Scratch

Pacemaker

It started when I was 16. I was an only child, living with my mother and father. Every night I would wake up at 2:16 am exactly. No dopiness, no tiredness, nothing. I would sit bolt upright, for a reason unknown to me, and I would listen. I would see nothing in the pitch black of my room, I would hear nothing in my silent house. For 5 minutes, until 2:21 am, I would listen hard. At first, I heard nothing. 5 minutes of being totally alert, totally unable to switch off, hearing not a single sound. Then, as quickly as the alertness came, it faded, and I’d fall fast asleep.
This went on for a few weeks, every night the same. I didn’t think much of it. I wasn’t scared very easily; this was more puzzling than anything else. Around a month or so into the awakenings, I heard the first sound. It was so close to being inaudible, I almost thought I imagined it. A soft footfall outside my door, on the stairs leading up to my attic room.

The next night, another step taken, yet still incredibly quiet, as if on tiptoes. Still, I was more puzzled than scared, but it was starting to become a little strange. This progressed, night after night, the footsteps growing louder and louder, closer and closer up the 12 stairs to my room.

On the fifth night, I tried to get out of my bed to investigate during the awakening. But I couldn’t move. It didn’t feel like paralysis; it felt like my body wasn’t my own, as if I had no control; as if all I had was consciousness and no physical input. I started to become scared.

The next day I stayed off school ‘sick’. I was beside myself with fear for that night. I finally fell asleep at around 2:00 am.

And I woke up the next day, like nothing had ever happened. I had not awakened during my sleep. I felt more refreshed than I had done in weeks. I was beside myself with relief, and had a great day. The next night, again, I slept like a log. It was over.

The next month was probably the best of my life. I did well in all my classes, I got a girlfriend. I had good luck and generally just had a good time.

It was after a particularly good Saturday spent with my girlfriend that I went to bed, the happiest guy alive. I couldn’t wait for the next day. I have never felt the same chills as I felt that night when I woke up at 2:16am, sitting bolt upright, unable to move, staring blindly into space, listening. 4 minutes of complete silence passed; with every second, a stronger chill surged down my spine; with every second, another bead of cold sweat slipping down my neck.

At 2:20, with the loudest crash, I heard my door being ripped from its hinges and smashed against the far wall. Footsteps thudding towards me with unstoppable intent, louder than you can possibly imagine, closer and closer until they stopped dead. A cold rush of air washed over me, chilling me to the bone. My eyes, wide with terror, searching for anything, anything to focus on. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then suddenly, emblazoned in my vision in white, etched, print the words ‘I have arrived’, along with the most horrible sound I have ever heard. If you have ever heard the screams of foxes in the night, imagine them at a much lower pitch... An inhuman, guttural scream, the scream of an agonized, tortured soul. I remember the exact sound to this very day.

Beyond that, there was nothing. I fell asleep at 2:21 am, and woke up the next day too terrified to do anything. I sat hunched on my bed. All day. Unmoving. When night came, I was wide awake. I never wanted to sleep again. Time ticked by on the clock... 1:30... 1:45... 2:00... 2:10... 2:15... Then I blacked out. I don’t remember anything that happened that night.

I awoke to find myself standing in my parents room. Simply standing there, arms by my sides, relaxed. I had no idea how I got there, which in itself was slightly alarming, as I had never been prone to sleepwalking. But the disturbing thing was that I didn’t feel odd. I didn’t feel out of place, staring down blankly at the faces of my sleeping parents. I couldn’t help but notice how vulnerable they looked.

Eventually I snapped out of my trance and went downstairs. I vaguely remember making breakfast. I ate food but tasted nothing. My senses seemed to be dulled, my head hazy. Despite the horror of the night before last, I did not feel scared... I didn’t feel... well... anything. I went to school that day, concentrating on nothing, accepting a detention wordlessly, coasting along. Never once making an attempt to talk to anyone about anything. School ended and I walked home.

That night my phone rang. I watched it. I remember just... just watching it ring out, no desire to answer, no desire to even check who it was. Presumably, it was my girlfriend, as she came round later that night. I was upstairs, just sitting on my bed, staring at the wall. She tried to talk to me, I didn’t answer. She lay down and pulled me down with her. She hugged me, trying to coerce me to respond. But one thing really annoyed me, and I don’t know why. She kept telling me I was really cold. Really, really ****ing cold. Eventually I turned over to look at her. At first she smiled as my eyes met hers; finally, a response. The smile quickly faded. I felt no love for this girl. I felt like I did not know her, and this must have been reflected in my eyes. Empty, devoid of caring. All I could see was her vulnerability, lying there next to me.

