Creepypasta Origins

The Puppeteer: 2017 Edit

About a month after my college departure, my parents sent me a white box.

The outside of it was decorated with what seemed to be a floral pattern. At first, I didn't really understand the meaning of the damn thing. My parents had always been more of the home-crafting kind, never enjoyed buying things they knew I'd never use.

The box was a complete mystery until they told me what it contained.

Notes, small pieces of paper that held simple quotes and sentences; something to keep my spirits up when I needed it.

Without really questioning it, I kept it. I knew my parents always meant well—even though they had a strange way of showing it. Like with that white box.

The first few months of my first college year, the box sat neatly between the schoolbooks and journals I had started to collect during my studies. The lock on the box was still intact, since I hadn't even bothered opening it. The concept of the stupid thing still bothered me—I felt as if it was making me long for home.

And as time went on, that's exactly what I did.

I longed for home.

My flat mate didn't really strike me as a social person. The first week after I arrived at campus he kept a low profile, not really wanting to socialize in any way, which I was fine with. I had never been a party person, not even when I was with the closest of friends. So I left him alone.

College is supposed to be the place for everyone to find themselves. That's what I had always been told—but there was no denying the fact that I hated it there. As I tried my best to keep up with studying, I could feel myself become more and more passive. Back in the day, there wasn't a single night where I didn't stay up until late hours writing away, wishing I'd be something. But as it became more and more apparent that my dream was far away—I just couldn't hold it up anymore.

As time went on, I began pulling myself away from any human contact. The schoolwork quickly started to go over my head, but I couldn't return home. Not after my parents had paid for the entire trip to get here. Not after spending so many hours trying to get in.

The white box reminded me of that.

With the loneliness, soon came the paranoia.

I quickly accepted it, even while realizing it wasn't the best choice. But I had become so tired, I lost my focus on what actually mattered. Every day it became harder and harder to even walk out the door. I made excuses to remain in my single room in the shared apartment, waiting out hour after hour. A few weeks later, the teacher's e-mails about my absence stopped. It was as if I had no one to call, no one to trust. There was no way I was calling up an old friend, or even knocking on my roommate's door to talk. They hated me. I had no idea why they did, but that's what I kept telling myself.

I was simply good for nothing.

That room became my cage.

Then it was too late to turn back.

During the next few weeks of complete solitude, I had allowed bad habits to creep their way in. Skipping meals only to substitute them with cigarettes quickly became a daily routine, as well as sleeping through most of the days. But then there were nights I couldn't sleep. I felt too restless, I wasn't able to fully relax the way I usually could. So instead, I stayed up.

Like tonight.

It had somehow escaped my mind that the box I had received from my parents had remained locked. With no further ado, I decided to finally break it open. I tossed the lock aside and proceeded to open it.