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Pass It On

Estimated reading time — 23 minutes

Henry worked in an office. It was an ordinary office in an ordinary city where he was paid an ordinary wage to do ordinary things. For many this would have been tedious and frustrating, but not for Henry because he too was ordinary, and he enjoyed being so. Life was predictable; get up at 7:00 A.M., shower for 15 minutes, toast two pieces of wholemeal bread, poach an egg, eat with a minimum of fuss, watch ten minutes of morning television, listen to an audio-book on the train, get to work, sandwich for lunch, back to work, home, watch a little TV, read something light, go to sleep, and repeat day after day.

Henry liked his weekends to be just as routine. On a Friday night after work he would treat himself to an Indian Takeaway and a good film. Saturdays would be spent exploring some local car boot sales for items to add to his collection of old video games, while Sundays would be specifically put aside to play them.

Life was simple for Henry and he preferred it that way. Being mildly tainted with an obsessive compulsive streak, he avoided anything which would take him out of his comfort bubble, and away from his routine. Henry always avoided the extraordinary, but on this day, the peculiarly extraordinary found him.


It was lunch time on an overcast Monday and Henry knew exactly where, what, and with whom he would be eating. He walked from his place of work along the usual route. Normally it would have taken him almost exactly 5 minutes and 32 seconds, but there had been a bad accident on Gladstone Road and due to this Henry had to take a slight detour. He was annoyed at first that his routine had been warped by something outside of his control, but on passing the closed off street he could see a car mangled, sitting unceremoniously on a pavement, with members of the emergency services frantically attending en masse to the passengers.

Despite his annoyance, Henry continued on his way hoping that those whom had been hurt would require only minimal medical attention.

After exactly 7 minutes and 24 seconds, Henry arrived at his destination only to once more be aggravated by a change of routine. He always sat on the same bench in the city square for lunch but on this day, that would be impossible. His favourite bench had been snatched by an unscrupulous young couple who were, of all things, kissing each other. Henry stood momentarily, moving off in disgust when the couple took notice of him staring while they came up for air.

George square was a curious place, not as large in scale as some city squares, but not without its charm, containing numerous blackened statues – which the city pigeons just adored – and surrounded on all sides by impressive 19th century architecture. It was one of Henry’s favourite places; eating lunch, staring at the passers by. Feeling an attachment to society, without having to actually be a part of it.

Surveying the scene of his discontent, Henry sat down on the only bench which hadn’t been commandeered by man, woman, child, or pigeon. Opening his black leather briefcase, he unwrapped the only part of his day which he could absolutely control, a ham and pickle sandwich, covered in horseradish sauce which he had made for himself that very morning.

Chomping down hungrily on his masterpiece, Henry now took in the bustling heart of the city, and while he was not entirely keen on his new vantage point, he still took part in his favourite pastime; people watching.


His eyes moved through the crowds, jumping from one person to the next, as if turning the pages of his favourite book, imagining the stories each stranger had to tell. It was ironic really, for someone who had difficulty meeting new people, he was entirely captivated by them. A beautiful woman in a blue dress waiting in the doorway of a bar, most probably for a man much luckier than poor Henry – he was just not that great with women – two teenage boys attempting to impress some girls of a similar age, sharing a cigarette they no doubt had stolen from an oblivious parent, and a city sweep cleaning the square; a hard working, honest man, invisible to the office workers passing by in their preened and cleaned suits.

Henry smiled to himself. Who was he kidding? He was a suit too. That was in itself quite surprising, for just ten years earlier, Henry was the antithesis of who he was now.

A light sprinkle of rain benignly tapped Henry on the end of his nose. Looking up, he hadn’t realised how clouded and dim the early afternoon had really become. Gazing back across the square, the beautiful lady in the blue dress still stood, waiting, occasionally glancing at her watch.

There was something about her…

‘He’s not coming’, Henry thought to himself. ‘And look at her. She’s pretty too.’

He didn’t exactly care for being a runners-up prize, but something had stirred in him. Something which took him entirely by surprise. Before he knew it, he had closed over his briefcase, packing away the remnants of his sandwich carefully. It was very strange, but now he was standing up. Perhaps it was the change in routine which had shaken him, but by God, Henry, a man obsessed with avoiding risk and sticking to his habits, was going to do something brash. Henry was going to walk over to the lady in the blue dress, now sheltering from the increasing rain, and ask if he could buy her a drink.

