4
These documents were found in some dilapidated old files in a police station basement. For the sake of everyoneo s safety, including mine, everyone in this story is going to be anonymous, except for the things he encounters. And I really dono t mean to ruin the atmosphere, but if you were wondering, yes, I did do the above artwork. It will continue being done by me until further notice.
I asked if I could go through some forgotten old cases for a school report on history. The Chief, being a generous and liberal person, led me into a great morgue of dusty files. I found a file under o So that looked interesting and more than a bit thick. I found that the primary source of its weight and thickness was a leather-bound diary dated back to 2010, far too recent to be with any of these files. I flipped through the papers and made careful note of the words o murdero , o manslaughtero , o excorsisto , and o vigilanteo . I thought of Excorcist and the image of a grey-haired creepy old Catholic guy popped into my head. Murder, manslaughter, and vigilante didno t seem to apply to even the creepiest of old Catholic guys, and even the oddest of murderers or vigilantes wouldno t happen to know how to perform an excorsismo ¦ Would they? I ended up hurriedly putting my curiosity away, as I didno t want to be seen snooping around a fairly recent murder case by a police chief, (as who knows what kind of suspicion that would provoke?) I went to the police chief, and pointed out the date, which was also on the papers and files, pretending that was the only thing I saw. The chief got this look on his face as he scanned the contents of the file as if the file were threatening to smother him in his sleep, and then he smiled politely and said that it was solved some time last year, and that I could even borrow it to write my report on our towno s history, though now I wasno t sure I wanted to. There was something fake in his smile and something odd in his eyes. And as I climbed the stairs with the case file I could have sworn I heard him say o Tread lightly, my friendo ¦o Never have I had such creeping suspicions before. If it could unnerve a perpetually armed man of athletic build with yearso training in self defence and use of a gun like that, it was highly likely that I would end up in a white padded room sporting the famous tan leather coat with extra-long sleeves, strapped and buckled look, if not be raving my vocal chords to the point of snapping on suicide watch for at least a whole weekend. Not that Io m a wuss or anything, but people always looked at chief in many ways the same as the internet looks at Chuck Norris, and if even the likes of Chuck Norris were to act like that towards whatever forbidden knowledge is in these files, then I may as well be the Lovecraftian protagonist that goes mad and shoots himself in the end. Refusing to apply myself to that metaphor, not wanting to return the file and weird him out with an oblong excuse for being too scared to open these files for the way he looked at them, I resolutely went home, got out my computer to write whatever report I could make of this, and opened the file, blowing off a thin layer of dust. I noticed I missed a few spots and quickly blew those spots off too, and another spot, and another, until I realized these spots were imaginary and that I was only procrastinating the opening of the diary, which I imagined to look more like a foreboding tome, and the reading of the case papers, which may as well have been, in my paranoia and anxiousness, Caucasian human skins, tanned and tattooed with bloody lettering. I again shook this feeling, however powerful, and with a strange sensation, a combination of fear and relief, and confusion, I read the papers. I was surprised at the youth of this man. He was, according to the mug shot, 6 foot 8, and powerfully built, but a cadaverous sort of pale. He had one deep blue eye, the left one, and one grey eye,(not blind) the blue one having a jagged scar running down from his forehead, just missing it, and continuing down to his jawline. Io m no good at physiognomy or that kind of thing; if I was Io d be able to give you a better description, but he had the kind of face youo d expect a Viking to have, a powerful, defined, but sleek-ish jaw-line that you would expect was unbreakable, high cheek-bones, and a vertically short, broad, protruding forehead that almost shadowed the eyes, but emphasized his eyebrows. He had the kind of nose with a bridge that made it look like there was a bit of a dip separating the top of his nose from the end of his brow, and the tip of his nose turned down just enough to give the impression of a kitchen knife, but not enough to look like it was turned all the way down or anything. The way it was turned down gave me the impression that his nose was broken at one point, and all thing considered, it probably was. He had a Russel Brand kind of beard, it covered his jaw and mouth below the nasal level but went up to the rest of his hair as soon as it left his face. It was black as well as his eye-brows which were thick and made him look constantly displeased, even aggressive, though it looked like he was trying to appear calm, and he probably was. He had wild (not like 80s or anything, but unkempt to say the most) jet black hair down to his shoulders. He looked like he had spent a long time hiding from someoneo ¦ or (Io d hate to think) been homeless for a month or two. I bet you thought I was about to suggest that he was evading something anomalous right then and cheesily foreshadow whatever the heck was wrong and bind into the plot the fact that this was a full-blown creepypasta right then and there. But any momentum I had or will have over the course of this story has been brutally murdered here and now, and Io ll let it remain so, because this man, (Ieto s say his name is Stephen, which it isno t) was a total boss. Io ll also let the diary/journal demonstrate that.
