Creepypasta Wiki


Creepypasta Riffs: Pasta Noir (Part 5)

Dorkpool March 10, 2015 User blog:Dorkpool

Despite the fact that I posted a lot of Riffs on the weekend that isn't "Pasta Noir", I haven't forgot about it. The thing is that on the weekdays, I write the Riffs on a different computer from the weekend. I saved the file for the Riff to a flashdrive, but stuff happened and it didn't quite work.

Anyway, enough of my excuses, let's talk a bit about what I'm Riffing. This is the fifth chapter of "Pasta Noir" and, as of present, is the longest thing I've ever Riffed. You see, I copy the story that I'm Riffing and put it into Microsoft Word. Usually this ends up being about 1-4 pages, though there are quite a few times when it's more. Yeah, this one was about 14 pages pre-Riff. I had considered doing this in two parts, but decided screw it, I'll just do it all at once. So be prepared for a very long read.

Enough of the intro stuff. Let's ripoff hated Creepypasta characters and Riff this bitch.

5. Old Ghosts

The ancient apartment building was somehow still standing after about one hundred years, though it was mainly preserved for its historical value. Also, it doubled as the lair of a supervillain. The rent was high but it was definitely worth it to those who preferred to live in such a lovely building. Yes, a one hundred year old building that probably is coated with lead paint is a lovely place to live. The apartments were large, roofs high Blaze it.; all the hardware such as wall lights, chandeliers, and wooden floors were mostly original or at least updated in the 40s or 50s. See? Lead. It had all the turn-of-the-century charm you would expect for two grand a month. 

Artists, retirees, young professionals with a flair for the dramatic… everyone who resided here had style and a certain coolness. I’d say snobiness, but ok. It was a young artisan’s dream to live in downtown San Antonio in a well-kept one-hundred-plus-year-old building. It had a certain energy to it. Life energy. You go to that building to refill your health meter. You could almost see the old spirits walking around, standing in doorways, on stairs. This is a Creepypasta, so the fact we don’t is mildly disappointing. They were watching you, The ghosts are Big Brother? curious, envious of you and your years ahead. 

The energy was strong. “The booze was not.” There was no denying it, cop or not.  All of downtown San Antonio had the same energy everywhere you went.  The best time to see it all up close, to walk the streets, was at night. This is a Creepypasta. Night equals death. There’s just something magical about it all, despite the darkness everywhere. It’s black magic, actually.

Chris opened the entrance door and was greeted by the warm glow of dim, soft-lit wall lanterns In brightest hall, in blackest room, no object shall escape my glow. All who live in the dark of night, beware my power, old lantern’s light! and a rustic staircase just ahead on the right.  The manager’s office and apartment were on the first floor.  The resident apartments began on the second floor. “The sex dungeons were underneath the building.”

The place was old like Chris’s building, yet it all seemed happier than the riff-raff where he lived.  His place housed many who were near the end of their rope.  Chris expected the cast of Cats to come waltzing out in feather boas, prancing around. Um, why? Michael looked around, admiring all the classic, mostly original aspects of the building. Actually, in its time, it was thought of as a poor copy.  Even a couple of straight cops could appreciate the aesthetic value of the place. You don’t have to be gay to appreciate a nice building. I’m straight (at least, I think I am. Let me ask my girlfriend), and I can appreciate a beautifully designed building.

“What apartment number, again?” 666 Michael asked, looking at Chris, who was standing at his right.

“402,” Oh, come on, you know you wanted to write 420. Chris answered as he stepped onto the elegant staircase.  A loud squeak echoed throughout the building, alerting all tenants that they had visitors on the premises. They know you’re here. They don’t like intruders. Get out. If you were a resident, you knew the silent spot on the first stair near the railing.  Otherwise, it acted as the communal doorbell. Or alarm.

“This is gotta be weird for you, just a little, right?” Michael asked Chris as they walked up the squeaky stairs. “What, meeting the mother of Communism? Nah.”

“Yeah, maybe a little.  But think of how she’ll react when she finds out who I am. Five minutes later, she’s calling him a pervert and telling him to go away. Talk about old ghosts Roll credits for this chapter.,” Chris said as he cleared the first staircase. 

