Help Us
I don’t have much time left.  I’m hoping the blood will drain out of   my wrists before they can get to me again, but I can’t be certain.  Oh   god, it’s so cold.  I’m losing a lot of blood.  But I have to finish.    You have to read this.  Maybe you can stop them. It all started about a month ago.  I was frantically trying to finish   a writing assignment for Social Studies that was due next period,   writing so fast I thought I’d snap my pen in two.  I think the paper   was on World War II.  Amazing that I can remember things like that,   through all of this, isn’t it?  Nevermind.  It doesn’t matter.  As I   wrote this paper, I began to notice something odd.  I was making a lot   of mistakes.  You’ll have to excuse my digression for a moment, but I   need to explain something:  I never make mistakes when I write.    Teachers use words like “impeccable” and “exceptional” to describe my   conventions.  That’s why I was finding this odd.  And what’s more,   they were all errors in capitalization, which served only to confuse   me more.  I hadn’t capitalized the beginnings of sentences, proper   nouns anything.  But, capitals were cropping up sporadically   throughout my writing.  I had words like “gErmans” or “alliaNce”,   without the faintest clue why.  At the time, I didn’t think much of   it.  I quickly corrected my mistakes and finished the paper. In fact, I didn’t even think of the incident when it happened again.    I was commenting my friend’s new MySpace picture.  In the middle of   typing up some inside joke, I noticed that my capitalization was once   again awry.  Scanning through it, I noticed something else odd:  The   word “hello” had been capitalized entirely.  Figuring I’d just go back   and finish it when I was done typing, I started again.  And again, my   finger would hit the “shift” key unbidden.  When I checked my typing   again, I looked closer.  My mind began to subconsciously piece   together the capital letters.  Imagine my surprise when I realized   that it formed a message.  It read, “GLAD WE HAVE YOUR ATTENTION”.    What I did then could only be described as a double-take whilst being   completely still.  Not knowing what had begun then, I signed off and   promptly went to sleep, chalking it up to an overactive imagination. The third time was during Language Arts.  I was writing an analysis of   “The Iliad”, when it happened.  A message spelled itself out once   again:  “YOU WILL HELP US”.  Now I was nervous.  My hand shook   slightly as I tried to erase the mistakes.  As soon as my eraser   touched the page, indescribable pain lanced through my hand.  It was   as if someone was excising all the nerves in my fingers, and impaling   my hand on a railroad spike.  It was over before I had time to   scream.  My hand shaking even more, I continued writing.  “DO NOT   DISOBEY”, my mistakes spelled out.  I think that’s when I sealed my   fate.  I wrote faster.  Whatever happened, no matter what I had to do,   I never wanted to feel that pain again.  It must sound cowardly to   you, but I assure you that you would have done the same in my place.    That’s why you have to stop them.
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At home, I continued the paper.  They spoke to me again.  “GET A   CERAMIC BOWL”.  Confused, I hastily got up and retrieved one.  I   continued writing.  They continued their instructions.  “PLACE A BOOK   IN THE BOWL”.  Trying to move quickly in order to avoid the pain, I   tossed The Iliad in.  “BURN IT”.  I looked around my house quickly.   Hurriedly, I grabbed a match, and lit the book aflame.  The next   directive was more ambiguous.  “FEED IT”.  I didn’t know what they   meant.  In the middle of my paper, I wrote “With what?” and continued   writing.  The answer unnerved me.  “BLOOD”.  I stared at the paper for   a second.  Then, before I knew what I was doing, I’d scored a long cut   over the tip of my finger with my pen.  I held it over the burning   book, and a sick-looking mixture of ink and blood dripped slowly   down.  After about 5 minutes, a hum began to emanate from the book’s   bloody funeral pyre.  It started softly, and increased in volume until   my whole body vibrated.  I felt as if my entrails were turning to   liquid, and I shut my eyes and covered my ears.  I lost track of time   then, but after what seemed like an eternity it ended.  I opened my   eyes to be greeted with a disturbing sight.  The book had stopped   burning, but it was no longer a book.  The pages had formed into a   blackened, papery tendril that had embedded itself into the floor.    That wasn’t all that had changed, though.  The tree outside the window   of my bedroom had lost its leaves.  The wood floor around the bowl was   rotten.  And finally, I realized to my horror that I my skin had   wrinkles.


