CreepyPasta Story Night

Little boy let me in

A/n: (ok so this one has some flaws, but you can think of it as, it was all in his imagination and none of it was real)

When I was a young child, my family lived in a trailer on the edge of town. My bedroom was a glorified closet where my bed, a mattress that sat on the floor, rested under the window. Directly across from my bed was a small walk-in closet that was supposed to have a sliding door, but didn't. My parents put a night light on the wall next to my bed. Each night I'd beg my parents not to close the bedroom door. I was six and the door would get jammed in the frame, making it very hard to open. Most nights I was lucky and they would leave the door cracked. However, some nights the door would be closed.

The trailer park was loud at night. The locals would stand in their yards drinking and carousing. As strange as it may sound, I welcomed this noise. There was this tall mirror in the closet and on the nights where the bedroom door was closed and the neighbors were being quiet, I would see this ghastly figure standing in the mirror and hear it tapping on the glass. Gray skin stretched tight across his bony face and toothless grin. The very sight of him was enough to make me piss myself. I'd lay there quietly with the blanket pulled up to my head staring at the man tapping on the mirror.

He'd whisper loudly, "Hey little boy... Let me in."

I don't remember if this ever stopped, but my parents ended up buying a house on the other side of town around the time I started first grade. I had my own bedroom and my bedroom door had a closet. Several years passed and I had all but forgot about the man in the mirror. I was at a sleepover with my friend Devin when I heard a very familiar whisper.

"Oh hello there little boy! Long time no see."

I opened my eyes and without moving my head I darted my eyes around the room. There in the vanity mirror I could make out the faint silhouette of a man. He moved quickly and left the mirror, though I could still see him in my peripheral vision, I realized that he wasn't in the mirror, but rather that the man was standing outside the window. I turned my head and locked eyes with him as he pulled a single bony finger to his lips. His other hand reached through the glass like it was water and went to unlatch the window itself as I let out a blood curdling scream.

Devin woke up and turned on the lamp. The light in the room made it all but impossible to see out the window. There in the blackness of night I lost sight of the creepy man and in the process got punched in the arm by Devin, who was less than accepting of my explanation that there was a monster outside the window. Eventually Devin turned off the lamp and I went to sleep. When I woke the next morning the window was standing wide open and a cool breeze blew across the bed.

Devin was gone.

His parents searched everywhere for him. His picture was shown on the news. I told them the story of the creepy man in the window. No one believed me. Devin was missing for the greater part of three days when a search party trudging through the woods found the remains of the thirteen year old boy in two pieces, cut in half, on a concrete slab in the middle of the woods.

Devin was buried the next day. His parents wouldn't let me go to the funeral. My parents grounded me for lying about the old man. They remembered my stories from back in kindergarten and thought me crazy or a liar. Probably both. For the rest of my seventh grade year I would hear other kids whisper about how I was the last person to see Devin alive.

Time passed as it always did. I grew up and went to college. After settling down and getting married I had a son of my own. For the better part of five years I had absolutely no problems out of my kid. His name was Devin. I'd had nightmares about the man since seventh grade. I made it a point to bolt the windows in the house shut. I made sure that my son didn't have any mirrors in his room. I knew all too well about the things that went bump in the night. Years of inactivity had all but convinced me that I had just imagined the whole ordeal, but the death of my best friend was enough to make sure I remained vigilant.

My son turned six the other day. We celebrated with cake and ice cream. That night I put him to bed and read him a story, "The Monster At The End Of This Book" in my best impersonation of the muppet Grover. He laughed, and then his laughter got slower. Eventually he fell asleep clutching his stuffed bear as I put the book up on his chest of drawers. I turned on his night light and made sure his closet door was closed before leaving his bedroom door wide open and the hallway light on.

I sat in the living room watching television. There was a thunderstorm raging outside. The Emergency Weather Alert interrupted my episode of Arrow and before I could get any information, the thunder boomed outside and the power went out. The rain beat against the window. Sitting in the dark I lit some candles and went to put one in my son's room when the rain slowed down and weather started to mellow. My wife was still at work and I wasn't at all tired so I sat in the candle light reading a book when I heard a faint tapping noise on the window across from me.

There was a man sized shadow blocking the blue glow of the humid moonlit evening. The tapping continued and I heard a raspy whisper say, "Not-so-little boy has a little boy. Let me in." I reached into the hallway closet and grabbed the shotgun. With two barrels of twelve gauge buckshot I walked out the front door and stared at the man. He stood there tapping on the window and paying me no mind. Without hesitation I pulled both triggers and peppered him with buckshot. Metal pellets beat against my house and went straight through the man as I heard my son shout in his sleep.

"That wasn't very nice, naughty not-so-little boy." The man whispered with his raspy voice.

I ducked inside the house and locked the door behind me as the man turned to follow me. The tapping on the window became pounding on the door.

"Let me in! Let me in!" The whisper because a hoarse scream.

My son, now wide awake and holding onto my leg for dear life started bawling his eyes out. The man at the door shouted, "Those are my tears. Let me in! Let me in!" I grabbed two more shotgun rounds from my pocket and reloaded the gun as bright lights hit the tiny window on the front door. I looked away for a moment and the man was gone. Moments later my wife turned the key and opened the door as I stood there shotgun in hand with our son crying at my feet.

There is no viable explanation on Earth for that one. She didn't ask any questions. After getting me to put down the gun and grabbing our son she walked out the door and I never saw either of them again. She called the police from the car and I was taken into custody for psychiatric evaluation. I sat there through one session after another with doctor after therapist after social worker explaining that a man was trying to break into the house and that I had shot at him.

For whatever reason, no one believed me. I guess in retrospect that telling a psychiatrist that the monster that lived in your closet as a child showing up on your door step twenty-five years later is a bit of a stretch. Still, it happened. The worst part of knowing the truth is that no one wants to believe it. This thing stalked me as a child, it killed my best friend, and now it was stalking my son and all I could do was sit in the loony bin helplessly waiting to either be released to sent to a different facility.

The worst part is that there is a little window in door to my room here at the hospital. Sometimes at night when the hallway is dark and the moonlight outside my window is bright enough. I can barely make out his toothless grin smiling in the reflection on the door. I'll look up and see him standing at the window as he taps lightly on the glass and whispers,

"Invite me in. Your son was delicious."