A feeling of exhilaration swept over him. With a deep breath and a moment to compose himself, Henry took two steps forward, not taking his eyes off of the increasingly beautiful woman in the doorway for a second. So engrossed was he, so single minded in his intent, that he did not see an old grey-bearded homeless man staggering towards him.

Henry’s body noticed before he did as the old man lost his balance falling head first into Henry’s chest. With a jolt, he stumbled backwards slightly as the old man slid down his front, grasping at Henry’s clothes for dear life.

Managing to regain his footing, Henry twisted his body, using the old man’s weight to rest him gently onto the empty bench, but the man would not release his grip. With a strength which betrayed his age, the old man pulled Henry’s face close to his own. The combined smell of alcohol on the man’s breath and thousands of nights spent sleeping in the gutter, overwhelmed; it was all Henry could do to stop from gagging in the poor fellow’s face.

‘I’m so sorry’, the old man gasped. ‘So…so…sorry’.

His grasp on Henry’s suit jacket suddenly loosened. With a glazed stare, the old man slumped over, appearing motionless. Staring up at Henry through unkempt and straggled hair, was the lifeless corpse of one the city’s unfortunates.

Panicking, Henry shook the old man in vain, but he knew it was too late. Looking around, it amazed him that no one seemed to notice, or care; that another human being, a poor old man, had just died. Well they could all go to hell: Henry cared. As he stared sombrely at the corpse before him, he thought to himself that he would notify the police and do everything to find out who the man was.

Maybe he had some family somewhere.

It didn’t appear that there were any police officers in the square, but one thing Henry did notice; the woman in the blue dress was gone, either her suitor had appeared, or perhaps she had just went home.

‘Not to be’, he whispered to himself.

Something now caught his eye. Looking down at the old man, peeking out from under one of his clenched fists was a simple piece of white paper. Instantly Henry thought that it might be of importance, for even in death the man clutched it as if it were his most prized possession.

Easing the note from the dead man’s hand, Henry unravelled the scrunched up piece of yellowed paper and read its contents.

Puzzling, very puzzling. But what it could it mean?

As Henry pulled his phone from his inside pocket and began dialling the emergency services, wary feelings as if being observed by a hidden, unseen predatory watcher came over him. The phone did not seem to be dialling out, so again he tried, then once more, finally just as he was about to approach those nearby to ask if they could phone the police, Henry was floored by an entirely unexpected sight.

The old man’s body was gone.

He had vanished. How or by what means Henry was unsure, but he had most certainly been dead. There was no doubt about that. The thought that he might actually be going out of his mind did occur to him, after all he was quite aware that his compulsive, obsessive behaviour was a hindrance and that at times it teetered on the brink of becoming a serious psychological issue, but he was certain that he hadn’t cracked just yet.

No, that man was lying there dead and was now gone – Henry knew it.

The unwelcome feeling of being watched returned far more intense than before. It was accompanied by a strange, sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach, and for a moment Henry felt that he was going to vomit. As the sensation passed, it was replaced by a compulsion which now took him, to read the note once more. To take in its message. But Henry was still utterly perplexed by its contents.

The time had dragged on, and Henry would be damned if he was going to phone the police and tell them that a dead body had just vanished into thin air. Maybe it was stress. Maybe he had imagined the entire thing.


It was at that moment when Henry noticed a strange individual on the other side of the square. He was far away, but there was something fearfully unique about him. The man stood as still as stone and it would have been easy to have mistaken him for one of the statues which littered the area, but he was most certainly a thing of flesh and blood.

He wore a rather antiquated black suit, the style of which Henry was sure hadn’t been seen for many a decade, but although the suit was from another era, it was almost painfully familiar. With a long black coat which stopped just above the knee and a tall top hat upon his head, Henry was convinced that the man was dressed not unlike an undertaker.

He was in every sense of the word, a persona out of time.

Numerous office workers, tourists, and students wandered passed the man, weaving their way through the enduring statues, busying themselves with the errands of an average life. Many of whom crossed between Henry and his stagnant watcher, but the man remained still, as if unmoved by the background noise of any other, any other but for Henry.

From this distance the man’s features were unclear, and as the growing certainty grew to attest to the truth that this strange individual was watching Henry, other notable peculiarities became evident.

The man was exceptionally tall, and if it were true that he was at least seven feet in height, Henry would not have been surprised. For the first time the man now intimated that he was indeed alive, and not a facsimile of life. Keeping his gaze fixed, he slowly slipped his hand into what looked like a waistcoat and produced a golden pocket watch, which was connected to his person by a thin chain.