Michael imagined what Chloe Marx looked like. Probably one of those girls with a beard. Wait, there’s a picture here. This actually is something I need to talk about: there are two pictures of Chris and one of Chloe, yet none of Michael or other characters. Why? And why have two pictures of Chris? Or why have any at all? It doesn’t add much to the story, and I personally prefer to imagine how they look like. He tried to picture her in that house and Chris as a young deputy walking in, pistol drawn to rescue her. “He pictured Chris with an afro.” He wondered if she would remember Chris.  He probably looked a lot different now. “For one thing, he has a tattoo of a pentagram on his forehead.” He was older, worn, torn, rode hard and put away wet. Put away wet? Ok then. Tragedy adds a few years to your looks.  Chris was barely 40 but looked 45.  That’s five years, not a few years.

He didn’t want to worry about combing his hair anymore, so he used a #1 setting on his clippers when he buzzed his own hair every week. Lazy bastard. Short but stylish, like Tyler Durdan or Beckham, but darker.  Chris always had stubble or a light beard.  The wrinkles around the corners of his eyes indicated that he was once a happy man, when he still had that spark. The All Spark. The softer wrinkles in between his eyes on his forehead indicated his sadness in recent years.  He was still considered attractive, in a rugged sort of way. Yes, the two pictures of him made it clear you think he is.

Michael on the other hand was always dressed to the nines. Classy. Short perfect hair, clean shaven, handsome, suit and tie, polished dress shoes, size 10.5.  Michael stood 5 foot 9, while Chris was much taller. So Chris is Slender Man in disguise? I knew it. They were quite the odd couple when out and about. Hence the shipping. Regardless, they somehow clicked.

“You know, I’m actually a bit nervous for you, man. “It’s not every day you meet a Communist.” Ok, I’m probably killing the Communist joke, but seriously, Marx? You know what that brings to mind. This is kind of exciting. “And very arousing.” Like those reunion shows.  Too bad there’s not a camera crew here to film this,” Michael said with a slight laugh.

Chris nodded his head as he continued to walk up the second flight of stairs leading up to the third floor. “He’s here all week, folks.” Actually he’s here for about 6 more chapters. Oops. Uh, spoiler alert.

Michael laughed.

“Almost there, old man!” “Get your smelly ass up here, old fart!”

“Old?  I’ll show you old, “I’ll show you old when I hit you upside the head with my cane, youngster!”” Michael said as he began to run up the last flight of stairs leading up to the fourth floor.  Michael tried to catch up but Chris, being taller, took longer strides, skipping a few steps in between.  Michael’s laughter echoed through the building. Well, that’s got to piss off the residents. A few tenants on the 4th floor poked their heads out to see what the ruckus was about.  Chris called out, reassuring them. “Don’t worry, police,” he said trying to keep his laugh inside. Yes, police business means acting like children.

Michael finally caught up with him on the fourth floor.  The tenants returned to their apartments.

“You OK?” asked Chris.

“Yeah.  I’m fine,” said Michael panting lightly. No, you’re Michael.

“Catch your breath and get into character. Wow, that’s a weird and rather creepy and worrying thing to say in front of the door of a woman. We don’t want her answering the door to a guy panting like a pervert, You just keep digging yourself deeper.” Chris told Michael.

Michael catching his breath, looked up at Chris laughing. “Fuck you, dude.”  “Not my type.”

Chris laughed at his comeback. He nodded his head to the first door on the right. “402.  That’s her.  Let’s get into character,” he said as he lightly backhanded Wanna play fronthand backhand? Michael’s shoulder and took a few steps over to the old door. 

Michael followed.  They looked at each other trying not to laugh and trying really hard to get into cop mode. COP MODE, ACTIVATE! “You gonna do the honors?” Michael asked. 

Chris knocked on the door with a loud “Police” knock. Not just any knock, but a police knock.  They both held their hands clasped in front of them, listening for movement within.  The tiny light in the peephole went dark for a few seconds.  Upon seeing this, they reached for their badges and Chris spoke up in his cop voice. No one told him that his cop voice sounds like a cat choking on a hairball. “Ma'am, San Antonio Police Department.  I’m Detective Priest and this is Detective Rodriguez. “Do you have a moment to talk about Jesus?” We’d like a moment of your time.”

