,
2-day growth still on his face.

At least he changed his shirt though, discarding
the ratty one he'd been wearing for who knows

how long.

With it being lunchtime outside, he figured
he'd run into at least one friend.

Inexplicable fear as he opens his cramped
apartment's door.

Almost like a tinge of agoraphobia, but where
did that come from?

Maybe it's just from being cooped up and not
talking to anyone for so long.

Waiting for him outside his apartment is a
dreary hallway at the end of which is the

huge steel door leading to the furnace room.

There's two soda machines down there, but
the first and only time he used one the soda

was two years expired.

He leaves his apartment, closing the door
softly and walking in the opposite direction.

Why did he do that though?

Why is he moving so quietly?

He turns it into a game, moving silently so
as not to break the steady hum of the soda

machines.

But as he gets upstairs and to the front door
of his building he’s in for a real shock-

it wasn't lunchtime, it was dark outside!

And it was late, he could tell by the silence
of the street outside- the special kind of

quiet where you can hear the wind blow.

It sends shivers down his spine, and he chalks
it up to his body imagining the touch of the

chill wind.

Yeah, it’s comforting to think that’s
all it is…

It doesn’t feel right to go outside, so
instead he lifts his cell phone up to the

window and checks his bars- presto!

Full bars.

Now he could finally hear someone else's voice.

He is so giddy with excitement he forgets
his previous fears.

Pressing the speed dial, he puts the phone
to his ear expecting to hear his best friend's

Amy's voice.

But after one ring the phone goes silent.

Confused, he holds the phone to his ear for
twenty seconds.

Then the phone finally hangs up.

As he goes to dial her number again, his phone
suddenly vibrates with an incoming call, startling

him so hard he nearly drops it.

“Hello?”, the sound of his own voice startles
him.

He hadn't realized just how long it'd been
since he'd heard a human voice, even his own.

“Hey, who's this?”

The caller sounds about his age, young and
male.

“John”, he replies.

“Oh, sorry, wrong number”.

Then a click as the line went dead.

What in the world just happened?

He leans back against the brick wall and pulls
up the recent calls list.

The number is completely unfamiliar.

Then he nearly jumps out of his skin as the
phone vibrates in his hand again.

He presses the talk button, but says nothing.

“John?”

Waves of relief wash over him, it's Amy's
voice.

“Hey it's you.”

“Who else would it be?

Oh, the number.

I'm at a party on Seventh street, and my phone
died just as you called me.

This is someone else's phone.”

“Oh, ok.”

“Where are you?”

His eyes glance around the drab white-washed
walls and heavy metal door with a small window

looking outside.

“At my place.

Just feeling cooped up, didn't realize it
was so late.”

“You should come over!”

“Nah, I don't feel like looking for some
strange place by myself in the middle of the

night, I think I'm just going to keep working
or go to bed.”

He didn't want to admit that the real reason
was the way the deathly silent streets outside

scared him a bit.

“Nonsense!

I can come get you!

Your building is closeby, isn't it?”

“How drunk are you, you know where I live!”

“Oh, good point.

I guess I couldn't walk over.”

“not unless you want to waste a half an
hour.”

“Right, alright well gotta go- good luck
with your work!”

He watches the numbers flash once as the call
ends, and then the droning silence of the

old apartment building washes over him again.

The two strange calls and the eerie quiet
outside only make him feel that much more

alone.

Then a terrifying thought hits him, maybe
born of too many scary movies, maybe of real

fear.

What if some horrible monster peered in the
small window set into the steel exterior door

right now, spotting him?

Some nightmarish creature that preyed on those
who strayed too far from other living people?

The thought alone was enough to cause him
to rush back home, closing the door as swiftly

and silently behind him as he could.

He felt a little silly, safe inside his apartment
once more.

But the fear had been real.

And inexplicable.

Why did Amy sound off during that conversation?

Could it have been the alcohol?

Could it- ah!

That's why he was writing these experiences
down, it helped him remember.

She said she'd been at a party but there was
no background noise at all!

But maybe she'd stepped outside...

no, because then he should've been able to
hear the wind.

Or should he?

He needed to see if the wind was still blowing
outside.

MONDAY

He's writing his thoughts down on paper again.

