Creepypastas

Don't Play the Game Part One

My freshman year of high school was what had to be the worst year of my life. I used to keep this story to myself- I never told anyone, never wrote it down. I just never saw a point. It's hardly even possible that anyone would ever believe me. They'd think I was crazy. Which wouldn't be fair with how much I've gone through. But now, I'm dying and my story must be told. I have to warn others not to play the game.

My name is Olivia Rose Caplan, but everyone just calls me Livvy. When I finished eighth grade, my parents decided that they wanted to move from our sunny home in Los Angeles to a small, rainy town in Maine. There, I would attend an all-girls school that I cannot put the name of or else this will be taken down without a doubt. To be honest, I'm not even sure if the school is still open, or if it was closed down. Still, I'll just call it Hillside High School for Girls. Of course, "Hellside" would work pretty well, too.

At the time, the only things I dreaded were Hillside's dull and boring school uniforms, and the fact that I didn't know anybody. The second dread was actually a bit of my own fault. After all , I was in town for most of the summer, but I spent all of that time cooped up in my room reading ghost stories and H.P. Lovecraft. But I was fine with that. I didn't plan on fitting in with any of these girls. I had a feeling that they were all going to be very boring. In fact, I had a feeling that the whole time we lived in Maine was going to be boring.

Boy, was I wrong about that last part.

About a week before the school year began, I started having these nightmares. At first, I didn't think anything of them. After all, with all the horror I had been reading, I was sure to have a nightmare or two. But I began to worry about myself when I was having the same nightmare every single night for a straight week.

They were about this girl in the Hillside school uniform- white button up shirt, dark blue blazer, gray and black and blue plaid skirt, white knee socks, and a pair of Mary Janes- and pitch black pigtails. There was blood on her shirt that looked as if someone had wiped it there with very bloody fingers. The girl had very odd hands. Instead of fingers, she had long, black claws. Even odder was her face. The left side was the face of a girl. Pale skin, with a few blemishes here and there, pink lips, and a beautiful blue eye with flecks of brown, green, orange, and even a little lavender. Her eye was surrounded by thick black eyeliner and eyelashes so full they might have been fake. The right side of her face, however, was far from normal. The skin was white. Not Caucasian white. Pure white. White as freshly fallen snow or fluffy summer clouds. There wasn't a single blemish in sight and the skin looked as soft as feathers. A smile was cut into the right side of the girl's face, starting from the corner of her mouth and going up her cheek, giving her a perpetual lopsided grin. Her entire right eye was black. The pupil, the iris, even the part that was supposed to be white. Her black bangs would always brush against the eyelashes of her right eye except for the few seconds after she would flip her hair . The girl's movements were how one might imagine the movements of a living marionette puppet. With restriction, but still a little bit of freedom. Sometimes I would try to imagine what her puppetmaster would look like, but I could never come up with anything.

But I think the thing about the girl that creeped me out the most was what she would say.

"Don't play the game."

She would say it over and over again. It wasn't the phrase itself that creeped me out. It was her voice. Or rather, voices.

One voice was a heartbreaking, terrified sob. The other was a blood curdling scream.

I didn't tell anyone about the nightmares. Not my mom, not my dad. No one.

When the first day of school came, I knew I wasn't going to fit in. Where the girls at Hillside High School for Girls had long silky hair and girly jewelry, I had short, choppy hair and studded bracelets. Plus, I wasn't interested in anything they were. They loved shopping, I loved reading. They loved hanging out with friends, I loved reading. They loved talking on the phone, I loved reading. They... well, you get the idea.