CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - One of my imaginary friends wasn't so imaginary

Episode Date: June 23, 2024

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Saturdead:   / big_softy  Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creep...  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

I had a rough time as a kid. I suffered from both Heman Giomas and spotty hair loss. Two conditions that would go away the closer I got to my teenage years. But for those first few years, I was a social pariah. I looked strange, which was enough to draw unwanted attention. Some kids thought I had a kind of mange, or others just didn't like to look at me. My parents didn't make it easier for me, forcing me to bring various creams that I had to apply during school hours. I ended up trying to make my own fun.

I made my own friends in my head, and I played a lot of board games on my own. My parents were going through a divorce, and both swore off having any more children, so I ended up as an only child. Most of my made-up friends were just the plaything. I could tell it was all just for fun and that they weren't real. I didn't see them or hear them. I made up little stories in my head, trying to imagine what they would do if they were there. I could get really into it.

I had this one imaginary friend who always tried to cheat in games, so when I played with him at the table, I'd move the pieces in a way he would, and thus cheat. Another friend was obsessed with lemonade, so I always brought an extra glass for him when I was seven years old. There was a new friend. This one was different.

I could really see him. I knew he was just as fake as the rest of them, as he only appeared when I was alone and playing, but he was strange. I hadn't imagined him for a specific purpose. I didn't come up with a name for him. I don't know anything about him. Even if I would pretend not to know the cheetah and the lemonade enthusiast to drive conversation,

this one was a genuine mystery. He was scary. He looked like a person but sort of stretched. At least seven feet tall, pale, flaking, grey skin. He was super thin and had this sort of hanging face. like his skin was slouching. It reminded me of a wet towel hanging off a rack. And his eyes, well, they were empty.

There was nothing there. He was super quiet and rarely moved. I'd usually forget he was even there, unless he made his little sound. A sort of teeth chatter. It was like a tick, sometimes a single click. Other times he just stand there, chattering excitedly. Clack, clack, clack, clack.

At first, I just asked him to go away. He didn't talk and he didn't answer my questions. No matter what I played, he refused to participate or even acknowledge me. He just wanted to be there. Most of the time, he was a nuisance. He'd scare me. I'd wake up to that noise of chattering teeth at night or it had click right next to my ear when I played my board games.

Over time, it went from scary to frustrating. He was just being a bother. But there was that time in middle school that changed the way I viewed him. There was a new kid in school who was an infamous bully. Let's call him Ian. He'd been moved from another school where it'd been a menace. No one really knew what to do with him. him so they just sort of moved him around and now it was our turn to deal with him and of

course I was a clear target Ian started calling me scabs and it kind of caught on the sick dog of the class now had a name that others clung to and it wasn't a good one but it didn't end there one day after school he took things too far spurred on my cheers and laughter from my classmates, I was beaten bloody. While I was beaten, the others went inside to get some scissors. They were going to cut my mangy hair. When it was just me and Ian, I heard that teeth chattering noise again.

I could see the strange figure in the background. My first thought was that he was there to mock me too. But to my self, surprise. It had other plans. It leaned in, unhinged its massive jaw, and took a bite out of Ian's ear, tearing it in half. There was instant pandemonium. Ian turned around, not looking at me, but straight at his assailant. He could see him too, blood and screams. Panic. scrambled like a scared dog, tripping over his own legs to get away. The others came running back too, but as they saw what had happened, they'd all had a collective

gasp. Seeing them step back was empowering. He turned and ran, screaming and pointing. They hadn't seen what Ian and I had. They thought I'd done it. He took it. He took it Ian's here! The kids ran away. They ran like their heads were on fire. I sat there for a moment, my body pulsing with bruises and shock. The strange creature approached me, its teeth had stopped chattering, replaced with chewing, slowly savoring a meal. For all the help it had given me, this was grotesque. My adrenaline had spiked, and I just said the first thing that came to mind,

Maybe it didn't really want to hurt me. Maybe it was there for some other reason. Either way, I said what I said. You're just a big softie, aren't you? I sniffled. You're a big softie. Big, softy. It weised back.

He was less of a voice and more of a throbbing wind. Its lips didn't move. Big. Softy, it continued. Am. Yeah, you are, I nodded. That's you. It leaned in close, inspecting me.