He had no idea what he'd expected to see when
he ran back up the stairwell last night, peering

out the window.

It all seemed ridiculous now, especially since
last night's fear seemed so distant and unreasonable.

He can't wait to go out into the sunlight.

He's going to check his email, shave, shower,
and get out of the dingy, cramped apartment-

but wait, what was that?

That noise?

Thunder.

There'd be no sunlight and fresh air today.

Going up the stairwell revealed only disappointment
as he peered out the tiny window on the heavy

metal door, seeing rain slamming into it.

A small amount of dim, gloomy light shone
through the window, but it was enough to tell

him it was day.

A very rainy, blustery, wet day.

He presses his face up against the window
hoping to see outside better as lightning

flashed, but the rain is too heavy and all
he can see is vague shapes moving at odd angles

through the waves of water that wash down
the window.

He turned around, but instead of going home
he got the urge to climb the stairs.

The third floor was the tallest floor of the
building, and here he stops.

The outer wall of the stairwell had thick
glass that had warped with age, scattering

the light and making visibility pretty much
zero.

He enters the third floor itself, walking
by the closed apartment doors.

They'd been painted blue once, but like everything
else in this building the color had faded

long ago.

It was silent, only the sound of the rainstorm
outside, but it was the middle of the day

so he wasn't surprised nobody was home.

He couldn't shake the idea that the doors
were like weathered granite monoliths erected

by some ancient forgotten civilization for
some unfathomable purpose.

Then the lightning flashes, and for just a
moment he could've sworn that the faded blue

wood looked exactly like rough stone.

He laughs at himself for letting his imagination
run away with him, but then he remembers the

alcove with inset window halfway down that
floor's hallway.

He runs to the window, eager to see a human
being in the world outside.

But as he goes to lift the window and peer
out of it, a sudden terrifying fear hits him-

if he opened that window he would see something
terrifying on the other side of it.

But what?

He has no idea, but it is enough to make him
back off the window.

And that's when he returned to write his experiences
down.

Done, he came up with a plan.

He was going to get his webcam- the cord wasn't
long enough to go all the way up to the third

floor, but he could use it to surveil his
own floor.

He'd stick it between the two soda machines
and hide the wire with black tape, camouflaging

it against the black plastic strip that runs
along the base of the hallway's walls.

It seems silly, but he's really got nothing
better to do.

But, nothing happened.

He propped open the hallway-to-stairwell door
and flung the heavy front door wide open,

running like hell back down to his room.

He watched the webcam to see if something
terrible was pursuing him, but there was nothing.

He wished the camera's position was different
so he could actually see out the front door

but- hey!

Somebody's online!

He got out an old webcam and set it up so
he could video chat.

He didn't explain to his friend why he wanted
to video chat, and the two shared a mostly

empty conversation, but damn it felt good
to see another person's face again.

That gnawing fear that had been plaguing him
lately had mostly passed, but later the thought

hit him.

There was something... odd about the conversation.

His friend seemed to be very vague in his
responses.

He couldn't even recall one specific thing
that his friend had said.

But he did ask for his email address to keep
in touch and- oh, there's an email now.

It's amy.

She asks him to meet for dinner where they
usually go, a pizza joint.

He's getting dressed and the thought of delicious
pizza is a good motivator, all he's been eating

lately is whatever random food is in his fridge.

He's ready to leave when there's another email.

He opens the email and scans it.

It's from an old friend, and has been sent
to every person in that friend's address book.

It reads simply: seen with your own eyes don't
trust them.

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

The words shock him, and he goes over them
again and again in his mind.

It seems like a desperate, unfinished email,
as if it had been sent just before...

something.. happened.

He was ready to disregard the email as just
spam or a computer virus or something but

those words keep ringing in his head, “seen
with your own eyes”.

He reads back over his journal and can't help
but think how for the last few days he hasn't

seen another person with his own eyes or talked
to someone face to face.

The strange video chat with his friend, the
random wrong number, and the oddly silent

return call from Amy claiming she was at a
party.

And the friend that asked for his email address,
and then he got an email just a few minutes

later!

And then the fear grips him- he told Amy over
the phone that he was just a half hour's walk

from Seventh street.

