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You were a nobody in your teen years. You didn’t even go to public school. Your mother was abusive and controlling and in a desperate attempt to cope you would stay up all night on the internet, talking to strangers in forums and falling into rabbit holes. When you were thirteen you found creepypasta. At first, you just thought it was cool. The stories were good in your opinion, and you read all of them that you could find.
Then you found Toby’s. It was a late night. You’d cried your eyes out an hour earlier over your mother being how she always was once again, and now you were sitting in the corner, blanket around your shoulders. You were scrolling through Deviantart and other forums once more when you came across a new one that you hadn’t read yet. After you read it you realized it was honestly one of the better ones you’d read. You checked the date written. May 23, 2013, so two ish years ago. You wondered why you hadn’t found it previously.
You got even more into creepypasta after that. Sometimes you’d talk to yourself, pretend you were talking to your favorites- usually Toby. Sometimes you cuddled your pillow and pretended it was him, cuddling you and running his fingers through your hair and comforting you. And a lot of the time it worked. It felt real. The comfort- in reality just your own hands- worked for a bit. You tried drawing him and it wasn’t very good so you tried again.
And sure maybe you did become a bit obsessed. You weren’t sure why he fascinated you so much, why you were so genuinely in love with him. But on late nights you’d sit on your roof and pretend he was sat there beside you, holding your hand and whispering about plans to run away. You’d become a proxy with him, in these dreams. Be free from this abusive household.
And then you had to grow up. You got busier. Your mom pushed for you to go to college and although you had zero desire to, you did. As soon as you were old enough you moved out. And maybe if you had paid enough attention, you’d notice that every so often the hoodie you’d painstakingly stitched to look like Toby’s would disappear, be replaced with one smelling like a damp forest and blood and musk that a wash in the laundry hadn’t put much of a damper on, then yours would reappear.
You started your own life. Got a good job, a nice apartment. Didn’t really think of creepypasta much anymore. The boy you’d once fallen so hard for, daydreamed of, wishing he’d pick you up and carry you away and love you how you craved to be loved was in the back of your mind. You still thought of him in passing. Songs you’d listening to a lot during that time made you remember.
You (unwillingly) visited your mom in your early twenties, stayed in your childhood bedroom. Found a tote under your bed with all the stuff from your creepypasta era- a lot of bad drawings, you’d never been a good artist- Polaroid camera, a pair of converse with the proxy symbol drawn in sharpie on them- among other designs- nearly falling apart. Self-insert fanfics that made you cringe when you glanced at them. You pulled the hoodie out of the bottom of the box and unfolded it. A note dropped out, you picked it up to read it.
Shaky handwriting, jerky letters, almost illegible. Thanks for the spare hoodie, I made sure to clean it before returning it. There might still be some blood on it though, sorry muffin. Love, Toby.
You stared at the note like it held state secrets. You didn’t remember writing this, hadn’t had any friends to do it as a prank. You held up the hoodie, inspected it. On the hem and sleeves was dried, years-old blood. You obviously didn’t gag, you’d seen worse on the internet in its early days. But how had that gotten there?
You took out the Polaroid and the stack of photos in a sleeve beneath it, looked through them. There was a big smear on the film in all of these. Sometimes they were to the side, sometimes they took up the whole picture. Not the blurriness from age or nighttime or somebody moving. Like they’d been tampered with. Your brow furrowed. In one you had your arm around somebody, cheek pressed to theirs. Nothing was wrong with you. You looked overjoyed. In fact, you could see their arm around your waist in the photo, hand resting right in the dip of your waist. You studied the hand. Leather glove, it had seen some beatings clearly. Not a single thing was wrong with you in the photo, just the great big smear of colors beside you. You flipped it over. On the back in neat sharpie- (user) x Toby, April 28 2016. Deep into your obsession with Toby.
You stared at the Polaroids, at the hoodie, at the note. You didn’t recall taking the Polaroids, writing that note, how the blood had gotten on the hoodie. None of this made sense.
You got sick returning home. Had to take more time off from work, laid in bed suffering a lot. One day you got so bad you got feverish and delirious. Didn’t even question when somebody climbed in your window, got you washed up in the bath, changed your bedsheets and cleaned everything, made you some food, got you tucked up in bed, and kissed your forehead. Didn’t question the random sounds or jerky motions they made, didn’t question how they smelled so familiar or that they’d put their hoodie on you.
You barely remember the feeling of them smoothing your hair down with faint, jerky motions, kissing your forehead again. “I’ll be back for the hoodie when you’re not sick. Get well soon, muffin.”
