Creepypasta Files

The Artist

I can see her there.

Quiet.

Peaceful.

Unsuspecting.

Sleeping.

Perfect.

I slowly climb a little more, my feet deft and my hands gripping tightly on the window ledge. It isn't a particularly pretty night; the rain is coming down in buckets, drenching me in her cold content, as if she thinks what I plan is disgraceful, and she calls up storm to put me off. As if a little bad weather will stop me from doing what I need to do. I decide to stop putting the deed off, and decide to finally try and get inside the cozy little room. I dig my nails into the wooden frame of the window, slowly lifting, the rain still growling at me. She thinks too inside the box. She doesn't anything I do. As if my art isn't any good. My methods are innovative, unique, and of course, excellent in my execution of my piece. I see no possible way it could go wrong, but still she growls, swiping through the air with her bright, blinding whip, trying to intimidate me, put me off of my wonderful idea. No. I need to stay focused; my piece needs to be finished on time. The window is up now. I look back inside the room, the quiet little breathing from the lump in the bed makes her sweet sounds, the quiet little toneless noise that no music could mimic. Breathing.

The Artist ~ By GentlemanWalrus ~ Sir Ayme-0
I can see her there.

Quiet.

Peaceful.

Unsuspecting.

Sleeping.

Perfect.

I slowly climb a little more, my feet deft and my hands gripping tightly on the window ledge. It isn't a particularly pretty night; the rain is coming down in buckets, drenching me in her cold content, as if she thinks what I plan is disgraceful, and she calls up storm to put me off. As if a little bad weather will stop me from doing what I need to do. I decide to stop putting the deed off, and decide to finally try and get inside the cozy little room. I dig my nails into the wooden frame of the window, slowly lifting, the rain still growling at me. She thinks too inside the box. She doesn't anything I do. As if my art isn't any good. My methods are innovative, unique, and of course, excellent in my execution of my piece. I see no possible way it could go wrong, but still she growls, swiping through the air with her bright, blinding whip, trying to intimidate me, put me off of my wonderful idea. No. I need to stay focused; my piece needs to be finished on time. The window is up now. I look back inside the room, the quiet little breathing from the lump in the bed makes her sweet sounds, the quiet little toneless noise that no music could mimic. Breathing.

I start to paint my picture. I walk in, no creaks from the floor, no disturbances, nothing to ruin this perfect painting. With the exception of the rain, everything seemed to be in my favour. But, the rain, the banshee that she is, wouldn't want me to finish it, she oozes pure hatred for my work, I can tell. She just cares for herself, not of what is good or perfect.

And she would do worse.

Stop. No time for this. No time for thinking about nonsense, the canvas needs a painting, and it shall be painted upon. I stepped a little further, ever so close to her now, a few more steps and I could finally make her into a beauteous art piece. It was so close, so nearly finished. But she doesn't want this. She screams with the top of her lungs, her voice rumbles the very foundations as she screeches in hatred, the lump now rising, it sees me, it knows I want its blood, but I cant stop. I pounce, my nails buried in her face, her eyes now red with blood as her siren like screams pierce the air.

The Artist ~ By GentlemanWalrus ~ Sir Ayme-0
I can see her there.

Quiet.

Peaceful.

Unsuspecting.

Sleeping.

Perfect.

I slowly climb a little more, my feet deft and my hands gripping tightly on the window ledge. It isn't a particularly pretty night; the rain is coming down in buckets, drenching me in her cold content, as if she thinks what I plan is disgraceful, and she calls up storm to put me off. As if a little bad weather will stop me from doing what I need to do. I decide to stop putting the deed off, and decide to finally try and get inside the cozy little room. I dig my nails into the wooden frame of the window, slowly lifting, the rain still growling at me. She thinks too inside the box. She doesn't anything I do. As if my art isn't any good. My methods are innovative, unique, and of course, excellent in my execution of my piece. I see no possible way it could go wrong, but still she growls, swiping through the air with her bright, blinding whip, trying to intimidate me, put me off of my wonderful idea. No. I need to stay focused; my piece needs to be finished on time. The window is up now. I look back inside the room, the quiet little breathing from the lump in the bed makes her sweet sounds, the quiet little toneless noise that no music could mimic. Breathing.

I start to paint my picture. I walk in, no creaks from the floor, no disturbances, nothing to ruin this perfect painting. With the exception of the rain, everything seemed to be in my favour. But, the rain, the banshee that she is, wouldn't want me to finish it, she oozes pure hatred for my work, I can tell. She just cares for herself, not of what is good or perfect.

And she would do worse.

Stop. No time for this. No time for thinking about nonsense, the canvas needs a painting, and it shall be painted upon. I stepped a little further, ever so close to her now, a few more steps and I could finally make her into a beauteous art piece. It was so close, so nearly finished. But she doesn't want this. She screams with the top of her lungs, her voice rumbles the very foundations as she screeches in hatred, the lump now rising, it sees me, it knows I want its blood, but I cant stop. I pounce, my nails buried in her face, her eyes now red with blood as her siren like screams pierce the air.

I scream back at her.

"This isn't right. This isn't right. Why would you do this, why couldn't you accept, why couldn't you love, why couldn't you let me create, why couldn't you? I did what I had to because I love my work. I loved you once, but you stopped me, you stopped me, your own son from his work, your own son from his life!"

She still screams, my hands in her eyes. She thrashes, hoping that I'll let go, but I cling on, blood seeping down her face now, her mouth now being flooded with the red, pure, hatred. She slashes blindly at my face, clawing at anything she can. She gets a swipe across my left cheek. I scream at her, I push my fingers in her eyes even harder.

"You couldn't leave me alone could you? You had to ruin everything, didn't you? Destroy everything I had worked for? I thought you loved me!"

She coughs out another scream, blood splatters onto me, everything going wrong.

"It was supposed to be the greatest art piece, not... this, not this."

She stops breathing. The blood has gotten into her lungs at this point. She dies, just like that, everything ruined. I breathe heavily, tired out from creating this travesty of a work of art. Her face is ruined. The rain has stopped. She's gone, and left me with nothing but a scratch. I turn away, and head towards the window, the painting ruined, the beauty lost, but not before looking at the mirror. Not much to look at, just a few glassy eyes, and a few scars.

No time. No time for anything anymore.

Must rest. Must get away from this.

Must get away from mother.