I write scary stories, well, to be exact I write Creepypastas something I love to do. I’m not really that good at writing them but I find it to be therapeutic; especially since my mind is over flowing with ideas, my problem is I just don’t know how to translate my thoughts into words, believe or not it’s a lot more difficult than it looks. I sometimes just stare at my screen pondering on how to describe a simple scene, I mean, in my mind I picture a monstrous hand glistening in the moon light while it’s razor sharp claws display absolute malice while all I type is ‘ugly hand with sharp nails’. My friends tell me that I will get better with practice I laugh under my breath because I’ve been writing since I was a kid, but for whatever reason the neurons in my brain that help me detail a scenario just don’t connect. Though this fact hasn’t dissuaded me from writing, I read my own stories over and over with enchantment, it truly makes me smile. Something else I like to do is scour the NoSleep Reddit forum, reading other peoples stories amazed on how they make it look so easy. I’m always too timid to reach out to any of the authors for help, knowing they probably would scoff after reading the first sentence to one of my stories. One night as I scrolled through what seem to be endless list of stories one particular thread caught my eye, it seemed familiar.
“The man who never smiled” I read out loud to myself.
I scratched my head for several seconds with a bit befuddlement, I once wrote a story with that exact same title. Out of my own curiosity I clicked on the forum reading through the story and to my astonishment it was my story, word for word.
“What the heck, did someone steal my story?” I asked myself with complete bewilderment.
Though I was upset but at the same time I felt a bit flattered, I mean someone thought my idea was good enough to plagiarize. I scrolled my mouse over to click on the users name, the author had the most intriguing handle.
“Before it comes, huh” I read out loud feeling perturbed at the whole situation.
I just remained silent and unmoved for several seconds staring at my screen with disbelief, why would anyone want to steal my story and that’s when I saw all the comments. I clicked open the messages my eyes crawling down the infinite amount of positive feedback; people enjoyed the scary tale. My eyes widened open with wonderment as a giant smile formed on my bewildered face. I spent the rest of the night reading all the comments, people jovial to the revelation of such a chilling tale of a man that didn’t smile, truth be told that story was inspired by my father; he never smiled in fact he hardly ever spoke to me and when he did it was usually out of complete disgust. He didn’t like a son that was awkward like myself constantly berating me for spending all my time writing stories, taunting me to the the fact that no one would ever read a word.
“Ha, little do you know people like my stories dad!” I yelped out loud as if I was manifesting my fathers presence engulfing me in the sweet flavor of success, though in reality I would never be able to tell him now; he passed away many years ago.
“Wait, I forgot, someone stole my story” reality crashing down on me at million miles an hour.
Then the most horrifying epiphany presented itself in the most frightening way I never posted any of my stories, rather, I typed them on my computer; in my mind too insecure to receive any kind of feedback. As I sat in my chair isolated in my dark room I scratched my head as to how this person could have stolen my story and the only conclusion that my thoughts could create was it perhaps a hacker, someone had to have hacked my computer.
“But to steal my stories” I questioned in a mere whimper.
A sensation of empowerment washed over me as I knew I had obtain the adulation that rightfully belong to me and with that I scrolled through my computer searching for my story. As minutes ticked away me searching almost endlessly I finally came to it, there it was, ‘The man that never smiled’. I knew the time stamp on my file would vindicate me and perhaps I could be showered in praise for once. That’s when I noticed the most bizarre thing, I could feel my skin crawl from trepidation I quickly clicked back over to the forum looking at when this user uploaded his story.
“No, impossible, it couldn’t be” I whimpered from distraught.
To my horror I wrote my story after he uploaded his, I was at a loss for words I didn’t know how that was possible and I began to question my own sanity. Did I read this persons story and some how I unwilling wrote it.
“But word by word” I told myself.
I could feel the knots forming in my gut and I stepped away from my computer, shutting it down for the night perhaps I just needed some sleep and as I cautiously fell into the land of slumber all I could think about was the users name and I read out loud slowly,
‘Before ‘it’ comes’.
