Archive for creepypastas

The Scratch Man

Posted in All the Things, Creepypastas and General Writing with tags , on December 30, 2012 by trivialpunk

There’s an old tale told,

Where dreamers are sold,

Of a man both feared and rotund.

 

With a staggering gait

And a bargain of fate

He’ll ask for a pence for his fund.

 

There’s no telling which,

Both the poor and the rich,

Have bled out the back of his van.

 

With all of the pleaders,

Mixed beggars and bleeders,

It’s hard to spot him: the Scratch man.

 

Give, there’s no middle,

Or tricking the riddle,

Lest he put you on his list.

 

He’ll be just out of sight,

In the day and the night,

In the shadows that you must have missed.

 

Then, one day you’ll wake,

And your silence he’ll take:

As agreement: you have done wrong.

 

Then there’s no time,

No help in this rhyme,

But it’s coming, so follow along.

 

First thing, his face,

It will replace,

With an image both stitched and refined

 

Though, like most Eldritch creatures,

Think of the features;

And there’s little left in your mind

 

You’ll remember a smile,

Be okay for a while,

But, this is the time to beware

 

For, though sweaty, and gross,

He’ll be uncomfortably close,

To your person, and you’ll try not to care.

 

It’s your new jovial chum!

You’ll explain to some,

To most, say, he’s long-awaited.

 

But others won’t stand,

His meat-cloying hand,

And leave you to him to be sated.

 

With building momentum,

And no way to prevent them,

You’ll notice a disturbing trend.

 

When you aren’t looking

Whether sleeping or cooking,

You’ll get a scratch that refuses to mend.

 

Then, you’ll start to drip,

From your leg or your lip,

A trickle of unceasing blood.

 

It goes slowly at first,

But, only gets worse,

Until the rivulets resemble a flood

 

When there’s nothing you’ll do,

The Scratch Man will take you,

To let your self pool in his van.

 

Now, once you’re dead,

There’s not much to be said,

Another victim of the Scratch Man

 

One word of warning,

Before you go into mourning,

Or charter the next ocean steamer.

 

We’ve given him life,

Go wherever you like,

Because you and I are the dreamer.

Home From the Holidays

Posted in All the Things, Creepypastas and General Writing with tags , , on December 29, 2012 by trivialpunk

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.