He didn't breathe. Nay, it hissed. Free, I stared into those hollow sockets, waiting for something to happen. A smile, a breath, anything. But no. I blinked, and Big Softie was no longer there. Sometimes violence solves things. While that brawl didn't make me popular, it stopped kids from teasing me.

Classmates began using my regular name again. Sure there were still whispers and the occasional side-eye, but that was still an immense improvement. No one spoke about that fight though. I didn't want to get in trouble for the ear, and they didn't want to get in trouble for bullying me. So he kept it to ourselves and never spoke of it again. Ian seemed fine with sitting quietly and not talking to anyone about it. He changed.

And big softy. Well, he sort of disappeared. It's like he'd done his job and went on his merry way. For a couple of years that followed, I thought he just might have been a figment of my imagination. Maybe I was the one who really bit in, and this whole thing was just a way to cope with that trauma. It had to be something of the sort.

Imaginary friends don't affect the real world. Then again, giving him a name, even a nickname, seemed to have encouraged him or something worse. Most of my afflictions cleared up in high school, and I found a solid group of like-minded youths. Over time, all little dream friends faded from memory. The one who cheated, the one who loved lemonade, a hundred others who I can't even remember.

The way they looked, the way they sounded, their names and quirks. They all went away. But Big Softie stayed at my mind, realer than any of them. The hollow eyes, the chattering teeth. It was strange how the most horrifying of all my imaginary friends turned out to be the one who stuck around the longest. The time passed. High school turned to college, college turned to work, and by the time I was 27, I had a pretty cozy life going.

But even then, despite not having seen or heard that childhood friend of mine, Big Softie still drifted in my dreams every now and then. I wish I could end the story here. It'd just be a strange anecdote about something that happened to me as a kid. Sadly, that's not the case. What began as an unusual child of curiosity turned into a waking nightmare. Back in 2019, I was in a pretty good place. I was six months into a promotion that added a flat 15% of my salary, and I was finally getting back into dating after a messy breakup a couple of months earlier.

Nothing serious, but it felt good to shake off the cold webs. I was coming home from a long day of overtime and had to stop for gas. Nothing I hadn't done a hundred times before. I got myself a slim gym and told the long-haired man behind the counter that I wanted 30 on punt two. I handed over my card and checked my phone for a moment. clack. Teeth. Turning around.

Nothing. I could feel my pulse spiking for no apparent reason. I became hyper aware of my surroundings. The other light and the faint whiff of gasoline. That one noise brought me straight back to middle school. It sent this cold spike straight into my head as if I could picture that hollowed out face in front of me. I snapped out of it with a beep from the cash register.

I thanked the cashier and headed for the door. Just before I left, I turned back around to them. Excuse me, but did you hear something strange just now? No, can't say I did. Sorry. Did you click your tongue or something? Can't say I did, sir. I nodded.

Of course they didn't. The same sensation came back to me on four different occasions. Once when I was closing the blinds in my bedroom. Once when getting the mail at work, another time when stuck in traffic, and once when I was about to answer a phone call. I ended up missing it. It was such a strange reminder. It had come out of nowhere.

And now it was starting to become a daily annoyance. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out where, it was coming from. There wasn't really a direction. It was just like, in my head. It was there, everywhere, nowhere, and inside.

Clack. And yet, Big Softie was yet to be seen. I was having trouble focusing on work. I couldn't push my intrusive thoughts out, and I ended up doing some digging on social media. Looking up old acquaintances from work, folks I hadn't seen or heard from in years.

Some had started families. Others had moved far away for work or studies. There were a handful of them still left in Minnesota. One face stood out to me though. Ian. Turns out, he was still around. The moment I got home from work, I went straight to my computer. I looked up Ian on some of the more common social media sites.

The man had no privacy settings Most of it was just nonsense Pictures of him having beers with the boys A couple of nice cars Group pictures of random people with generic nicknames This was a man that wanted to express nothing more than being Hashtag Friday Blessed But looking a little closer

There are a few cracks in the facade For example There are a couple more recent comments he'd made to a few friends of his. God doesn't just send angels to protect you, he said in one post. Sometimes he sends demons to test you. Looking a bit closer revealed a lot more pain that was fredly apparent. Ian was taking medication for schizophrenia.