“Regarding?”  a young woman’s voice asked from behind the door.

“Ma'am, are you Chloe Marx? Bitch, she might be. Who goes by the screen name Sarahmetalmassacre on Scarypasta dot com?” Chris asked. “No, both of those sound incredibly stupid.” 

She didn’t answer. “She was too busy jumping out the window.” The sound of the chain lock unhinging from the door followed.  The other two locks unlocked as Chris and Michael looked at each other again, ready for anything. “Since they were ready for anything, what they did see was disappointing.” A young attractive blonde-haired woman opened the door.  She was wearing a Queen t-shirt Is she a killer? and maroon sweatpants.  She was pretty As the picture attests. but looked like she could handle herself if push came to shove. “Yeah.  That’s me.  What’s this about?” she questioned, not recognizing Chris. “Are you a bad enough dudette to save the president?”

“Ms. Marx, we’re currently working a case that has a connection to the website  We think you may be of some assistance,” Chris answered.

Chloe strained one eye, focusing on Chris. “I know you from somewhere!” “Didn’t I give you a restraining order?”

Chris looked at Michael, who was now trying to hide his smile.  Turning back at Chloe he said, “Yes, you do. “Say hello to your daddy!” From Lytle.  I was the much younger deputy at the time who assisted in your… rescue.”

Chloe’s eyes widened with a look of shock. “Oh my God.  I knew it!”

There was an uncomfortable silence between them.   Michael broke the ice “with an icepick.” “Ms. Marx, may we come in and discuss this in private?”

Chloe snapped out of it, looking at Michael. “Sure, come in.”

She opened the door fully ajar and stood against the wall, clearing the way for the detectives. “The place was pigsty.” Suddenly recalling she had a few clothes laying around, she said, “Sorry for the mess!  The maid has the day off.” By “has the day off”, she means “tied up in her basement.”

“Oh, don’t even worry about it.  You should see my place! “I have the heads of my enemies everywhere.”” Chris said, helping her save face.  They made their way into the living room and waited for Chloe to invite them to sit down. “She never did.”

“Have a seat, guys.  Can I get you anything?” “First base,” Chris said. she asked, trying to play the good hostess.

“No thanks.  We’re good,” Chris answered as he and Michael sat down on the brown leather sofa.

“Wow! Such shock! Much reunion! You have to forgive me for my reaction, Detective. It’s just that…Well, it’s strange seeing you again.  I mean, you obviously know who I am and have read my story?” she asked Chris.

“Yes, we have,” he replied. “It’s absolute crap.”

“I’m not in trouble for writing it, am I? “Yes you are. You’re under arrest for bad writing.” I mean, I changed the names of everyone involved.” Chloe was apprehensive.

Michael answered before Chris could open his mouth “No, not at all.  Like he said earlier, we are working on a case that’s related to Yeah, and that story is on that site. So it’s related to

“What does this have to do with me?” Chloe asked them.

“The reason why we’re here, re-hashing old memories, is because there was a murder a few days ago in the King William District.  It’s been on the news. “FOX News is blaming Obama.” Male, age 68, murdered in his living room?” Chris asked, inquiring if she knew about it yet.

Chloe, now with a suspicious look, said, “Yeah… “

“Well, what we didn’t release to the public is that the victim's eyes were removed, placed into his mouth. “Mostly because that’s really gross.” His throat was slashed and he was holding a lemon.  And a link to Scarypasta dot com was carved into his forearm. Actually, it’s a link to the song “Never Gonna Give You Up.” Some guy was murdered just so you could be Rick-rolled. It was to 'The Story of Him Holding a Lemon',”  Chris explained.

“Wow! That’s crazy! Eh. You don’t think I had something to do with it do you?” Chloe asked with a concerned look.

