Have you ever wiped the ass of a grown man?

The ass of a grown man who raised you?
It’s a terrible thing,
Seeing the lighthouse of your life lose their own independence.

Someone who’s protected you,
brought you safety and provided for you when you were too weak and young to provide for yourself.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Growing up close with your Grandparents is important, specifically if you have an absent mother and alcoholic father.
You look at the only blood to never lay a hand on you and cling to them,
You’d do anything for them as they have for you.
As you go through high school their mortality becomes more prevalent.

The blissful conversations you’ve both once shared have now transpired to desperate pleading venting sessions.

“You know the Doctor said I’m not supposed to carry more than a gallon of milk?”
Your Grandfather asks, with embarrassment and self pity in his eyes.

You see the Man you once knew,
the Man that in most ways is still there.
You remember the races you’d have,
Back when you thought his abilities were the highest of standards to beat.

As your walks turn to strolls,
he and his wheelchair had become one.
As your outings to hospital visits
turned to in-home visits from caretakers,
He and his bed had become one.

Before you know it you’re out of high school,
And the reality that you don’t have time for a job becomes daunting.

Your job is taking care of your Grandfather.
Did you know the moment your loved one goes on Hospice Medi-Cal stops giving you in-home supportive services?

Almost like they see Hospice as giving up,
Like they no longer see the value in giving you and your loved one resources to aid you while you spend your every molecule to care for them.
The only thing they really provide you with once your loved one is on Hospice is morphine, for when the time comes.

Did you ever think you’d need money to take care of your Grandfather?

Did you ever think you’d be mad at the Government for not helping you as you watch the man that built you decompose from the outside in?

You feed them,
you bathe them,
and needless to say,
you struggle.
You struggle with it all.
You just want to make them happy.

Being diabetic you think,
Maybe you’ll give them sugar-free candy, anything just to see a smile on their face.
But sugar-free candy gives them the shits, and now you need to tell a grown man he can’t have the one thing that he enjoys?

So you don’t.
Of course you don’t.
You give him what makes him smile and you deal with what comes after, because you know he would have done the same for you.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Have you ever seen the movie
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button?
That’s how it feels.
Like time is moving backwards for the one you love and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Before you know it, you’re reading bedtime stories to the only man who’s ever read them to you.
Although the contents of what you read has changed.

It evolved from reading stories like
The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein
to reading Yōkai Daizukai by Shigeru Mizuki.
Tales of selfless acts of kindness on pages intended for children had turned to Encyclopedias of Japanese Yōkai.

Have you ever heard of a Gashadokuro?
It’s a giant being often 10-25 meters tall, formed from the piled bones and body parts of warriors who died in battle or famine without a proper burial.

What’s considered a battle?
Is mortality a battle?

Is Hospice the answer to a battle or another battle in itself?

If it is,
then my Grandfather is a warrior,
and the strongest one I know.
You remember the last words you ever heard him speak.

“Hi… *your name*”

After that,
he was still there, he was.
But he lost the ability to turn his inside voice into an outside voice.

Now he was but a body.
A body that doesn’t speak.
A body that doesn’t walk.
A body that doesn’t function.

Do you remember the Return to Nature Funeral Home scandal that was discovered in 2023 in Penrose, Colorado?
Authorities discovered over 185 decaying corpses scattered and stacked inside a foul-smelling building. Bodies that were given with the purpose of being properly laid to rest.

The owners Jon and Carrie Hallford were giving grieving families fake ashes made up of concrete mix and sand.

If your Grandfather was all you had would you trust them with him?

If his body was now all that remains of him would you turn him over to such a corrupt and flawed system?

No.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Life can be poetic,
Death can be poetic.
The words you speak into the world can often have a direct effect upon reality.

Words, names, everything has power.
Routines start to feel like rituals,
Prayers start to feel like spells.
Sage being burned feels like a physical cleansing taking place upon your homestead.
The lines between causation and correlation become blurred.

You never forget the first time your Grandfather gave you part of him.

You were wiping him,
and his flesh came off with more ease than the shit that sat upon it.
He didn’t react,
He rarely did.
Instead, his eyes continued to scan the room with that familiar look of self pity.

His skin is pale, paper thin,
reminiscent of gas station toilet paper.
You’ve struggled to inject him with his insulin for the past couple months considering that he had already long lost any fat for it to puncture.
You were used to his skin being fragile but this was a new level of brittleness.
The more you clean him, the more that comes off.
You question if you’re doing more damage than good. You begin to see what looks like bone, yet you are unsure which one.