The next morning I tried my best to shake off the haze of uneasiness that still fluttered in the air from my bizarre encounter. It was my day off and I knew I was going to sit in my chair for the next 10 hours doing my best to let my imagination run wild as I created a new story. As I opened my laptop my fingers prudently hovered over the keyboard as I contemplated the title of my next frightening tale and that’s when the perfect story manifested itself in my mind; I could feel a mischievous grin grow on my face as I typed.
‘The man that couldn’t love’
“Perfect” I exclaimed out loud to myself.
This would be another story about my father, one that displayed his contempt for me, something that tortured me for the years even after his death; more so because for whatever reason I still desired his approval. I could feel a tear cascade down my cheek as I sat engulfed into the memory of my dad.
‘smack’
“Don’t cry!” I yelled out as I slapped myself, upset that I would let an echo of a broken man shatter my day.
I slowly returned my fingers to the keyboard and started typing doing my best to make a coherent sentence, as usual the stench of dread simmered around me as I remained frustrated trying to express my words and a sudden memory of my father yelling at me catapulted into the forefront my mind.
“Stop stuttering boy! Just spit it out and say what you mean” I remember my father berating me.
I slammed my laptop shut and stormed away from my desk gripping at my chest as I dry heaved from the panic attack that erupted through my body.
“Stop stuttering boy!” my fathers words still reverberating in my head; haunting me.
I dropped to my knees now grabbing at my head trying to get the voice to stop as my breathing intensified.
“S-s-shut up Dad! People like my words they liked the story!” I shouted out loud.
I breathed in deeply doing my best to control the panic attack and I slithered onto the floor drenched in my own sweat.
After about an hour I picked myself off the floor and returned to my laptop I figured I’ll use my recent attack as inspiration, after all the story was about a heartless man like my father. I typed for hours correcting my mistakes over and over, by the time I was finished it was dark outside but a sensation of pride inundated my very being feeling more confident this time around to post my story; ready for the sure adulation that would come. I clicked opened Reddit and searched for the NoSleep forum. Right before creating the new post I saw the most disturbing sight, I could feel my heart sink, it was another post by user
‘Before ‘it’ comes’.
“No, no, no, impossible?” I yelped out as my body shuddered from the bewildering post.
It was my story, ‘the man that couldn’t love’, how was this possible I just finished it. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and quickly expanded the thread reading through the story and as before word for word it was a copy of mine. I just stared blankly at the screen for what must of been minutes utterly confounded.
I hovered the mouse over the user’s name ready to investigate further into this person before some reason I hesitated, I couldn’t explain why but a feeling of dread embodied me; but with my own trepidation seeping out my pores I clicked. As scrolled through the users stories I could feel sweat dripping through my shirt as the horrid revelation of what I was suspecting became vividly clear; all the stories they were mine. I didn’t know what to do, I mean what could I do, this person uploaded all of their stories before I’ve even written mine. Out of my own frustration I sent the user an angered message wanting to know how he stole my stories.
“How did you steal my stories” I typed, demanding to know how this was even possible.
To my astonishment the user replied back almost instantaneously, and the person response sent a chill down my spine.
“Before ‘it’ comes” is all they wrote back.
“Listen pal, what is your end game?” I asked back with rage protruding from my soul.
As before the user responded the same and no matter what questions I asked all I ever got in return was,
“Before ‘it’ comes”.
I threw my laptop to the floor with ferocity, horrified at what just occurred and before another panic attack could take hold of me I breathed in deeply and walked over to my medicine cupboard drowning down several sleeping pills ready to put this night of horror behind me.