The sickness returned, and Henry began to feel light headed as the strange undertaker continued looking down at his watch. Again, thoughts returned to the note, and unravelling the yellowed paper, Henry once more could not fathom the meaning of the simple message which it contained. But one thing he could comprehend, unless he was utterly mad, that note proved the dying man had existed.

It is often said amongst those who encounter the strangest of events that they know implicitly in their gut, in their very bones when to flee. Even if no real logic seems to be at the foundation of such an action, an individual in such a situation is compelled to run, compelled to escape whatever foul deed may be forthcoming.

Henry was overcome by this very feeling, when his watcher swiftly closed the pocket watch and began marching forcefully towards him.


He had to run, he didn’t know why, but he had to get out of there.

Before Henry knew what he was doing, he had grabbed his leather briefcase and began running as quickly as he could away from that square, away from the hustle and bustle, and away from his pursuer.

The streets flashed by at lightening speed. He had been running now for several minutes and in his pristine suit and heeled leather shoes, was already out of breath. After negotiating a crowd of gleeful shoppers, Henry rested for a moment in an old doorway leading up to some city flats.

As he caught his breath he began to once again doubt himself. Stress, paranoia, perhaps even a flu – which some in his work had taken ill with – could be the explanation. It was all so preposterous. Fumbling through his pockets he once more produced the note. At least that was real, but surely the strange man with the pocket watch wasn’t following him. Yes, surely he couldn’t be. That part had just been the product of a weary mind. Either the man had been walking around town minding his own business, or perhaps he hadn’t existed at all!

Henry turned slowly to look down a long street filled with shops and fast food outlets. There was no sign of the tall man. None.

It took a while, but eventually he decided to return to work. His usual routine had been completely destroyed, but he never took a day off and he most certainly did not make a habit of disappearing at lunch time.

His office was in a brand new building, which the company he worked for had moved to earlier in the year. Henry much preferred the sterile glass walls, the shiny clean floors, and the hand sterilisers in the bathrooms compared to the old, less hygienically satisfactory premises.

At the front of the building was Jason, one of the security guards who was sitting behind the large front desk with a colleague and a repairman. Henry nodded to them all as he passed, unaware and certainly uninterested in their idle , superstitious conversation about a supposed haunted floor in the building.

Henry had no time for such things.

A number of fellow business-types entered one of the large elevators in the foyer, and Henry moved briskly to join them. It was a bit of a crush and it occurred to him that normally he would be uncomfortable being so close to other human beings, but he just wanted to return to the safe and secure surroundings of his office desk.

Paper, pens, files, and performance targets; the perfect remedy for an anxious mind. At least Henry thought so.

The company had their offices on the 12th floor, and it seemed as though each and every level was accompanied by an unwelcome stop where yet more bodies crammed into the now stifling lift. By about the 5th floor Henry’s obsessive compulsions on cleanliness began to take hold, and the feeling of people in front, behind, and beside him, rubbing against his body made him feel quite sick.

It was then that a rhythmic sound came to Henry’s attention. The sound of a watch, ticking consistently, winding down the seconds of time. The noise was agitating, as it only made him more conscious of the length of time he had been there. They were on the 8th floor now and he just reminded himself that it would not be long before he could enjoy the comfort of familiarity, in the guise of his trusted chair and desk.

Now the 9th floor.

Not long to go, but the sickness of proximity increased and Henry began to worry that he would actually vomit on one of his reluctant companions. As the elevator steadily climbed from 10th to 11th, the ticking grew in volume as the sickness climbed from his stomach, involuntarily opening his throat at the back of his mouth.

Now Henry realised, it was not a sickness of anxiety brought about by being squeezed into an elevator with strangers, it was the same sickness which he had felt standing in the city square, being watched by the strange character in his funeral suit and hat.

Tick, tock.

The noise was in his ear. Turning pointedly to the source, Henry recoiled in terror as a long fingered hand held the golden pocket watch next to his head: The tall stranger was in the lift.

Henry screamed for his life and a panic ensued within the elevator as some tried to calm him, while others aggressively tried to quiet him with a verbal battering. He did not care, he had to get out. He clawed his way to the front of the lift away from his stalker, thanking gods he did not believe in as the doors opened onto the 12th floor.

Tripping over, Henry fell out of the lift and face first on to the polished hard ground. Rolling over onto his back, several of his work colleagues tried to help him up as he stared terrified into the lift. Towering above all others, the tall figure hunched over in the corner, grinning from ear to ear as the doors closed.

