The Two Figurines
It was around Thanksgiving when my grandparents came to visit. It had been almost two years since I and my younger brother and sister, Eric and Breanna, got to see them. They were always so lively when they came around. For an old man, my grandpa had a very interesting hobby. He collected action figures. Any sorts of them. He had collections of He Man figurines, to Power Rangers, to the Thunder Cats. But the best part about them coming to town was that every time my grandpa came, he always brought a small collection for us to play with. Never to keep, but it was always fun playing with some of his favorite toys with him. As our grandparents entered our home to stay for the weekend, my mother greeted them with a smile. She always had at least a grin on her face. She was one of the most ecstatic people that I’ve ever seen. She always seems to bring light to a dark day. Not just to me and my siblings, but to everyone it seems. But for some reason, my grandmother never came through the door, and my grandpa walked in with a blank look in his eyes. They looked dead to me, which is the complete opposite of what they usually generate. He didn’t even say hello. He just walked in, with a bag in his hand. My mother asked him, “Where’s Mom?” That of which my grandpa only replied to with, “…She went away for awhile.” This puzzled my mother. I could see it in her facial expressions. She tried to bring up more on the subject but Grandpa quickly dismissed it, as if it were no big deal and to stop talking about it. So she did, thinking they must be going through some troubles that he would rather not discuss. Just as my mother and my father had. Grandpa looked over at Breanna, (who was currently taking a nap on the couch,) and gave an almost sinister smirk. One that I’ve never seen on his face in my entire life. “Isn’t it fascinating how easy it is to watch someone sleep,” He said. He and my mom moved into the kitchen, where I finally gave my greetings,
“Hi Grandpa! How’ve you been?”
He replied with a quizzical stare. What was wrong with my grandfather? Why was he not so jumpy and delightful as his previous visits? I dismissed the abstract, silent reply, and moved onto my next subject.
“Whats in the bag?”
Again he looked at me with that same stare, but this time he spoke,
“Just some figurines I found.”
He dumped out the bag, which was much more empty than usual. Instead of the ten or twelve action figures he usually brought, what fell from the bag, were two, very old, very creepy looking, tiny action figures. I quickly picked them up to look at them. At first glance they looked like regular old action figures, but the odd thing was, I&’ve never seen them in my life. No cartoon I’ve ever seen or anything have ever had these characters. One looked like an old man, his face riddled with dirt and grime. He was wielding what looked like a short dagger. He was also in loin cloth robes. The other one, also had the face of an old man, but he was wielding a hatchet. His face was also covered in dirt. He also had no clothes to accommodate his figurine body. He looked like one of my sisters Ken dolls that she lost all the clothes too. They were the two creepiest dolls that I’ve ever seen. But on the other hand. As I held them, I began to enjoy them. I had an inexplicable urge to put them in my pocket and keep them… I looked up at my grandfather, ready to ask him where he got them. But when I was about to open my mouth, I noticed his expression changed again. He looked as if he was in a silent rage, staring at the dolls, and then almost instantly at me. There was a fire in his dead eyes as he spoke. “Give them to me, Now! NOW!” I looked at him startled. But by then he had tried lunging at me, for the two figurines. I, being as scared as I was from the incident, shot backwards to avoid his advance toward me. My grandfathers knee must have faltered in his attempt to grab the two figurines, because quickly he fell to the ground. My mother quickly reached down and tried to pick him up. But by then he was clutching his heart, and gasping for air in a rather terrifying way. My mother called 911, but he was dead before the ambulance could arrive, from a heart attack. In the next week, my grandfathers funeral had taken place. We had no way to contact my grandmother. We had no idea where she could be. So the funeral went on without her. But even whilst all of these sad events were taking place, my obsession for these two figurines began to grow rapidly. Not so much the the old man with the hatchet, as the man with the dagger. My brother, Eric, had subsequently taking a great liking to the man with the hatchet, so I gave it to him. It seemed like no matter where we went. We always had our figurines with us. In my experience with the dagger wielding old man, it gave me a sort of spark in my soul. There’s really no other way to describe it. It kept me