She fell asleep at about 1am. I just watched her like that, for a full hour. At 2am I closed my eyes, not even a hint of anxiety. I counted those 16 minutes, second by second, and thereafter I remember nothing.

I woke up in a pool of blood as dawn broke. I looked to my right to see my girlfriend. Her chest had been ripped apart, her ribs hanging loose at either side. Unidentifiable organs spilling out. I felt nothing. I rose from my bed, covered in blood. I followed a trail of red, arterial blood out of my room, down my stairs, into my parents’ room. My father’s head lay bloodied and caved-in beside his still-oozing neck. A giant gash split his back in two. His right leg rammed down my mother’s throat, her jaw unhinged and her legs and arms crumpled at impossible angles. I felt nothing.

I turned around and walked downstairs. I noticed a trail of blood left in my wake. You could smell it. Smell it seeping into the carpet, the cloying smell of iron pervading the house. Even through my numbed senses. I went and made myself breakfast. Another tasteless meal. In fact, it was getting worse. I could taste less than the day before. I went back upstairs and stared at the wall for hours, I think. By now I keep forgetting what happened... My mind just became cloudy and unaware of what was happening. Eventually, I just lay back down in the pool of blood, next to my eviscerated girlfriend.

I remember reading 2:16 on the alarm before I went to sleep that night. I remember waking up standing in front of the wall next to my parents’ room. From the door frame to where I was standing at the wall, neat rows of blood-colored handprints. I couldn’t see much, but looking down I saw my hand smeared in red. My hearing was almost gone. My touch was so dull that I felt completely separate from the rest of the world. Trudging over to my parents’ room, I should have been horrified. Not only because of the mangled corpses, but because of the fact that every wall, the floor and even the ceiling were covered in handprints, my handprints. Inked in my parents coagulating blood.

The last thing I remember doing was going downstairs and clumsily searching through my drawers; finally finding a rusty old knife that had dropped behind the back of one drawer, then making my slow way upstairs. Then, nothing.

A neighbor eventually complained about the smell coming from our house. The police arrived shortly afterwards. I pity anyone who had to step into that house. Nearly a week’s decay would have made the smell utterly overwhelming. They thought we were all dead at first. But, when I had been transported outside, upon closer inspection, I was still alive; somehow.

They had found me on the stairs with both legs and my left arm lying beside me, detached. There were no clean cuts, nothing surgical about the procedure. They could not explain how I had not died of shock or blood-loss, but as they discovered my only remaining limb grasping that blunt, rusty table knife, they knew what had done it.

I’ve been in the institution for 2 weeks now. I have never felt better. I feel... normal. I’m like any other person now. Any one of you. I could be living a normal life, feeling like this. Like every one of your existences. But I’m not. I’m writing this final little bit, waiting for an operation to save my digestive system. See, there’s an unidentified metal object in there somewhere that has to come out. A little box-shaped thing. Well, I say unidentified... I only just remembered that my girlfriend had a pacemaker.

Someone should post "Mr. Mix".

bananaman99 wrote:

samid11 wrote:

NeilWest wrote:

Who's Masky? Anyway, I doubt BEN has his good side - he can [it's the f word] people's minds just by using a bootleg game cartridge!

Masky is the "stalker" from marble hornets. He wears a white mask with black eyes, lips, and hair. Oh, and BEN is actually sort of a pitiful character in my oppinion. After all, he's been trapped in a game since his death...

I thought the stalker from marble hornets was slendy....MY WHOLE LIFE IS A LIE D:

No, Slendy forces Masky to get information from people (Masky was his first victim) and Masky works for him out of fear. In fact, he was eaten by Slendy and the experiance drove him into insanity.

G0D_M0D3 wrote:

The Seven Deadly Sins:

I'm writing this so that I can keep a bit of sanity...this is my suicide note...it's the end for me...I just want this down so that others may see why death brings suffering...why you can't let one person die in your life...