Monday, January 1st, 2009. 8:20 PM
My name is [Stephen ummmo ¦ what should his fake last name be? How about Hendersen? Is Hendersen good? If it isno t, then too bad, because there isno t a comments option in Microsoft word. Okay, leto s restart this nowo ¦]
My name is [Stephen Hendersen], If you happen to be reading this, it means Io ve either retired the trade described here, or Io ve been arrested for my unorthodox work on saving you, actually, the world fromo ¦ well, youo ll see.
This day in 1996, I remember very specifically being 9. Like a lot of the other kids my age, being either a superhero or a world leader were the big ticket occupations that every kid my age wanted. Being a Russian dictator was out of the question of course, and so logically the next best thing was being a superhero. I made a new-yearso resolution that I would do whatever I could to be the worldo s first real superhero. My little obsession appeared normal. I joined karate, like any idealist 9-year-old who never bothered to learn that vigilante-ism is illegal. What was unexpected by the adults was how seriously I took this, and that paid attention so diligently that I had a black belt not only in karate, but in judo and jujitsu and aikido at age 12. At 13, I joined boy scouts and learned how to use a gun pretty well, and o for the sake of doing ito (thato s what I told my parents) took several classes in how to use a combat knife, and how to throw knives in general correctly and accurately. And to o research the 1840so I learned the o Gougingo discipline and the use of revolvers, I didno t tell my parents the class also expanded to modern revolvers. And yes, it was a tough neighborhood if you haveno t already deduced that. After that, I continued training in the use of long firearms, and dabbled in fencing until I was 18. It was then that I took basic military training, especially self-defense. Wanting to go even further into military combat methods, I joined, got the hang of assault weapons and general use of guns and how to build them, and mastered S.C.A.R.S., with my training appearing to be satisfactory, I continued to build my physique to its greatest capactiy. I left the military after 1 year, prior to joining I did my homework on psychopaths and learned how to emulate them, I pretended I went insane and they sent me home as o Combat Unstableo . I knew well before my teens that being a vigilante was in fact, illegal, but I didno t see any harm in continuing. After all, I could have joined the F.B.I. or a special talent forceo ¦ But then it happened, November 7th 1995. I was pitted against something that even with my skills I was unable to overpowero ¦
I enjoy going on long hikes in the woods on the outskirts of town, sometimes at night, and often with my friends. It was on such a night that we were walking and enjoying ourselves when suddenly all the sounds stopped. The animals quieted, and even the light breeze seemed to have stopped. It was as if the forces of nature had been smothered. Our flashlights refused to work as they had been doing perfectly before, and our only guiding light was the moon which was perfectly full. The light landed on a tall man, oddly formal for a fellow hiker, and he had a grey-white skin-tone, horribly unhealthy looking. At the time I felt that he was in the early stages of recovering from some derivative of the bubonic plague, or perhaps cancer, noticing he hadno t a single hair on his head. He was looking straight at the ground, and as I followed his gaze I realized his arms hung down to his knees. I also noticed how he appeared taller than before and that I was just about up to his abdomen. My peers noticed this as soon as I did (as soon as any person would) and froze in some tense combination of fear and confusion. Suddenly abhorred tree branches tore demonically from the tall mano s back. They began to twist and turn and eventually became fully fluid octo-limbs. I was able to dodge the quick swipes one of the ungodly tendrils made for me, but I was unable to get my 2 companions out of the way before they too were swiped at, and to my horror I saw them being dragged kicking and screaming toward the tall man. I took out my concealed revolver and emptied it on the anorexic corporal giant, but to no avail. As the last bullet seemed to go through him, as if he were some unholy mist, he looked up. He didno t have a face. Not a single feature, just the shape