The next month continued in their demands.  Every week, they   instructed me to burn a book in the bowl, and add an offering.  Once   it was a fingernail.  Then a tooth.  They wanted a piece of steel.    And every time I completed an iteration of the ritual, another tendril   was growing from the bowl and into the ground.  The tree by my house   died.  My floor grew soggy and completely rotten.  And I- I’m covered   in liver spots, and my hair has turned gray.  I’ve grown old.  I sit   in my room all day, writing randomly, no longer forming words, just   following their demands.  But even through my servitude, some part of   me rebelled.  Whatever I’m creating in that bowl, whatever they’re   forcing me to engender, it’s going to unmake reality.  Its very   presence is killing me.  kIlling everyThing living around it.  i have   to Stop it.  it might already be ToO late.  i’m lOsing a lot of bLood,   and i’m getting dizzy.  hopefully i’ll be deAd before They gEt to me   again. oh god, they’re in mY writing again.  oh my gOd, it’s cold.  i   can feel my life Unraveling-consider this a wARning.  my dEath will   Only slow them down.  they want to Undo cReation.  don’t ever read   their meSsages.  if you do, theN you’ll be fOrced to finish what i   started.  and no matter What, there is no escape.
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—
Credited to Ed D.
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Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance. The third time was during Language Arts.  I was writing an analysis of   “The Iliad”, when it happened.  A message spelled itself out once   again:  “YOU WILL HELP US”.  Now I was nervous.  My hand shook   slightly as I tried to erase the mistakes.  As soon as my eraser   touched the page, indescribable pain lanced through my hand.  It was   as if someone was excising all the nerves in my fingers, and impaling   my hand on a railroad spike.  It was over before I had time to   scream.  My hand shaking even more, I continued writing.  “DO NOT   DISOBEY”, my mistakes spelled out.  I think that’s when I sealed my   fate.  I wrote faster.  Whatever happened, no matter what I had to do,   I never wanted to feel that pain again.  It must sound cowardly to   you, but I assure you that you would have done the same in my place.    That’s why you have to stop them. At home, I continued the paper.  They spoke to me again.  “GET A   CERAMIC BOWL”.  Confused, I hastily got up and retrieved one.  I   continued writing.  They continued their instructions.  “PLACE A BOOK   IN THE BOWL”.  Trying to move quickly in order to avoid the pain, I   tossed The Iliad in.  “BURN IT”.  I looked around my house quickly.   Hurriedly, I grabbed a match, and lit the book aflame.  The next   directive was more ambiguous.  “FEED IT”.  I didn’t know what they   meant.  In the middle of my paper, I wrote “With what?” and continued   writing.  The answer unnerved me.  “BLOOD”.  I stared at the paper for   a second.  Then, before I knew what I was doing, I’d scored a long cut   over the tip of my finger with my pen.  I held it over the burning   book, and a sick-looking mixture of ink and blood dripped slowly   down.  After about 5 minutes, a hum began to emanate from the book’s   bloody funeral pyre.  It started softly, and increased in volume until   my whole body vibrated.  I felt as if my entrails were turning to   liquid, and I shut my eyes and covered my ears.  I lost track of time   then, but after what seemed like an eternity it ended.  I opened my   eyes to be greeted with a disturbing sight.  The book had stopped   burning, but it was no longer a book.  The pages had formed into a   blackened, papery tendril that had embedded itself into the floor.    That wasn’t all that had changed, though.  The tree outside the window   of my bedroom had lost its leaves.  The wood floor around the bowl was   rotten.  And finally, I realized to my horror that I my skin had   wrinkles. The next month continued in their demands.  Every week, they   instructed me to burn a book in the bowl, and add an offering.  Once   it was a fingernail.  Then a tooth.  They wanted a piece of steel.    And every time I completed an iteration of the ritual, another tendril   was growing from the bowl and into the ground.  The tree by my house   died.  My floor grew soggy and completely rotten.  And I- I’m covered   in liver spots, and my hair has turned gray.  I’ve grown old.  I sit   in my room all day, writing randomly, no longer forming words, just   following their demands.  But even through my servitude, some part of   me rebelled.  Whatever I’m creating in that bowl, whatever they’re   forcing me to engender, it’s going to unmake reality.  Its very   presence is killing me.  kIlling everyThing living around it.  i have   to Stop it.  it might already be ToO late.  i’m lOsing a lot of bLood,   and i’m getting dizzy.  hopefully i’ll be deAd before They gEt to me   again. oh god, they’re in mY writing again.  oh my gOd, it’s cold.  i   can feel my life Unraveling-consider this a wARning.  my dEath will   Only slow them down.  they want to Undo cReation.  don’t ever read   their meSsages.  if you do, theN you’ll be fOrced to finish what i   started.  and no matter What, there is no escape. — Credited to Ed D. Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.