My daughter got home from school at about 2 PM. Her being in a kindergarten class, they sent the little tykes home before the others. I thought that I could get in an hour or two into some TV movies. I finished at around 1:40, and exactly after I turned the television off, a ring came at the door. I walked to the door and saw a little girl with her mother, selling girl scout cookies. I happily bought them and started to eat the Tagalongs (I gave the little girl a tip, when delivering cookies in the heat of Florida, you have to have a bit of decency). About 25 minutes later, my daughter got home. "Hello daddy!" she said, throwing herself on me. I chuckled and got her some lunch. It was definitely a normal day. Until that night..

At around 1:40 A.M. my daughter screamed bloody murder. I quickly jumped out of bed and ran to her room. I threw the door open, and saw my daughter huddled up in a little ball on the corner of her bed. I grabbed her quickly and turned the light on in her room. What I saw was completely chilling...I saw, written in red paint on the wall: LUST, GLUTTONY, GREED, SLOTH, WRATH, ENVY AND PRIDE; SINS OF YOUR FOREFATHERS SINS YOU CAN'T HIDE. What the **** was that supposed to mean?! The seven sins?

My daughter started to hyperventilate, and she started saying "daddydaddydaddydaddy" over and over again...I grabbed her asthma inhaler and tried to give it to her, but she was so far into an asthma attack that she really couldn't do much. I ran to my car with her and placed her in the back seat, and drove as fast as I could to a nearby hospital. We were instantly admitted, and she was saved from going into cardiac arrest...it turned out that my daughter at five had heart disease.

It was about seven years later (and during those seven years) that things started to really get bad. It was Christmas time, I had a wife named Samantha, and a son named Gregory. My daughter, Haley, was 12 years old, Greg was about 4. I was loving my life. The kids were happy, Samantha and I were happy. It was great...except for the years previous...

The first year, all of the woman around me became aroused and flirted with me constantly. You wanna know why that was bad? Because every one that I rejected killed themselves in some horrid way...one gutted herself with a kitchen knife, and another hung herself from the gutter on her house. The second year, my daughter became infatuated with food, so much that her heart condition worsened. She was rushed to the hospital over 10 times during the course of the year...but when the year was up, she became anorexic, and stopped eating much altogether.

The third year, my house went into foreclosure, and I became very stingy with money and food. We later found out that the landowner of our house still had rights to our land, and was stealing money out of my credit card for two years. I'm lucky that I met Samantha, and she let my daughter and I move into her home. We married in December, and had my son in October.

The fourth year, I was called by many talent agencies, asking about my amazing singing skills, which I had shown off when I sat in with a band a month before the year started. The thing is, when I said no, they would keep calling me and calling, until they became violent, calling me foul names. One of them even tried to kill me right outside my house. He shot at me with a handgun and clipped my ear.

The fifth year, I became inexplicably angry at my daughter and wife for everything. I became abusive in the month of December, but in that same month, I fell down the stairs and suffered brain damage, but so little damage that it gave me little memory of the year past. I can only recall this because my daughter told me about it.

The sixth year, my daughter became jealous of my son, getting all the attention. But I tried to tell her that babies need more attention than ten-year-olds. She became angry and violent. She eventually ran away. I called the Center For Missing And Exploited Children. They found her in the abandoned house next to us, hiding in one of the closets. She was starving, and eventually kicked her anorexia.

It was the seventh year now, and nothing had really happened at all. That is until that night...at exactly 1:40 AM that the **** hit the fan. I heard my daughter scream, a bloodcurdling scream. I quickly ran to her room, and saw something that broke my heart and terrified me...a man stood looking at her bed, holding a sleek knife...he grabbed her and...ripped her open with the blade...oh god...it's hard to even think about it...but he took all that remained of her...Jesus Christ...I was so proud of her...my baby...

It's the eighth year now...my wife left me, my son barely knows me...and I curse myself every day. My late wife, who beared my daughter...I now know that it was you who gave me this curse. You always hated me...I couldn't save you...I never could...and you hate me for it. So now...I end it all...




--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Hello, this is Gregory, the boy in the story. I'm 36 now, and I was given this note from the police about a year ago. This suicide note was written by my father back in 1980. I was only five years old. When my mother got the news about my father, she cried for about an hour. I was alone too...and it wasn't until ten years later that my mother gave me the real story.

She cried crocodile tears when she heard the news. The only emotion she harbored for my dad was hate. See, my father did all of those horrible things you see in the story. My father went insane at 1:40 AM in 1973, the date of his first wife and his anniversary. The psychologist he saw when his wife died suspected that his wife's death was all his fault. He created an excuse, and based his so-called 'revenge' on the seven deadly sins.

