Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-31753305-20170417114256

Hi, this story was deleted for not meeting quality standards, I would be really grateful for any feedback here to improve it, thanks!

This is a story about a strange thing that happened to me when I was young, and the stranger things that are happening now.

I'm sharing it with you all to prove the truth of it, I'm sorry. I'm not a monster though, I'm warning you now that if you read on it will know about you too, so I'm giving you a choice, which is more than I ever had. So it's up to you, is this just another creepy-pasta, a fun five minute scare, or is there something else here? I am telling you not to keep on reading, if you decide not to listen then its not my fault.

None of this was ever my fault.

I grew up in the most normal of normal houses, we didn't believe in gods or daemons or spooky things that live under the bed. We had a house full of people and toys and books scattered around, but no great old spooky bookshelves or creepy corridors. Sunlight shone through our windows leaving no dark corners for ghouls to hide. We were bright and airy and open throughout, except for one high up dark spot in the well of the stairs, too high up to paint easily or sweep away the cobwebs.

In this spot, to cover the bits we could not reach to paint, hung the only picture that wasn't a smiling family photograph. It was a big dark painting in an ornate frame that my grandfather had inexplicable appeared with years before and subsequently hung in its corner and forgotten.

The picture was of a small boy in a ruffled shirt, sitting on a rock and gazing above himself at the bubbles he had blown into the air. You can google it, I don't think it would cause you any harm to see it on your computer screen. It's called 'Bubbles' and it was used in a Pears soap advertisement, have a look before you read on, the rest will only make sense if you can picture it.

Before all of this happened I thought the child looked troubled, now I think I can see something else hiding behind his expression, something sad and sorry, can you see it? I think that boy might have been where it all started.

The first idea I had that something about the picture wasn't right was when I was about eight years old. I had run up and down those stairs so many times and never looked at that picture, which is strange in itself if you think about it. I knew it was hanging there, and I knew what it was a picture of, but I don't believe I had ever looked at it before. It was like a movement in the corner of your eye, a blank spot that your mind refuses to see.

On that damn day, as I thundered past it, something made me stop. I'm not sure what, maybe a noise that wasn't there, a summoning. I wish to God I hadn't stopped, how different things would be if I had ran past as always, but I don't think that was even an option. I stopped, I tilted my head as far back as it would go and I gazed up, up, up into the stairwell. There he was, Bubbles, me gazing up at him gazing up, and I both wanted and did not want to raise my eyes even higher to see what he was looking past his bubbles to see.

At that moment, just as my gaze began to wander higher, I heard my name spoken harshly from behind me. Spinning around I almost lost my footing on the stairs and felt my mothers arms catch me, she gave me a small shake and hissed at me, 'What are you doing with Bubbles?'. She was white and worried, and confused and upset by the experience I chose a child's recourse and began to cry.

We didn't really speak about that moment again, in fact I only spoke to my Mother once more about that painting, about a week later. Somewhere in the back of my mind I had noticed that the paint was streaked and damaged on one side, a large swirling mark just above the young boys head. I pictured it over and over, trying to puzzle out what had damaged it and, though I instinctively knew we weren't supposed to talk about Bubbles, I decided to ask my mum about it.

I knew I needed to wait until we were alone, that talking about Bubbles with anyone but my mum around would be a terrible thing to do, though I wasn't sure why. So I waited until she was washing dishes in the kitchen and the rest of the family was engrossed in the television. I crept into the room, unable to shake the feeling that I was, in some way, being cruel, and asked her what the marks on the painting were. She gave a nervous laugh, a sort of fake girlish giggle that I had never heard from her before, and told me that once, as a young girl, she had tried to clean the picture with soapy water and in the process had smeared the paint. 'I was so foolish'' she said, 'I almost ruined the picture, such a silly thing to do'.

I could feel the lie behind her words but found I didn't want the truth after all. I just nodded, sorry I had asked the question and rose to leave the room. Just as I reached the door she spoke again, quietly, looking straight ahead, not making eye contact with me, 'please don't look at it anymore, please try to forget about Bubbles', I didn't respond and as I left the room I knew, without looking, that she was crying.

Things changed after that, some of the carefree childhood went away. Now, running up and down the stairs I could hear it summoning, 'come and look', 'come and look', but, little as I was I managed to ignore it. I grew up, moved away, lived my life... but it was always there, the wanting to see, the not wanting to see.

Yesterday morning I woke up knowing it was time. I went home to my childhood house, went for a happy visit, eating dinner and drinking wine, but all the time I was waiting. Waiting for everyone else to head off to bed so I could do what I came to do. I walked to the top of the stairs and tilted my head back, and I looked up, and then up again, past the boys worried little face, past the bubbles and I saw it. I saw it, and it saw me and it told me what I had to do.

I think my mother tried to destroy it once, and that might be what saved her, for awhile. But I didn't want it destroyed, I listened. I listened and I did what I was told.

It's your turn next, I tricked you, you see. I told you I was sorry, I drew you in with a lure, a creepy story, a 'read on if you dare', that I knew would make you keep on reading. What other kind of person would be reading stories on creepypasta? I even told you to find the picture, did you google it? Did you believe it would be safe? It knows about you now, can you feel it, summoning? Don't you want to go back and find that picture and look at Bubbles and then lift your eyes and look up, up, up? 