Henry was unsure, but the brief glimpse he had of the man led him to believe that the face of his pursuer was ‘off’ somehow; the eyes almost too glazed and far apart, the nose slightly crooked, and the grin worst of all, too large and uncovered, as if through an inadequacy of skin.

Sweat poured down Henry’s forehead and as several of his work colleagues asked if he was feeling OK, he barely answered them, rushing passed the office to the other end of the floor. He burst into the toilets and quickly barricaded himself in one of the cubicles, curled up on a closed lid with his head in his hands.

This can not be happening.

Once more, Henry gathered his breath and attempted to compose himself. Work-related stress, that was it. He would go straight to his boss and ask for a week’s leave, perhaps even visiting his doctor to ask for some Valium. Something to treat his nerves.

Ten minutes passed and Henry was somewhat touched by two of his work colleagues checking to see that he was fine. While he did not leave the cubicle, he made his apologies for the scene at the elevator and said that he would be out in a few minutes before they left.

As his heart stopped racing, he finally stood up and, briefcase in hand, prepared himself for facing the accusatory glances of some of the less-than-affectionate members of his office. But before he could unlock the cubicle door, someone else entered the toilets.

‘I’m honestly alright. I’ll be out in a minute, if you could just give me some privacy to compose myself, I’d really appreciate it’. Henry’s words echoed in the tiled room.

Without an answer, the footsteps continued slowly, passing from left to right, before the visitor entered the cubicle next to Henry’s. The sickness returned, and his heart now began to gather pace once more. The room was silent, save for the occasional dripping of a faulty faucet, but soon this noise was joined by an ominous ticking from the next cubicle.

It was the watch, and its owner was right next to him.

As his thoughts became a torrent of paranoia, he turned once more to the note. Is it this piece of paper? Is it the message that they want?

Henry did not understand.

‘What do you want!?’ he pleaded with an almost subdued squeal.’Is it the note? Is it? Please, take it. Take it and leave me be!

Removing the crumpled yellow paper from his jacket pocket, Henry crunched it into a ball and threw it into the next cubicle. No response, save for the ticking, and the quiet breath of the occupant through the thin cubicle wall.

Henry waited. And waited. No reply.

He wanted to leave more than anything in the world, but he was paralysed by fear, the fear that this man would catch him and perhaps even resort to physical violence. Suddenly, the cubicle door shook violently as something impatiently attempted to break in. It reached a fever pitch as Henry broke down into tears, curling up on the cubicle floor with his hands cupping his ears tightly.


Henry screamed as the door nearly lifted from its hinges. The smell of urine from the floor stung his nostrils, and for a man so obsessed by hygiene this was an unusually trying place to find himself. But there he lay, too scared to move, too frightened to call for help. There he lay. Still. Curled up into a ball, clutching his brief case, that symbol of structure and normality as if a child once more.

Then a long-fingered hand slid slowly across the floor from the next cubicle, through the small gap at the bottom of the dividing wall, touching his face. Its fingers spider legged, searching erratically. Their cold touch spurred Henry into action, but the hand moved quickly, grabbing a clump of his hair and pulling his head towards the gap.

Henry kicked and screamed as if he had just been born, but the stranger possessed an emphatic strength, one with which Henry was no match. If strength couldn’t free him, perhaps pain could. He pulled and scratched at the hand, digging his fingers deep into lumps of skin as flesh flaked from the appendage as if rotten.

This seemed to have the desired effect. As soon as the hand let go (presumably in pain) Henry staggered to his feet and rushed from the cubicle, out of the toilets and down a fire exit at the end of the hallway.

Panic, terror, fear, they had all mixed together. Paranoia and anxiety clouded Henry’s judgement, his heart almost ripping through his chest and his mind ablaze with impossible thoughts as he found himself racing through the busy city streets.

Compulsion, obsession; but now not for routine, not for habit, not for ritual, but for home.

It was not before Henry had reached Central train station that he came to his senses. His suit was soaked in sweat, his hair a mess, and face scarlet with over exertion. Standing under the huge glass-dome ceiling of the station and surrounded by the anonymous movements of daily commuters.

His first thought was to phone the police, but what would he tell them? A ridiculous story about a man with a pocket watch and that of a magically disappearing dead body?

Henry gazed intently at the departures board.

Looking around, he could see no trace of the tall, thin man. Perhaps he had injured the stalker sufficiently so as to make him give up the chase, or maybe the returning of the note was enough to be allowed escape. Henry did not know.

Two words now flashed before his eyes: ‘King’s Park’.