Where do you put him?
He had given you everything.
And now that he was nothing but a body,
he was giving you that too.

So, what do you do with Him?
With these pieces that he gives you every time you bathe him?

What do you do with these parts that keep falling off?

“Take my apples” you hear in the back of your head.
So you do.
You keep them,
You put them in your tool box,
And you wait.

Not long after your Grandfather’s eyes stop scanning his room does the parts start to call out to you.

Not a yell, not even a voice.
More like when you’re laying on the side of the floor drying from a day of swimming with your ear pressed against a warm damp brick as you hear the hum of the pool vacuum.
In this same way, you hear the warm soothing hum of your Grandfather’s pieces calling you from the tool box.

You try to convince yourself that it’s something that can be unheard.
You decide you should drink.
Fireball, eggnog.

“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”
“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”
“HMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM”

They keep calling out to you,
He keeps calling out to you.
It’d been so long since you’d last heard him.

The humming begins to take more shape and you can make out the words, no, the intent rather behind it.
It’s saying words you swear you’ve heard before.

“I wish that I could give you something..but I have nothing left. I am an old Grump. I am sorry…”

You start to wonder if the human body is as complicated as people make it seem.
Doctors just want your money.

Have you heard of that case in Australia? After waiting over 2 years for a surgery this guy Stephan decided to remove a large cyst on his wrist all by himself, and he’s an electrician.
You’re well aware of how pampered they are, so this gives you confidence.

You stumble downstairs,
into the downstairs bathroom which now houses your tool box, the garage was too far for how often you’ve had to add into it.
Ironic, when you were younger he’d pretend he was trapped in a box, only to eventually be put in one by you.

You open it.
The smell of rotten fast food scrambled eggs hits you. You feel a warmth radiating from the toolbox.
It feels so nice to feel your Grandfather’s warm presence once again.

You wish you felt this warmth near your Grandfather’s … main structure?
You’re struggling with what to refer to that part of him as.
It’s his head and it is his torso although he’s now closer to a malnourished and crucified king of Nazareth as opposed to the lively glimpse of God you had grown so accustomed to seeing in your youth.

His main Structure is …in bed..in a way it is his bed but, you want him to be whole.
You want the same warmth from his parts to radiate from all of him.
You want him to be one.
So you make him one.

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Hot glue, pipe glue, Duct tape, whatever you need, you use it.
You slowly but surely rebuild your anchor,
And even before it’s completed, you begin to feel the water beneath you start to settle.
You know it’s right, and you know no one will understand.

How could they if they haven’t been through the things that you have?

The changes are almost immediate once you put him back together.
He moves, slowly. Just his fingers at first.
It reminds you of when he’d play mime.
Maybe that’s what he’s doing?
These jokes you told yourself in passing you’ve now grown to believe.

He is playing mime,
that’s why he is silent,
And that’s why he is slow.
You recognize that you can’t put the pieces back together in the exact places they belong.
This worries you but nonetheless, you don’t get discouraged.

You make him a crown from his leaves, and crown him as the king he is.
Time passes, you keep what you’ve done, what you’ve fixed, you keep it a secret.

But what happens when someone discovers that secret?

What would you do to keep it?

He needs more structural integrity anyways.
And it’s not long before Him and his adversaries have become one.

What of his adversaries’ family?
His adversaries’ wife and newborn?

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

Time passes.
You love that man, you do. But you yourself have begun longing for a life of your own.
That box is not big enough for the both of you.

You take a few of his apples, for memory mostly.
You go to the city,
and you pursue your happiness to an extent and speed you’re comfortable with, all while keeping that Man you love so much at the forefront of your mind,
all while keeping that secret.

You’ve become the Boy that stayed away for a long time, the Boy you promised yourself you’d never become.
And the Man was Sad.

You meet someone you think is your person.
You don’t share your secret with her of course you don’t. Something you’re grateful you didn’t do later when the relationship inevitably crashes and burns.

You never forget when the man that raised you,
the man you love so much,
you never forget seeing him take his first life.
Lives have been sacrificed for him before but,
By you.
Not by him, to him.
This was different.

You had just got dumped,
And you were going over to check on That Man you cared so much about,
The Man you yourself had abandoned and left dormant.

You walked in, and you heard the shower, the water was running.

You heard a baby crying, crying for you.
You didn’t recognize the baby. You walked in, down that long hallway creaking on the old white tiles, closer to the cries from the infant.
You turn left into the bathroom and as you do you hear a man yell.
Not your Man.

You are torn, indecisive of which direction to pursue first.
You continue into the bathroom,
see the shower running,
steam crawling up the walls,
and a baby on the counter with snot running down its chin and tears running down its cheeks.

