The Fleshy Book

Seven Days: Log Seven

Seven Days: Log 7

Log 7

Sunday 23rd, February

“Investigators had pulled the name of a possible suspect, Toby Rogers, a 17 year old boy who a few weeks ago had stabbed his father to death and tried to cover up his escape by setting a fire in the streets and the forest area around the neighborhood. Although they had believed the young boy had died in the fire, investigators suspect that Rogers may still be alive, due to the fact that his body was never found.”

My eyes scanned over the ending of the Creepypasta one last time.

“Ticci Toby. Crap, how did I not realize it then?!” I said, as I leaned back in my chair, shaking my head.

I was at home, back at my computer desk; a day had passed since the meeting of Ticci Toby and The Sender.

I sighed as I scanned the last few sentences of “Ticci Toby” for the tenth time on the computer monitor. I was alive and thankfully still in one piece. I should have been celebrating but yet, the only thing I could do was mentally kick myself for being so stupid the day before. I should have realized where I was the moment Connie had mentioned her son’s name. It should have immediately told me what was coming next, but I’d been too stupid to realize it.

“Ugh…” I groaned as I buried my hands into my face. I really need to pay more attention to these things. Especially to what’s coming today. Through the cracks of my hands, I glanced at the taskbar. The tab with the Creepypasta page and its empty article waited for me to transcribe Log Six.

I moved the cursor over the tab, ready to click it, but my finger just hovered above the button. I couldn’t press the button. Instead, I withdrew my hand and took in a long breath then leaned back in my seat. I wasn’t ready write down Log Six. Hell, I wasn’t ready ever write anything again. I thought about leaving it as it was: blank. Empty. But The Sender’s words from Log Four echoed within my mind, “If that fails to motivate you, then we can just send the next visitor to see your parents the next night.”

“No,” I murmured. “I have to write this, not unless I want to see the ones I love suffer.”

I took another steady breath, then clicked the tab and began writing Log Six.

Nearly twenty minutes later, I typed in the last few words.

“There,” I said. “Are you happy Sender?”

I glared at the monitor waiting for him to say something, but he didn’t.

“Don’t play coy with me now,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “Not when I’m so close to finishing this. I know you’re listening. You’ve been listening for the past six days of this hell you’ve put me through.”

As I suspected, a text box immediately formed on my desktop. Words began to fill its emptiness.

“Indeed I have, and it has been such a wonderful experience,” it read.

I wanted to scream, to holler, to curse at those few words, but I remained silent. I knew how his game worked now. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing my anger.

I blinked a few times at the monitor, waiting for The Sender to continue.

“Ahhhhh,” he wrote, after a minute or so later, “you have no idea how much it gladdens me to see how you have changed.”

I cocked my head to the side. Changed? What did he mean by that? The only change I could see was the one where I no longer had the pleasure of living out a normal life, but instead had to live out each day of it expecting a monster from a Creepypasta to show up and ruin it.