That night I had the most peculiar dream, it was a memory of me when I was a kid, one I wanted to forget. One night my father came home more drunk than usual and he picked a fight with my mother, I stepped in trying to scare him away with some magic gesture I saw in a movie, he laughed and shoved me to the floor; taking off his belt ready to show me to never challenge him again. That’s when my mother grabbed a hold of him and told me to run and hide, with tears in my eyes I returned back to my room scanning the darkly lit area to find the best hiding spot and that’s when my gaze locked in on the closet. I jumped inside burying myself underneath the clothes that riddled the floor and that’s when I heard the most terrifying scream it was of my mother and I can only assume my father had hurt her badly. That’s when the foot steps drew nearer and from the ponderous steps I knew it was not from my mother, rather, it was from my drunken father. I squeezed my eyes tightly shut as I covered my ears doing my best to transport myself to another world and that’s when my father opened the closet door grinning down at me ready to teach me a lesson. Tears inudated my eyes as my breathing became heavy and I prepared for the lashing that was incoming, but that’s when my fathers grin morphed into a horrified frown. He grabbed at his chest as fear conquered his eyes and he promptly fell to the floor, I woke up after that, flooded in my own sweat and tears. I had to go to work, so doing my best to shake of the horrid nightmare I got up and headed out.
Returning home I did my best not to look at my broken laptop feeling motivated to not give in to my curiosity of the mystery that presented itself to me. For the first time in a long time I spent the night not thinking about horror, instead I put on a few comedy’s trying to engulf my thoughts in a reality of humor but as each passing hour dwindled I could feel the angst feeling of dread tremble inside me as my own curiosity grew only stronger. That’s when I stormed towards my laptop turning it on and to my delight it still worked, the only issue was the cracked screen it obscured my vision a bit. I quickly typed in the Reddit URL and scrolled to the user that had haunted me wanting to know more of this person, to my surprise the user had uploaded a new story; one that I hadn’t wrote.
“No way” I murmured to myself.
It read the most incredible title, one that struck a nerve triggering an ambrosia of emotions in me.
“The boy who was never loved”
I could feel the sensation of needle pricks erupt throughout my body from anger, who the hell did the person think they were, as if they knew me and with rapid pace my eyes skimmed through the disgusting story.
“Once there was a young boy, a very peculiar boy that immersed himself in the world of fantasy. Though this false reality that he had created for himself did not shelter him from the hard truths of the cruel world rather it morphed his mind, blurring the line from what was real to what was fake.”
I could feel my heart beat begin to accelerate as my eyes narrowed in on the thread with complete befuddlement.
“Then one day the boy understood the secrets to this mystic realm that he found himself in, the epiphany that his closet acted as a gateway to the unworldly and without haste the young boy safeguarded the doors to his closet ready to encounter some entity.”
I froze from utter disbelief and I could feel a bit of trepidation encapsulate my body as I slowly turned to my closet, looking on with despair.
“Another thing the young boy loved doing was reading stories, specific stories; stories that could predict the future so he could tackle the uncertainties of the world”.
I scoffed and giggled at the tale, but, as I read on I realized the story wasn’t done, rather, it came to abrupt halt and the only words that proceeded the final sentence was the same words that have terrorized me for the last few days,
“Before ‘it’ comes”.
It just typed away in real time, scrolling down the thread with every passing second and that’s when I heard the most hideous sound, it was a heavy thud one that startled me; catching me off guard; it came from the closet.
“What the hell, what was that?” I yelped out.
I stared at the closet door as more sounds protruded from the small dark infested space and that’s when my gaze turned back to the laptop. I realized the user resumed their story.
“Without notice the young boy heard a strange sound coming from his closet, he stepped closer terrified and gripped the door handle ready to unearth the devious secrets that laid in the beyond”.
‘bang, bang, bang,’
I heard more insidious noises coming from the closet, I didn’t know what to think and for a moment I felt as if I needed to do what the story said; perhaps I needed to open the door but as I began to walk towards the mystifying closet I heard the most grotesque voice,
“Stop stuttering boy!”
I practically fell back unto the floor from complete fright, it couldn’t be, my mouth gaped open with astonishment; that voice; it was my father.
I turned back to the laptop wanting to know how this story finished and reading the words shook me to my very core, it read,
“It’s here”.
I’ve been sitting here for hours, the monstrous sounds keep penetrating from the small closet, but more horrific I keep hearing my fathers voice calling out to me. The story on Reddit has stopped almost as if it’s waiting for me to open the door, but I won’t give it that satisfaction, instead I will sit here waiting for ‘it’ to get tired, for my father to give in because; I’m no longer a kid and the fear he subjected me to once is a thing of the past and as the voice screams out to me with more intent all I can do is scream back.