I closed the door behind me with one hand while the other clenched the knife I’d taken from Jeff.

The office wasn’t necessarily big, but it was spacious. Several shelves full of books lined against the back wall. The only sources of light came from the two large windows above the shelves. In the room’s center was the dean’s desk with several papers scattered across its surface. At the top of each sheet was titled one of the Logs. Behind all of it sat its now current occupant–a figure wearing nothing but a dark gray hoodie with dark pants. He sat, leaning back in his chair. The top half of his face was shaded by his hood while the bottom half bore a devilish smile.

The Sender.

Standing directly beside him was Kayla, still looking as horrid as the day before with her torn up bloodied-brown classic leather jacket and her blood speckled jeans. Her eyes still contained that strange fog I’d seen along with crazed sadism, and intelligence. Her dark brown hair was matted with blood. The only difference now was her expression. She wasn’t wearing that ‘charming’ smile I’d last seen her with, nor was she bothering to look at me. Instead, she stared at the desk with a blank expression; not once looking up.

“You made it,” The Sender said with a smile as he clapped his hands. His voice sounded like that of a young man, maybe in his twenties and given his appearance, looked like it too. But I knew looks were deceiving and what sat before me was not a man at all, but a freak, a monster.

I remained silent, giving the two of them a blank stare, yet feeling confused. I’d come in there to kill the two of them, but yet I didn’t want to. No, wait-that’s not right.

“I honestly did not think you would make it,” The Sender lowered his hands and leaned forward. “I had expected you to fail at Log Seven, with the Slenderman, much like how Kayla had.”

I saw Kayla’s eyes flicker towards The Sender with annoyance before returning back to the desk.

“But yet,” he continued, “you prevailed, just as you prevailed the six other times before.”

My grip on the knife tightened. “You mean,” I said, “how I got hunted, tortured, and killed the six other times before.”

The Sender’s smile never faltered as he spoke, “Yet, here you are. Still alive. Still with sanity.”

I laughed. “Sanity?” I echoed, thinking he was nuts. “I’m a fricking nervous train-wreck right now! Because of you! You made me endure hell for over seven days!” I pointed the knife at him. “And just when I think it’s over, I’m thrust right back into it to see your sorry, sickening, face.”

I stepped forward with the knife ready, but stopped just in front of the desk. This is it now. Stab him!

The knife remained by my side. But why?

“True,” The Sender said, ignoring my bafflement, “you are not the same person as you once were, nor will you ever be. As is the result with every writer who has taken up my offer.”

What on earth was he talking about? I hadn’t taken up his offer! HE’D FORCED ME! I wanted to stab him right then and there, but I was conflicted. I wanted to and then I did not want to. What the heck was going on? Why couldn’t I stab him!?

“I would say you are better this way too,” he said, his voice as smooth as ever.

I narrowed my eyes and in a low voice asked, “How is being a nervous wreck, better?”

“Are you nervous now?” The Sender threw the question.

I blinked. “What?”

“Are. You. Nervous now?”

I remained quiet, not knowing what to say. I knew how I felt, it’s just that, I shouldn’t have been feeling that way. “No,” I answered. “I’m not.”

The Sender nodded his head. “I thought so.”

I didn’t. Actually, I didn’t know what to think. Everything, was becoming strange, confusing.

“But now,” The Sender said, “let us get to why you are here. You have earned answers now, and I am willing to give them.”

Answers? Do I still want those? No, I do…don’t…What the heck!? It took all of my willpower to put my thoughts back in place. I chose the first important question I could think of.

“W-why?” I sputtered. “Why did you do this to me? No, scratch that.” I already knew what B.S. answer he’d give me if I’d asked that one. “What do you get out of all this?”

He smiled even wider and look to Kayla. “You see?” he asked her. “Change. A prime example of it there.” He gestured a hand at me then turned back to face me. “‘What do I get out of all of this’, you ask?” he echoed, lowering his hand. “I would say at the top of my list, it would be pure, simple, enjoyment. Watching your story unfold was a wonderful experience. Every twist, every turn. Every scream.”

I shook my head. “That’s not why you did it,” I said in a firm voice. “I know that’s not.”

“More proof of change,” he again, said to Kayla. I didn’t know what this “change” he was talking about was, nor did I care. Yet, it unnerved me. He turned back to me. “You are right,” he said, nodding. “That is not the only reason. What I really get out of all this is a secret.”

“Can you not answer anything straight!? You piece of-”

“You do not need to know, J.T. You are a writer. By now you should know that in a good story, especially a good horror, the protagonist does not need to know why this is happening, only know that he needs to continue and survive. Besides,” he grinned, “it is the unsolved mystery that stays with both the reader and the protagonist the longest, even after the story is over.”

I tried with every ounce of my being to raise the knife and plunge into his sickening smile, but my hand refused.

“And then,” The Sender added, “there is the last reason. You.”