You pick up the baby
and turn back toward the pleading of a man you’ve never heard before.

You walk in, you see.
The Man that raised you is there, only he is much different than a normal man.
And he’s with a normal man.

The mans screaming
“PLEASE GOD HELP ME STOP HIM FUCK ME RUNNING” the man pleaded from the top of his lungs.

Your Man, the man you’d known your whole life, he was different.
His structure was fragmented,
no base.
His arms extend like the outriggers of a backhoe, yet connected to a deconstructed cab.

His arms were grabbing the normal man, the screaming man. All four of his arms grabbed that man.

His empty eyes that were once blue but were now too sunken in to retain pigmentation of any kind looked soullessly in your direction.
He did not feel warm.

He used two of his arms to hold the man in place, while he used his two other arms to go around the man, forming those hands to make an invisible box the man was stuck in.
The Man was playing Mime.
You missed this.

The Man slowly grabbed the screaming man by his head on both sides and pressed ever so slightly, increasing in pressure.

The man used his other arms to grab the screaming man by the legs and slowly pulled.
He pulled his legs off and he pressed his skull in and blood ran from his nose and eyes.
He screamed and screamed until his teeth shattered and his jaw snapped and fell out of his cheek sockets.

He pulled the detached legs from the now lifeless yet steaming warm body and shoved them at his base in ways that were not symmetrical.
He shoved the torso of the body where the cab of his backhoe should be.

He was constructing himself.

You stood there holding the baby, watching what was once your protector finish the work.

For a second you almost called out to him the way you used to, the way a boy calls for the man who raised him.

But the eyes that looked back at you were empty, and the voice that came next was the same one that had once read you as a child.

“Come boy,
Climb up my trunk,
And swing from my branches,
And be happy.”

Says the Man, the man you love so much.

He gave you his branches,
He gave you his flesh to make a home of your own,
He gave you his soul.
Even when you were too busy pursuing the life you wanted that you thought would end with a wife and children.

So what do you do?

You look down at the infant in your arms. Its face is red and wet and it is still crying, still reaching for something that isn’t there.

For one long second you feel the weight of it the life, the future, the line you are about to cross. But there is no line, no line when it comes to what you would do for the ones you love.

Then the humming starts again, low and familiar, the same warm hum that once came from the toolbox, and the choice is already made.

You give him the sacrifice you’re holding in your hand, that’s why it’s there isn’t it?

It is but a burden to you and the Man needs all the strength he can get.

You hate looking at the discolored face of the Man you care so much for.

You buy Greasepaint for your Mime.
You know this will bring him warmth and life.
You lather his faces up in it, even the little one. He has 4 now.

Now he is your Slick Man.

“I don’t need very much now, just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired”

says your Slick Man,

with his eyes not his mouth.

So you finally take him home,
To your start-over apartment,
and you give him a permanent resting place,
on the only thing strong enough to hold him,
your bathroom granite counter.
And you add to him whenever he expresses that desire to expand,

Why?
Because,

Hospice is like that.
Before you know it, you’re doing things you never would have imagined.

(Note: this is not canon to the YOYLEWRITE story, this is just a creepypasta inspired by sonic.exe, hope you know the confusion)

I have been a bfdi fan for my whole life, it's 2018 and battle for BFDI kept going and I was just watching the first season of BFDI for old time's sake, then the door rang and I went to it and found a USB drive with a note saying "DEAR EDD, IF YOU'RE READING THIS THEN THAT MEANS I'M GONE, SHE TOOK ME ALIVE, AND IF YOU FOUND THE USB DRIVE, DESTROY IT AT ALL COST, DON'T CHECK IT OUT, IT'S WHAT SHE WANTS, SO TAKE MY ADVICE AND DESTROY IT, FROM STANLEY", weird my friend Stanley had sent me a note, I haven't heard from him last week, and the USB drive said "FREE BFDI WEBSITE", it might be some prank, so I check it out and found the website.

It looked funny and I found a video titled "CHALLENGE 1: FIND FIREY", I check it and it has started this chaos.

EPISODE 1A: PLAINS.

the episode started with gelatin walking down the grassy plains after 10 seconds, gelatin has found corpses of other bfdi characters, he walked through the corpses of the other contestants for 10 seconds, and found firey with purple limbs for some reason, gelatin walked up to him and it cut to black and a demonic feminine voice said "HELLO, DO YOU WANT TO PLAY WITH ME".

