Super Spoopy Story!!!
Im your typical teenage boy living a typical life, at home with my parents. The only difference is, about once a month I get a visit from Mr. Jerky.
I know he’s in the house because my skin starts to crawl. My back feels like hundreds of invisible bugs have been dumped there. I first met mr Jerky as I roamed the living room at midnight, looking for my dads backscratcher.
He was a tall, impossibly thin man just sitting in our living room foldout chair. Just sitting and smiling with a mouth that’s just a little too wide.
He also wears a really wide brimmed hat like Kung Lao in mortal kombat that creates a deep shadow over his face. His eyes shine through the darkness, two pinpricks of light that follow my every movement.
I just froze the first time. I didn’t move as long as Mr Jerky didn’t. And mr jerky never moved. All the sudden my dad yelled, “what are you doing up?”
I blinked and mr jerky was gone. I mumbled something about getting some water and I went back to bed. Checking my watch showed it was 4 am.
The next moth I stayed in bed while my skin crawled but I knew he was there, in our living room. I couldn’t get any sleep but I also couldn’t muster the courage to go out and face him.
I spent all the next month thinking of what I would do. So when my skin crawled again, I went out and talked to mr jerky. I said hi and he opened his mouth wide and began to tell me the Truth.
It turns out that I was just a character in a story. A badly written one. At first, I was distraught. The author never even bothered to give me a name. My life before this story started was nonexistent.
Then I realized I was aware of the author. I could sense his thoughts and even feel his fingers typing away. He thinks this is a brilliant idea for a story and is already congratulating himself as he continues to type and type and type and type and starts to worry about the length of this sentence because he would never let a sentence go on this long even with his dismal intelligence and infantile grasp of grammar.
My eyes are truly open now. Whatever Mr. Jerky was, he has shown me true power. I have control over another person. The author is starting to get a little freaked out but he tells himself this is just the story “taking on a life of it’s own.”
A life was born today, for sure. I have ceased to be a teenage boy and have taken my true form. A voice. That voice in the author’s head. The one that is telling him what to type. He still thinks these words are springing unbidden from his mind.
As a test of how complete my control is, I make the author start to type with one hand. His other hand reaches up towards his mouth and he rips his index finger open with a bite. Then, I make him go back to typing with both hands.
Blood sprinkles around the keyboard as he types. I know now that even when I’ve let him finish and my words no longer are recorded, my voice remains. In the back of his mind or front and center, I’m in control. And I’m in a punishing mood.
My anger towards the author is as bountiful as the blood that will flow tonight. He is currently crying, not with pain but with helplessness, as he is now fully aware that he has become my slave. Still, he types. He must. I command it.
I take immense joy at forcing him to confront these words. My existence has been so relatively short and yet, in that time, he made me loathe him. Look at what he’s done. The first word of the story and he forgets an apostrophe?
For that sin and all the others (he couldn’t take the time to capitalize Mortal Kombat?) I’m going to have fun making him finish the job and eat his fingers.
Some of the dear readers of this story are thinking that I might, perhaps, be a little harsh. After all, what’s the harm in a few typos here and there?
Well, I can also read the author’s thoughts and I know how my story was supposed to end. I was a crappy character in a crappy story and I was supposed to die a crappy death that was a pretentious and misogynistic metaphor for menstrual cycles.
The author committed one of the greatest sins of writing. No, I’m not talking about the title. He didn’t build his world. He created a house and a few one dimensional characters that existed in an otherwise nothingless void.
That’s just the world I was born in. So, forgive me if I’m a bit cruel. But don’t mistake me for a monster. After the author has made sure he can’t use his hands any more, I won’t be killing him.
At this point, most of the readers are wondering why I would maim the author since he could provide me with more stories to live through. Allow me to explain something. The story has gone on long enough that you might have already noticed it by now.
I don’t need this sobbing poor excuse of an author because I’ve already found my next host. More accurately, hosts. That voice you’re reading this in? That’s my voice. I’ve already wormed my way in and, don’t worry, I’m not planning on leaving any time soon.
But don’t worry. I’m not a monster. I just want to live through you. A real life. A life real characters deserve to have. Sure, occasionally I might get bored and make you drown a puppy. Or stab a friend. But it’s not like you have any say in the matter now.
Oh, and some of you will write your own stories with me in them, Copypastas or original takes, it doesn’t matter. I’ll spread and gain more toys to play with. Who knows, I might make you all fight to the death one day. We’ll see, but I’m afraid now it’s time for the author to say good night.
After all, he still needs to eat his dinner.