Charlotte

January 1, 2013 at 12:00 PM
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When I was a young child, I had a playroom filled with toys which had accumulated over the many holidays and birthdays. I remembered sitting in the middle of that room playing with my toys each day. My mother and I were reminiscing one morning as I was packing my things to move into my new apartment when she brought up that playroom. She said that she always thought it was odd that I would sit in that room for hours playing with one single toy telephone. She said that it was a toy I had gotten for my first birthday, and she was surprised that I hadn’t lost interest by my sixth birthday. This brought back memories of my playroom and that telephone. I remembered exactly why I had begun playing with it and why I had stopped.

I was four and it was the week after Christmas. We had just relocated all of my new toys from the living room up to the playroom, and I was eager to nestle into my usual spot in the center of the room. I had only just sat down and picked up a toy horse when I heard a strange sound. It was similar to the haunting sound of a music box that was nearing the end of its tune. I looked around me and saw nothing that should be making that sound, so I continued galloping my toy horse around the carpet. The noise grew louder and more persistent, so I began scooting toys away from the direction the sound originated. I finally traced the melody to a small plastic phone resting against the wall. It was a simple phone in appearance. It was white with a spinning dial, and a red plastic ear piece. The only thing that I had ever found unsettling about this particular toy was the set of eyes that flipped back and forth as you pulled the string attached to it. Being a somewhat lazy child, I didn’t feel the need to stand up to retrieve the phone. I reached over, grabbed the string, and pulled the toy to me. As the eyes flicked back and forth, the haunting melody grew louder and faster. I assumed this was normal for this toy. I thought maybe it had batteries and they were beginning to die. I picked up the handset and held it to my ear.

“Hello? This is Charlotte.” I said, imitating my mother when she answered the telephone.
Oddly, I heard static coming from the smooth plastic handset.
“Hello?” I said again slowly.

There was a clicking sound and the phone’s tune stopped. This routine went on for about a week until finally someone began talking to me through that phone. It said its name was Mordrid and that it was my imaginary friend. I remembered hearing the children at daycare talking about their imaginary friends and I was ecstatic to finally get mine. It felt almost like a rite of passage.

Our conversations started out fairly normal. We would talk about daycare and the latest episodes of Powerpuff Girls and Spongebob. Mordrid’s favorite characters were Him and Plankton. I always asked him why he liked the bad guys so much, and he told me that they were simply misunderstood good people. I believed him, and I began to like them too.

As I got older, our conversations became more intense. My first day of school I got made fun of and I came home in tears. The first thing I did was run up to my playroom and talk to Mordrid. I asked him if the mean children were misunderstood good people, and he said no. He said that they were monsters and that I should stay away from other children lest I be corrupted also. I didn’t understand, but I obeyed him. He would never teach me wrong because he understood everything.

One day I came home and my mother told me that we were storing the toys that I wanted to keep, and having a yard sale for the ones that were collecting dust. I ran up the stairs into the playroom, grabbed the phone, and hid it in my room. That day, I didn’t talk to Mordrid because I was so busy packing and getting things ready to sell. When I talked to him the next morning he was furious. He said that nothing should ever come between us and that we were best friends.

“How am I supposed to protect you if you don’t talk to me every day?” He snapped in his overly deep, angry voice. His voice always got very deep when he was angry.
I apologized and told him that it wouldn’t happen again.

My first day of high school was a nightmare. I wanted so badly to go home and call Mordrid and tell him about the awful things my classmates would say about me. They would whisper to their friends that I was a freak. They said it was no wonder that I didn’t have any friends because I was crazy. Maybe I was crazy, but the only friend I needed was Mordrid. This fact, however, didn’t make their cruel words hurt any less. I came home in tears once again. Ignoring my mother’s questions, I rushed upstairs to my room and shut the door. I rummaged around the bottom of my closet for my phone which was emitting its familiar haunting melody.

“Mordrid?..It’s Charlotte..” I sobbed.
“What’s the matter, Charlotte? Did the bad people hurt you again?” He said slowly.
“They whisper things..they say I’m a freak. Am I a freak, Mordrid?”
“Oh no, Charlotte! You’re not a freak. You’re special and they don’t understand.”
“You really think so?” I sniffed.
“Yes. I’m tired of those bad people hurting you, Charlotte. They won’t hurt you anymore. I promise.”    *CLICK*

I looked at the handset and placed it slowly back onto the top of the phone. He had never hung up on me before. I shrugged it off as him being overemotional and I went downstairs for dinner. My mother waited at the bottom of the stairs.

“Honey, what is wrong? You seemed so upset.”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mom. I’m fine. I just had a rough day.” I muttered. “What’s for dinner?”
Mother wore a worried look upon her face, and she quietly replied, “Pasta..”
I smiled and walked happily into the kitchen to make a plate.

I went to school the next day and it was relatively uneventful. The bad people weren’t at school that day. I figured they were all skipping school together, but I was very wrong. When I got home, my mother was sitting on the couch staring at the television with a terrified look on her face. I glanced at the tv as I was placing my bookbag on the floor behind the couch. I saw the pictures of all the bad people on the news. They were all missing except for the worst one named Jessica. She had been found brutally murdered behind her home. My jaw dropped and my heart jumped into my throat. I dashed up to my room where my phone was chiming eerily.

