Friday, February 21st
So of course there was nothing on my camera from Log Four. I mean, what did I expect? Every time these things showed up and were done for the day, everything would seem to reset and no one would know what happened but me (and that Sender freak). And while I know that I should have been pissed at the end result of that, I wasn’t. I was just happy to be alive.
Now going back to what happened after Log Four. I arrived home, discovered that somehow it was 6:00 pm. again, and that the footage of Bob was no longer present on my camera.
“REALLY?!” I shouted at the sky.
I still sat in my car in utter disbelief at what had occurred, and well, annoyed.
I sighed. Okay. So back to square one. Go write down Log 4.
I parked my car and headed inside. My mother was in the middle of cleaning laundry when I stepped in. I hesitated the second I saw her, then shook my head.
Huh. I’ve entered the gates of Hell, yet no one else realizes it but me.
My arrival didn’t go unnoticed.
“How was the library, honey?” The question was sudden and caught me by surprise.
“Wuh?” I replied, not really processing the question—I was still stuck on how alone I was in all this.
“How was the library?” she asked again.
“Oh, it was uh….” Fricking awful! I got to experience a horror story firsthand and nearly get eaten by an overgrown, armless, naked, monster with a ridiculous name! That’s what I wanted to say. But instead, I gave a fake smile that bordered on sarcastic and said, “Great, it was great.”
“Well, that’s good.” She nodded before turning her back to put another load of clothes into the washer.
I rolled my eyes. What was happening to me was anything but “good”.
I entered my bedroom, locked the door, then leaned back against the frame. I drew in a deep, exhausted breath. I knew I needed to write down Log Four, but I wanted a few minutes of rest. Losing the footage from last night, dying twice, and seeing my family members mutilated was taking its toll. I knew I could be a sarcastic S.O.B., ready to throw in a witty jab whenever things got tough, but this? This was starting to become a little more than what I could handle. Worse still, I still had three more visitors to contend with.
I may have gotten out of today’s predicament but what about tomorrow’s? The thought did not comfort me.
After another deep breath, I went to my desk and logged onto my computer. I recorded everything that happened with B.O.B. (which I have no doubt you’ve read by now). I chose to end it with me getting home, since—well—that’s where I felt like Log Four had ended for me. By the time I’d reached typing in the ending, I felt much more coolheaded and relaxed. But of course, things always go wrong just as everything feels like it’s going right.
The second I typed in the final sentence of Log Four, the monitor beeped. A small indication appeared on the screen’s taskbar, informing me a text box had opened. I knew what that meant.
“Great,” I muttered.
I really, (really, really, really, really) didn’t want to talk to The Sender. I didn’t need to hear a lecture from a sadistic, self-centered, “Story Giver” about the day’s events. If I talked to him, would he be kind of enough to give me actual answers for once? Heh, yeah right.
“You know what,” I murmured, “screw him.”
I closed the laptop.
I didn’t give a crap about what he had to say.
I could handle things from here.
For the next several hours, I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling. I couldn’t sleep. Not with the horrors flowing through the depths of my mind.
When I would turn to my right, I would see Jeff with his sadistic smile sitting in a nearby chair; his lidless eyes staring at me; blood trailing and dripping down the blade of the knife in his hand.
When I would turn to my left, I’d see a forest that should not exist outside my window; a glade with a horrid, bloodied, redheaded girl—her skin pale, her eyes foggy, skipping happily in a circle around a crimson-stained shovel. I didn’t need to hear her to know she was humming her favorite song: “Ring around the Rosy”. Tiny Teri.
When I turned to the ceiling, I’d see a see a dark figure with a blue mask eyeing me with its empty, black sockets. Eyeless Jack.
When I closed my eyes, I would see that tall, armless, deformed beast from the library; its dark beady eyes filled with hunger and hatred as it bore its sharp teeth in a snarl. Brutal Obscene Beast.
All night this went on.
When the sun’s rays fell through the window and my alarm clock blared, it told me what I already knew and dreaded:
Log Five had started.
What now? I asked myself. Should I go to school and try to play this out like a normal day? Or should I just stay here?
I weighed my options. They both seemed like good ideas, but I didn’t know what was coming next. If I went to school, would a beast like Bob come and try to ruin the day? If I stayed at home, would a freak like Jeff come and kill me and my family again?
Perhaps I should—
My eyes snapped to the computer.