“No… we need assistance from someone local who knows this Scarypasta world. “We were planning to go with a fangirl, but they’re scary.” A consultant, if you will.  You will get paid for your time.  We can get a court order excusing you from work.  It’s your chance to use your expertise to help catch a killer. Yes, your expertise at reading online scary stories.” Chris made an attempt at sweetening the deal and appealing to her pride.

“What do you say? Will you help us?” Michael asked.

Chloe thought for a moment, staring at the wall behind them. “It’s kinda funny, you know?  I wanted to try my hand at writing.  I recounted my life with those two psychos and typed it out for the world to see. “And no one read it.” Now…. a ghost from the past comes back into my life asking for my help… the very one who untied me all those years ago. “The very one who untied me” means something completely different out of context. It’s like I’m always meant to be connected to certain people, you know?  I can’t seem to escape the past.”

Michael and Chris looked at each other once again.  At that moment, Chris’s cell phone rang. Who was phone? It was dispatch.  Patrol unit responded to a 911 call.  It was another homicide. No, this is the first homicide. The other one was homocide. Sorry, I had to.  The victim had a web link carved into her forearm. “It was a link to a cat video on YouTube.” Looks like it might be a second murder, which could make it the work of a serial killer. Or someone with way too much time on their hands. Since there was the discovery of the web link mutilation, they were asked to report to the scene.  The medical examiner and photographers were already on-scene.  C.S.I. was in route. “Bad puns and YEEEEAAAAHHs would be there soon.  Chris filled them in on the findings and the fact that it was likely connected to their case.

“Chloe, I know it’s strange.  You and I meeting again like this, all these years later. “It’s totally not because I’m stalking you.” But there’s a killer out there and you can help stop him.  Innocent people are getting hurt because of this guy. No, they’re getting brutally murdered. C’mon, please, help us,” Chris pleaded with Chloe one last time before they had to leave.  

Chloe was still indecisive.  The chance to work with the police, the chance to catch a killer, might make a great story. That’s a logical thought. Besides that, this man had once saved her life.  She knew it was the right thing to do.  She owed him. “And giving him $12.50 wouldn’t pay off her debt to him.” Still, she was hesitant to get involved.  She felt like she was put on the spot.  Her life was simple - write, go to work, come home, write some more “and get drunk.”.  She wanted to keep her simple, boring life.  Her days of excitement and partying and drama were behind her. Wait, when was she partying? She couldn’t make a decision now.  She needed time to think about it.

“I can’t decide this right now!  I mean this is big! That’s what she said. Literally. I’m not qualified to catch a serial killer! “I’m only qualified to catch a predator!”” she said, trying to convince herself she wasn’t right for the job.

“OK.  Sorry to have inconvenienced you in any way.  Stay warm.  Here is my card. “Why did you give me a Joker card?” Call me if you change your mind.  Have a good night, Sarah,” Chris called her by the name she went by so many years ago when he saved her life. “He honestly thought Chloe Marx was a stupid name.” He was laying on the guilt something thick.   

Michael opened the door and waited for Chris to follow. “Chris, we gotta go man! Gotta go fast! She’s not gonna help us.  This was just a big waste of time,” he said, shaking his head.  

Chris turned around and made his way towards the door, disappointed.  As he exited the door, Michael gave one final look of disappointment to Chloe before following Chris.  He didn’t even have to speak. “He used his powers of telepathy.” His look said, “Shame on you.  You ungrateful little shit. That’s rude.”  Chloe shut the door behind them slowly. 

Michael spoke a few comforting words to Chris. “Sorry man.  You tried.”  No chick flick moments for them. Well, good. I wanted to read noir Creepypasta, not a chick flick. Chloe’s help could have been tremendous.  She could have provided them with some great insight on the killer’s methods, his reasoning, his way of thinking. She’s a fan of a wannabe Creepypasta site that was almost sacrificed to Satan. I don’t think she knows how this nutcase thinks. Together, they could have even predicted his next move.  Maybe even stopped him from taking another life. Spoiler alert: They won’t. Now there’s been another needless death.  This city was definitely going to hell in a handbasket. But is it a well made handbasket?

“I tried.  Some people are just born victims, I guess. Yep, they just pop out and think, “I’m a victim!” Oh well, fuck it,” Chris said. “We got shit to do.”

