Creepypasta Origins & Stories

Jason the toy maker

I have many memories of my past. The faces of my real parents were like masks faded in my mind. I had only a few remnants of my childhood, names without faces and total darkness. At the age of nine, he had something happened to my family. My trauma was so deep that made me forget most of my life.

I had only a hazy memory related to my best friend. He was the one I had in my life. It was an image stuck in my mind, that goes along with background laughter and melody of a music box.

Between the rear holes of my amnesia, I could see his brown eyes and dark auburn hair. I remembered his friendly smile ... but nothing more. the rest disappeared in the dark, so he did.

Memories returned to the orphanage where I was born. Impressively had parents, Magdalena and Steven, who took me back to the warm feeling of having a family, I, adopt a feeling that I had forgotten. They raised me at home until the age of fifteen.

My amnesia led me to go on psychological tests and checkups, year after year slowly began to fail. It seemed that I would not be able to recover my memory.

On the one hand, he wanted to know what happened, but on the other ... a strange feeling of anguish suggested something he did not want.

Obviously, there was some unpleasant consequence for me. It was like the feeling of being persecuted for something.

Specialists told my parents must have been related to a particular memory that was continuously stimulated. Neither the cause nor what exactly was clear, but despite my efforts, I could not concentrate on it.

I felt like I was being watched, not by people but by stuffed toys in my room. It was stupid, I know. At first, they were just toys, but again and again, her big round eyes looked at me.

Since I was little I thought the stuffed toys in my room were alive and sometimes tried to prove it: I peeped out of my room with the door ajar, then I came back as soon as he could and stared into his eyes to feel the sensation burning for not blink.

That memory was one of the few of my childhood that still made me smile, but things have changed. Again and again, stuffed toys looked at me. It almost seemed that they wanted to test me and I could not more. The idea stuck in my mind. Sometimes it seemed that moved, turning their little faces at me. At other times, they made noise in my room. This can not be true, obviously.

Why this thought haunts me? Why hate stuffed toys? Yet, why do not I get rid of them?

He could if any given to other children, or thrown away. One day I tried, really I did, but when I took one of them in my arms, a strong sense of anxiety and terror I was arrested. Always he ended up bringing them back to their places, in furniture, in my bed, on the shelves. Then I had to take tranquilizers.

There was only a toy I took with me at night, despite my age, I could not separate myself from him and felt a familiar affection something that began long before my amnesia.

I found in my closet in the orphanage and from then on we became inseparable.

It was a sweet bunny with floppy ears, on the one hand, it was red and on the other side caramel color. He wore a black vest, with two long sleeves dragged him to his feet and had an elegant collar with stitches in each edge of the fabric. Its small left eye was covered with a patch, and in the middle a black button.

It was fun, but it seemed the only stuffed toy was harmless. He slept beside me since I was little and that night, then I escaped under the sheets, staying asleep almost instantly between the old walls creaked.

I was standing still in the dark, unable to move and I could not understand how I ended up there, surrounded only by the silence distilled. Something grabbed my wrist viscous and hugged me so hard that instant pain shot through me. A set of white nails slowly penetrated my flesh. I see them cutting through my skin, making me bleed. I screamed and cried, but a laugh covered my desperate pleas.