Yes! King’s Park was where Henry grew up, and his family still lived there. It was only half an hour by train and if anyone could help, it would be his parents. Sure, he hadn’t been in touch with them very often over the passed few years, but that was down to his meticulous routines and he knew that he could always count on them for support.

Above all else even a man of his age still wanted the arms of his parents for protection. He would go there, seek their advice, and maybe then if pushed, he would phone the police and try to get to the bottom of all this. He purchased a ticket from one of the automatic vending machines and within ten minutes, Henry was on his way.

The train was humble to say the least. It had only three carriages, no toilet, and it was clear that as it was not a priority or popular line, the train was decades old.

Entering the last carriage (because he was sure that they had the least chance of being derailed in an accident) Henry chose the window seat which he considered to be the cleanest available to him. The cheap synthetic material used as upholstery was sure to be a playground for bacteria he thought, but he would rather have been sitting in that quiet carriage than trapped on the floor of that cubicle.

That was for sure.

The train soothingly rocked from side to side, and as Henry looked out of the window and watched the urban areas give way to suburban ones, he began to feel comforted by the thought of home; his real home.

After a couple of stops Henry’s mobile phone suddenly sprung into life. Looking down at the blue flashing display, he was unhappy about the prospect of answering it; it was his boss.

He would probably be mad, as usual, but who could blame him? One of his employees screams like a lunatic in an elevator, crawls around the office floor, locks himself in the toilets and then abruptly runs out of the building without finishing his shift.

Henry gulped and answered.

After an initial ear bashing, he was finally allowed to speak and told his boss that he had been feeling terribly ill and that he was very sorry for leaving without asking first. Eventually his boss calmed down, and even started to show an element of concern beneath his crackled voice. He had been talking for well over a minute when the phone suddenly went dead.

Henry would have assumed this was due to a loss of signal, but when he returned the phone to his pocket he felt something. Fear coursed through his body. It was the note. Somehow it had been placed back on his person, but he had no conception of how.

Perhaps it meant nothing. Perhaps the man had read the message and now no longer needed Henry, perhaps he was safe.


The train was now nearing his stop, but just as he was readying himself to leave his window seat and exit the carriage, the conductor entered from the return driver’s cabin behind. Henry fumbled for his ticket before finally finding it in his inside pocket behind his phone. But as he looked up, realisation was accompanied by the ticking of a golden pocket watch.

It wasn’t the conductor who had entered the carriage.

Henry raced to his feet, his nerves now a shredded mess. Disbelief, utter disbelief. How had he got on the train! Clinging to his briefcase, Henry stumbled down the carriage yelling for help from the few fellow passengers who sat in isolated pockets around him.

He begged, he pleaded, but it was clear from the looks on their faces that they thought this unkempt, bedraggled individual shouting at the top of his voice was mad.

Watch in hand, the tall figure slowly walked down the carriage aisle. Running as fast as he could Henry burst through the door into the next carriage, but still relentlessly the strange stalker followed.

Now they were both in the third carriage, and there was no escape. No where to run; no where.

Henry felt sick to his stomach. Holding up the note in one hand, he screamed as the man approached,’Take the note. Take it!’, but no reply was offered. The trained slowed as it pulled into the station and now only a few feet from his pursuer the oddness of the man’s appearance now seemed even more progressed.

His teeth were now permanently exposed in a wide grin and his skin seemed taught and shrunken, producing an unusual sheen to it, as if false, synthetic, but caught in obvious entropy. As he neared, now only footsteps away, he removed his hat with a flaking hand in an almost ceremonial way, a deep perversion of courtesy.

Henry’s back pressed against the locked door which led to the driver’s cabin. Turning as the bizarre approximation of a man was almost upon him, he battered and kicked at the driver’s door, screaming to let him in.

The jolt of arrival. The swoosh of opening doors. The train had arrived at Henry’s stop. King’s Park: Home.

With the slimmest of opportunities, he jumped passed the tall, hunched figure and leapt to freedom out onto the platform, but his stalker grabbed at his foot momentarily, causing his momentum to bring his face crashing down onto the gravelled concrete ground. His nose was burst and a deep cut ran along his forehead, but he still managed to quickly pull himself to his feet and continue running.

Dazed, tears of fear now mixed with blood streaming down his face, Henry sprinted down the long thin platform and up a rather large number of steep stairs, which led onto a quiet street. Looking down at the station below him, the relentless figure of the funeral clad menace came starkly into view.

As Henry began to run once more, he realised that he had hurt his leg in the fall. Blood now seeped through a ripped suit trouser and the pain was now sharp and throbbing, causing him to drag his left leg behind him as he tried to flee.