They know he's near where she called from!

What if they're trying to find him!

Where in the world is everyone else, and why
hasn't he seen or heard anyone else in days?!

This is insane, he thinks.

He needs to calm down.

He paces the apartment furiously, waving his
cell phone around to see if he can get a single

bar of signal through the thick concrete walls.

Finally, near one ceiling corner in his tiny
little bathroom he gets it- one bar.

He sends a text to every number on his phone:
You seen anyone face to face lately?

He keeps the message short and cryptic, so
as not to betray his fear.

He just wants a response, even if it's someone
telling him he's crazy.

He tries to call, but if he brings the phone
down out of that corner to his mouth he loses

all service.

That's when he remembers the computer, and
rushes over.

He sends an instant message to everyone on
his contact list that's online.

Nobody responds.

His messages grow more and more frantic.

He tells everyone he's home, invites them
over, asks them to stop by and see him for

any number of reasons.

He just needs to see someone face to face!

Then he tears his apartment apart, looking
frantically for some other way to contact

another human being.

But without opening the door and going outside.

He knows it's crazy, but what if there's real
danger out there?

He needs to be sure it's safe out there, and
he needs a reply, so he tapes the phone to

the corner of the ceiling where it gets its
one lonely bar of reception.

TUESDAY

The phone actually rang!

He must have fallen asleep, exhausted after
last night's rampage.

He wakes up to the phone ringing and rushes
to the bathroom.

It's Amy, she's really worried about him and
has been trying to contact him since the last

time they talked.

She's coming over and yes, she knows where
he lives.

He's mortified at his behavior lately.

He wants to destroy the journal so nobody
knows how crazy he's been lately.

Also, he looks terrible.

His eyes have sunken in and his stubble is
growing thick and dark.

His apartment is also trashed, but he needs
Amy to see what he's been through so he's

not going to clean it up.

But he's not crazy, he's just the victim of
extreme probability.

He just happened to leave his apartment when
nobody else was around, that's all.

It's a reassuring thought, made better by
his rediscovery of the television in his closet.

He sets it up and lets it drone in the background,
a nice reminder that there's a world out there

past his concrete walls.

He's glad that Amy's the one who responded
to him.

She's been his best friend for years, and
she has no clue but he counts the day he met

her as one of the happiest in his life.

He can still go back to that warm summer day
on the playground, it felt like they sat and

talked for days.

They were grown by then, far too old to play,
but they hung out and just chatted together.

It's a warm memory, and it helps him escape
the dingy reality of his basement apartment

and all the haunting thoughts that come with
it.

A knock at the door!

It wouldn't be until later that he would find
it odd that he didn't' see her through the

camera he'd hidden between the soda machines.

He figured it was probably just bad positioning.

But he should have known.

He yelled out the door jokingly that he had
a camera between the soda machines, and he

watched Amy walk over to the camera and bend
over, smiling and waving.

“Hey!”

“I know it's weird...

I've had a weird few days.”

He talks into the mic attached to the computer.

“Must have, open the door, John.”

But he hesitates.

How could he be sure it was really her?

“Hey, humor me for a second.

Tell me one thing about us.

Just prove that you're really you.”

She gives the camera a weird look.

“Um, alright.

We met randomly at a playground when we were
both way too old to be there.”

He sighs, the fear fades.

This was so ridiculous, of course it was Amy!

He'd never told anyone how he'd met Amy.

Nobody but the real her could know how they
met.

“Haha, alright, I'll explain everything.

Be right there.”

He rushes to the bathroom and makes himself
as presentable as possible.

He looked terrible, but Amy would understand
in that special way best friends do.

He snickers at his own behavior and the mess
he'd made of his place, tearing it apart looking

for.. what?

He couldn't even remember.

The trash was overflowing and the bed had
been tipped all the way over on its side,

in a desperate search for who knows what.

As he turns to the door and goes to open it,
his eyes fall on the old webcam.

The one he'd used to video chat with his friend.

It was laying haphazardly tossed on its side,
the lens pointed straight at the table with

his open journal.

Terror grips him.

He'd asked Amy to prove it was really her
and she'd told him the one thing nobody could

have possibly known but them- unless someone
on the other side of the webcam had watched

him write it into his journal just now!