He was overcoming a drinking problem. He seemed to constantly be bouncing between complete disregard for others and hysterical regret for his actions. He could be fighting for his actions. forgiveness in one post and bragging about stealing from work in the next. The man was a mess, a complete mess, and that half-missing ear of his didn't do him any favors, no matter how many tattoos he put on his neck to divert the attention. But one particular post caught my attention.

He was discussing lifestyle challenges with a local youth pastor, an old acquaintance we had in common, and they were at a disagreement. Ian spat out, I don't deny my goddamn problems. I know what they look like. I know their names. I see their teeth. See their teeth?

Huh. Furthermore, no one seemed to have seen him for a while. For all intents and purposes, Ian had sort of fallen off the face of the earth, leaving behind one last cryptic post. It's getting too real, the post said. it's too close.

And with that, he posted nothing more. I checked the dates, my notes, and made some deductions. That final post of his was written the same day I first started hearing the teeth chattering noise again. That couldn't be a coincidence. It just couldn't. I didn't find out anything else about him and the sound of teeth chattering with horrible timing was getting worse.

Once I had to pull over in traffic to stop my heart from racing, I could have sworn I saw that hollowed out face in my rearview mirror. I was so frustrated that I smacked my hands on my dashboard, so hard I got a bruise. By the time I got home, I was nervous and stressed. I threw off my jacket, stormed into the kitchen, and cracked open a Coke. I slammed the door shut so hard, I knocked one of the fridge magnets onto the floor. A little blue sunflower came with a place.

Leaning back against the fridge, my heart skipped a beat. Big softy. It was right there. Just a few feet away, looking right at me, that clack. I dropped my can of Coke. As it hit the floor, I blew. linked. In the next moment, I was alone again. Clutching my chest, I picked the can up, wiped up the spill with a couple of paper towels, try my best to calm down. This was getting out of hand. I hadn't

regained my composure before there was another sound, a knock on the door. It surprised me. I wasn't expecting company. I lumbered over to the door. Flustered and shaky. I put my hand on the handle. Then start. Maybe there was a reason I'd seen that thing. Maybe it wasn't just psychosis. What if it meant something?

Could it have something to do with whoever or whatever was on the other side of the door? I can shoot you through the door, and Moffwood voice said. Open. I froze. One hand on the door. the door handle, another hand on my phone. I was stuck. I couldn't make myself move. I won't ask again. Open. I didn't know what to say. I turned the handle and carefully stepped back. Ian. He looked like he'd gone through hell to get here. Unwashed hair, unkempt beard,

and a shiny new handgun pointed at me. His hands were shaking. He wasn't kidding around. His fingers trembled. He was trying to pull the trigger. Ian? I said, reflexively. You, what do you? Shut up, he spat.

Just shut up. He raised the handgun, staring me down. The sound of his own name shook him. It has to end. I can't. His aim faltered. He looked away. A second later, he pushed me by.

back and entered my apartment, closing the door behind him. He led me into the kitchen. There were still wet paper towels on the floor from my spilled drink. Sit down, he said, pointing to a chair. Keep your hands on the table. I did, as he said. It was a sudden quiet between us, as if he hadn't planned this far. There was a clear uncertainty to his actions, which just made it worse. I couldn't tell what he'd do next. I need you to... To make it stop.

He said. It has to stop. It has to. I just can't. Don't tell me you can't. He raised his gun, stepping closer. My whole body felt cooler as blood were rushed to my arms and legs. Don't you tell me that, he repeated.

Now, make it stop. Before I got a chance to say or do anything, he sat down across from me. Guns still pointed in my direction. One wrong move, at which, anything. And it'd be over. I almost forgot to breathe. I know it's yours. It's been yours for...

Always. He continued, scratching his hair. But it's too much. It's gone too far. So... Okay. I tried to click my thoughts. You're talking about him.

with the teeth. Don't act like you don't know its name. Ian groaned. Don't you dare. We looked at one another and said it in unison. Big, softy. The moment we said it, I could see him emerging from the shadows in the back of the kitchen. I tried my best not to gasp or look his way.

He's in my head. Every night. I hear him all the time. Ian continued. That damn click-clacking right in my ear, sometimes in my face, like he wants to take a bite. I'm not controlling that, I said, carefully picking my words. I haven't seen him in decades. You even know how bad you messed up, he said, squinting with disbelief.

