My story starts when I was five or six. That’s when I first picked up a ukulele. I loved my ukulele with all my heart. Still do, obviously. And I’m grateful for all the success I’ve had because of it. Here’s the problem: I don’t deserve it. Not entirely, anyway.
My parents never told me to practice, I just did. I practiced day and night, until my hands hurt. It was slow going at first. Then one day, everything changed. I was playing Hey, Soul Sister when I noticed a peculiar sound, like a heartbeat, quietly keeping time, like a built-in metronome. Except of course, back then, I had no idea what a metronome was. But it was there all right, guiding me.
Having no idea where the sound was coming from, I scanned the room for intruders. Then it dawned on me: the sound was coming from my own mind.
I shrugged it off and continued practicing, but the sound remained. Over time, a voice started speaking to me, giving me tips. The voice was creepy. Sometimes it would say stuff that was highly inappropriate, especially to a young girl like me. But I was still a kid, so I thought nothing of it. Instead, I gave him a name: Mr. Creeper.
Mr. Creeper became my imaginary friend. Except of course, he wasn’t imaginary. Nor was he my friend.
(Before I go on, let’s get one thing clear: Mr. Creeper was, and still is, very much real. And he’s not an anomaly. There are many evil spirits lurking about. More than you would care to know.)
When I told my mother, she scoffed at me. So much so, that I cried and threw a fit, smashing my uke into a million pieces. Then I cried some more, because I no longer had a uke. Oh, what a fuss I made.
Mr. Creeper was displeased. That night he appeared to me, moments before I fell asleep, threatening to hurt me if I stopped making music. Apparently, Mr. Creeper had plans for me.
It was the first time I’d seen him, and it scared me half to death. His face was covered in warts and boils. His belly was bulging like a beach ball. His eyes were weird and googly and seemed to see in all directions at once. What scared me most was his teeth, long and sharp and severe. I cried myself to sleep that night, and suffered from a series of vicious night terrors. Night terrors that have remained with me ever since.
My mother, being a gracious woman, bought me a brand new ukulele for Christmas. A nicer one, in fact.
Mr. Creeper was pleased.
Time passed. Mr. Creeper continued haunting me, but my memory of those days is fuzzy. I was still a kid. By the time I turned twelve, I’d stopped playing the uke. I was a busy girl. Mr. Creeper went away, until one day while alone in my candle lit bedroom, he startled me.
“Hey Brit,” Mr. Creeper said, his voice cold and crisp.
My heart stopped beating. Standing – more like hovering – over my bed was Mr. Creeper. Disparaging thoughts crashed through my mind. In truth, I’d thought Mr. Creeper was gone for good.
Wrong.
He snarled. “Wha? Ya hard of hearing?”
I tried speaking, but the sound was gibberish.
“Why dontcha get that ukulele out of your closet? Play me a tune, why dontcha?”
After minutes – maybe hours – of comprehending what the heck was happening, I bolted.
Mother was at work, but Dad was visiting, so I told him. My cheeks were red and sopping with tears. He ruffled my rosy-red hair, calling me his silly little princess. But I relented. When he saw how serious I was, he tossed me onto his back (he hadn’t done this in years) and charged playfully upstairs into my bedroom.
I gasped. Mr. Creeper was above my bed, twirling his pitchforked tail. His eyes were cruel and hateful.
“He won’t see me, you know,” the monster said. “He’s too old. And stupid.”
“Hey!” I blurted, involuntarily.
My father shot me an uneasy look. “See, princess. No monsters. Just a twelve-year-old girl’s bedroom, which needs cleaning, by the way.” He nudged me.
He was joking, but I could tell he sensed the monster, because his eyes were scanning the room and his face was pale as water. His feet wouldn’t stop shuffling. Clearly, he was eager to leave my haunted bedroom. And for good reason: Mr. Creeper was making choking gestures, strangling himself with his wretched red tail, taunting him. It took every ounce of restraint not to scream in holy terror.
As we left my bedroom, something struck me. I tripped and tumbled downstairs, spraining my ankle in the process. Dad zoomed me to the hospital. That was a bad day.
Time passed. Then one day after school, my old uke was resting neatly on my bed. “That’s impossible,” I told myself, shakily, as a cold chill dripped down my spine. The ukulele was beckoning me. I’d forgotten how beautiful she was. My hands trembled as I strummed her. Weird thing was, even though I hadn’t played her in years, she was still in tune.