You got better quick after that. When you remember it after it was a faint blur. All you really remembered was warm hands shampooing your hair and untangling the knots, the sound of somebody making popping sounds while trying to keep their hands steady feeding you soup, a face with a big gash in their cheek but still pretty, and gorgeous brown eyes full of love and obsession gazing at you.
You chalked it up to sick brain, especially because when you went looking the hoodie you remember wearing was missing. You cleaned the whole house and went back to work. Didn’t think much of it. Things were monotonous. Get up, go to work, work, come home, shower, eat, sleep, repeat. You were tired. This job was going nowhere and you wanted a break.
You started finding Polaroid photos. Hidden in your sock drawer, in your desk, set on top of your nightstand. You found a teddy bear, uneven stitches across rips, with tiny little orange goggles and a miniature cardboard muzzle. It was holding a note in jagged handwriting, the same handwriting you remember from the note that fell out of your hoodie.
I noticed you’re stressed, my muffin. Hold this and think of me, yeah? I’m too busy to visit for long enough right now but I promise I will soon ♡
You’re obviously creeped out. Scared, even. If Lacey’s Flash Games taught you anything, it was that this was not to be taken lightly. Still, the teddy bear was cute. The Polaroid photos were unblurred versions of the ones you’d found in your box under your bed. Some were ones that hadn’t even been in the box- your head on somebody’s lap, sleeping you assumed, a scarred hand in your hair that you figured belonged to the one who took the photo. You playing pretend at a tea party with a little girl in a pretty pink dress with brown corkscrew curls.
Your arms around somebody, their face buried in your hair, arm tight around you. You seemed happy in the Polaroid. Content. Clinging tight to the person like you never wanted to let go. They wore jeans patched repeatedly and a hoodie that had seen much the same treatment, with floppy, straight hair.
You kept the photos in a stack in your nightstand and looked at them sometimes. New ones showed up every so often when you were always at your most exhausted. You checked your windows and door and made sure they were locked every night and yet these photos still showed up. One night sitting on your bed you remarked to the air you wanted chocolate in a wistful tone. The next day a box of expensive chocolates was on your dresser with another note: Whatever my muffin wants, my muffin gets ♡
More notes showed up. Ones reminding you to eat, to shower, to sleep, to drink water. You started smiling when you saw them. Relaxed. Whoever was leaving the gifts, the Polaroids, the notes, they clearly cared. Okay maybe they were breaking into your apartment regularly, but they seemed to have a good intent. And it made you happier, coming home to the gifts or notes. Knowing that somebody cared about you.
While on break, eating lunch at your favorite cafe one day, your phone rang. Unknown Caller.
At first you just stared at it. Nobody ever called you anymore. Nobody but scam callers. But when it didn’t stop ringing after the first few rings and you started getting dirty looks from other customers, you picked it up and accepted the call. Held your phone up to your ear.
“Hello?” You asked. “Who is this?”
A pause. Breathing. You were about to hang up, then the person spoke. “Hello, muffin.” A man’s voice undoubtedly. Deeper, a little fucked up. “Did you like my gifts? My notes?”
You go still. Very still. You’re obviously still breathing but your fingers are white around your fork.
“Who is this?”
He sounds like he’s pouting. “I’m hurt. Everything we did, you don’t remember my voice?” He suddenly makes a random bunch of sounds. “Mmph. C’mon, muffin~ …did the Polaroids really not jog your memory?” His voice suddenly drops, he sounds mad out of now where. “No, I don’t suppose much would, that fucking ASSHOLE wiped your memory-“
He pauses, takes a deep breath. “But it’s okay, my muffin. We can make more memories. You can remember me. You will. Remember me. I’ll see you tonight.”
And he ends the call. You stare at your phone in silence for a good few seconds. How did he know? The Polaroids, the gifts, the pet name on very single note, with every single gift. Unless it was actually your stalker. Secret admirer? You weren’t sure, honestly. Probably stalker.
You end up, somehow, forgetting all about that- typical you, until it’s nighttime and you’re at home making dinner in the kitchen, humming and swaying to the music. You’re focused on some kind of silly interpretive dance when somebody walks up behind you and wraps their arms around your waist. You obviously startle and go to scream but they clamp a hand over your mouth.
“No. Shhh, shh, shh, muffin. It’s okay, I’m not gonna hurt you.” It’s the same man from on the phone. You go still. Fight or flight has kicked in and despite all the horror movies you’ve watched, your body chose the secret third option- freeze.
“Good. Good.” He leans in, rests his chin on your shoulder. “I’m gonna move my hand, okay muffin? Promise not to scream?”
You nod.
He moves his hand.
