Creepy - The Lifetime Cycle

Episode Date: September 25, 2020

Writing is supposed to make you feel better...***Written by Zaikel03 and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***You can also subscribe to us on YouTube:https://www.youtube.com/creepypod***Music by Steve Blizin***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepypastas and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion. is advised. Creepy presents The Lifetime Cycle

Written by Zichol-0-3 and narrated by Jimmy Ferrer. I made a mistake. Unfortunately, a choice that only in retrospect was a mistake. One that cannot be corrected by me. When I was 11,

my parents got me a simple black leather journal that I was supposed to write my thoughts and feelings in. I honestly didn't. And I forgot about the journal until recently. As I was growing up, I developed a love for writing horror. Taking the dark thoughts and depression-filled episodes I had and writing it out. Really, really helped me.

It led to me feeling like my life was getting better. It was easier to get up every day. And I had something to look forward to that would help me on a day-to-day basis. I always, always, would type my stories out on my computer. It was easier for me to edit there. And most of the time I would notice mistakes in my writing a lot more. One day I found the journal again. It was empty.

Never been written in before. And surprisingly, I had taken good care of it. Writing in it was my first mistake. Most of my stories I wrote would consist of me writing, using my depression, harsh background as an influence for what I would write. This tended for me to write very dark stories, filled with brutality and horrible acts. Stephen King was a hero of mine.

and I wanted to write stories like his. This was my second mistake. I decided that this time I would physically write a story out inside the journal, but it's a good use. I started with a story like I normally do and just kept writing. I don't remember when I started, but after a few hours I finished it. The story was interesting,

but I didn't think it was good enough to post for general reading, so I kept it in the journal. And I didn't translate the story to my computer to post it online. Months went by, and I forgot about the story in the journal again. I wrote more and more horror stories. And eventually the story I wrote in that small journal was all but erased from the back of my mind. In the small town that I lived in, we had a small downtown area. A few big buildings, a lot of bars. The normal things you might find.

The local area crime rates were at an all-time low, and the biggest crime that tended to be committed was a small burglary. So on the murder, or better described, brutalization of a local college student was put in the news. It was a surprise to me. I couldn't remember the last person who was murdered. It made me curious what it could mean for the town. Outside of that, the details of the crime irked me. It felt like I had deja vu, and I couldn't place my finger on why.

A few days went by and they still hadn't caught the culprit. I was walking around downtown. with one of my friends bar hopping when we decided to take a shortcut through an alleyway it was a tight alleyway with a small little dead end in the middle my friend was walking in front of me and he saw what was down that alley first he dropped the cigarette and he was trying to protect from the rain with a look of horror on his face it shocked me to see the look he had Like what he was witnessing was so horrible that he couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. I rushed forward, shouting his name and round at the corner.

What I saw stopped me dead in my tracks. There was a man, a few feet off the ground. His arms were wrapped in chains and stuck into the walls of the alley, forcing him to hang between the two buildings. He was mostly naked, and he had small incisions all over his body from head to toe. There were hundreds of them. His eyelids were bloodied, and it looked like someone had removed his eyes. I may write horror stories, but I never expected to see something out of one right in front of me.

We ended up calling the police, and they came in him. handled the incident. My friend couldn't handle seeing the body and disappeared. I went home shortly after the police stopped asking me questions. For the next day, that incident made me struggle more and more. I feel like I had Renda had seen somewhere in great detail. Then I remembered the journal. I opened it up and began to read. Of the first passages that I wrote, One stood out to me.

Jake couldn't believe it. A murder. Here. How could someone have been murdered here? Let alone a college student. For all the time he lived here, he had never heard of someone being murdered the way she was. Let alone people being murdered at all.

Jake felt his chest tighten. He began to worry what this could mean. I began to have panic attacks. as I read this paragraph. Like it was the missing piece in the puzzle in my mind, the length that was missing. The thought crossed my mind. Did I make this murder happen? I dismissed it.

That was crazy. Impossible. It was just a coincidence that... What he thought and what I thought matched in the moment. I wrote it after all. So in some way, I may have wrote the character to think what I think. The justification to help my anxiety only made it worse. I kept reading from there.

Further down was another similar passage. The haunted man needed to find someone. First girl was useless. She had no idea whom this man named Jake was, and he needed to find where he was. before it was too late. It may have already been too late. He walked further and further down the street

when he came across an alleyway. The night sky barely illuminated the dark alleyway, and yet it stood out to him. The alleyway meant something to him, like something had happened to him here at some point in his life, curled up in a ball, an unbriiled rage over again. became the haunted man's senses.

And before he knew it, the homeless man was strung hanging between the two buildings formed the alleyway. He gagged the man. He may need time, and if someone heard screaming, they may come running. Then he began to giggle. It was time for fun.

Slowly, he cut small incisions all over the man's mind. bit by bit. Cut after cut, when he reached cut 39 on his left leg. He removed the screaming man's gag and asked him a question. Do you know,

Jake Lancaster? The man never replied, only whimpered and shook his head, continued to cut. He reached cut 278 on the man's body before he asked him the question again. The man didn't answer. answer him at all this time, barely whimpering as his body was wracked with immense amounts of pain.