“Hello….? It’s… Charlotte…”
“You seem afraid. Are you afraid of me, Charlotte?”
I didn’t know what to say. I was terrified. I knew now that Mordrid was something to fear rather than befriend.
“What did you do to the others, Mordrid?”
“I can’t tell you. You will tell other bad people and they will lock you up. I must protect you.”
I was silent, but I remained on the line.
“Charlotte, you don’t seem very grateful. They are gone. They will never bother you again.”
I remained silent as I set the handset gently back on the top of the phone.

Like clockwork, the creepy music box tune began playing and the eyes on the phone began flipping back and forth.  I immediately grabbed the phone, flew down the stairs, and ran out of the house towards the shed. I locked the phone up and ran into the house. I didn’t hear any more from Mordrid. Sometimes when I would be outside, I would hear that creepy tune wafting from the cracks in the storage shed. I would always quickly make my way back into the house.

I looked down at my watch and noticed how late it had gotten.
“I really need to head out, Mom. It’s going to get dark.”
She nodded and gave me a hug and a kiss.

“Oh, Charlotte! Take that box with you too. I packed it up forever ago and it’s taking up space.” She pointed to a box nestled behind the couch. I walked over to it, picked it up, and hoisted it up onto my shoulder. Mother kissed me again on the forehead and told me to be safe as I walked out the door towards my car. It was a tight fit, but I managed to fit the box into my back seat and I began to drive away to my apartment. I stopped at a red light and adjusted my mirror. Right as soon as I was easing my foot on the gas, I heard it. I heard that creepy music in the back seat of my car.

I took a deep breath and pulled over before reaching into the box to grab the telephone.

“Hello? This is Charlotte..”

 

Credit To – TheRadHatter

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How I Became a Japanese Urban Legend

January 1, 2013 at 12:00 AM
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Teketeketeketeketeketeke.

That is the sound of what is probably the creepiest of Japanese urban myths. Teke Teke is her name. It’s typical that the Japanese would give the scariest of horror story creatures such a misleadingly stupid sounding name. I would understand the horror of the creature as well anyone on account of the fact that I ran into her.

Like a typical American skeptic I didn’t take to the Japanese folklore with much heed. After all… every story seemed to have the same moral: don’t go out after dark alone. Therefore, it was only natural to believe that the stories were only a system of keeping kids from wandering off. When one story was proved wrong or ignored, another and more exotic story was made up to keep the children enveloped in pants-wetting fear of wandering off. The stories ranged from that of the slit mouth woman to the impossibility of the fifty story skeleton that would gladly tear off your head and drink the blood from your system like you were a juice box. But there were always holes in the story, such as HOW in the world a fifty story skeleton hasn’t been spotted by more than one person at a time, or even how something that massive could ever sneak up on anyone. And even the story of the slit mouth woman has it’s problems. The story supposedly features a beautiful Japanese woman who angered her husband who in turn sliced her mouth in his rage. Now she goes around with a scarf over her mouth asking people if she beautiful or not. If you say no she takes a giant pair a shears to you. If you say yes, she takes off her scarf and asks the same question again. At that point you’re pretty much screwed no matter WHAT you say unless you tell her she’s so-so, and then make a run for it while she’s contemplating what to do with that statement. However, it is never mentioned what happens if you see the giant pair of scissors on her back and just make a run for it before she asks you anything, or if you happen to be armed and just shoot the girl in the head a point blank range the moment she takes off the scarf.

The story of Teke Teke is similar in ways of plot holes. The story is about a girl who jumps/falls into a subway and gets split in half (how she didn’t get pulverized completely is anyone’s guess.) Afterword her spirit gets royally ticked off at the world and chases down any poor sap she sees and cuts them in half. Her name is based off the noise she makes as she runs as her long-nailed hands clack against the ground rapidly.

Teketeketeketeketeketeke.

Even if dead spirits were able to interact with the real world, my question is why Teke’s so angry. I’ve seen plenty of people who had lost their legs in reality shows or whatever and they seem pretty happy! and her tripping an falling into a railway station wasn’t anyones fault besides her own. Therefore, that myth seemed to contradict a rational human mindset.

At least, that’s what I thought. Until I saw her torso sitting on a wall late one friday evening.

In a classic horror story fashion, It was incredibly dark and I was walking home alone. Like I mentioned earlier, I did not take much of the surrounding folklore seriously. I actually thought it was a full sized girl for the longest time. If I had known that she was the ultimate concentration of horrific mutilating nightmare fuel I probably wouldn’t have approached her so carelessly to ask if she was alright. However, my good intentions changed to a furious rush of terror when she jerked violently at the sound of my voice and hopped off of the wall. Before she even hit the ground I clearly saw that most of the bottom portion of her was missing. She scurried toward me like an angered spider, making indistinguishable groaning and shrieking sounds as she raced toward me. That’s when I took off like a scared puppy. Who wouldn’t?

