The Fleshy Book

Seven Days: Log One

Seven Days: Log 1

To whoever is reading this, don’t. Look, I understand you’re looking for entertainment, whether because you’re bored, have nothing to do, or just want something to read. But please, read something else! Click the back button, click the X in the corner, or better yet shut down the computer! I don’t care just please; don’t read this!

But you’re still reading aren’t you? Of course you are. It’s human nature to be curious. No matter how many times the warnings are thrown in your face, you still go on. You still continue. Well, fine then. Keep reading. Just don’t blame me for what happens to you after this.

I don’t want to write this, but I have to. I’ve already been through way too much to not finish this and I don’t want to live through it again. So I’ll write.

My name is J.T. I’m nineteen, I’m nearly six feet tall, I’ve got green eyes, and curly dirty blond hair. So in other words, I’m a regular kid just like you. (And I would have never bothered giving my description had this thing not threatened me) And like you, I enjoy reading the many creepy stories from this site, Creepypasta. And I have always wanted to have my very own. And in a way, I did get what I wanted since after all, you’re reading this. But believe me when I say this, I wish I hadn’t. Things have changed and not for the better.

But enough stalling. I’ll get to why you’re here, why you’re reading this, and why this story even exists.

It began with me wanting to write a story for Creepypasta, but not just any old story, I wanted to write a famous one. I wanted to write one that would go viral in a matter of minutes like Ben Drowned, The Rake, or Slenderman. I wanted my very own classic. So for days I sat in front of my computer trying to think of something fantastic to write. Something that would leave a chill in the bones of its readers. But nothing ever came. I did this for nearly a month and still nothing came to mind. Until one day.

I was sitting at my desk in my bedroom, staring at the blank, empty white space of the word document on my screen. The cursor was blinking, patiently waiting for me to write words, to give it a story. But I was still clueless, I could not think of anything to write. Nothing would come. This frustrated me so much that out of anger I cried out, “Why can’t I think of anything?! Please, just give me some bloody inspiration!” Fuming, I told myself to calm down and relax. But it wasn’t working, so I decided to go to the Creepypasta website. Surely one of its many short stories would calm me down or give me an idea at the least.

That’s when it happened. I was just finishing reading through one of the stories when a pop-up from the site appeared. That by itself was strange. There was no reason for a pop-up to come from this site, it was nonprofit. It didn’t advertise. And, I knew for a fact that the pop-up blocker was on. So how did this one get past it? I was about to close it when the text caught my eye.

“Do you truly wish for a story?” it read.

That confused me for a moment, but I didn’t care. I thought maybe the owners of the site had finally chosen to start advertise writing and this was their attempt to do so. So I clicked out of it. Five minutes later, another pop-up appeared.

“I will ask again. Do you wish for a story?”

“Okay, what is this?” I asked aloud. I didn’t like this. No advertisement does that. But I chose to ignore it and clicked out of it anyway; it wasn’t helping my already bad mood.

But it just didn’t give up, for a third time it showed.

“Do you wish for a story?”

I was already angry enough and this stupid pop-up wasn’t helping.