| rdfs:comment | - You know the feeling that we all get while reading a particularly well written story; the feeling that someone or something is in your home stalking, waiting around any corner, waiting and watching, just ready to 'get' you. Even if you're one of those people that say, “I'm just desensitized to these stories,” you know the feeling, everybody gets it every once in a while; just some more than others. It's a strange and addicting sort of feeling. While it's happening it feels terrible, like you know you're going to die, yet we always try to replicate it by reading more stories.
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| abstract | - You know the feeling that we all get while reading a particularly well written story; the feeling that someone or something is in your home stalking, waiting around any corner, waiting and watching, just ready to 'get' you. Even if you're one of those people that say, “I'm just desensitized to these stories,” you know the feeling, everybody gets it every once in a while; just some more than others. It's a strange and addicting sort of feeling. While it's happening it feels terrible, like you know you're going to die, yet we always try to replicate it by reading more stories. I've been reading quite a few creepypasta today, mostly video game pastas and a few other random ones to get that feeling. They are mainly the typical clichés that you always see in creepypasta: empty bleeding eye sockets, used video games doing things they aren't supposed to, and use of the word “HYPER-REALISTIC.” These stories are just boring, cliché, and not worth reading. They are the type that do give you that freaked out feeling, but more of just a slight laugh at how bad they are as an attempt at being scary. Shortly following reading some creepypasta, it leaves me with the feeling of 'oh come on, I could do better.' I opened up OpenOffice, a free Microsoft office clone, to start writing. Of course, like most times I've tried writing things, I get an immediate writer's block. 'Great,' I thought. 'Maybe I can't do any better.' I removed myself from my laptop to do other things such as laundry, cleaning around the house, and to clean my pet rat's cage. I tend to think of better rhetoric while doing mindless activities more efficiently than if I'm just sitting and actually trying to write. Unfortunately, this time it didn't help. I did my laundry, cleaned up a bit around the house, and brought my rat's cage downstairs to change the bedding. I took my rat out of his cage and placed him on the counter top and assumed my regular position on a chair with my laptop in front of me. I just need to read one more well written creepypasta to get myself motivated. I went to the 'site navigation' menu and navigated to the stories beginning with the letter G, the first letter of my name. It is an admittedly goofy tactic to look for a story that shares the same name as you, but I was out of ideas and decided to give it a go. After scrolling down the list for a few seconds, I noticed something peculiar. There was a creepypasta in the list titled 'Gray's creepypasta' I thought to myself, “Strange, I don't remember writing this.” Based on the terrible title, I could only assume that it was a bad creepypasta that I wrote when I was younger, but just don't remember writing. I clicked on the title with curiosity, expecting to read some poorly written story about dead bodies and blood and guts. It read as follows: “Sitting, watching, but mostly waiting for the moment you turn your head. I know everything, I am merely a shadow of you. I can see you. You look ever so normal in your grey jacket and black pants rolled up to the end of your doc martens. I like your rat, scurrying around the counter top. I like everything about you. You were never very nice to me though, always focusing on my imperfections and ugly qualities. I wish you would just see me and only see the things you like about me. I am sad, ever so sad. Now write, don't look back, just write. This isn't a joke, don't look behind you. You will regret it if you look back and don't write.” I am writing this now and it all seems too real. I can feel a presence in the room with me and a shallow, quiet breathing from somewhere behind me. My rat now stands motionless at the end of the counter top, staring at the corner of the room like he does when I get up and walk away from him. I have no idea what to do. I have never been so terrified in my life. I'm trying so hard not to look back. I know he's right behind me, watching me write. That creepy feeling, the one that happens ate at night after reading scary stories, it's back again.
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