eccentric, and happy, in a weird sense. In the next coming months though, things had changed. I began to resent the old figurine. It stared at me in the most menacing way, and for some reason, made it unable for me to sleep. I knew I should get rid of the doll..but..I can’t… I’ve tried many times… but I always seem to pick it back up. I can never be rid of it. Not to mention the fact that it was giving me nightmares. And not normal nightmares either. Ones where people are watching me sleep and try to murder me, but more, the other way around. I would have dreams of myself, being in my brother or mother’s room, with a dagger, just as the old man figurine has, and just watching them sleep. Always in the shadow of the corners, never getting too close. And not a nightmare that you realize that you imagined so many different events in a small amount of time. It wasn’t that way at all. I would stand there, for hours, and just watch them sleep… and do nothing. Just… watch. These nightmares scared me. But there was nothing that I could do, my brother was just as silent and lifeless anymore as I was, and we had both began to grow apart from our mother and sister. So silence was our only option. And for now, it had been sufficing. One night, I woke up startled. I looked around my room to see nothing was there. But felt a cold wetness in my sheets. I reached down and felt the wet area. It seemed I had wet the bed. Oh great, how am i going to explain this to my mother. I got up, and immediately looked for my figuring, (I’ve gotten to the point where I go nowhere without it,) but couldn’t find it. It pained me to go anywhere without my seemingly life companion, but I decided just to head to my mother’s room. I stepped through her slightly cracked door and walked to her bed. I nudged her trying to wake her up to tell her the embarrassing thing I had done. It was 3am, and very dark in her bedroom with no windows. I tried nudging her again, but something was wrong, she was also wet. I turned on he small light on her nightstand, and stood there, awe struck. There..lying in bed..was the cold, lifeless, blood soaked body, of my murdered mother. I looked at myself, I was covered in blood, and my mother looked like she had been carved like someone had been trying to cut pieces out of her. And there, sitting in her neck… was a dagger… I grabbed it, and pulled it out of her neck. Its blood soaked blade shined in the dim light of the lamp. And I just stood there terrified, most people scream when they’re scared. But I was passed that point. I couldn’t even muster a sound out of my throat. I froze, scared to even turn around. I glanced around my dead mother, and sitting there, on the top of the covers, was my figurine. Dagger in hand, laying there, like my mother was holding it before she fell asleep. Out of instinct I quickly grabbed it. And once I did, I felt its spark come into me again. Without being frightened or worry about my mother anymore, I looked at her body once again. All I could think of was, “Isn’t it fascinating how easy it is to watch someone sleep?” I took the dagger, and my figurine, and walked ever so slowly, into my brother Eric’s room. For no apparent reason, I just felt the urge. I had too…I had too… I crept into his room, and hid in the shadows, staring at his bed. I saw the mound in his bed that was his helpless, sleeping body. And I watched him. I watched him for what seemed to be about two hours, the whole time only thinking. “Isn’t it fascinating how easy it is to watch someone sleep?” It was almost 5am now, and I was still,… just watching him, when I had another thought flow through my head, this one not in my own voice. But what seemed like the voice of an old man. “Gut him, Nicholas, gut him.” Without a second thought, and clutching the blood stained dagger in one hand and figurine in the other, I walked over too his bed. I lifted the dagger, and plunged it into the mound that was my brother. But… it felt soft, unlike a body. I quickly lifted the covers to see that my brother was not in his bed at all, it was just a mound of covers and pillows that seemed made out to look like a person. I stared at the mound, quizzical of what was going on, and then looked at my figurine. What have you done to me? Abruptly I heard a footstep behind me, I spun around, to see my brother stepping out from behind his curtains. The moonlight shining on his bloodstained face and night shirt. I looked right and saw the mangled, shredded corpse… of our sister. I looked back at him, he had obviously been there awhile considering he couldn’t get there without walking right by where I was standing in the first place, and he just stared at me, with a hatchet in his hand, and his figurine in the other as he said, “Isn’t it fascinating how easy it is to watch someone watch you sleep?” Credit To – Sunshine Wayne 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.