Home From the Holidays

I’m trying my hand at writing creepypastas, because I like the freedom that the short, crisp narratives encourage, which clash so profusely with my normally verbose style. I’ll post my efforts here, as well. Enjoy!

Sophie slid the key into the lock with a measured sigh of relief. It had been a long Christmas holiday away from home and away from Steve. He’d been looking after her cat while she was away and, while she’d already intended to repay the favour in a number of “creative” ways, she was doubly touched by the box of, her favourite, Toffifees he’d left on her pillow.

“Sweets for my Sweetie,” he’d written in the stark, but loopy, hand that perfectly reflected his personality.

She smiled to herself. Sophie knew they’d fought a little before she’d left, mostly over his decision to stay home, away from her prying family, for the holidays. It had made things a bit awkward when they asked about him, but she’d explained that he was very sick and needed to stay home. In a perverse way, it made him seem more sympathetic, because now he was at his flat, but alone and sick, for the holidays. It helped that they hadn’t met him yet. It had been a boon as she’d scrambled to scrape together an explanation for the kind of life she’d made out of reviewing games with Steve.

“Just got in, when’re you coming round? I can’t wait to attack you when you get home… sweetie ;)” she texted him before throwing her phone on the bed with a tired sigh and shrugging off her travel clothes.

It seemed like he’d stayed the night at least once, probably last night, because the sheets and pillows were a mess, and the bathroom smelled of Febreze and too much fruity soap. Sophie had long ago stopped holding out for a man that understood how loofahs and lathering worked. He must have just stepped out, because the faucet was still dripping behind the curtain and the room held the slight damp of a hot shower.

Her phone binged from the other room. If it was Steve, then she’d need to know how much time she had before he got to her place. Maybe a shave was in order?

No such luck. He’d replied with a, “Coming right over! See you in five :3”

“Crap.”

“Alright, door’s open!” she replied.

Her legs wouldn’t be silky smooth, but it was his own fault for not giving her any time. She’d easily forgive that, though, because she’d missed him just as much. So, she grabbed a towel from the linen closet, dashed into the washroom, and pulled back the curtain, retching in horror.

A naked, masticated torso lay silently in the tub. Stretched across the faucet was the remnant of the skin of Steve’s face, with two brutally carved X’s where the eyes should be. Blood had been cleaned from each and every wound… even the cat-bites. Overwhelmed with disgust, fear, and utter bewilderment, Sophie sank to her knees with retching sobs that threatened to turn into vomit.

Not now, though. She chastised herself. She needed to focus. Call the police. Coughing, she pulled herself shakily to her feet and ran for her phone, locking the bedroom door behind her.

A new text reading, “I’m downstairs, sweetie <3” flashed across her screen and she understood, from the sounds on the staircase, that help was too far away.

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