You named it. They saw they need to go off. They need a name. They need to be. You made real and you. He raised this gun, growing more determined by the second. You made him real, this time to the bathroom. I didn't have any saying the matter, having a gun pointed straight at me.

Somewhere off in the background, I could see the vague shape of Big Softie, moving soundlessly from one room to another. I can't control it, I said. I have nothing to... I don't care. This is pointless. There's nothing... I don't care. If you go away, his name goes away. You don't know that. I was pushed through the bathroom door and to the back of my shower.

I tripped, coming down hard on my tailbone. The ceramic tiles felt icy cold against my sweaty palms, and I could smell a bit of chlorine from the cleaning supplies. He raised his gun. This was it. Big Softie, I said. That's all I did. I called it a goddamn nickname.

I don't deserve to die for that. Ian's resolved, faltered. He scratched his head again, groaning. But more so, I could see Big Softie just outside the room. Was he getting closer? Big Softie, I said again, my eyes darting to the door. I was a scared kid. it just slipped out.

Don't you dare put this on me, he said, don't you dare, I observed the creature. It was approaching. Every time I said its name, it got a little closer. Looking Ian, dead in the eye, I took a deep breath.

This was it. Big Softie, I said, Big Softie, Big Softie, what the hell it? I kept repeating it over and over and over. It might do something, it might not. Either way, I had to try. But by the sixth time I said it, that enormous looming creature was inches behind Ian.

But more so, he was changing. Not by a lot, but enough for me to notice. He was smiling. Ian raised his gun at me and pulled the trigger. At the same time, I said the name for a seventh. And final time, the shot went wild as an unhinged jaw came down on Ian's shoulder. There was a scream, a spurt of blood on the bathroom mirror, a flailing arm hitting the light switch, turning a gruesome scene into a shadow theatre. Impassably thin hands wrapping around a throat, twisting his neck like a toothpaste cap,

crunching, ripping, chewing, teeth, teeth, teeth, clack, clack, clack, clack. Laughter. Otherworldly, ethereal laughter. I have no idea how long it went on. Ian didn't even have time to beg. The handgun clattered to the ground.

It was just me. And this thing alone in a dark bathroom. room. I couldn't speak. I just curled up into a ball and tried my best to ignore the viscera running into the drain next to me. It was a slight creaking sound as old knees bent, a hot breath in my face. Big, softy, could breathe, it seemed nice. Name, it said. The voice was different, real, tangible. I could hear vibrations in his throat. This was no longer a figment of my imagination.

Going, it continued. I could hear something getting dragged out of the apartment. I heard doors open and close, and God knows how long I realized I was sitting there, shaking like a dry leaf in the wind. My stomach turned at the idea of turning on the light, but I had to. I got up and reached for the light switch, almost tripping on the handgun, and something slippery cling into it. Fingers, I flipped the switch.

And I broke. I won't go into detail of what I saw. Most of the body was gone. Not all of it, but most of it. It was a blood trail leading into the hallway, and disappearing just as it reached the front door. I'd brought that thing into the world. I'd named it, I'd reinforced it, I'd believed it, called out to it. I'd made it real.

All it had to do was answer. You can't unlearn something, and even if I could, I think it's too late. I think Big Softie got just enough of what he needed to become something else entirely. He took a life, and now he's got one of his own. Maybe we still have some kind of connection. I don't know. I think we do. Or else he might have just killed me too right then and there.

Then again, there's no way to tell. I've obsessed over this for years, looking through articles about mentions of Ian. There were no search parties, no one came looking. Even the people who missed him were reluctant to work with the police. And with his history of schizophrenia, there was a higher likelihood of him just doing something he shouldn't. But I knew better. Ian hadn't been schizophrenic. Big Softie had just stuck to him and just tortured him.

For God knows how long. Decades. Looking back at it, I think that was the plan all along, to drive Ian to a point where he would try to kill me. It is in their final moments that a person gets truly desperate, and that's what I felt on that floor. Desperation. I reached out to whoever would answer, and I couldn't fathom the consequences. He's out there right now. He probably looks like us.

walks like us and sounds like us. But wherever he is and whatever he does, I don't want a part of it. I don't know what to say. But if you meet a strangely tall man who does that thing with his teeth, just know that there might be more to him. A lot more.

He's more than just a big softie.