Share this creepypasta on social media!Marilyn Manson (a.k.a. Brian Warner)
Estimated reading time — 6 minutes
NSFW / Trigger Warnings: The following story contains adult content not suitable for children, including extreme violence, death, murder, child abuse, sexual exploitation, rape, incest, and necrophilia. If you are under the age of 18, or do not wish to be exposed to realistic descriptions of such situations, do not proceed.
He hoped the tape recorder would still work.
It was one of those small portable ones often used in schools or libraries.
Teddy didn’t even realize the irony of his action. Angie was, in fact, the one who had bought it for him.
He wiped the hair and blood off the corner and released a sigh of frustration.
“Mother will probably ground me from the television,” he considered, looking to the mess he had made.
“Damn her. Damn them all. Why did she have to hurt Peg? Why?”
Balefully, he kicked the corpse beside him.
Her glazed eyes stared back at him with empty fascination. “You bitch. You killed Peg.”
His sister’s dead look gave no response. (He wondered why.)
Her face looked so shadowed. He lifted her head up by her clotted hair and saw that it was dried blood on her cheek that created the mock shadow.
He saw, too, that the dent in her skull had stopped gushing. The coagulated blood had formed a gelatinous plug.
Mother would be home soon. He would have to dig a grave.
Teddy got up and walked to his bedroom where Peg’s plastic body lay deflated. Atop her bloodless chest was a kitchen knife, and she stared at the ceiling with her permanent expression, mouth in the shape of an ‘o’.
She looked as if she would scream.
He picked up the doll’s head and looked tearfully at the flat terrain of her airless, life-sized figure.
Cradling her head, he began to cry. Each tear held a thousand wishes to bring her back. He was glad Angie was dead. She had deserved every last blow. As Teddy stroked Peg’s artificial hair he noticed the stench coming from his sister who lay several feet away. He knew it was urine. He had heard her bladder release when he struck the final deadly blow. He had hit her once more for good measure. She killed peg. He had every right.
Carefully, he let Peg’s head rest on the carpet.
Bending down, he kissed her cheek and wiped some sticky stuff from her rubber lip.
Mom had told him before not to touch Peg or to make the nasty in her mouth, but he couldn’t help it.
He loved her too much just to leave her be. If mom found out he had done the nasty then she would take Peg away, like before. He would have to find her too.
As Teddy went back to Angie’s body, he stopped for a moment to marvel at her nudity.
He had always watched her dress from the closet, but he never seen her thing up close.
He was fascinated by the dark tuft of hair between her legs. Peg didn’t have that.
Cautiously he touched her thigh, and jerked away as if her flesh was hot. It wasn’t, though. In fact, she was starting to get cold. It had been four hours.
“I hate you,” he informed her cadaverous eyes.
Again he touched her thigh, but this time he didn’t pull away. Gently, he ran his fingertips up her hip and toward her crotch. With the other hand, he pulled her muscled legs apart.
Between them was a puddle of urine the size of a pancake. He gave her genitals a curious poke.
She was much softer then Peg, and wait – although her body was cold and pallid, she was warm inside.
He was getting excited by her macabre sexual divinity.
He had to stop. Mother would be upset if he was doing the nasty. She hated the nasty.
Dad had found that out the hard way. All she liked was sewing and watching Family Feud.
She loved that Richard Dawson guy.
But Angie was so yielding, so doughy. Peg’s skin was hard and waxy inside – he’d had her for ten years (he’d ordered her from a dirty magazine when he was eighteen).
Angie was only five then, and now she had matured into a beautiful young woman.
He really didn’t hate her that much, but she shouldn’t have killed Peg. He was only watching her shower.
It was nothing new. But she would have told Mother, and Mother couldn’t stand for that kind of filth in her house.
That’s why he had to hide Peg in the first place. Mother was so old-fashioned; he had to hide a lot from Mother.
Going to the garage, he fetched a spade and began digging in the garden. He had to finish before she got home.
The soil was tender, and it took half an hour to make the grave.
Time was precious, so he went in and cleaned up. He grabbed a towel and went to Angie’s room.
Grabbing both her arms, he pulled her back a few feet. The puddle had soaked into the carpet, leaving a dark stain. He carefully sopped it up and threw the towel in the closet.
As he dragged her through the living room, he considered an idea. It was the best idea he ever had.
If Mother had liked the nasty, she would have been proud of his idea.