He screams in terror and rushes to the webacm,
snatching it and stomping it on the floor.

The door shakes, the doorknob turns, but he
can't hear Amy's voice through the door.

Was the basement door too thick?

Or was Amy not even outside, and something
else was trying to get in?

He saw her through the webcam outside, heard
her through his speakers, but how could he

know she was really real?!

He screams and shouts for help as he piles
furniture up against the door.

FRIDAY

Or at least he thinks it's friday.

He's broken everything electronic, all that's
left is the journal that he writes into.

The computer is smashed to pieces, anything
that anyone could hack into and snoop on him

is destroyed.

He goes over the last week in his mind time
and time again.

Everything anyone had said to him via phone
or email or Amy through the door- it was all

info he'd already written or given out himself.

He'd gotten nothing new back!

It was as if something was trying to trick
him to get outside!

All the way back at the start, Amy on the
phone, she was basically asking him to open

the door and go outside with her!

He runs the possibilities through his mind.

His logical side says that it's just simple,
bad probability.

He just happened to go outside when nobody
was around, he just happened to get a random

nonsense spam email by pure chance.

But another voice tells him that there's something
out there wanting to get him.

Extreme convergence of probability is the
only thing that's kept him alive.

He never opened the window on the third floor.

He never opened the front door, except for
that stunt with the hidden camera when he

rushed back into his apartment.

He hasn't even opened his own front door since
then.

Whatever is out there, if anything at all,
never appeared inside the building until he

opened that front door.

Maybe the reason he hasn't seen it in the
building before is that it was busy getting

everyone else, until he stupidly betrayed
his location by calling Amy.

A call that failed, until he got a return
call asking for his name...

The terror is overwhelming as his mind wrestles
with the pieces of this puzzle.

Was that email random, or was it cut off right
before a horrible fate befell his friend.

Was it a desperate warning?

“Seen with my own eyes, don't trust them”-
why was it exactly what he'd been suspicious

of?

Did it have mastery over all electronics?

It had to have a physical form, it had actually
knocked on his door when it took the form

of Amy.

Maybe this entity can't go through doors-
his mind races back over all books and movies

he'd ever read or seen, trying to find an
explanation.

Could doors be some sort of ward against whatever
this thing is?

Maybe it's just not strong enough to bash
through the heavy wooden doors- let alone

the thick steel door at the front entrance
to the building.

But, why did it want him specifically?

If it wanted to kill him it could just wait
until he starved to death.

What if it doesn't want to kill him, what
if it has something far more horrific in store?!

How can he escape this nightmare?

A knock at the door.

It's Amy.

Or at least her voice, along with that of
two police men and a psychiatrist.

His mind races, thinking through all the ways
that the voices could be faked electronically.

He wishes he hadn't destroyed his computer
so he could look through the webcam.

Why did it take three days for them to come
for him?

Maybe it took three days to come up with a
scheme that would convince him to open the

door.

The psychiatrist is convincing, unless it's
a clever ploy to get him to open the door.

The psychiatrist has an older voice, strong
and authoritarian but caring.

It's comforting.

He's desperate to see another human being
with his own eyes.

The psychiatrist says he is suffering from
something called cyber-psychosis, and he's

just one of thousands of people nationwide
who have broken down after being triggered

by a suggestive email that quote, got through
somehow.

Got through somehow?

He thinks that the psychiatrist means it's
spread through the country inexplicably, but

what if this entity just slipped up and revealed
a vital piece of information?

He's suspicious, deeply suspicious.

The psychiatrist claims he's part of a wave
of emergent behavior, and a lot of other people

are having the same problem.

That would explain the strange email.

He didn't get the original triggering email,
just a watered down part of it that his mentally

unstable friend had sent out, trying to warn
everyone of his paranoid fears.

The psychiatrist claims that that's how the
problem spreads, and he could have spread

it too with his random texts and instant messages
to his entire address book.

Some of those people could be breaking down
right now, triggered by something he'd accidentally

sent them, something their delusional mind
could be interpreting in a way that powers

their personal delusions, like a text saying,
“seen anyone face to face lately?”

The psychiatrist says he doesn't want to lose
anyone else.