Wiping his eyes clear, he could see a busy road which was flanked on one side by a small piece of woodland, comprising of a patch of grass, shrouded by a few tall, contorted trees. Limping badly, he hurtled himself towards the traffic, yelling, pleading with drivers to stop and help him.

The bloodied mess obscuring Henry’s face, along with his entire dishevelled demeanour, stopped any passer-by from taking the risk of attending to someone who seemed so fervent, and possibly dangerous. Perhaps if he had more time someone would have eventually stopped, but the sickness had returned, and he knew that human impostor would be upon him soon.


The blood stung Henry’s eyes as he cried and hoped for a saviour. There was nothing he could do. He had tried outrunning him and failed. This man would keep coming, relentless. But what if he hid?

Dodging the cars on the road, Henry limped into the small patch of woods, wandering towards the back of them as they climbed a shallow gradient. There was another street only a few metres away, but he knew he had to rest. He was exhausted. He would hide and just hope that he would not be discovered.

Choosing a large and looming tree several times his width, Henry slumped against it, crawling in between the thin branches of a large bush at its base.

There he waited. Though his assailant soon followed.

Henry could feel the man’s presence, and despite the din of traffic nearby, the unmistakable long and methodical footsteps of someone brushing through the grassy floor could be heard. They were growing in volume, and were getting ever closer. As they did so, they were accompanied by a new, unexpected sound. One which was both humanly possible, but utterly inhuman in execution: The horrible sound of chattering teeth; the sound of teeth quickly clattering together as if the man were frozen by the cold.

The frantic chattering grew slowly closer with each step, and it appeared to Henry as if the entire area had grown dim. The man was now unbearably close, approaching from behind, but Henry dared not look for fear of being seen.

It occurred to him that as a boy he had played hide and seek in that very patch of woods, a time and place of which he had fond, sentimental memories. However this was not the game he wished to play, but perhaps he could use that local knowledge to his advantage somehow. He just had to think, but the searing pain in his leg and the blood oozing from his face made it difficult to focus.

Now the chattering of teeth was palpably close, just behind the tree which Henry was using for shelter. The uncomfortable sound now seemed akin to that of teeth chipping and breaking with each impact. As it came into view, Henry held his breath, terrified to make a sound. Then first an arm, joined slowly by legs and a body, as the figure in that antiquated funeral suit slowly passed Henry by, to search elsewhere.

It had not seen him, but now beyond all doubt he knew this thing was no man, no human being. From what Henry could see from his vantage point, the tall man was now hunched more than ever. In fact it was as if his whole body had been distended and his upper back had broken in some way, bent unnaturally out of shape as if something from underneath had pushed out from within, protruding from his spine.

His jaw was now enlarged, as were his teeth as they clattered and gritted together, and his knees seemed to have buckled, bending in on themselves. Grey wisps of human hair still clung to the back of his smooth head, and most horrifyingly of all, one of its peculiarly placed eyes seemed to be hanging from a socket in its face.

It was moving further away, and Henry cautiously began to feel as if he had outwitted it. That warped conception of human kind was now on Henry’s home turf, and there were plenty of places he knew he could hide.

Just as he became more confident, the misshapen figure stopped, hands out stretched facing away from where Henry hid. He did not know what it was doing, but it stood motionless, almost in exactly the same way which it had during their first encounter. All that was different was the incessant chattering of teeth.

Then, slowly, even that ceased.

Was it dead? Was it weakened somehow? Had it given up?

Henry saw his opportunity, and quietly pulled the crumpled note from his pocket, reading its cryptic message once more before finally throwing it in disgust to the ground. Whatever the message meant, he hoped he never had to cast his eyes upon it again. He waited for a while longer. The contorted man still stood as motionless as the trees he was surrounded by, stood there lifeless, as if frozen by the failure to find his prey.

While it was only late afternoon, the winter night began to close in and darkness soon threatened to fall. Henry was sure of one thing. He was not going to spend the night in that place, with that thing frozen or not.

Henry moved slowly at first, and his inhuman stalker still did not move, did not respond. Careful not to make any noise, he moved step by step as he neared a quiet street on the other side of the woods. Now the moment of truth, he passed within the shape’s line of sight. Still no response, it remained motionless, arms and long sharp fingers raised to chest height, outstretched like the mouth of a demonic bear trap. It was as if it lay somehow dormant.

Henry continued more briskly now, his surroundings becoming lighter as the canopy thinned. As he neared the edge of the woods he noticed two young girls around six or seven years old, playing at the foot of a garden path on the other side of the street. Happily laughing and giggling together. A pleasant sight and a welcome reminder of humanity.

