Creepypasta Stories And More

Jason the Toymaker Origin

I do not have many memories of my past. The faces of my true parents were like faded masks in my mind. I only had some remnants of my childhood, names without faces and total darkness. At the age of nine, something had happened in my family. My trauma was so deep that it made me forget most of my life.

I just had a fuzzy memory related to my best friend. He was the only one I had in my life. It was an image stuck in my mind, which goes along with the laughter of the background and the melody of a music box.

Between the back holes of my amnesia, I caught sight of her honey-colored eyes and dark mahogany hair. I remembered his friendly smile ... But nothing more. The rest disappeared in the dark, so did he.

Memories returned to the orphanage where I was born. Impressively I had parents, Magdalena and Steven, who took me back to the warm feeling of having a family. I, I adopted a feeling, that I had forgotten. They raised me in their house until the age of fifteen years.

My amnesia took me to psychological exams and checkups, which year after year slowly began to fail. It seemed that I would not be able to recover my memory.

On the one hand, he wanted to know what happened, but on the other ... A strange sense of anguish suggested something he did not want.

Obviously, there were some unpleasant consequences for me. It was like the feeling of being chased by something.

The specialists told my parents that it must have been related to a particular memory that was continually stimulated. Neither the cause nor what was exactly was clear, but despite my efforts, I could not concentrate on it.

I felt like I was being watched, not by people, but by the stuffed toys in my room. It was stupid, I know. At first, they were just toys, but over and over again, his big round eyes seemed to look at me.

Since I was little I thought the stuffed toys in my room were alive, and many times I tried to prove it: I peeked out of my room with the door between open, then I would come back as soon as I could and looked them in the eyes until Feel the burning sensation of not blinking.

That memory was one of the few of my childhood that still made me smile, but things have changed. Again and again, the stuffed toys look at me. It almost seemed like they wanted to test me and I could not. The idea stayed in my mind. At times, it seemed to me that they were moving, turning their small faces towards me. At other times, they made noises in my room. This can not be true, obviously.

Why does this thought haunt me? Why do I hate stuffed toys? In spite of everything, why do not I get rid of them?

I could have given them to other children, or thrown them away. One day I tried, really, I did, but when I took one of them in my arms, a strong feeling of anxiety and terror stopped me. I always end up putting them back in their places, in the furniture, in my bed, on the shelves. Then I had to take tranquillizers.

There was only one toy that I took with me during the nights, despite my age, I could not separate from him and I felt a family affection something that began long before my amnesia.

I found it in my closet in the orphanage and from then on we became inseparable.

It was a sweet bunny with drooping ears, on the one hand it was red and on the other side was caramel colored. He wore a black vest with two long sleeves that dragged him to his feet and he had an elegant necklace with stitches on each edge of the fabric. His small left eye was covered with a patch, and in the center a black button.

It was fun, but it looked like it was the only harmless stuffed toy. He slept beside me since I was small as that night, then I slipped under the sheets, falling asleep almost instantly between the old creaking walls.