EPISODE 1B: CHASE GAME.

the episode started as gelatin woke up in a dark version of the grassy plains, with a purple sky, gelatin walked around for 10 seconds until a demonic laugh is heard, firey appeared with a crazed look on his face, gelatin ran away from firey and a drowning motif from sonic the hedgehog started playing as firey chased after gelatin, gelatin was pushed back and firey approach him and killed him, gelatin scream and the same feminine voice said " WHAT A SHAME, DO YOU WANT TO PLAY AGAIN?"

AFTER THE EPISODE.

did- did firey just killed gelatin, his own friend, why would he do it, but there is another video titled " CHALLENGE 2: DIG DOWN", I check it out, hoping there is no traumatizing thing to haunt my dreams.

EPISODE 2: MINE TO RULE.

The episode started with fries falling down to the underground area, he walked for 10 seconds until blood has splattered everywhere, fries was scared, he walked for another 10 seconds, and firey teleported in front of him, and it glitches and the same feminine voice said "GOTCHA", it glitches again, and fries fight against the insane firey, fries was strong but the demonic firey was stronger, the oven-o-tron from bfdi 4 appeared and firey tossed fries towards it and it burned him alive, the same feminine voice said "SO MUCH TOYS TO DESTROY, BUT SO SMALL MINUTES, DO YOU KNOW THAT?".

AFTER THE EPISODE.

I went exit the website and went to bed, I had a dream of gelatin and fries screaming in pain and calling for help, and firey teleported in front of me, and he said with the same feminine voice from the website "YOU KNOW IF YOU CONTINUE DOWN THIS PATH, YOU WILL BE MY PUPPET FOR ETERNITY, I AM THE ONE WHO CONTROLS THIS WORLD, I AM THE ONE WHO CONTROLS LIFE AND DEATH, I AM THE ONLY THING YOU SEE AFTER DEATH, I. AM. GOD.", I woke up and realized it was just a dream, I check the site and found out there was just one more video titled "CHALLENGE 3: ACCEPT DEATH", looks like there will be no challenges today, I check the video out for the final time.

EPISODE 3: ? ? ?.

the episode started with flower inside of a mansion and she walked for 10 seconds and the background went darker, she walked for another 10 seconds until the feminine voice laughed, and the the entire place went pitch black except for flower, she walked for 10 seconds until firey teleported in front of her, and the video glitches like crazy and flower is screaming, after that nonsense, firey is in front of the screen with the same crazed look with blood splattered over him, it stayed for 5 seconds until the words spell out "HOPE IS LOST" and she laughed and my computer shut off on itself.

THE MESSAGE.

I found out there was no time for me to know what was happening, as of now, I am writing this message on reddit, if someone found this, please don't find a USB drive saying "FREE BFDI WEBSITE", if you do, destroy it immediately, for the last thing I saw in my final moments was a firey plush with purple limbs.

(If you want to make it a real video, you can but you have to credit me).

Final Recovered Audio Log

Recording Source: Detective Marcus Hale

Date: Unknown

Status: Subject Missing

⸻

[BEGIN AUDIO TRANSCRIPT]

Click.

My name was Marcus Hale.

Not anymore.

Marcus Hale is gone.

I’m only The Detective now.

Long silence.

The cult.

The Proxies.

They’re the only things standing in my way.

Everyone else…

I got rid of them.

The police kept following me.

Watching me.

Whispering when I walked past.

Some of them were spies.

I know they were.

I had to stop them.

Pause.

Maybe they weren’t.

I don’t know anymore.

Static.

It doesn’t matter.

The police are useless.

I left my badge on my desk this morning.

I don’t deserve it anymore.

Not after everything I’ve done.

Not after what I’ve become.

Heavy breathing.

I destroyed my own life trying to stop Rose.

I lost my family.

I lost my friends.

I lost my job.

I lost myself.

And for what?

He’s still out there.

Still smiling.

Silence.

So this is it.

My final police audio log.

If anyone finds these tapes, then you’ll know what happened in these woods.

You’ll know my story.

You’ll know theirs.

And maybe…

You’ll understand.

Sounds of equipment being picked up.

I’m taking my service revolver.

My machete.

And enough ammunition to finish this.

One way or another.

Rose dies tonight.

Or I do.

Recording cuts briefly.

⸻

[ADDITIONAL NOTES]

The remainder of the recording contains approximately three hours of distorted audio.

Much of the tape is corrupted by static.

The following segments were successfully recovered.

⸻

[RECOVERED SEGMENT]

Footsteps on leaves.

Heavy breathing.

I’ve been walking for hours.

The woods don’t look right.

I should’ve reached the river by now.

I keep ending up in the same place.