He dropped Angie’s arms and went back to his room.
It pained him to look at Peg’s wasted body; the gash in her chest seemed bigger and painful.
But she was old, he thought. Maybe it was best she had died.
Teddy tossed the knife and carried the rubber doll’s limp torso through the kitchen into the back yard.
“I’m sorry, Peg,” he told her painted face.
He wouldn’t bury her just yet. First he wanted to try out his idea. If it worked, then he would cover her up.
It was almost time; he would have to hurry. Back in his sister’s room, he took off his jeans and knelt beside the corpse.
The smell of death was pungent and sickening, but life was too frightening for him to handle.
He was more of a watcher. But it was too late for watching, and she would be perfect. He could hide her.
Just like Peg.
As Teddy mounted his sister in a fumbling, incestuous act of necrophilia, Mother’s car pulled into the cracked driveway.
Through the grimy windshield, she saw the rotting bags of trash piled among the weeds near the porch. That damnable Teddy. Just like his father.
Merely four strokes within her, Teddy finished shamefully. He stayed inside her for a few moments; he liked the slimy grip on his flesh.
He was embarrassed, but he liked the nasty stuff so much. Why couldn’t Mother understand his needs?
“Teddy, didn’t I tell you to take out the trash?” she hollered as the front door opened, slamming into the wall.
She grimaced as a rat scuttled from somewhere to anywhere. A catalog of punishments befuddled her mind as she crossed the living room.
Teddy froze. How could he explain this to Mother?
He would have to hide Angie if Mother saw what–
As Mother hobbled into the hall, he looked up from his disgraceful position.
She stood above him, ancient and leviathan from his angle. Her cane loomed over him like a tree trunk.
Teddy’s frozen panic melted and he leapt up and hurriedly cupped his naughty parts, hiding them from Mother.
“Teddy, why didn’t you take out the garbage?”
“Huh?” He was confused by her displaced question, her banal motherliness.
“Oh, never mind.” She poked her cane at Angie with simple curiosity. “Put on your drawers.”
“Mother, it wasn’t my fault. She killed–” He quickly shut his mouth. Mother couldn’t know about Peg.
She hated Peg.
“She’s dead, huh?”
“Mother, I didn’t mean to kill her.” That was a lie.
“You were watching her again,” Mother chided.
“No, Mother. I never, ever watched her. I promise I didn’t.”
“You did. She tells me.”
“No, Mother.” That bitch, she had told. He wished he could kill her again; she suffered too little.
“I told you not to do the nasty. And now I catch you doin’ it on your sister. What can I do with such a disrespectful boy?
Her rhetoric frightened him. What if she took away the television? What if she made him take those pills again – what had she called them? Saltpeter? He could fix that, though. He was good at hiding them under his tongue and then throwing them out his window.
Although Teddy was taller than Mother, she overwhelmed him with her presence. She stepped over Angie and raised her cane to his head, varicose in her elegance.
“Bad boys have to be punished. That’s how we keep a family together.”
Sharply, and with surprising force, she bludgeoned his head repeatedly until he collapsed, limp and denigrated on the carpet.
* * * * * *
When Teddy awoke, he winced at the tugging pain at his eyelids. They wouldn’t open no matter how hard he strained.
Atop his naked groin, he felt the cold security of Peg, and beneath him the gritty soil.
Damn Mother and her sewing.
He touched his eyelids and knew he would find tinny knotted stitches binding his vision.
“Teddy,” she called from above, “you’ve been a bad boy. You won’t be looking at Angie anymore, though. I’ve seen to that. Just like your father, you are. I had to teach him a lesson, too.”
He heard an earthy scrape from above and pleaded for forgiveness. “Mother, please, I didn’t mean to look. I’m sorry. Please, Mother–”
A scoop of dirt landed on his face, covering his nose and mouth. His arms were squeezed too tightly into the grave to protest.
“Got to keep the family together.”
Mother continued to fill in the grave as Teddy struggled to free himself. He wanted to spit but his mouthful of dirt prohibited any such action. Above, Mother babbled about discipline, and Teddy’s punishment led to suffocation as his eyes seeped tears of blood.
This story was featured in Marilyn Manson’s (real name: Brian Warner) best-selling autobiography, The Long Hard Road Out of Hell, available now on Amazon.com. The story was originally submitted by Manson, along with a personal letter, to the now-defunct Night Terrors magazine in 1988, but was never published.