☆Creepypasta Stories☆

~When Mercy Calls~

If your phone rings tonight with an unknown number you will have to pick it up, because it may be Mercy Ellis on the other line. You may not like what she tells you, but you have no choice.

~*~*~*~*

The entire town looks at me with terror in its eyes. I stopped leaving my house, long ago. The only connections that I have to the outside world are the lace-covered windows in my tiny one bedroom home, a phone, and a timid cousin who comes to visit once per week.

I watch the town from my hidden sanctuary, observing each and every individual in the small community. Children often gather on the sidewalk out front, pointing and staring at my house. I hear their taunting rhymes, and I often catch bits and pieces of their whispered conversations.

My name is Mercy Ellis, and I've always been strange. Since the first audible words left my tiny, innocent mouth - I've been looked at as an abomination.

Unexplainable actions often garner mass fear in society... a lesson that I would become all too familiar with, over my lifetime.

**When I Was Three**

My mother had known, for a while, that I was a rare child with an unexplainable ability. She, alone, was the bearer of this information...until I was three-years-old.

One day, on a visit to the bank with my grandmother, the visions came upon me. As the elderly bank teller reached down, handing me a sucker, I saw the horrible sight very plainly before my eyes. The woman's silver head of hair was lying on the carpet, saturated in her own crimson blood. Even as a toddler, I knew what this meant.

As I accepted the sucker, I told the woman matter-of-factly, "You're going to hit your head, and die."

My grandma's intake of breath was so sharp that it cut through the awkward silence. The bank teller's eyes grew wide and she tried to laugh casually, brushing the comment aside. My grandmother apologized profusely before digging her fingernails into my arm and dragging me out of the bank, sobbing.

Once home, she and my mother had a heated conversation. Grandma left the house without saying goodbye to me.

Two days later, my grandmother returned. The look in her eye was different now. She didn't rush in to get hugs and kisses from me, and instead, she stood far across the room - staring, as if she were frightened. Dropping a folded newspaper onto the table, she instructed my mother to read.

Mom's hands trembled as she picked up the newspaper and read the obituary aloud.

Norma Jones, age 72, passed away on Tuesday evening after suffering a fall in her home.

**When I Was Five**

By the time I was five, I fully understood that I was different. My mother had cautioned me that speaking about my visions to "outsiders" was dangerous. I couldn't understand why, at the time, but I did my best to obey her wishes. Over time, we stopped talking about my visions, altogether - as if they didn't exist.

I remember this particular night very clearly. It was the first time that I ever felt the burn. We were at home, getting ready for bed. I'd just taken a bath and I was in my room, putting on my pajamas. The vision came to me. I was shocked and saddened to see someone that I knew coming to his demise. My first instinct was to run and tell my mother. But at the same time I didn't want to upset her. I knew how she hated my horrible gift.