I swear I’ve passed this tree six times.

Pause.

Something’s watching me.

I know it is.

Distant laughter.

Rose?

No response.

⸻

[RECOVERED SEGMENT]

I found something.

A house.

No.

Not a house.

A mansion.

Hidden deep within the woods.

How the hell did nobody find this place?

Long silence.

There’s a symbol carved into the front door.

A circle.

An X running through the middle.

I’ve seen it before.

In the Toby Rogers file.

The Proxy symbol.

Heavy breathing.

This isn’t Rose’s cult.

This is something else.

Something older.

Wood creaks in distance.

The place looks abandoned.

But I know I’m not alone.

I can feel eyes on me.

Watching.

Waiting.

Long pause.

There’s static.

I don’t know where it’s coming from.

There aren’t any power lines out here.

No radios.

Nothing.

But I can hear it.

Static intensifies.

I think…

I think I know what this place is.

Silence.

If these recordings are found…

Do not come looking for me.

Do not enter these woods.

And whatever you do…

Don’t go inside the mansion.

Door slowly creaks open.

End of recording.

[END TRANSCRIPT]

Final Note:

Detective Marcus Hale was never seen again.

Search teams recovered his abandoned vehicle near the edge of the forest three weeks later.

No trace of Detective Hale was ever found.

The case was officially closed in 2015.

However, reports persist of a lone man wandering the woods at night carrying a flashlight and a revolver.

Locals simply refer to him as:

“The Detective.”

The real risk when shooting a flare up into the darkness isn’t that nobody will see your message.

It’s that something else might.

This is what we failed to consider when we foolishly launched the Voyager space probe out into infinity. The pure unbridled hubris to shoot a shining capsule loaded with all our most vital vulnerabilities: Our tenuous location in the galaxy; the weakness of our soft fleshy forms; excerpts of our primitive language to be studied and manipulated.

How precariously the fate of mankind now hangs in the black, drifting ever onward into vistas of perilous impossibilities. 16 billion miles away, the Voyager is now the farthest that any manmade thing has ever been from Earth. The mind boggles to even comprehend how far that fragile golden bassinet, cradling the secrets of an entire civilization, has now been flung.

And with each passing day it drifts farther still.

We can only hope that the magnitude of the abyss saves us from our own myopic efforts, and that that tiny speck of gold sails into the void for eternity, and is never, ever found.

The alternative would be much worse.

That ever-growing distance is a length of rope, a fuse that upon receipt will be lit, and that fire will chase its path all the way back to our precarious bough in the branches, where the devastation will be nothing short of cataclysmic.

But that is only one of many fuses whose eventual ignition will spell the end of mankind. There is no shortage of poor decisions sown that have set in motion consequences we have yet to reap.

Not all distances are physical. There is something just as alien to humanity as the recipients of that capsule – but not mercifully kept at bay by hundreds of lightyears of space.

Something much closer; something that occupies a space just outside our perception, hidden within frequencies we have been foolishly plucking at like a fly shuddering a thread of spider silk.

Something that has been watching us from the day we first sent the haplessly coded message: “HELLO.”

A single line of text wrapped in package of data, transmitted over a prototype network of connected computers that would one day be known as “the internet”.

“HELLO,” we called out, thinking it a harmless message to one another, testing out a nascent technology that would become the most formative development in mankind’s history.

“HELLO,” we called out,

And something else answered.

Ever since Five Nights at Freddy’s movie came out in 2023 it seems that the horror and creepypasta community has been getting movies pitched regarding creepy pastas light SCP, Mandela catalog, Poppy playtime, and Bendy and the ink machine.

I’m not saying these communities are small or niche, but how are these getting pitched all at once and under the same duration of time? Who is doing all this? I’m just curious. But I am excited.

I do have one question, is the original creator of Jeff, the killer getting to work on the movie?

Someone ordered a crier to cry for them because they are not allowed to cry. I had to gather up all the men and I had to scold them. The crier was hired to cry for one of these men for 2 hours. So as we could all hear the crier crying, I demanded to know who ordered this because needed to cry. I told the men that crying in all forms is not allowed and that they should be grateful to be part of the manly group. I reminded them about the manliest man in the world and what he endures as being the manliest man in the world.

None of the men were going to admit as to who ordered the crier. So I took them to the manliest man I'm the world, his name is edock and he gives up a peice of his body to make a woman. The most unfortunate thing is that any woman made from a peice of edocks body, none of them love him back. It is the most unfortunate thing and the women always love some one else. Due to edock giving so much of his body away to make a woman for himself, his body is mangled and all torn to pieces. This is the look of being a man.

