CREEPYPASTA STORIES

Jason the Toy Maker

I don't have many memories left from my past. The faces of my real parents were like faded masks in my mind. I only had some remains of my childhood, faceless names and total darkness. At the age of nine, something had happened into my family. The trauma was so deep that it made me forget most of my life.

I only had the shred of a memory related to my best friend. He was the only one I had in my whole life. It was an image stuck in my mind, going together with laughter in the background and the melody of a music box.

Among the back holes of my amnesia, I caught a glimpse of his honey-colored eyes and his dark mahogany hair. I remembered his friendly smile... but nothing else. All the rest disappeared in the dark, so did he.

The memories went back to the orphanage from where I was born.  Some awesome parents, Maddalena and Steven, who gave me back the warm feeling of having a family, adopted me, a feeling, which I had forgotten. They raised me in their house until the age of fifteen.

My amnesia led me to go on examinations and psychological check-ups, which year after year were slowly starting to fail. It looked like I wouldn't be able to get my memory back. This fact left me distort.

On one hand, I wanted to know what happened, but on the other... an odd feeling of anxiety suggested I not to wish for it.

Obviously, there were some unpleasant consequence to my trauma.  It was just like some paranoia of being persecuted by something.

The specialists told my parents it must have been linked to a particular memory, which was continuously stimulated. Neither the cause, nor what it was exactly was clear but despite my efforts, I couldn't focus on it.

I felt like I was being observed, not by people, but by the stuffed toys in my room. It was stupid, I know. At the beginning, they were simply toys, but time and time again, their big round eyes seemed to stare at me.

Since I was little I thought the stuffed toys in my room were alive and sometimes I tried to prove it: I spied out of my room with the door left ajar, then I turn back suddenly and I never took my eyes off them, not until I felt a bit of a burning sensation from not blinking my eyes.

That memory was one of the few memories from my childhood that still made me smile, but things have changed. Time after time, the stuffed toys were the ones staring at me. It almost looked like they wanted to test me and I couldn't bare it anymore. The thought stuck in my mind. At times, it seemed to me that they moved, turning their little faces towards me. At other times, they made the noises in my room. This couldn't be true, obviously.

Why did this thought persecute me? Why did I hate those stuffed toys? In spite of everything, why didn't I get rid of them? I could have presented them to other children, or thrown them in the rubbish. One day I tried, really, I did, but when I took one of them in my arms, a strong sense of anxiety and terror stopped me. I always ended up putting them back to their places, on the furniture, on my bed, on the shelves. Then I had to take tranquillizers.

There was only one toy I took along with me during the night, despite my age, I couldn't separate from him and I felt a familiar affection from him that started long before my amnesia. I found him in my wardrobe at the orphanage and from there on out we became in separable.

It was a sweet bunny with ears as long as him, on one side it was red and on the other it side resided caramel color. He wore a black waistcoat, with two long sleeves that draped down to the point of his feet and dashed an elegant collar that dawned pointed tips at every edge of the fabric. His little left beaded eye was covered with a stylish frilly eyepatch, and at the center dawned a black button.