I blinked. “Me?”

“Yes, you or, to be more specific, people who are like you. I give certain writers, certain candidates, the stories they need when they ask for it, but I look for a pattern in each one. A certain aspect of their character that I can take and possibly mold into something special. Something that I can use. However, most tend to fail and go insane. But there are a few who do make it.” He looked at Kayla and added, “And then there are the ones who did not necessarily make it, but proved that they were deserving enough to be used.”

Something, was not right about this. I sure as heck didn’t like what I was hearing, “What-what do you mean?” I stuttered.

“I have already said it twice now, J.T.” he replied, looking back at me. “Change.”

“Change? Change into what? I’m still the same. I haven’t changed. Much.”

The Sender only smirked.

I shook my head. “You know what? Screw you. I don’t care what you’re looking for. I don’t care at all. I beat your little game. I made it, I’m alive.” I said, pointing the knife at them to emphasize my point. “Despite your expectations. You both thought I’d lose. But I didn’t.”

I glanced at Kayla, and with my eyes narrowed at her, said, “Things didn’t go the way you wanted them to. Right, Kayla?”

The Sender gave me a bemused expression before he leaned back in his seat, chuckling.

My narrowed eyes went to him. “What’s so funny?” I demanded.

He glanced at Kayla then back to me. “Well, you see,” he said, “you are wrong. I did not think you would make it. I thought you would lose after having to face all of them in one night. However...”

Kayla slowly raised her head, a chilling smile that I didn’t like in the slightest, crept onto her face.

“They did go the way I wanted them to,” she said.

My heart froze. “What are you talking about?” I asked, already knowing and dreading the answer.

The Sender lifted his head, giving me full view of his face.

“Holy-” I couldn’t get rest out. I stepped back, stunned. His face… I can’t–I can’t tell you. As much as I want to, I can’t. He won’t let me tell you. All I can tell you is that it confirmed what I thought: he was a monster. A demon perhaps, I’m not entirely sure.

The Sender continued speaking, “Kayla thought you would make it. Despite what you were led to believe when she first spoke to you through the intercom.”

Kayla walked around the desk towards me. “And,” she began, trailing her finger across my shoulders as she rounded me, “I said you would get to see firsthand, what exactly happened to me.” She stopped just in front of me.

Oh, no. I tried to strike out with the knife, but instead I simply raised it, offering it.

What the hell!?

She smiled, then said “Oh, thank you.” She took it and prodded its point with her fingertips.

“What did you do to me? Why can’t I move?!” I yelled.

The Sender said nothing. Kayla, on the other hand, spoke as if she hadn’t heard. 
“I also said, if things went the way I thought they would, which they did,” she bared her white teeth in a grin, “it would happen to you too. Change.”

The Sender leaned forward in his chair, saying the words that damned me. “You see J.T.” he said, “I did not bring you here just to give you answers. This is a welcoming.”

My head started spinning and my heart beat against my chest. My emotions began to conflict with each other. They weren’t the same as they once had been. They were changing.


I needed to get away, NOW!

I spun and reached for the door, but was too late. Kayla reacted faster than I thought possible, stabbing me in the back, just as I turned. I fell forward onto my stomach, gasping.

“Uh-uh, Jaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyy,” she cooed and knelt down beside me. “You’re not leaving, not yet.” Her grin grew wider than ever.

I started crawling forward to the door.

I heard The Sender stand up and then walk into view, blocking me from my escape.

“Even when he loses, he still tries to win,” The Sender said, leaning down. “Another reason why I chose him.”



Now you know. You know what I’ve become. Changed. Changed into a puppet like Kayla, only she liked it, but it may be only a matter of time before I become like her, losing all sense of sanity, morality and becoming a freak like her.

I was done the moment I wrote my name down. I became a character to be used by The Sender the moment I put myself into a story. Changed. Changed into a character. But I’m still me. For however long that will last. Even now, I can still feel the old me slipping away. I’m slipping away. I’m beginning to like...no…I’m not…I’m not liking it…but I will.

I’m struggling to type this, much like the first day I typed Log One. My hands shake with each key I press. I don’t know what will be written next. It’s not me who’s typing anymore. It’s a freak, a monster it’s-Me.

It was always me.

 Accept it.

I still have some time left, though. I was still given time to go back to my old life, if only for a short while. To see my family again. To experience life as it should be one last time. I’m a character in my own sick story now. My own horror story. My own Creepypasta.

Stories, that’s what The Sender uses, that’s what he controls.

Now I’m a freak, once a human. A freak who still wears his dark blue hoodie, now bloodied and torn in certain patches. A freak who now carries a wicked knife in his pocket forced to carry out his will. A freak who prays to God that maybe someday I might escape, but probably won’t. A freak who was once a writer that accepted an offer that turned him into what I am now. An offer that I will extend to you. I end this now, much the same way as it began. I ask you this:

Do you wish for a story?

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