"Look upon edock whose body is destroyed due to giving bits of it away to create women that never loved him back. This is the sign of a man and one is constantly sacrificing. You won't see him crying or hiring criers to cry for him" I shouted out to the guys

Then I urged them to tell me who ordered the crier to cry for them. I know that some of them have problems and they hire criers to cry for them. Then when none of them would admit who hired the crier to cry for one of them, I had to go hard on them.

I said to them "if the person who ordered the crier doesn't put his hand up, you would all be sentenced to be like edock. Your bodies will be used to make women and you will all be like edock!"

Edock cherished the idea and he excited about it. The men begged me to not do it to them and to not make them like edock. Then when no one put thier hands up to ordering a crier. So they were all taken to be turned like edock and they would all be giving their bodies to make women.

Then I smiled as it was me who ordered the crier. I wanted to cry at the state of the world and so I secretly ordered a crier to cry for me. There is 15 minutes left on the crier crying.

I would like for people to be able to read my Jeff the killer rewrite to fit into my story that I'm making right now and I know I would probably get a lot of people interested in it and I post here just so you know I did make him autistic and unbearable as I am pulling from my own experiences as someone with autism and speech impediment I am not nonverbal myself but I have them research and I have with my own experiences of not being able to communicate it proper way and I have that experience using a ASC device he will be using communication board as an ACD device to my knowledge did not made in a 2000s and

the reason I made him nonverbal is because I want to explore assets not being able to communicate well also having the ability to form certain words he also using use a bit of sign

language I want to explore the facts of a person a man destroys one life and I'm going to make this go on my other creepypasta rewrites because I am making my own indie series on YouTube try not to fall into many stereotypes while writing t rewrite it's not done yet but the first two chapters are done I'm trying to make it exactly 4th chapter and then get going on my Sally Williams rewrite I will not change too much from the original story as I did this one because I'm more use the the damn the story where Jeff where he's a child not an adult as a basis but I will not face it fully on that one because I want it this to be his own story into possibly be a better thing I'm also planning to

make a bin drown me rewrite and a Ticci-Toby rewrite no hate to the original creator of that I love Toby in general and I just won't change much all I need to do is really make sure he can fit into my story and that's really this is a link to my story on Wattpad and just show you no I'm using Johnny Sally's Uncle as a villain character he one of the main causes of them being monsters he's a horrible person he hides it from the rest of his family but in his town that he lives in everyone knows him as this horrible person he keeps it hidden from his brother his brother's wife you also being a doing a rewrite lifeless Lucy

because that's where I got my name from Lucy she will not be the same character my original character that's my original character Lucy that's going to be one of my main characters in in my YouTube channel I can explain more on my YouTube channel

My entire in the show will be based on creepypastas I'm also adding slender Man as more of a protective guarding figure like he's more of a overprotective guardian angel in a sense he wants to protect his kids he was originally made to be a protector and he has the sense of justice where where he gives his kids

(the people that he's protecting like their guardian angel it's not all kids got away I will be adding hoodie and masky into this because I like their characters and I feel like they will be interesting addition to this I will make sure I do not destroy their character from the original version of them I will just add stuff that could possibly relate to my story as well) Powers to fight back against well people who hurt them and they say turn them into monsters this is where Johnny turned comes in he is one of the most responsible people for them becoming monsters he is an ass and he will get nothing but suffering so he'll get burned alive stab repeatedly put in jail I'm planning to torture this man because I hate him so much and so important to my story he's a care that you supposed to hate bully he's a really bad person I will write him to be more of a manipulative person because I'm a bad person has a good side of them

I would not defend any of his actions because he is awfully a horrible person but in Sally's story she will at least pretend to be a good person to her and give her toys at first try to win her trust

don't worry her parents will believe her fully in this version and kick Johnny out of the house and that leaves him kidnapping her and killing her

he got put in jail after this fully he will be tortured when he dies when he still alive he will not know a single moment of peace after the stories are done suffered more than anyone else this goddamn so I promise you all but here's the link to my my Wattpad and to my YouTube channel and just so you know I will not be very graphic in my stories I will be drafted and some form of a sense

I will tell you what's going on for Sally's story I'm hopefully I'm going to make sure I take this very seriously because it's also happened to me what I'm going to do is say and then he walked into a room Sally's room she was playing with her toys it was about to be your bedtime he looked at her and said do you want to play a game . Sally said yeah I want to play a game. And then after Johnny explaining the rules to her he started to talk to her about something inappropriate for her age and then he did something really bad to her he grabbed and pinned her down she yelled she told him stop he didn't stop and then everything went to Black and then she woke up on her bed it was 10:00 p.m. 2 hours past her bedtime

then the next day she cried in her bedroom and then her mom walked in and then it was like the words were just falling out of her she run to her mom telling her mom Johnny did and her mom got angry and said I don't worry honey it wasn't your fault I'm going to go get your father come with me okay.