Oh, great. He wants to talk.
I shook my head at it. I wasn’t going to answer that.
“No,” I said in a stern voice. “I’m not talking to you Sender.”
I sighed. “Look, beep all you want. I am not talking to you.”
I sat up, ticked.
“Welp, that’s it!” I threw my hands up. “I know what I’m going to do now.”
I got up and packed my bag for school. If The Sender was just going to keep pestering me all day, I’d rather sit in class and listen to a boring lecture.
I put on some jeans and a black tee shirt, before slinging my backpack over my shoulder. I opened the door.
I paused and narrowed my eyes at the computer.
“Later freak,” I said, then headed out the door.
On the drive to school, I thought about how I might deal with the next visitor whenever he/she/it came. By now I had gotten the message: these things—once killed—do not stay dead. But on the bright side, I also knew there was always a chance to get out of the encounter alive, if not unscathed. The real trick was: how? And that part depended entirely on whoever the visitor was.
Damn it, if I only knew who was coming next. I grimaced. What’s the connection between these visitors?
That question really bothered me. So far, I’d encountered Jeff, Teri, Jack, and B.O.B.; why had The Sender chosen them over other well-known Creepypasta stories—such as BEN Drowned or Smiley the Dog? If I could find the answer, then maybe I could predict who was next and be ready.
Is it because they’re classics?
I mulled over the question for a minute, then shook my head.
No, that’s not it.
Tiny Teri wasn’t considered a classic in Creepypasta—compared to the others, her story was recent—so I could rule that out.
Does it have to do with each character’s personality?
Jeff was a sadistic, deranged psychopath. Teri was a vengeful, undead spirit who loved the game ‘Hide and Seek’ way too much. Jack was…was…well, I honestly didn’t know what Jack was. B.O.B., on the other hand, was a monster. Plain and simple.
But none of those connected in any way.
So, if it’s not personality, then what is it?
I thought long and hard about it, but the more potential theories I came up with, the more dead ends brought them down. It wasn’t long until I saw campus come into view. I sighed and pressed back against my seat.
So many questions, so few answers.
I tried to pay as much attention as I could to lectures; I couldn’t think of a better way to keep my mind off that night’s visitor otherwise. When my final class of the day ended, I didn’t get up. I stayed in my desk. I refused to go home. I didn’t want to see more horror. I didn’t want to see more death. I just wanted this to be over. I wanted to go back to my normal, boring life where all I had to worry about was the deadline for my next research paper and not my actual death.
My refusal to leave must have caught the teacher’s attention because it wasn’t until maybe ten minutes after everyone else left that I heard her voice.
“J.T.?” the professor called my name.
I didn’t respond. I stared at my desk, lost in my head, lost trying to find my way out of this labyrinth of nightmares.
“J.T.?” her voice again, a little louder this time.
B.O.B., Jack, Teri, Jeff. B.O.B., Jack, Teri, Jeff. What is it about these four?
“J. T.!?” she almost hollered.
I jolted upright in my seat.
“Huh!? Wuh!?” I mumbled, returning to reality (though that too was a question in itself: was this even reality anymore?).
My creative writing professor, Mrs. Hudok—a woman in her mid-thirties, with shoulder length auburn hair, coffee-brown eyes, and an expression of concern and puzzlement—stood over me.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
I gazed up at her, unsure how to reply.
“Um…yeah, I just...” I trailed off. Who am I trying to kid? I sighed and lowered my gaze.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not.”
She sat down in the desk next to me.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“What’s wrong?” I laughed. “Everything. Everything’s wrong.”
“Everything?” she echoed.
“Yeah, everything,” I replied.
“J.T. I need to know what that means. Is there something happening? Something at home with you and your parents, maybe?”
I glanced over to see her eyes focused; full of worry. I knew what she was getting at and it almost made me laugh. If only that could’ve been my problem, at least then it would’ve been considered normal.
“No,” I said. “It’s not what you think.”
Her shoulders somewhat relaxed with relief, but the concern in her eyes didn’t leave. “Then,” she began, “what is it? What’s wrong? You’ve been acting very strange for that past few days now and yesterday you didn’t even show up for class.”
When I didn’t respond she added, “J.T. if there’s something happening that’s affecting you personally, you can tell me.”
I stared at her, skeptic.
Could I? Could I really tell you what’s been happening? I wondered.