I played Fifteen, by Taylor Swift. I still remembered the chords. The pulse returned, keeping time, the lights in my bedroom flickered, and a spotlight fell on me. Suddenly, I was Center Stage. An invisible audience started jeering. I could feel the tension in the room, anticipating my next song.
“Mr. Creeper?” I quietly spoke.
I felt him crawling inside my head. It was awful, really. Like a virus scratching my skull.
“Play.” That’s all he said.
The crowd started chanting: “BRIT… BRIT… BRIT…”
Reluctantly, I played an Ed Sheeran song (which sounded eerily similar to the previous song).
“Wha? Did I say you can stop?” Mr. Creeper heckled. “Did yo mamma raise a quitter?”
The crowd turned on me, heckling me with a chorus of, “BRIT SUCKS!… BRIT SUCKS!… BRIT SUCKS!…”
I was so scared that I peed myself. Good thing no one was around to laugh at me. (Except, of course, Mr. Creeper.) After cleaning myself up, I tip-toed back into my bedroom, careful not to trip and fall. (Like I needed another sprain.)
“This is ridiculous,” I told myself. “I’m nearly thirteen. Too old to believe in spooks.” My voice sounded far away, like it belonged to someone else. I didn’t like it. Nor did I trust it.
“Brit,” Mr. Creeper said. “Play another song. Something melancholy, in a minor key.”
My bedroom lights dimmed; all the candles blew out, although I don’t recall lighting any. My mouth was dry, my heart was going a million miles an hour. I wiped my sweaty bangs from my forehead and took a deep breath.
“Hurry it up, wontcha!” someone in the crowd chirped, scaring the daylights out of me. The crowd was growing restless: “Yeah. We ain’t got all day!” followed by, “Yeah, kid. We got all millennia!”
I’ve never been more scared in my life. I closed my eyes and prayed for them to go away. This must be a dream. Or maybe I was getting sick. When my eyes popped open, I nearly died. Mr. Creeper was directly in front of me, seething. Globs of drool glistened from his dagger-like teeth, his fatty fingers fidgeting while he floated in thin air.
I tried to move, but my mind and body wouldn’t cooperate. When his teeth touched the nape of my neck, I shrieked.
My mother bolted into my bedroom, and seeing how scared I was, she let me sleep on the foldout couch in the living room. I was grateful. But I wasn’t stupid. The monster was lurking in my bedroom, waiting.
Needless to say, I avoided my bedroom all week, but by the weekend, I started practicing again. It’s difficult to explain why, but any musician will tell you: the music is inside you, yearning to get out. I was a prisoner to it. It controlled me. So did Mr. Creeper.
Next time he appeared, I pleaded for him to leave me alone. “Nah!” Mr. Creeper replied, flying directly above me. “I’ve got BIG plans for you.”
“B-b-but, why me?”
Mr. Creeper’s googly eyes bobbled back and forth. “Why not?” He thrusted his razor-sharp claws against my freckled throat.
I shrunk into the size of a pea. I was going to add my rebuttal, when the uke flew into my hands. I gasped as it found my grip.
“Play!” the monster instructed.
I played. To my astonishment, I was exceptional. So much so that I made up a song on the spot. Then I made a video and posted it. That video went viral. You’ve probably seen it. It’s called Creeper’s Lament. My first hit song.
You could say the rest is history, and you’d be correct.
Not gonna lie: I liked the newfound fame. Who wouldn’t? My classmates started treating me differently. Suddenly, I was special, if only for a week. I started pumping out more videos. My fame quickly spread. The principal called me into her office, asking if I’d be interested in performing at the end-of-the-year talent show. I agreed. My parents were thrilled, and bought me the best ukulele money could buy.
That’s when I performed Flight of the Bumblebee, using only one hand. BAM! Another viral video. You may remember it: I was wearing a long, black dress with white buttons shaped as stars, and my hair was braided. The kids in the crowd were shouting for an encore, so I played two Beatles songs at the same time, surprising even me. The kids ate it up. So did the internet.
You may remember the rest. After going viral, I made a series of Top Ten albums, spanning many years. Unbelievable. People adored me. And why not? I helped inspire an entire generation of kids to play the ukulele. They all wanted to be the next Brit Starr.