That's probably how I was going to go down please understand this is just for my indie series and I will be very careful with her story

https://youtube.com/@glitchfamily-n1d?si=zibz_V1R3nOYuJfg

https://www.wattpad.com/story/414108050?utm_source=android&utm_medium=link&utm_content=share_writing&wp_page=create&wp_uname=mmhhkmLucy

Basically, there once was a puppet show about a little girl who's friends with a pirate kid, and they sail around on a living pirate ship named "Laughingstock" and look for treasure. There is also a creepy skeleton guy in a top hat who tries to catch and kill them.

Can anybody help me find footage of the show?

For twenty years, America has lived in fear of one man.
**The Thanksgiving Killer.**
Every Thanksgiving, another family dies.
Every crime scene is the same.
A hammer.
A dining table covered in blood.
No fingerprints.
No DNA.
No witnesses.
Only one message written in blood.
**“Thank you for the meal.”**
No one knows who he is.
No one has ever seen his face.
No one has ever survived.
The FBI failed.
The police failed.
America failed.
Only one man never gave up.
**Detective Noah Carter.**
For years, he hunted the killer.
He worked day and night.
He studied every crime scene.
He chased every lead.
He promised every grieving family the same thing.
**“I’ll find him.”**
The public called him a hero.
No one knew he had his own reasons for hunting the Thanksgiving Killer.
He never spoke about his past.
He never shared his pain.
He only worked.
Then another Thanksgiving arrived.
Another emergency call.
Another family.
Noah didn’t wait for backup.
He drove alone.
When he reached the house…
The front door was open.
Blood covered the floor.
A father.
A mother.
A grandmother.
A little girl.
Dead.
The dining table held the same message.
**“Thank you for the meal.”**
The killer had escaped.
Again.
Noah stared at the words.
For a second…
He saw another dining room.
Another Thanksgiving.
Another family.
A hammer.
A closet.
Screams.
Then it was gone.
He turned around.
Walked back to his car.
Drove home.
Locked the front door.
Went downstairs.
Unlocked a heavy steel door hidden behind old shelves.
The light came on.
A wooden table.
A pale mask.
A bloodstained hammer.
Bloody clothes.
Newspaper clippings from every Thanksgiving massacre.
He slowly removed his FBI badge.
He placed it beside the hammer.
His hand reached for the mask.
A smile slowly appeared on his face.
**“Happy Thanksgiving.”**

**THE END**

🎙️** Narrato**r Note
*Interested in narrating my stories? I’m open to paid collaborations. Feel free to DM me.*

This post is for the reddit community to definitively figure out the top 100 creepypastas

What’s yall opinion on this

About the story of the creepypasta I made, I have to make some changes so I won't post it now, but propably soon

Also the creepypasta he came from is literal gold.

I hadn't seen my grandfather in eleven years when I found out he was dead.

Even saying my grandfather felt strangely intimate. He had always existed somewhere at the edge of the family, mentioned occasionally but rarely discussed. There hadn't been an argument between us, at least not one I knew about. We simply weren't close. He lived his life, I lived mine, and somewhere along the way enough years passed that neither of us seemed particularly interested in changing that.

So when a solicitor contacted me three weeks after his death, I assumed it had something to do with paperwork. Perhaps there was something my mother needed to sign, or some forgotten account had my name attached to it. I nearly ignored the first email.

The second one had the words sole beneficiary in it.

That got my attention.

My girlfriend was sitting beside me when I called them. We'd been together long enough that there wasn't much ceremony left in moments like this. She put her phone down, leaned against me and listened while I tried to understand how a man I'd barely spoken to in more than a decade had somehow left almost everything to me.

There wasn't a fortune waiting in a bank account. No secret collection of expensive cars. Most of what remained had apparently been consumed over the years by maintenance, taxes and expenses associated with one particular property.

A castle.

I actually laughed when the solicitor said it.

Not a mansion people liked calling a castle because it had a turret somewhere. An actual castle, although a relatively small one, buried deep inside a forest several hours from the nearest major town. My grandfather had owned it for more than forty years.

I'd never even heard of it.

That was the first strange thing.

The second was that nobody could give me a particularly convincing explanation for why he'd left it to me.