A breeze blew threw the woods and finally Henry was at the last few trees before being free of that place. A smile crept across his bloodied face. He just hoped his appearance didn’t scare those girls too much if they saw him.

The first sensation was a viscously strong hand covering his mouth, pulling him from behind the nearest tree and knocking him to the ground. The second was a multitude of hands grabbing at his body, holding him firmly in place.

Henry cried, but his muffled screams could not be heard.

He struggled and fought with all his might, but the grasp remained unbroken. As he lay pinned to the ground, Henry now finally took in his impossible situation. There were six men in full funeral attire in front of him. Each of them had placed their morbid hands on Henry’s body, pinning him to the ground with their collective strength.

The chattering of teeth had now begun once more and it drew ever slowly closer until finally, the outstretched hands of that macabre image of a man were upon him. Tears flowed from Henry’s eyes as the stalker had now finally found him.

In its long almost blackened red fingers it held a strange device. What it was for Henry was not initially sure, but its thin elongated body covered in elaborate metallic engravings and symbols, with a long thick metal strand emanating from it, convinced Henry within seconds that it was a ritualistic syringe of some type.

The clattering teeth and wide naked grin of Henry’s pursuer now stared at him through one functioning eye, while the other hung from a gaping socket above its crooked, disjointed nose. With an obscure noise which sounded almost like a language, it seemed to instruct his followers to forcefully prise Henry’s mouth open. Henry cried in pain as the cold fingers of his oppressors thrust between his teeth and into his mouth, forcing his jaw painfully wide open.

Brandishing the needle in front Henry’s face, his tormentor seemed curious in watching Henry’s tear filled eyes follow the syringe as it was waved back and forwards in hypnotic fashion. With one vicious movement, the stalker thrust the long needle into Henry’s mouth, plunging it deep through the tissue at the back of his throat.

A foul tasting serum was then injected.

As the syringe was pulled out and the searing pain passed, Henry noticed a relaxing in the grip of his attackers and quickly broke free from their grasps. As he ran towards the freedom of the quiet road nearby, he noticed that he was no longer being chased. The men and the stalker were just watching him run, almost as spectators.

Then Henry felt it. In his hand. Abject misery once more took hold. He stopped running as he reached the quiet street alongside the woods, Took one look at the note which had returned to his hand, and screamed in anguish and anger at his now motionless pursuers.

The two young girls, seemingly oblivious to the commotion, were still playing happily with some toys at the gate of their garden, but Henry’s scream had startled them. They quickly wandered inside.

He had to get out of there.

He was near his home. His family could help him, surely someone could help him. Find out what they wanted and what the note meant. Surely someone could help!

Henry then breathed his last and collapsed in a heap on the pavement. He was dead.

The six men wandered over to his bloodied corpse and raised him onto their shoulders, as if a collection of corrupt and twisted pallbearers were taking him to his final resting place. They disappeared into the woods.

One of the young girls who had been playing, returned to the garden to collect her favourite doll which she had left behind. As she held it in her arms and turned to go back inside, a gust of wind blew something towards her feet. It was a crumpled, yellowed piece of paper. It looked very old. She stood and stared at it for a moment, then picking it up slowly unfolded the paper and read the message within.

Scrawled in jagged black letters were three simple words: ‘Pass it On’.

A tall, thin man dressed in an antiquated undertaker’s suit appeared from the edge of the woods. He smiled from across the street at the little girl, and then looked down at his pocket watch, counting, waiting.

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44 thoughts on “Pass It On”

  1. Am I the only one who read this entire story in the voice of the narrator from The Stanley Parable. It fits so perfectly!

  2. I wish the books I had to read for school were this interesting. If they were I might actually enjoy English like I enjoyed this! 10/10

  3. “Pass it On” was a very gripping story – I couldn’t leave the computer until I finished it! Very spooky and detailed, all of which made for a great read, and a great idea for a movie. You are a very talented writer.

  4. Those Damned under takers with their cryptic note and their old suits and their disgusting teeth! They’ve robbed my master of so much sport over the years, making a fool of me in the process.

  5. A really well written, engaging story that totally grabbed me. This guy can write! Wish every story on here was up to that standard!

  6. Wow, I loved this.
    I had no idea you were a writer, I just started watching your videos the other day. After reading this I’m greatly looking forward to your “Make your own adventure” horror story :P
    Jump in the fireplace for god’s sake !