of a human head and blank contours replacing spots where his face should have been. Io m not going to write down what that sorry [His French, pardon it] did to my friends, but he didno t rush any of it and he made me listen to every godawful second of their deaths. The only thing that I believe saved me was a cross I wore about my neck. I usually hid it under my shirt It was reasonably long, and since I had accidentally damaged it working various odd jobs, its bottom end was sharpened. With the last of my hope as a tendril again ripped through the cold night air and grabbed at me, I ripped the thin chain off of my neck and thrust the cross deep into the tendril that was wrapping thinly around my ankle. I twisted and drove it deeper in sadistically while the silent faceless [shizzle] appeared to cringe, and contorted its jaw downward as if yelling in pain. I drove it further and further, relieving some of the anguish from watching my friends die, and with one final twist I drove it all the way through until I could feel it on my ankle. I then stabbed it into the inside of the tendril, holding onto the flailing tentacle for dear life, (he was now struggling) and eventually split the length of the last foot of that rotten tree-branch thing. I unflinchingly stabbed the cross into the wound between the two halves until the man drew me to his armo s range and flung me to the earth, his fingers ending with vicious points, as if his fingers were somehow claws themselves, and he made a move to gouge my vitals when I threw the cross into that horrid face of his. The knife-throwing lessons paid off, and the cross dug right into the convex where I believe an eye socket would have been. I took the opportunity to rip the cross out of his face and stab him there again and again, enjoying the fresh blood spattering with each blow, until he clawed my face with surprising force, knocking me back and leaving me with an excruciating pain across the right side of my face, I felt blood beginning to flow in great drops down my face, their source being a claw-mark down my forehead and eye. He swung another tree-branch tendril at me quicker than the daze of the blow could wear off, and hit me in the chest. It hit hard enough to send me tumbling backwards down the hill through several thorn bushes as I struggled for breath. I was able to take in air as soon as I stopped falling and staggered to my feet. To my surprise I found that sick tree thing already directly behind me. The element of surprise was lost quickly, and he swung another tendril at me, that I was ready for. I drove my cross into its tip and effectively ploughed through a devastating 4 feet of tendril with the force of the stab and his would-be attack. I twisted it sideways and removed the left half of the newly split tendril, and then removed the right half, effectively having severed it. The slender freak reeled at this and made some hellacious screeching noise, then looked directly at me and disappeared. I felt all sorts of fear and paranoia of things I was never scared of before, I had immense convulsions and screamed like some sort of madman until finally I fell to my knees and lost consciousness. I believe the term for that last part is slender-sickness, but Io m not quite sure. Io ll spare you the rambling of my uncertainty and say that he simply managed get away before he could kill me. Now heo ll never have the chanceo ¦
After this encounter I made a mid-year resolution. I took a class in excorsism, and spent my college money traveling to the middle east to strengthen my mind, will, psyche, or whatever it was that demonic tree thing managed to eat a hole through; that mental sickness trick wasno t going to work again, I wasno t going to let that thing, or any other freak I may encounter on my new quest, use the likes of it against me. working many more odd jobs, I acquired the money to build a demonslayero s arsenal. The first one I got was a katana, I found it fitting for my current location. I bought the silver myself and silvered the blade so that if there was any truth to D&D logic, Io d be able to harm the ethereal with it. Next, I got ahold of a steel cross with the ends sharpened, it was about as long as the average medieval dagger, and I attached a 10 foot chain to the end of it, so that I could use it similarly to a grappling hook. And finally I got enough money for the most expensive of my weapons, a revolver with