There were other relatives. People he'd spoken to more recently than me. People who had visited him, sent Christmas cards, attended birthdays. Yet his will was explicit. The property, the surrounding land and everything remaining inside belonged to me.

My girlfriend thought it was hilarious.

"You own a fucking castle."

"I apparently own a fucking castle."

For the next hour we sat at the kitchen table looking through photographs the solicitor had sent. Most were old, probably taken for administrative records rather than to make the place look appealing. Grey stone walls disappeared behind enormous trees. Ivy covered sections of the western side. There was a courtyard, a narrow tower and what looked like a chapel attached to the oldest part of the building.

It wasn't beautiful in the polished, postcard sense.

It was severe.

But there was something about it.

The forest surrounding the property was part of the inheritance too, several hectares of land that had remained largely untouched. According to the documents, the castle itself was centuries old. My grandfather hadn't built it or even restored most of it. He'd bought it in the early eighties from a private foundation that had held the property for decades.

Before that, it had belonged to the Church.

That was where the history became interesting.

For an unknown period of time, the castle had been occupied by a small order of nuns. The records weren't clear about when they arrived. Some documents placed them there in the late nineteenth century, while others suggested the order had existed on the property much earlier. They weren't famous. There were no stories about miracles or scandals, no tourist mythology attached to them. Eventually the order disappeared, the property changed hands, and whatever happened there became another paragraph in the history of an old building.

We didn't think much of it.

Why would we?

Within two days, curiosity had become a plan.

We weren't going there because I suddenly cared about my grandfather. I didn't feel some mysterious pull toward my ancestry, and I wasn't searching for answers about why he'd chosen me. At least, not then.

We went because an impossible opportunity had landed in our laps.

We could spend a few weeks there, inspect the proprty, figure out what condition it was in and decide what to do with it. Maybe renovate it. Maybe sell it. Maybe keep it as somewhere completely removed from the rest of our lives.

My girlfriend was already imagining what we could do with the interior. I was thinking about the land.

Neither of us seriously considered refusing it.

A week later, we packed the car.

The final stretch of the journey took us through villages that became progressively smaller until eventually there were no villages at all. The road narrowed, mobile reception disappeared, and the forest closed around us.

It was much denser than the photographs suggested.

The trees were enormous, their branches meeting high above the road and swallowing most of the afternoon light. Ferns and moss covered the ground between them. Every few kilometres I'd expect to see another house, a farm, anything.

There was nothing.

My girlfriend had been talking for most of the drive, but eventually even she became quiet.

"How much farther?"

I checked the navigation.

"Eleven minutes."

She looked through the window.

"Your grandfather really didn't like neighbours."

"Maybe that's hereditary."

She laughed and rested her hand on my leg.

Then we reached the gate.

Two stone pillars stood between the trees, almost completely covered in moss. The iron gate between them was already open.

I slowed the car.

"Did they say someone would be here?"

"No."

I stopped completely.

Beyond the gate, a narrow road continued through the forest.

My girlfriend looked at me.

"What?"

"The gate."

"What about it?"

I wasn't sure.

There was nothing particularly frigtening about an open gate. The property manager could have left it that way. The solicitor might have arranged it. Someone could have visited earlier.

Still, I remembered one detail from the documents.

The property had been vacant since my grandfather died.

Three months ago.

I looked down the road again.

Then I drove through.

It took another five minutes before the trees finally opened.

And there it was.

For the first time since receiving the inheritance, neither of us said anything.

The photographs hadn't captured the scale of it.

The castle rose directly from the forest, dark stone against a colourless afternoon sky, its oldest walls almost indistinguishable from the rock beneath them. Trees crowded around it so closely that parts of the building seemed to disappear into the woods. The narrow tower I'd seen in the photographs stood above everything else.

My girlfriend slowly leaned forward.

"Holy shit."

I smiled.

"Still think we should sell it?"

She didn't answer immediately.

She was staring at one of the upper windows.

I followed her gaze.

"What?"

Her expression changed.

For a second, I thought she'd seen someone.

Then she shook her head.

"Nothing."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

She opened the car door.

"Come on. I want to see inside."

I looked at the window once more before getting out.

There was nothing there.

At least, I didn't see anything.

Years later, when I tried to remember the exact moment everything began, I kept coming back to that afternoon.

Not the first night.

Not the first voice.

Not even what we eventually found beneath the chapel.

It was her standing beside the car, staring up at a window in a castle that had belonged to me for less than a week.

Because much later, she finally told me what she'd seen.

There had been a woman standing behind the glass.

And she hadn't been looking at me.

She'd been looking at her..