I doubted it. She couldn’t begin to understand what I was going through. Who could?
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Hudok,” I said, rising up to leave, “but I can’t tell you.”
I grabbed my bookbag then headed for the door.
I stopped just short of the door. I sighed then turned to look back.
“Yes?” I asked.
Mrs. Hudok had risen from her seat; her concerned expression hadn’t left, in fact, it looked even more serious. She could tell there was something definitely wrong.
“I know you don’t want to tell me what’s going on right now,” she said, “but I can see it’s affecting you deeply. It’s even starting to show in your writing.”
“My…writing?” I thought immediately of the logs.
“Yes, your past few assignments have been rather unusual.”
Oh! My writing assignments. I had almost forgotten about those. Although, now that I thought about it, I didn’t remember doing them.
“Dark?” I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice. “How so?”
“One moment.” She returned to the front and pulled a few papers out of a stack on her desk, then began to flick through a few them before stopping on one in particular. She put her finger on one of the passages and began to read:
“A teenager roughly my age stood before me. He wore a white hoodie, a pair of blue jeans speckled with bloodstains, and held in his right hand a large bloodied knife. Even more horrifying was his face: it was completely ash white. Long black hair hung from beneath his hood, a smile no ordinary person could ever make rested on his face, and those eyes… God, those eyes were dark...”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“How…did?” I mumbled.
“J.T.? What’s wrong?”
My legs felt like mush and I stumbled back against the door’s frame, then slid to the floor.
HOW!? That’s not possible!
“J.T?!” Mrs. Hudok hurried over to me. “J.T. what is it!? What’s wrong!?”
I didn’t hear her.
How did she get copies of the Logs? Why does she have them?
“J.T.!” Mrs. Hudok put a hand on my shoulder, her face frantic.
The Sender. That son of a…WHY!? WHY IS HE DOING THIS!? Why send them to her? What’s he trying to say?
“J.T.?” Mrs. Hudok, on the verge of yelling, shook my shoulder.
I raised my eyes up to hers, and with a shaky voice said, “M-Mrs. Hudok?”
“Yes?” she answered, her eyes wide and frightened.
“How exactly did you get those?”
She drew her head back, baffled. “Excuse me?”
I stared her straight in the eyes. “How. Did. You. Get. Those?” I needed to know.
She blinked a few times, most likely perplexed why I’d ask something so trivial as that when I’d just collapsed, but fortunately, she answered anyway, “You turned them in through the college website. Like you always do for my assignments.”
“Online,” I whispered, lowering my eyes. “Of course.” I nodded in understanding.
The Sender was far craftier than I thought and ever more sadistic. I decided to stop talking to him; he decided to send me a message through my Creative Writing class; to tell me that even in places where I think it’s safe, he’s still around.
I gazed at my teacher. Her expression so panicked; I was certain she was ready to call an ambulance if I didn’t say something soon. I didn’t blame her. She’d never seen me like this before, and she’d been my professor for a long time.
That’s when I decided to make a decision.
“Mrs. Hudok,” I asked, “do you really want to know what’s happening?”
She hesitated for a second before answering, “Yes.”
“Okay then. You’re going to need to sit down for this.”
For next hour I told her everything.
I told her how I had always wanted to write my own Creepypasta story, my inability to come up with an idea, The Sender and his offer, and the horrors that followed after I unknowingly accepted it.
Now for the big question that I know is going through you, the reader’s, head:
Why did I tell her this?
Because, I was tired. I was tired of reliving a new horror every day; I was tired of being burdened with this insanity alone. I wanted someone else—anyone else—to know, even if it would only be for one day.
When I finished, my teacher didn’t speak. The look on her face told me everything: she didn’t know what to make of my tale. She knew from the past few months of having me in her class that I could be sarcastic and a class clown at times, but even I would never come up with something like this as a joke nor could I tell it with so much seriousness in my eyes. It was a good while before she spoke.
“Well, J.T.,” she said, her voice low and her words slow and deliberate, “This is…This is disturbing.”
Figures. I thought. She doesn’t believe me. No one with any form of rationality would EVER believe me, not unless they saw it for themselves.
“Look,” I said, “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the truth. And you know I would never make up something as insane as this. It really did happen.”
Mrs. Hudok opened her mouth to say something, but I raised a hand, gesturing for her to wait.
