Book Of Creepypastas #2

My Son Did the Momo Challenge

I looked at the phone.  I waited for the text to come back.  It was maybe about ten, fifteen minutes.

That hideous face popped up on the screen, with the reply.

"You didn't do the last task I asked of you.  Now, there will be consequences."

The last task was done, actually, but not by me.  The phone I was holding was not mine.  It was my son's.  I wanted some answers, something that would help me get through what had happened.  I needed to know the truth.

I wanted to know what made my son kill himself.

I had thought him being secretive was just because he was a teenager.  I remembered when I was a kid, I tried to hide things from my family, things I was embarrassed of.  But I never expected to walk into the bathroom to find him collapsed on the floor, his wrists cut.

It was one thing to just be suicide, but then there were the phrases on the walls, the symbols.  All gibberish, written in lipstick, on the mirror and the shower door.  "She tastes all," and "Bend the circle."

The Momo Challenge was what they called it.  A sick, twisted thing that looked like it was just for fun, but it terrorized people, mostly children.  I found out about it, and everything I read after my son's death made me angrier the more I found.  That weird woman's face wasn't some demon, some creature from the pits of hell.  It was just a statue, that belonged on some weird bird creature thing in Japan.  They used it like an avatar, lured kids in with the promise of some good scary fun.  Then the increasingly frightening challenges.  Watching a scary movie alone was first.  Then, not telling anyone about these conversations, or else their personal information would go out.  Then the fear that 'Momo' would come and get them if they didn't continue.

I never expected my son to be fooled by it.  But I read the conversation.  The things 'Momo' was willing to tell people.  I could see why he got scared.  They knew so much, all from a couple of clicks.  Hacking.

I never even knew what WhatsApp was, but my son used it to message friends outside of Facebook.  A friend told him about the number, but was too scared to try it himself.  So, my son tried it.  The friend never knew what was really going on, and was horrified to learn what had happened.  He would have never sent it along if he had known.

The police couldn't do anything.  They said the number was a spoof, useless, probably a disposable cell phone, though it was odd that it wasn't one normally associated with the Momo Challenge they normally looked into.  They knew the group did things out in South America, and there wasn't much as local officers they could do.  They took the phone as evidence, but after they didn't get anywhere with it, they returned it, and offered me their condolences.

They said it wasn't worth trying to contact them.  They'd given their last command, they probably would ignore the number.

I didn't care.  That phone sat in my son's room, in a little Ziploc baggie, for weeks.  My wife didn't want me to touch it; she didn't want anything to do with the monstrosity.  She just wanted the memory of our son to stay as it was.

But I wanted to know why.  I wanted to know why people would do such a horrible thing.

So I texted back.  "I didn't do your last thing.  I was too scared to try."

Then I got that response.  Then another came through.  "You get one more chance, and then everyone will know your secrets.  Go to this address, alone.  It'll be fun."

My eyes widened.  The address wasn't far from where I lived, maybe a few miles or so.  It would've been a fast drive.

If the group was in another country, they wouldn't have bothered.  But this was local.  Maybe I would get answers.