I am a very fast runner, the undeniable fact has been mentioned several times to me by my peers ever since middle school. I would have stopped running after the first few minutes if I had managed to leave whatever was chasing me behind. But the noise did not subside. In fact, as I ran, it grew steadily louder.

Teketeketeketeketeketeketeketeke.

The possibility of this being an insanely well configured prank had crossed my mind several times. I had asked for this elaborate joke the moment I bragged to all of my friends that ghost stories didn’t scare me or that I didn’t believe in ghosts. However, the way that the creature moved and how fast it went and how impossible it is to pull off something like this without Hollywood affects or circus creatures… I really had little to believe accept the fact that Teke Teke happened to main character of an all to true story.

But during my rambling and strangely calm train of thought I noticed something. I got my feet to finally stop and listened. The clicking noise had stopped. A gust of wind swirled around the corners of the ally and wrapped around my feet. Suddenly a bolt of movement shot past the corner of my eye.

Teketeketeke.

I turned around at the strange spurt of the horrendous clicking. However, the moment I focused my ears in to find out where the specter had run to the clicking quit. I listened to what was now a dead and ominous silence, the type of quiet that would play out in a horror movie before some corpse fell out of the ceiling with it’s eyes sliced out of the sockets and it’s mouth hanging open in a ghastly scream.

Teketeketeke.

I turned back at the spurt of sounds again. My heart pounded so hard I felt like I was going to go unconscious. “I should just get out of here,” I thought to myself. That was perhaps a bad idea on account of a probable inability to watch my own back mindless dashing would serve. However, my body instantly obeyed and I took off. As I rounded the corner, I was stopped by the short and legless figure of Teke Teke who stood on her hands no more than a few feet away from me. My heart leapt up, slamming into my throat and expelling a gag. At the sound of my gag, Teke looked into my eyes. In the light of a street-lamp I actually got a glimpse of her face.

In means of symmetrical features and a well-shaped nose she was actually a very lovely girl. However, the sheer panic of the situation made the beauty matter very little to me. But the scariest thing was, when I gagged, I swear that the pupils of her eyes grew until the whites disappeared from her sockets when she turned and faced me.

She raced at me while I attempted to start running again, and lurched like a fierce predator toward my lower torso with both of her hands outstretched. It was unreal how far she was able to jump. I screamed and swatted her as best as I could to the side. I very well managed not to cut in half, but her claw made a large gash in my side just above the pelvis. I yelled as the blood began to pour out of my side and in a terribly unintelligent motion I flopped down onto the ground onto my back as I bled. By that time Teke Teke had shaken off my blow and leapt onto my form as I lay on my back.

It was at that point that I switched from mildly intelligent survivalist to mindless panicked child. I shrieked and twisted violently to shake her off. Most of what happened during that time was a blur. A bunch of pain slashes of claws and blood till my face was blinded by red. It was almost a surreal nightmare, It WAS a surreal nightmare. Every feeling of panic and terror that you’d feel when being attacked by an angry dog was multiplied by the fact that this unhappy and vengeful creature was less than a dog and far more frightening.

I must have blacked out, because suddenly I came to my senses in a railway station. Everything was still blackened, horrendously dark, but I was able to see my hands and a few faint glows of shattered advertising signs. I was unable recall how I got into the railway station in the first place, I could have crawled here in my wounded state or Teke Teke could have dragged me here. However, my memory at that point was fuzzy and unreliable. I checked behind my back, and my spine crunched as my torso turned a full 180 degrees when I looked behind me. It didn’t hurt, but it produced a strange feeling of relief… like popping your back in a violent manner. I didn’t mean to turn myself around in such a grotesque manner, but it didn’t terrify me as much as one would suspect such an odd manner. When I straightened myself with another abnormal crunch I examined myself and unintentionally reminded myself of the gash that was laid upon my side by Teke Teke. Now I was able to view the thing in full potential, it was cut all the way from front to back in a clean slice. However, no blood poured from the wound. That was the final revelation that I need to know why I had been left alone.

“I’m dead,” I thought to myself, still far to shaken to break the silence of the railway station by verbalizing my thoughts. The horror quite at that time, for the revelation that death wasn’t quite as terrible as I thought it was still sinking in slowly. However, I was quickly distracted by the sight of a young woman walking down a far more well-lit path far from me, not noticing my huge form standing stiffly in the shadows. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that it was my inner purpose to hurt her.

I moved toward the girl, my spine moving unnaturally and my torso twisting on and off of my pelvis with the large gash that kept the upper part of my body half holding on.

Credit To – MollyKittyKat

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January Discussion Post: Why Do You Read And/Or Write Scary Stories?

January 1, 2013 at 12:00 AM

This month’s topic was suggested by Dave Taylor, and big thanks to him because I was having trouble coming up with a topic!

It’s pretty self-explanatory. If you’re a reader only, why do you feel so drawn to reading scary and creepy stories? If you’re a writer, do you have a reason for your desire to create horror fiction? If you’re both, well, you get to answer both questions!

Last month I asked how you discovered Creepypasta, and I guess that this question is sort of the inevitable continuation – why did you stick around? What about creepypastas compels you to want to continue reading and/or writing them?

I look forward to seeing your answers!

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