“And yes,” I went on, “I know you don’t believe me. You probably think I need to go see a doctor, but you can relax. I’m as sane as any catatonic wreck could be at this point, besides, by tomorrow you’ll probably have forgotten everything I’ve told you, while I’ll be at home typing it out on my computer.”
Mrs. Hudok’s expression turned curious. “If you knew I wouldn’t believe you,” she began, “and that—while I’m not saying this is true—I’ll forget about this whole ordeal tomorrow, why tell me?”
“Well, because I just need to tell someone and get this off my chest. And I think you could help me.”
Mrs. Hudok’s eyes widened.
“Oh, no! I don’t mean like help me out with the next freak! I’ve seen enough people besides me get killed. What I mean is that I need your help to figure something out.”
She slowly nodded her head. “Okay, assuming you’re not crazy, what is it you need help figuring out?”
Oh, thank God.
“I need to try and predict what’s coming next. I’ve been looking at the freaks that The Sender has sent me so far and I think there’s a connection. I just don’t know what it is.”
“Hmm…” Mrs. Hudok sucked in her bottom lip then rose to her feet and hurried back to her desk. She pulled out the copies of my logs.
“You’ve seen three so far, correct?” she asked.
“No, four. I’m assuming you don’t have yesterday’s since I just wrote it.”
I got up and walked to her computer and pulled up the Creepypasta page where I’d been posting the logs.
“Here you go,” I told her.
She took a few to read over Log 4. Once finished, she flipped over one of the pages on her desk and jotted down all four names of the visitors thus far.
“Alright,” she said, “so we have the following: Jeff the Killer from day one, Tiny Teri from day two, Eyeless Jack from day three, and B.O.B from yesterday.”
I nodded my head. “Right.”
“And what do you know about them so far?”
I thought about it for a minute before answering, “Well, besides the fact that they’re well-known Creepypasta stories, I’m not sure. I thought it might be because they were classics, but I ruled that out once I realized that Tiny Teri was written only a few months ago.”
I heard her mumble something to herself as she tried to piece things together. Her eyes suddenly brightened. She turned to me. “J.T.,” she said, “This ‘Sender’ said that he was giving this story just for you, right?”
Hadn’t I just told her that?
“Uh, yeah?” I confirmed.
“So wouldn’t each monster be something that connects to you?”
“Uh…wuh…What?” What the heck was she talking about?
She pointed at the Logs and began to explain. “J.T., you said that on the first day all of this began, this ‘Sender’ decided to give you a story, one that was specifically designed just for your Creepypasta. So maybe each villain he’s giving isn’t connected to the next but connected to you.”
I shook my head. “Again with the ‘connected to me’ thing. What are you talking about? I don’t get what you’re saying.”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “J.T., each monster chosen so far has some sort of significance to you.”
“Significance to me… wait, hang on, are you saying The Sender chose these particular ones because of me personally and not because they’re just pretty good Creepypasta stories; is that what you’re saying?”
She smiled and nodded her head. “Yes.”
“Alright,” I said with some understanding. “What’s the connection between me and them?”
Mrs. Hudok’s smile turned into a frown. “I don’t know,” she said. “The Sender does, but what it is I can’t say. The only way you could find out would be to see what the next monster is and then try to figure out how it relates to you.”
I snorted. “Gggggrrrrreeeeaaatttt!” I turned and threw up my hands. “That’s just what I needed to hear.”
Mrs. Hudok sighed. “Well, I’m sorry J.T.,” she said, “but that’s all I can tell you. I’m not very familiar with Creepypasta; I’m just familiar with writing.” She picked up the Logs and sifted through a few. “And judging by the style and curve of the story, the only thing I can tell is that these monsters are not chosen at random. They’re chosen specifically for the protagonist, you—assuming what you told me is true. I haven’t really decided yet.”
I sighed. And here I thought we were on to something.
I turned to her. “Well then,” I said, “thank you anyway. You brought me a step closer to figuring this out.”
I glanced at my watch. 5:40 pm. Jeez...
“I better go ahead and leave,” I said, lowering my watch. “No need to keep tonight’s visitor waiting.”
Mrs. Hudok gave me a sad smile. “Well, I wish you good luck then. I’d like to hear what happens tomorrow.”
“Alright,” I nodded to her and collected my stuff. As I passed through the door I murmured, “But, you won’t.”
Log 5 (Part B)