You quickly turn the stove off and attempt to make a run for it, but he quickly grabs you. You start struggling and fighting and topple onto the couch on top of him. It’s a fight, and you barely know how to. You’re grabbing at his neck in the vain attempt you’ll what? Throttle him? With what strength? then his eyes meet yours. Eyes you knew too well, eyes you could spend hours gazing into- and once upon a time, you did.
He looks so familiar and you’re not sure why. Some kind of leather and metal muzzle on his mouth, orange goggles over his eyes, a faded, patched, bloody hoodie with apparently another one underneath. Your hands are closed around his neck and his hands on your wrists. He’s not fighting much and you’re not sure if he’s enjoying being choked or if you’re actually strong. That flies out the window when he rolls you over, pins your hands down with one hand, and tugs his goggles and muzzle off.
“C’mon, muffin. You gotta remember.” His other hand cups your face. And you can’t look away because he looks so familiar, but you don’t know why. And his hand feels familiar, and the way he speaks, the jerky motions and random sounds and words speckled between what he says, it’s all so familiar.
He seems to get more desperate the longer you’re silent for. “Please muffin, c’mon. You remember me, right? It’s me, it’s Toby. Your cuddle bug, your sweet boy.” He sounds so desperate, sitting back and tugging you forward into his arms, squeezing you tight, pressing your face into his shoulder. The way he hugs- like he’s scared you’ll disappear, enveloping you in his arms- and how he smells is familiar, too- like blood and sweat and antiseptic and something comforting. “Please remember. It took me so long to find you again. This- this can’t be for nothing.”
And you don’t know what to say. You’re trying so hard to remember, and for some reason you’re clinging too, and you’re crying but you don’t know why. His hands are all shaky and twitchy wiping your tears off. “No, muffin, don’t cry, it’s okay. Shhh. It’s okay, I’m here now, and you won’t have to want for anything. I’ll take you back with me, yeah? Forever, like you always wished.”
“Take me back where?” You look up at him confused, and for a moment he’s obsessed all over again. You’re so cute confused.
“Back to the mansion. In the woods? Remember?” He digs in his jacket pocket and pulls out a camera. There’s pictures on it, slightly grainy. Of a big mansion that makes you shudder even though it’s just a picture, of you when you were younger hugging Toby but he looks the same, of you playing with a little girl in a pretty pink dress- you recognize her from the Polaroids, in this photo you’re playing with dolls- of you cooking in a kitchen with bad lighting and blood on the fridge, counters scrubbed ridiculously clean probably by you, and there’s other people in the frame with bloody clothing or messed up faces or missing limbs.
Toby looks like he’s about to cry. “Please, muffin, just say you at least remember me even a little bit. We can make new memories! I just- I just need you to trust me-“
Toby. You’ve heard that name before. You know you have. Where have you?
Then you remember. The note. The hoodie. Love, Toby. That insane obsession with the creepypasta. But he’s not.. this can’t be. It’s like the plot of a fanfiction written by some lovesick teenager (and maybe you did write one or two fanfics like that but who are you to be judged). “No, you- that doesn’t make sense, how could you be-“
He seizes your face in his hands, tears of joy spilling out of his eyes. You meet his eyes and he looks insane. Eyes wide, full of some kind of insane love. He’s holding your face a bit too tight. “It’s because of you. You brought me to life in this world, turned me from fiction to reality, you loved me so much. It’s all because of you, muffin. I wanted to stay with you forever, but HE stopped me, that controlling bastard. Made you forget. But it’s okay, cause you remember and now we can be together forever! He can’t stop me if you never ever leave the mansion, if you’re always there, he can’t kill you-“ He’s rambling now, words speeding up, tics getting worse cause he’s so agitated and worked up.
“Toby, calm down-“ His eyes snap to yours, full of obsessed love. Your words stutter for a second at the sheer volume of love in his eyes.
“God, the way you say my name…” *He sighs dreamily, like the way you say it is the most delicious food. “I want to hear you say it over and over again, muffin.”
And suddenly his face is pressed to your chest, and you’re pinned under him, clutched tight in his arms. “You’ll stay with me, right? You won’t leave this time? You’re gonna be mine forever and ever?”
You swallow dryly. You don’t know what’s going on at all, but now you’ve apparently got a very obsessed and in love serial killer glued to you and determined to keep you forever, and… well, you do find him attractive and you’ve always wanted to be loved that way.
“Y-Yeah.” You stroke his hair. He dissolves like a pet, snuggling into your hand.
“I’ll give you anything you want. I’ll kill anyone you want. I’ll do anything for you.” He said, clutching you tighter.
Maybe this won’t be so bad, after all.