My concerts sold out fast. My father was now managing me. He was nice and all, but things got weird. You see, it wasn’t me playing. It was Mr. Creeper. Sounds nuts, I know. But it’s true. Mr. Creeper was guiding me, providing me with unbelievable dexterity. Songs arrived fully formed in my mind.
After years of recording albums and touring the world, while finishing high school online in my spare time (which was never), Mr. Creeper became erratic. Nothing seemed to satisfy him. To please him, I was forced to play a medley of rock classics: Stairway to Heaven, Highway to Hell, Hotel California, Smells Like Teen Spirit – the list goes on and one – which earned me an entire new audience. But even that wasn’t good enough. No, not for Mr. Creeper.
He wanted more. Always more. That’s when I started doing stunts: playing a flaming ukulele, performing upside down, walking a tightrope, you name it. The shows got more and more elaborate. So did my costumes.
Over time, people got bored of my antics. I didn’t blame them. In fact, I was relieved. Unfortunately, my father was furious. Turns out, Mr. Creeper had infected his mind as well, causing him to drink and act belligerent.
Thus, I announced my retirement. I’d just turned twenty-five, and I was a millionaire, I didn’t need the stress. I was looking to open my very own music school: School of Uke. Sounds cool, right?
Wrong.
Mr. Creeper threatened to kill me. “You do as I say, Brit. Ya hear me?” His claws scratched my spine, causing internal bleeding. I was rushed to the hospital where I nearly died. Mr. Creeper wreaked havoc on the other patients. “I’ll kill ‘em all if ya don’t do as I say!”
That was dreadful. So was the fact that no one believed me.
My father made me a deal: I could quit touring, but I would continue making music. I refused. So he made another offer: I could publish my very own autobiography, and live off the royalties. I agreed. Maybe I can finally get my story out.
Mr. Creeper went on another rampage, tearing up my bedroom, haunting me day and night. He was merciless. Sleeping became impossible, because that’s when he’s strongest. I was at my wits end. I had to do something.
So I did. It came to me during a dream: I could enter his mind as well. I used this to my advantage, and over time, I learned to harness his magic. Thus, I’ve created a spell. My spell (if it works) will undo my fame and fortune. Therefore, when you read this, the name Brit Starr will mean nothing to you, and I can go back to being normal. Phew. What a relief!
So why am I telling you this, on Reddit, no less?
Because once my father read the first draft of my autobiography, he went ballistic. After weeks of squabbling, he hired a ghost writer. (Most celebrities do this, I know, but I was appalled.) But no worries, if my plan works, the public won’t remember me (or my music), and all my troubles will disappear, including my autobiography. Therefore, the mods at NoSleep will also forget me, and thus not remove this story. Because they too will have no idea who I am, and they’ll think this is mere fiction.
Alas! The spell is complete. It’s entwined into this story. (How I did it, I’ll never tell, not in a million years.) But what about Mr. Creeper, you ask? Will he go away? Doubt it. But hopefully he’ll grow tired of me and haunt some other little kid. Not my problem.
If my spell is successful, by the time I post this, you will have long forgotten my name. Not only that, you will have forgotten my concerts and all the time you spent commenting on my posts. Those comments will disappear, along with their memory. My TikTok account will vanish. I will mean nothing to you. Thus, I will be scrubbed, along with my fame and fortune. My parents will know me, obviously, but they will have no recollection of my so-called music career. Heck, I’ll probably open that music studio, and if I’m lucky, I’ll live happily ever after. No more monsters.
Reading this now, you probably think this is just a silly story. Perfect. That’s the plan. That’s why I’ve taken my story to Reddit, using a male avatar, no less. Just in case. (I doubt my father will stumble upon this, because he doesn’t use Reddit, but I can’t take any chances.)
If by chance you do remember me, and my spell failed, that’s okay too. I’ll have to live with that. Hey, at least you’ll understand the grief I’ve gone through, and cut me some slack. Or maybe you’ll think I’m nuts. Whatever. I’m over it.
So here goes. I’m so nervous I can barely keep my hands close to the keys. Mr. Creeper is clawing me, and I’m bleeding profusely, but he won’t stop me. Not this time.
Will my spell work? There’s only one way to find out.
Here goes…