a blade fused into its muzzle, Io d always believed that would make the gun dysfunctional, and that it only existed in anime cartoons, but this was Asia, and so not only did they invent the knife-gun, but they were stereotypically smart and must have found a way to make the blade not interfere with the bullet. Then I spent the rest of my money going back to America, where I encountered the white-collar tree freak in a white gimp suit. I was honored to know that I was in my friendo s will (we wrote ours half-jokingly with each other, again, bringing up the tough neighborhood) I received his big black SUV, which shined in the sunlight, he hardly had the chance to use it. I solemnly accepted the vehicle, and for a month I worked and lived in my home town, working on my project. I took my o Luckyo ace of spades card and put it in the band of a black fedora and bought it. Next, I bought a black trench coat, a gas mask that covered the lower half of my face and changed my voice dramatically, and black goggles that totally concealed my eyes. Then a pair of glistening military boots, and a S.W.A.T. bullet resistant vest, dyed a solemn tar color. I tailored various holds into the inside of the trench coat so as to hold the revolver, cross, (the chain was kept in a separate inside pocket, but still handy if I needed to attach it) and some medical supplies. I put the katana in a sheath on my back, and then spent the night quitting my day job, getting my computer, and tracking down my first target. The octo-tree wasno t going to be an easy find, as he was seen all over the world in quick succession, so I decided I would find its nearest connection and force him/her/it to tell me. I often found fan art of these two together, so I decided I would find the blue-man groupo s latest reject. He went by o Eyeless Jacko , and with much studying I found that the majority of his attacks were centered around a single suburban sprawl, [town name]. How convenient, it was two states away. I filled the gas tank and turned the key. I drove, with various stops, for about 2 days, but it was worth it. I booked a hotel on the outskirts of [town name] and now Io m in my room. I then put on the outfit I made, black fedora, (with the ace of spades in the band) goggles, black trench coat, custom S.W.A.T. vest, a katana strapped to my back, and black jeans tucked into military boots. I looked ridiculous, but thato s how a superhero dresses, I suppose, and as far as superheroes go, I was the least questionably dressed of all. I think Io m going to like this self-employment, Io ve been wanting to do this since I was 9. And now that youo re up to date, Io m going to doze for a bit, I heard thato s how you get this thing to approach youo ¦
Shall I continue uploading these documents? Comments and feedbacks please.
I asked if I could go through some forgotten old cases for a school report on history. The Chief, being a generous and liberal person, led me into a great morgue of dusty files. I found a file under o So that looked interesting and more than a bit thick. I found that the primary source of its weight and thickness was a leather-bound diary dated back to 2010, far too recent to be with any of these files. I flipped through the papers and made careful note of the words o murdero , o manslaughtero , o excorsisto , and o vigilanteo . I thought of Excorcist and the image of a grey-haired creepy old Catholic guy popped into my head. Murder, manslaughter, and vigilante didno t seem to apply to even the creepiest of old Catholic guys, and even the oddest of murderers or vigilantes wouldno t happen to know how to perform an excorsismo ¦ Would they? I ended up hurriedly putting my curiosity away, as I didno t want to be seen snooping around a fairly recent murder case by a police chief, (as who knows what kind of suspicion that would provoke?) I went to the police chief, and pointed out the date, which was also on the papers and files, pretending that was the only thing I saw. The chief got this look on his face as he scanned the contents of the file as if the file were threatening to smother him in his sleep, and then he smiled politely and said that it was solved some time last year, and that I could even borrow it to write my report on our towno s history, though now I wasno t sure I wanted to. There was something fake in his smile and something odd in his eyes. And as I climbed the stairs with the case