  7. lollipop_gestapo

    I really enjoyed this, read it on my break at work. I liked the description of the villain very much. But it says,”pass it on,” is this to assume that if he had given it to another mortal early on, he would’ve survived?

    1. If this is your idea of a book, then you must exclusively read childrens’ fairy tales. Sorry this truly astounding story couldn’t be way too short, so as to keep your pathetic attention span. Also, who is “Hartry Potter,” and why do you prefer reading it over this near-masterpiece?

  8. Am I the only one who cares about the backstory behind who is doing this and why? Otherwise a very well written story with exellent detail and flow.

    1. I agree. That’s my only real complaint. There’s something to be said for leaving things up to the imagination, but this one left me wanting a little more of a clue.

      Otherwise, excellent.

      1. Thank you so much for the kind words David. I agree that It’s not fleshed out much. I remember thinking while writing this that it was as if the undertaker was losing form, corrupting some how as time went on. Perhaps he is harvesting the victims to maintain his shape. Or perhaps he himself is cursed to walk the earth in a neverending process of feeding on others to stay alive. I’m really not sure, but it may certainly be worth exploring in a rewrite.

    2. I would say you are the only one that cares, but I suppose you’re not. I am of the opinion that you shouldn’t care, however. I would assume most people are on this wonderful site to get the shit scared out of them, seeing as this is the reason that I’m here. And if you haven’t learned by now that “the unknown” is far more creepy and bone-chilling than something tangible and “fleshed out”, just stick to modern slasher flicks.

      I would say that this author masterfully created an extremely suspenseful, sinister character and plot that leaves the reader feeling as though this man could one day show up on a city square in your home town, and have not an inkling of what to do.

      And that’s truly creepy ;)

  9. I do believe that this story was too drawn out… It was a great concept and I loved the story line,but some of the sentenced were too long and seemed to flow together.

  10. Stephan D. Harris

    Anyone else every heard of the Backwater Gospel? I was imagining the undertaker looking like the one from the short animation.

  11. Hi everyone. This is the oldest of the stories I have submitted to the site (in fact I forgot I had even submitted it, LOL!). Much like ‘Off the Beaten Path’ it’s one which I will return to, but I thought some might get a kick out of it. An interesting note is that this isn’t really a short story at all; it’s a film treatment. I wrote this originally as a short film and there is a script version which is perhaps better written.

    Not that I think I’m a great author by any stretch of the imagination, but even by my own limited standards this is not one of my best. The last third is very rushed and it does indeed give away the fact that it was intended as a treatment in places.

    That being said, when I saw that Derpbutt was opening submissions again for a while I simply grabbed a whole bunch of my stories which I thought had creepy aspects to them and happily gave them to the site. In no way do I regret posting this one as it’s quite fun to see your stories progress over time, and I really did feel that there was a particularly ‘Creepypasta’ aspect to the story.

    I hope someone out there in Creepypasta land enjoyed this, and when I release this as part of the ‘Ghastly Tales’ anthology horror web series, I hope you enjoy watching it.

    If you wish to keep up to date with my stories and other projects, please click on my name and ‘Like’ my Facebook page. We’re having some laughs over there, including the first ever Creepypasta Choose Your Own Adventure story!

    Thanks as always everyone, and I do believe I have submitted a couple of other stories which are more recent and hopefully of a higher quality. Until then, I look forward to reading and enjoying all of your stories.

    By for now,


    P.S. Check out Stephan D. Harris’ work. His stories are hosted on as well and are really enjoyable.

    1. Ok, that explains it for Off the Beaten Path.. “film treatment”
      Haven’t read this yet and I promise not to skip parts this time. ;)

    2. “Not that I think I’m a great author by any stretch of the imagination”

      Yes, you are. My enjoyment of your short stories ranks somewhere above Stephen King and below Ambrose Bierce. You’re an amazing writer.

      “but even by my own limited standards this is not one of my best”

      Agreed, but only when the overall quality of your work is considered. Compared to most other authors, this is still a brilliant story. But the bar for being one of your best has been set pretty high.

    3. I agree with those guys, your shit is great, man. Aside from a few sentences that I noticed could be written better, this was extremely immersing and very well composed. And the ending did feel a bit rushed but I believe that added to the feeling of panic mounting inside of your character more than anything.

      Definitely going to look into more of your stuff when I need a good scare.

    4. The_Amazing SAF

      I agree with the others, this was brilliantly done. I liked how the stories tone became more and more panicked as Henry’s mental state seemingly diminished. Also, I think a version of this story would be really cool from a first person point of view.

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