To whoever is reading this, don’t. Look, I understand you’re looking for entertainment, whether because you’re bored, have nothing to do, or just want something to read. But please, read something else! Click the back button, click the X in the corner, or better yet shut down the computer! I don’t care just please, don’t read this!
But you’re still reading, aren’t you? Of course you are. It’s human nature to be curious. No matter how many times the warnings are thrown in your face, you still go on. You still continue. Well, fine then. Keep reading. Just don’t blame me for what happens to you after this.
I don’t want to write this. I really don’t. But I have to. I’ve already been through way too much to not finish this and I don’t want to live through it again. So, I’ll write.
My name is J.T. I’m nineteen, I’m nearly six feet tall, I’ve got green eyes, and curly dirty blond hair. So in other words, I’m a regular kid just like you (and I would have never bothered giving my description had this thing not threatened me). And like you, I enjoy reading the many creepy stories from this site, Creepypasta. And I have always wanted to have my very own. And in a way, I did get what I wanted since, after all, you’re reading this. But believe me when I say this, I wish I hadn’t. Things have changed and not for the better.
But enough stalling. I’ll get to why you’re here, why you’re reading this, and why this story even exists.
It began with me wanting to write a story for Creepypasta, but not just any old story; I wanted to write something profound. Famous. Amazing. I wanted to write a story that would go viral in a matter of minutes like Ben Drowned, The Rake, or Slenderman. I wanted my very own classic. So for days I sat in front of my computer trying to think of something fantastic to write. Something that would leave a chill in the bones of its readers and leave them sleepless at night. But nothing ever came. I did this for nearly a month, yet the idea never showed itself. Until one day.
I was sitting at my desk in my bedroom, staring at the blank, empty white space of the word document on my screen. The cursor was blinking, patiently waiting for me to write words, to give it a story. But I was still clueless. I could not come up with anything to write. Nothing would come. This frustrated me so much that out of anger I cried out, “Why can’t I think of anything!? Please, just give me some bloody inspiration!”
Fuming, I told myself to calm down, breathe, and relax; but it wasn’t working. So, I decided to go to the Creepypasta wiki. Surely one of its short stories would calm me down or give me an idea at the least.
That’s when it happened. I’d just read through the last line of one of the stories when a pop-up appeared. That by itself was strange. There was no reason for a pop-up to come from this site, it was nonprofit. It didn’t advertise. And, I knew for a fact that the blocker was on, so how did this one get past it?
I was about to close it when the text caught my eye.
“Do you truly wish for a story?” it asked.
That confused me for a moment, but I didn’t care. I thought maybe the owners of the site had finally wised up and chosen to advertise writing. I clicked out of it and scrolled over for another story to read. Five or six minutes later, another pop-up, well, popped-up.
“I will ask again,” it said. “Do you wish for a story?”
“Okay, what is this?” I murmured. I didn’t like this. No advertisement does that. But I chose to ignore it and clicked out of it anyway; it wasn’t helping my already soured mood. But it just didn’t give up.
For a third time it showed:
“Do you wish for a story?”
Okay, I was already ticked as it was, and this stupid pop-up wasn’t helping.
“Yeah, I do. Now shut up you piece of crap!” I yelled. I closed the site and clicked out the browser, but, to my surprise, a text box formed on my desktop. Now I definitely knew this wasn’t from the internet. What the heck was this?
“Very well,” it said, “but be forewarned: once you accept this, there will be no going back. Do you still wish for a story?”
I was stunned. I didn’t know how to react, except stare at the screen. Had someone hacked my computer? Was this a prank of some sort? If it was, how could it hear me?
I took an uneasy breath, then in a low voice said, “Yeah, I do. Who are you?”
The text in the box vanished, then began to write.
“Good,” it said, “your story will be given. For the next seven days and seven nights each piece will be presented to you, beginning tonight.”
“What? What are you talking about? Who are you? How can you even hear me?”
The text box disappeared.
“Hello? Are you there? Hello?”
It didn’t answer.
I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t know what to make of this.
Is this a joke?
It had to be, so I dismissed it.
That was a mistake.
Now, before I go on. Know that this is your absolute last chance to turn back now. Once you read this, you’re done. I can’t help you. No one can. The seven logs below are seven days of hell, horror, and terror.
Read at your own risk.