The night of his wife's anniversary, he gave his daughter a shot of steroids, which gave her the heart condition.

He killed every woman who flirted with him for one year, making their deaths look like suicides.

The second year, he stuffed his daughter full of food, making her eat the largest portions. He became upset that it did not kill her, so he made her throw up her food after every meal when the year was up.

The third year, he sold his house, and let my mom use money from his credit card. He also became abusive for many years after.

The fourth year, he claimed that he was the most talented singer ever, calling talent agencies and such. When they turned him down, he would call them foul names, and one man he even tried to kill. He shot at the man right outside of his studio, clipping him in the ear.

The fifth year, he tried to kill my mom and late sister many times, but my mother retaliated, pushing him down the stairs. He had acquired short term memory loss and couldn't remember much about that month.


The sixth year, he drove my sister out of the house, calling her 'stupid *****' or '****ing *****'. She hid in the house next door when my father called a lost child agency. The forensics team quickly turned her back into our house, which my mother frequently called '****'.

The seventh year, my dad was very tame. He became a very nice man, happy, and was proud of his behavior, until 1:40 A.M. On the night of his wife's anniversary, he killed my sister with a kitchen knife and fled with her remains to the Bahamas. I still cannot believe it to this very day, and at the beginning of the eighth year, he killed himself.

The police force says that it was suicide, he created a makeshift noose out of organic material.

They all lie, because I know the rope was my sister.

_______________________________________________________

Good, or no? I think I got most of the swears.

I'll be posting Pacemaker soon.

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I'm going to watch Blue's Clues all day to recover from that.

The problem with Creepypastas is that they are so fun and exciting to read, but they end up haunting you and your dreams.

-ReadyRobin

I'll post a clean version of cupcakes:

Pinkie pie invites Rainbowdash over. Rainbowdash has an 'accident'. Rainbowdash is dead. All ponies are sad. The end.

Last edited by G0D_M0D3 (2012-04-14 13:40:36)

banana500 wrote:

attempt at a true creepypasta!

A true creepypasta is a scary story that then gained popularity and went throughout the internet, not a scary story simply ON the internet.

I quote myself: People are STILL writing vaguely creepy and not scary stories and trying to say it is creepypasta?

hungergamesfanatic wrote:

What is Creepypasta?

Look at the post above yours.

Last edited by Spy-TF2 (2012-04-14 14:29:32)

NeilWest wrote:

Well, Squidward has scared me so much that I actually prayed so that God could help me get that [hey look, it's the d word] picture out of my head. Whoever wrote Squidward's Suicide must really be glad about themselves.

Or ashamed.

G0D_M0D3 wrote:

samid11 wrote:

NeilWest wrote:

Well, Squidward has scared me so much that I actually prayed so that God could help me get that [hey look, it's the d word] picture out of my head. Whoever wrote Squidward's Suicide must really be glad about themselves.

Or ashamed.

Their mother is in an ansylum, not proud.

There's a video of Squidwards Suicide... I'd watch it, but...

bananaman99 wrote:

samid11 wrote:

G0D_M0D3 wrote:

Their mother is in an ansylum, not proud.

There's a video of Squidwards Suicide... I'd watch it, but...

It's just an audio clip of a dude reading the pasta with the thumbnail in the background...how disappointing 

No, I mean the video called "SPONGEBOB LOST EPISODE: SQUIDWARDS SUICIDE REAL FOOTAGE". My friend says it's terrifying.

bananaman99 wrote:

samid11 wrote:

bananaman99 wrote:

It's just an audio clip of a dude reading the pasta with the thumbnail in the background...how disappointing 

No, I mean the video called "SPONGEBOB LOST EPISODE: SQUIDWARDS SUICIDE REAL FOOTAGE". My friend says it's terrifying.

LINK. NOW.

Just search it on youtube...

bananaman99 wrote:

samid11 wrote:

bananaman99 wrote:

LINK. NOW.

Just search it on youtube...

It wasnt scary at al, it was incredibly unrealistic.

What was it?

Animeboy975 wrote:

samid11 wrote:

Someone should post "Mr. Mix".

I read it.
It was a great read. It creeped me out 0.0 The thumbnail wasn't bad,though.

There's a creepier thumbnail on Mrcreepypasta's reading of it on youtube, but it's not scary. Just a tad bit unnerving.

Last edited by samid11 (2012-04-15 17:06:08)