“You're one of the smart ones, so smart
you make up connections that shouldn't be

there.”

The psychiatrist says it's easy to get caught
up in paranoia thanks to our fast paced world,

a place that's constantly changing and more
and more of our interactions are simulated

and online.

It's a great explanation.

Perfect really.

It explains literally everything, and why
should he stay locked up in this tiny apartment,

festering in his own delusions until he starves
to death.

All he needs to do to get better is just open
the door and get help.

It's a perfect explanation, and that's exactly
why he refuses to open the door.

How can he be sure what's real and what's
not?!

Signals through a camera can be hijacked,
emails and videos faked.

Even what he sees on the tv, now lying broken
on the floor, how can he know for sure any

of it is real?!

It's all just signals and waves and... bashing
at the door!

The entity is trying to get inside!

It has to be, there's no way to fake the sound
of men grunting and smashing against the heavy

wooden door so realistically!

It's coming in and it's going to get him-
but at least he'll finally see the entity

with his own eyes.

There's no way left for it to deceive him,
he's ripped apart every electronic device

left in his apartment.

It can't' deceive flesh and blood eyes- or
can it?

Seen with your own eyes don't trust them they...
wait... was that desperate message telling

him to only trust his eyes, or a warning that
he couldn't trust them either?!

What even is the difference between a camera
and eyes?!

They both turn light into electrical signals,
they're the exact same!

He can't' be deceived, he has to be sure!

He has to be sure!

DATE UNKNOWN

He's been calmly asking for a paper and pen
day in and day out, until finally they give

it to him.

Not that it matters anymore, what's he going
to do with a pen?

Poke his eyes out?

The bandages over his hollow sockets feel
like part of him now, and the pain has long

ago faded.

He works the pen over the paper, figuring
it'll be his last chance to write legibly.

Without his eyes to guide his hand, they will
soon forget the motions involved in writing.

It's an indulgence, the writing, a relic of
another time, because he's certain everyone

left in the world is dead.

Or suffered a fate far worse.

He sits against the padded wall of his room
day in and day out.

The entity brings him food and water.

It masquerades as a kind nurse, or an unsympathetic
doctor.

He suspects that the entity has figured out
his hearing has sharpened considerably since

he lost his vision, because he can hear it
faking whispered conversations in the hallway

outside on the off chance he might hear.

A nurse talks about having a baby soon.

One of the doctors has lost his wife in an
accident.

None of it matters, none of it is real.

None of it gets to him- except her.

The thing comes to him, masquerading as Amy.

Its recreation is perfect.

It sounds and feels exactly like her, even
produces a reasonable facsimile of her tears

that he can feel on the lifelike cheeks.

When it first dragged him here it told him
all the things he wanted to hear, that it

loved him, that it didn't understand why he
had done this, that they could still have

a life together, if only he would stop insisting
he was being deceived.

It wanted, no needed him to believe she was
real.

And he almost fell for it.

He doubted himself for a long time.

In the end though, it was all too perfect,
too flawless, too real.

The false Amy would come every day, then every
week, then finally stopped coming altogether.

But he knows the entity won't' give up.

The waiting game is just another one of its
gambits.

He will resist the rest of his life if that's
what it takes, because he knows the entity

needs him to fall for its deception.

And maybe, if he can resist, he can stop its
agenda.

Maybe if the real Amy is still alive out there
somewhere, it's his resistance that's stopping

the entity and keeping him alive.

He holds on to that hope as he rocks himself
back and forth alone in his cell.

He'll never give in.

He'll never break.

He's a hero!

The doctor reads the note the patient has
scribbled on.

It's barely legible, written in the shaky
script of a man who could no longer see.

He wanted to smile at the man's resolve, a
reminder of the human will to survive, but

he knew the patient was completely delusional.

After all, a sane man would have fallen for
the deception a long time ago.

The doctor wanted to smile, he wanted to whisper
words of encouragement to the delusional patient.

He wanted to scream, but the nerve filaments
that wrapped around his head and drove into

his eyes prevented him from it.

Instead, his body stood up rigidly like a
puppet, and he walked to the patient's room

once more, to tell him once again that he
was wrong.

There was nobody trying to deceive him.

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