I'm Waiting
Just for the record, this is no ordinary creepypasta. I am also no ordinary creepypasta writer either. You see, it doesn't exactly end too well after my stories are read. It ends, shockingly. Messily. Terrifyingly.
Confused? Let me talk a bit about me. I am a writer. Not a professional or anything, just leisurely. I live alone. I have a pretty bad habit as well. A dark habit. A dark secret I am sharing with you. I love blood. I love darkness. I love murder. It started off when I ran over that little girl late at night. No one was around. I was about to call for help when I saw her. Her mangled body; a whole arm torn off by the impact, the other pointing in a horribly grotesque direction; a chunk of her leg missing, gouged out by a shard of glass on the road and her groin completely raw, the skin peeled off by the bitumen. I loved all details of it. Her face contorted in pain. Her screams. I just watched her die. Death became my interest, murder, my passion.
From then on I crept around at night with my knife (I don't like guns, too fast), and went chopping up people, letting them bleed, even carving them into living bloody sculptures. I remember, poor little Steve, the schoolboy and the bus driver, John. They all come back to me in my dreams, but I don't think about that too much. On another note, ever heard of Omray, in California? Of course you haven't because in 2003 I wiped it off the map by killing everyone. See what I mean when I say my passion is murder?
Now, from the start I might have seemed quirky, fun and even nice. Dismiss those thoughts now because here is the real side of me. While I had my love in death, I also developed an interest in writing. I had two sides of me, my everyday writing me, and the me who crept around at night mincing people. Then I had the idea. What if I could combine my writing skills and my passion for murder? What if I could lure victims in with my stories, and then kill them? So I did. My plan worked and still works brilliantly.
Take a look outside. See anyone there? That someone could be me, spying at your computer, waiting for the right time to strike. Is there an absence of noise from the house next door? I could have paid the owners a little visit. They could be a pile of indistinguishable flesh by now. Is the whole street empty? Maybe I've killed them all, you'll never know.
As a last word, the first version of this story has claimed hundreds and hundreds of victims who finished the story and left.
If you want, tell yourself what ever you like to let this go.
This is just a little story written by someone with a sick mind.
But what if it isn't.
You can think whatever you like.
Go ahead, leave this page.
I'm waiting
Credited to Whaleoh4060
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