PART TWO: Meeting Mr. Creepypasta
I ride my bike out, into the cold afternoon. It was almost evening, as if it was before dinnertime. I had to think, riding my bike makes me think.
I saw kids, playing out in piles of leaves, as usual. I'm not that kind of guy, although I'm sixteen. I need to know who this guy is, so I can know about the big deal of the disc. I mean, how would he know that I got the game in a package? Does he live near here in Alabama? My mind was racing, which gave me a brain cramp.
I had to stop thinking. I needed to focus more on riding my bike. As I rode past the park, dark and cold to live or play there, right? Probably that kid in the black jacket and sunglasses enjoyed being there. I stopped my bike, staring at the kid. I can barely see his face, his eyes covered by the black sunglasses, making his skin seem pale. He seemed to be writing in some sort of journal, or diary, because the book he's writing in looked like a leather bound manuscript or an old book from the seventeenth century.
The kid looked about my age, but I'm not sure about that. I can tell he's drawing, because he seemed to be scribbling and drawing in random spots of the page. He sat on a bench by the swings, which I once swung on when I was little.
One thing I wanted to know, who is that kid? I thought. Did he move from somewhere or what? I was about to ride my bike more, but the kid shut his sketch book closed and walked away, in the opposite direction I was going.
I tried to get his attention. "Hey, kid! Do you know Creepypasta?" I asked him, which he finally faced me. He stared at me, with a cold expression under those dark sunglasses. Then he started to run. I stared at him, and turned around to make sure nothing was behind me. Yup, he was scared of me. I only wanted to ask him a simple question, since I don't know him in town.
I followed him, riding my bike after him. I know, I may have bad manners, but I just don't feel like acting like a good little girl right now. I caught up to him, which he wasn't that fast. He turned his head at me, sweating with fear, as if he thought I was stalking him. He still had the sketch journal, held in both of his hands.
He turned away to see what's coming forward him, which he was about to trip on a fire hydrant. I tried to stop him, but it was no use. I lost control of the bike handles, and he lost control of where he was going, because we both fell. I landed on the pavement hard, scraping my knee. I turned my head to the kid, his journal flew up in the air, landing between us in our landed spots. He landed on grass, which won't hurt much, but the bike crash would've hurt more.
We both stared at the journal, then started crawling to get the journal. I got up and walked to it, because I had my hand on my wound, which was bleeding badly. God, the pain. I thought. As I walked up to the journal, the kid looked up at me, reaching his hand at the journal, which was a yard away from him.
Before I was about to pick up the journal, the book started jerking and shaking violently, as if it was left out on an earthquake. I stared, in horror, as the book flipped over on the back, front, and spine. Then in a few seconds, it stopped shaking. The book flipped open, revealing pages inside, which were full of sketches of weird, creepy characters of some sort. One flipped to a dog, who had a large smile, revealing a row of sharp fangs, saying these words above him: SPREAD THE WORD. Another page flipped to a teenager, about my age, with pale skin, bloody clothes, wide eyes, and a big smile across his face. It was if he carved it into his cheeks, because the smile looked a little bloody. The character held a bloody knife, written above: GO TO SLEEP.
The kid immediately got up and ran to the journal, squeezing it shut, as if something was trying to escape. I just stared at him, wrestling the book, but he was stronger, enough to make it stop.
"Good day Rick Watson, and also, don't mess with anybody's stuff that don't belong to you," the kid told me, walking away as if anything haven't happened. I stood speechless. How did he know my name? I thought. And what were those sketches about? Was that what Creepypasta really is? Is that kid the creator of Creepypasta?
"No, that can't be," I told myself as I walked up to him. "Sorry about back there, I just need help."
He finally turned to face me, and seemed to listen. "I moved here a week ago from Connecticut. I knew your name, because I heard about you at school, Hillcrest High. And yes, I know Creepypasta," the kid explained. He finally got to tell me some things though.
The new kid? I thought. The one that moved into the creepy house on my street, 1408 Skylord Avenue?
I decided to change the subject. "This disc you texted me about, Sonic.exe, is starting to scare me. I didn't play it though. But the letter, it came from someone I don't know. What is this all about? What is Sonic.exe?"
"Think, did the letter say the game is dangerous, and that you need to get rid of it?"
"Yeah?"
"Then get rid of it. The Creepypasta says so. Destroy it, or it will kill you. Good day Rick."
Then he just walks off, randomly ending the conversation. Rude, I thought. As he went to turn down to the next left, my street, which isn't far from the park, I saw something fall out of his jacket pocket. It was his sketch journal.
I went to pick it up, making sure nothing happens like that one moment ago. You saw it, right? "Hey kid! You dropped your-" I could say before the kid just vanishes. He left, not noticing his journal fell out. Then randomly, something came over me. I thought about keeping the journal, admiring the leather bound cover, just like an old book from the seventeenth century.
"I wonder what other kinds of Creepypastas I can know and make up..."
Then I took the journal with me, and went up to my bike, and rode to my house.