Furious that he refused to answer, he continued to cut more. He reached cut 654, and he locked one final time into the man's eyes. He repeated the question for a third time. Man only gave a blank stare back in return. Haunted man's anger took over. And as a final punishment, he took the man's eyes. Then he finished the thousand cuts and left the man hanging there to bleed to death. It started to rain, soaking the haunted man through his cloak. He looked up to the sky and smiled.

Jake was annoyed. The rain had come at the worst timing for him. him. They'd just left the bar. The one they needed to get through was a decent distance away. Alex suggested through his cigarette smoke to cut down one of the nearby alleys to get there faster. Jake agreed. Alex led the way, cutting through the alleyway after alleyway. When he suddenly stopped, he looked so scared. It made Jake nervous. Jake walked around the corner and froze at what he saw. A man had been tortured to bed, strung up between the buildings.

Jake felt vomit built up in the back of his throat, and he turned. There was no way that it was pure coincidence. I had chosen Lane Chee, Death of a Thousand Cuts, for the second man's death of my story. The man I found strung up just hours before had died that way. The first question that came to my mind is how it was happening. But there was no good explanation for how. I couldn't call my parents to ask them where they got my journal. My mom passed away and my dad disowned me. I didn't even have his number. The second question was who Jake represented in real life.

I saw the parallels between me and Jake, how we discovered the second victim and how we heard about the first. But if it wasn't me, how would I be able to find out who this haunted man was chasing? I decided the best way to find out where to go next was to continue reading the story. I didn't get the chance. I heard a knock at the door,

and I went over to investigate. My chest tight with anxiety of who could be there, and I looked through the people I realized. It was just my girlfriend, Alice. I let out all the tension I had been building up in my chest and opened the door. She looked excited to see me, and I was glad to see her too. The thoughts of the journal slowly drifted into the back of my head. We ended up hanging for a few hours, and she helped me forget about what was happening in the world around us.

She had that effect on me. And honestly, it made things kind of blissful when I was around her. When we finished for the night, I told her I would walk her to the car. As I grabbed my jacket from the table, I saw the journal, and I had the feeling that I should grab it. So I did. It was a short walk to her car, and it was freezing outside. The weather for fall had finally started to drop, and it was still raining. When we reached her car, she turned back around to look at me.

I smiled at her, and she smiled back. Then she crumbled. I didn't realize there was a gunshot until after my ear stopped ringing. And I realized she was gone. The bullet had killed her instantly. It happened so fast. She was still smiling after she died. Then I was tackled to the ground, and a hooded figure began pummeling my face in.

I never got my hands up to defend myself before I blocked out. I woke up in a dark warehouse, tied to a chair. The hooded figure stood in front of me, watching me. He flipped his hood back, and I realized it was me, grizzled, a little bit more facial hair, but it was definitely me. He looked into my eyes and laughed. He started to tell me everything. And it slowly made sense. Somewhere.

At some period of time, we would write this story in the Black Journal. The story of murders in a town. The protagonist hearing about the murders, finding a body, before coming face to face with the antagonist of the story. The antagonist would be revealed as a copy. A replica whose sole job was to find and kill the protagonist. There was a problem with the ending. One that caused us eternal heartache.

But there was a catch with the black journal. It can recreate whatever's written in the book, and so it did. But it needed to pull the protagonist from somewhere, so it chose us. and the first antagonist was just a copy, a fake created by the journal to fill of the story. But the ending of the book is ambiguous, leaving the chance for the antagonist or the protagonist to kill each other, and then starting the cycle over,

forcing the one left alive to fill the seed of the antagonist and start the story over. So, we've been killing each other over and over again. We received one warning from the first copy. Follow the story, or there would be dire consequences. Or from there, my copy explained to me that it needed rest. He was tired of haunting me over and over again. And before I could do anything, he killed himself.

After his body hit the floor, I was pulled into an empty void, save for a single old box TV on a stand, and I was forced to watch as I wrote the story again in the Black Journal. Months quickly passed as I watched myself on the TV until that fateful day where I was pulled into the real world to live the life of slaughter. I completed that task with a lot of business. difficulty. It got easier every time I had to do it. I've completed my task three times so far. I'm getting better at following the story. And I can feel myself falling apart. Each time I followed the story, but tried to do something new to break the curse. I burned the journal, but it didn't work. Over and over again, I failed. I realized that my journal and the journal that kind of

weren't the original journals. I would have to destroy the original journal to escape. So I had an idea. Maybe if I posted the story online, someone could find the black journal wherever they are and burn it. If you see this, save me from my hell of a mistake. Please.

Find the black journal, but the story had described inside and burn it. That might be the only way to save myself from this torture. Please, for the love of God, burn the black. For more information, including pictures and videos of the stories told on this podcast, or to suggest stories for future episodes, please visit us at CreepyPod on Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook, or email. All stories told on this podcast can be found at creepypasta wikiya.com and are protected by a Creative Commons license.

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