file I could have sworn I heard him say o Tread lightly, my friendo ¦o Never have I had such creeping suspicions before. If it could unnerve a perpetually armed man of athletic build with yearso training in self defence and use of a gun like that, it was highly likely that I would end up in a white padded room sporting the famous tan leather coat with extra-long sleeves, strapped and buckled look, if not be raving my vocal chords to the point of snapping on suicide watch for at least a whole weekend. Not that Io m a wuss or anything, but people always looked at chief in many ways the same as the internet looks at Chuck Norris, and if even the likes of Chuck Norris were to act like that towards whatever forbidden knowledge is in these files, then I may as well be the Lovecraftian protagonist that goes mad and shoots himself in the end. Refusing to apply myself to that metaphor, not wanting to return the file and weird him out with an oblong excuse for being too scared to open these files for the way he looked at them, I resolutely went home, got out my computer to write whatever report I could make of this, and opened the file, blowing off a thin layer of dust. I noticed I missed a few spots and quickly blew those spots off too, and another spot, and another, until I realized these spots were imaginary and that I was only procrastinating the opening of the diary, which I imagined to look more like a foreboding tome, and the reading of the case papers, which may as well have been, in my paranoia and anxiousness, Caucasian human skins, tanned and tattooed with bloody lettering. I again shook this feeling, however powerful, and with a strange sensation, a combination of fear and relief, and confusion, I read the papers. I was surprised at the youth of this man. He was, according to the mug shot, 6 foot 8, and powerfully built, but a cadaverous sort of pale. He had one deep blue eye, the left one, and one grey eye,(not blind) the blue one having a jagged scar running down from his forehead, just missing it, and continuing down to his jawline. Io m no good at physiognomy or that kind of thing; if I was Io d be able to give you a better description, but he had the kind of face youo d expect a Viking to have, a powerful, defined, but sleek-ish jaw-line that you would expect was unbreakable, high cheek-bones, and a vertically short, broad, protruding forehead that almost shadowed the eyes, but emphasized his eyebrows. He had the kind of nose with a bridge that made it look like there was a bit of a dip separating the top of his nose from the end of his brow, and the tip of his nose turned down just enough to give the impression of a kitchen knife, but not enough to look like it was turned all the way down or anything. The way it was turned down gave me the impression that his nose was broken at one point, and all thing considered, it probably was. He had a Russel Brand kind of beard, it covered his jaw and mouth below the nasal level but went up to the rest of his hair as soon as it left his face. It was black as well as his eye-brows which were thick and made him look constantly displeased, even aggressive, though it looked like he was trying to appear calm, and he probably was. He had wild (not like 80s or anything, but unkempt to say the most) jet black hair down to his shoulders. He looked like he had spent a long time hiding from someoneo ¦ or (Io d hate to think) been homeless for a month or two. I bet you thought I was about to suggest that he was evading something anomalous right then and cheesily foreshadow whatever the heck was wrong and bind into the plot the fact that this was a full-blown creepypasta right then and there. But any momentum I had or will have over the course of this story has been brutally murdered here and now, and Io ll let it remain so, because this man, (Ieto s say his name is Stephen, which it isno t) was a total boss. Io ll also let the diary/journal demonstrate that.
Monday, January 1st, 2009. 8:20 PM
My name is [Stephen ummmo ¦ what should his fake last name be? How about Hendersen? Is Hendersen good? If it isno t, then too bad, because there isno t a comments option in Microsoft word. Okay, leto s restart this nowo ¦]
My name is [Stephen Hendersen], If you happen to be reading this, it means Io ve either retired the trade described here, or Io ve been arrested for my unorthodox work on saving you, actually, the world fromo ¦ well, youo ll see.
