CREEPYPASTA

The Diary Of A Madman

Hello Diary,

My name is Daniel Franklin. I just got this leather-bound beauty of a book in a garage sale. Its covers are smooth and black; the pages, yellowed and antique in texture—no doubt a detail I will become fond of as time goes on. Hell, I already like it. Gives the book a classical feel—such a delightful thing, don't you agree?

But I digress. Today was just full of ventures to break the rut into which my life had sunk. First, I tried that new eatery on Eighth, and then, I bought this book at an old out-of-the-way garage sale in Eatonville. Such a kind old woman selling them, and the cookies she gave to buyers were just delicious. I may go back just to get one, if not to acquire the recipe itself!

Well, my cat Bartolome is keeping me company tonight, and I must cut this first, rather short entry to a close. I hope to update this with the memoirs of my life many, many times.

May 27, 2009

Hello Diary,

Daniel again. Today was as boring as usual. Even my favorite book couldn't alleviate the cloud of boredom over my head. I'm starting to find my "best friend," Mark, to be a tad annoying. Mark is nothing special—normal American family man from the suburbs.

Is there something wrong with me if I start to think some human beings as disposable? It earlier crossed my mind how uninteresting some of the robotic creatures I liked to keep in my company really are.

Ashley, with her endless list of pet names for her latest boy toy.

Stuart, his mumbling about the paranormal, UFOs and the like. Though his theories are interesting, they're still about the same thing every day.

Is it really wrong to think of these beings as just packs of meat that shouldn't have even been given a working brain? Death will be a mercy to them, once they reach that fateful day—

Wait, what am I writing? These are my friends; what the hell came over me?

...

Well, I did stop by that sweet old woman's house today. We shared a plate of some of those delectable cookies with some tea, the flavor of which I just couldn't place. Such a sweet old woman; it is too bad much of her family is dead or has forgotten about her. Her name is Susan Anderson, and her home is filled with so many curiosities from the ages of old, and it just fascinates me so. I must go back there again sometime.

I must pull this entry to a close. I am still asking myself how I could think such horrible things as I did about my closest co-workers.

May 28, 2009

Diary,

I am going to be rambling tonight. I woke up because of a....well, I don't know if this was a bad dream or a good dream. I remember it so vividly, even though dreams have almost never stuck in my head since the days of my puberty, and many of them were less confusing and a little more...wet.

This one was strange, felt more like a memory than a dream, though before now I hadn't been aware of such a memory. It was when I was barely five years old. I was the son of the town butcher. My teenage sister at the time loved me, and I loved her. I never knew she was sad in any way; she always seemed happy enough. I never knew her true thoughts. Even as I write this, I still don't understand.

In my dream, I was toddling through the house, but, something struck me as being amiss. One of daddy's knives was missing. I looked up at the wooden knife block, seeing the curious gap in the row of black grips. Daddy always said to tell him when there was a knife gone from his counter.

For whatever reason, I didn't pay attention to his rule and continued on in my dream. Suddenly, I was pushing my way into my sister's room. She was on her bed, her arms hanging off of each side of her bed, dripping with some dark red liquid. It looked almost like... juice.