This day in 1996, I remember very specifically being 9. Like a lot of the other kids my age, being either a superhero or a world leader were the big ticket occupations that every kid my age wanted. Being a Russian dictator was out of the question of course, and so logically the next best thing was being a superhero. I made a new-yearso resolution that I would do whatever I could to be the worldo s first real superhero. My little obsession appeared normal. I joined karate, like any idealist 9-year-old who never bothered to learn that vigilante-ism is illegal. What was unexpected by the adults was how seriously I took this, and that paid attention so diligently that I had a black belt not only in karate, but in judo and jujitsu and aikido at age 12. At 13, I joined boy scouts and learned how to use a gun pretty well, and o for the sake of doing ito (thato s what I told my parents) took several classes in how to use a combat knife, and how to throw knives in general correctly and accurately. And to o research the 1840so I learned the o Gougingo discipline and the use of revolvers, I didno t tell my parents the class also expanded to modern revolvers. And yes, it was a tough neighborhood if you haveno t already deduced that. After that, I continued training in the use of long firearms, and dabbled in fencing until I was 18. It was then that I took basic military training, especially self-defense. Wanting to go even further into military combat methods, I joined, got the hang of assault weapons and general use of guns and how to build them, and mastered S.C.A.R.S., with my training appearing to be satisfactory, I continued to build my physique to its greatest capactiy. I left the military after 1 year, prior to joining I did my homework on psychopaths and learned how to emulate them, I pretended I went insane and they sent me home as o Combat Unstableo . I knew well before my teens that being a vigilante was in fact, illegal, but I didno t see any harm in continuing. After all, I could have joined the F.B.I. or a special talent forceo ¦ But then it happened, November 7th 1995. I was pitted against something that even with my skills I was unable to overpowero ¦
I enjoy going on long hikes in the woods on the outskirts of town, sometimes at night, and often with my friends. It was on such a night that we were walking and enjoying ourselves when suddenly all the sounds stopped. The animals quieted, and even the light breeze seemed to have stopped. It was as if the forces of nature had been smothered. Our flashlights refused to work as they had been doing perfectly before, and our only guiding light was the moon which was perfectly full. The light landed on a tall man, oddly formal for a fellow hiker, and he had a grey-white skin-tone, horribly unhealthy looking. At the time I felt that he was in the early stages of recovering from some derivative of the bubonic plague, or perhaps cancer, noticing he hadno t a single hair on his head. He was looking straight at the ground, and as I followed his gaze I realized his arms hung down to his knees. I also noticed how he appeared taller than before and that I was just about up to his abdomen. My peers noticed this as soon as I did (as soon as any person would) and froze in some tense combination of fear and confusion. Suddenly abhorred tree branches tore demonically from the tall mano s back. They began to twist and turn and eventually became fully fluid octo-limbs. I was able to dodge the quick swipes one of the ungodly tendrils made for me, but I was unable to get my 2 companions out of the way before they too were swiped at, and to my horror I saw them being dragged kicking and screaming toward the tall man. I took out my concealed revolver and emptied it on the anorexic corporal giant, but to no avail. As the last bullet seemed to go through him, as if he were some unholy mist, he looked up. He didno t have a face. Not a single feature, just the shape of a human head and blank contours replacing spots where his face should have been. Io m not going to write down what that sorry [His French, pardon it] did to my friends, but he didno t rush any of it and he made me listen to every godawful second of their deaths. The only thing that I believe saved me was a cross I wore about my neck. I usually hid it under my shirt It was reasonably long, and since I had accidentally damaged it working various odd jobs, its bottom end was sharpened. With the last of my hope as a tendril again ripped through the cold night air and grabbed at me, I ripped the thin chain off of my neck and thrust the cross deep into the tendril that was wrapping thinly around my ankle. I twisted and drove it deeper in sadistically while the silent faceless [shizzle] appeared to cringe, and contorted its jaw downward as if yelling in pain. I drove it further and further, relieving some of the anguish from watching my friends die, and with one final twist I drove it all the way through until I could feel it on my ankle. I then stabbed it into the inside of the tendril, holding onto the flailing tentacle for dear life, (he was now struggling) and eventually split the length of the last foot of that rotten tree-branch thing. I unflinchingly stabbed the cross into the wound between the two halves until the man drew me to his armo s range and flung me to the earth, his fingers ending with vicious points, as if his fingers were somehow claws themselves, and he made a move to gouge my vitals when I threw the cross into that horrid face of his. The knife-throwing lessons paid off, and the cross dug right into the convex where I believe an eye socket would have been. I took the opportunity to rip the cross out of his face and stab him there again and again, enjoying the fresh blood spattering with each blow, until he clawed my face with surprising force, knocking me back and leaving me with an excruciating pain across the right side of my face, I felt blood beginning to flow in great drops down my face, their source being a claw-mark down my forehead and eye. He swung another tree-branch tendril at me quicker than the daze of the blow could wear off, and hit me in the chest. It hit hard enough to send me tumbling backwards down the hill through several thorn bushes as I struggled for breath. I was able to take in air as soon as I stopped falling and staggered to my feet. To my surprise I found that sick tree thing already directly behind me. The element of surprise was lost quickly, and he swung another tendril at me, that I was ready for. I drove my cross into its tip and effectively ploughed through a devastating 4 feet of tendril with the force of the stab and his would-be attack. I twisted it sideways and removed the left half of the newly split tendril, and then removed the right half, effectively having severed it. The slender freak reeled at this and made some hellacious screeching noise, then looked directly at me and disappeared. I felt all sorts of fear and paranoia of things I was never scared of before, I had immense convulsions and screamed like some sort of madman until finally I fell to my knees and lost consciousness. I believe the term for that last part is slender-sickness, but Io m not quite sure. Io ll spare you the rambling of my uncertainty and say that he simply managed get away before he could kill me. Now heo ll never have the chanceo ¦
After this encounter I made a mid-year resolution. I took a class in excorsism, and spent my college money traveling to the middle east to strengthen my mind, will, psyche, or whatever it was that demonic tree thing managed to eat a hole through; that mental sickness trick wasno t going to work again, I wasno t going to let that thing, or any other freak I may encounter on my new quest, use the likes of it against me. working many more odd jobs, I acquired the money to build a demonslayero s arsenal. The first one I got was a katana, I found it fitting for my current location. I bought the silver myself and silvered the blade so that if there was any truth to D&D logic, Io d be able to harm the ethereal with it. Next, I got ahold of a steel cross with the ends sharpened, it was about as long as the average medieval dagger, and I attached a 10 foot chain to the end of it, so that I could use it similarly to a grappling hook. And finally I got enough money for the most expensive of my weapons, a revolver with a blade fused into its muzzle, Io d always believed that would make the gun dysfunctional, and that it only existed in anime cartoons, but this was Asia, and so not only did they invent the knife-gun, but they were stereotypically smart and must have found a way to make the blade not interfere with the bullet. Then I spent the rest of my money going back to America, where I encountered the white-collar tree freak in a white gimp suit. I was honored to know that I was in my friendo s will (we wrote ours half-jokingly with each other, again, bringing up the tough neighborhood) I received his big black SUV, which shined in the sunlight, he hardly had the chance to use it. I solemnly accepted the vehicle, and for a month I worked and lived in my home town, working on my project. I took my o Luckyo ace of spades card and put it in the band of a black fedora and bought it. Next, I bought a black trench coat, a gas mask that covered the lower half of my face and changed my voice dramatically, and black goggles that totally concealed my eyes. Then a pair of glistening military boots, and a S.W.A.T. bullet resistant vest, dyed a solemn tar color. I tailored various holds into the inside of the trench coat so as to hold the revolver, cross, (the chain was kept in a separate inside pocket, but still handy if I needed to attach it) and some medical supplies. I put the katana in a sheath on my back, and then spent the night quitting my day job, getting my computer, and tracking down my first target. The octo-tree wasno t going to be an easy find, as he was seen all over the world in quick succession, so I decided I would find its nearest connection and force him/her/it to tell me. I often found fan art of these two together, so I decided I would find the blue-man groupo s latest reject. He went by o Eyeless Jacko , and with much studying I found that the majority of his attacks were centered around a single suburban sprawl, [town name]. How convenient, it was two states away. I filled the gas tank and turned the key. I drove, with various stops, for about 2 days, but it was worth it. I booked a hotel on the outskirts of [town name] and now Io m in my room. I then put on the outfit I made, black fedora, (with the ace of spades in the band) goggles, black trench coat, custom S.W.A.T. vest, a katana strapped to my back, and black jeans tucked into military boots. I looked ridiculous, but thato s how a superhero dresses, I suppose, and as far as superheroes go, I was the least questionably dressed of all. I think Io m going to like this self-employment, Io ve been wanting to do this since I was 9. And now that youo re up to date, Io m going to doze for a bit, I heard thato s how you get this thing to approach youo ¦
Shall I continue uploading these documents? Comments and feedbacks please.
| Credit | to creepypasta writers and their parodymakers everywhere. |
| Tags |
tools/tracking
2008877
6
stephen-the-creep-slayer
sniffercraft34
CrystalRuby
jster
User5132558G
nos1130
bigotato
ApparentlySkilled
IKadekDwi
Gracelyn
SuperPro
Reandtb
Ender Sparkle
Create an account or sign in to comment.