Chris and Michael made their way back down the stairs, walking the whole way down, one floor at a time.  This time there would be no race to the finish.  The dead weren’t going anywhere.  The morgue?

“Don’t know about you, Mikey, but at the end of the night, I’m getting good and drunk, That’s his daily schedule, actually.” Chris said as they neared the first floor, side by side.

“I don’t know. Maybe after we leave the crime scene that may not be a bad idea.  Been a while,” Michael said as they walked to the main door.  Chris opened the door to a freezing arctic blast of snowy wind.  He squinted his eyes as it stung his face.

“God...damn!!!” Chris shouted as he looked back to see Michael squinting as well.  Michael closed the door to the warmth of the lobby.

“Why do we have to work on a night like this?” Michael shouted. Plot.

“For the free coffee and donuts, I knew that the cops work with Dunkin Donuts. The conspiracy is real!” Chris joked.  They both walked, hands in their pockets, headed towards Miss Sunshine, whom they parked curbside in front of the apartment building.  Michael waited at the passenger side for Chris who was walking over to the driver side.

“Cold enough for you, Broheme?” Chris asked Michael, as he prolonged unlocking the car doors.

“Chris! Unlock the fucking door man!  I’m freezing my nuts off here! Michael would have no more children after this.” Michael yelled at Chris.

“You know, I remember the winter of 85’, it snowed that day too.  I was…. “Drunk.”” Chris said with a smirk, prolonging even further.

“Come on Man!” Michael yelled. There needs to be a comma after on and man doesn’t need to be capitalized.

The sound of the car doors unlocking echoed and Michael took his hands out of his pockets and quickly opened the door and entered the Camaro. “Within seconds, the car was filled with snow.” He slammed the door and put on his seat belt.  Chris followed suit, laughing.

“Sorry, buddy.  Just had to lighten the mood a little, Yep, freezing your friend to death lightens the mood.” Chris explained his actions.

Michael looked at him and said, “You asshole.” 

Chris laughed a hearty laugh again. “I can always count on you for a laugh, little buddy.”

Chris fit the key into the ignition and started her up. “However, the car didn’t start, like in every horror story ever. He always let her warm up in the winter.  Chris looked out of the driver’s side window and stared for a moment.  Michael stared out of the passenger side.

“Hey, you wanna grab some coffee first? What about doughnuts?” Chris asked Michael, trying to get back on his good side.

“Yeah, sure.  But let’s go to Starbucks. “I want to make the barista call for “Mrs. Bieber.”” I want one of those Mint-Mocha latte’s.” He accepted Chris’s subtle apology.

“Yeah, guess I could go for one of those pumpkin-spice coffees.  I won’t call it a fuckin’ Latte though, “I’ll call it Jeffery.”” Chris said with a slight laugh.

“Hey! Wait! I’ll help you! Wait up, guys!” Chloe yelled as she opened the apartment door and waved at them.  They both stared at her.  She was wearing a black hooded parka, jeans and brown Uggs Uggs? Starbucks? By god, this story is written by a white girl. She closed the door behind her and tried to run down the steps carefully while holding onto the railing.

“I’ll be damned.  Guess she couldn’t stay away,” Chris said arrogantly, smiling. Yep, Chloe loves a guy who’s depressed and desperate.  As Chloe made her way over to the Camaro, Michael opened the door and exited, standing up behind the car door.

“Are you sure you want to get involved?  It won’t be pretty,” Michael warned her one last time. 

No turning back now.  It was do or die. No, the victim is dead, not her. She would never get another chance like this again and she knew it.

“I’m sure!” she yelled.

Michael stepped out of the way and opened the door, pulling his seat forward so she could climb in the back.  “Get in, we gotta go!” Gotta go fast! Wait, I used this joke. Eh, whatever.

Chloe climbed her way to the back seat behind Michael.  It was cramped.  If you have ever been in the back of a Camaro, you get it. I haven’t, so I don’t. “I wanna help, No, really? I couldn’t tell.” she told Chris as she settled in.  Michael sat back down in the car and slammed the heavy door.

Chris was glad.  With Chloe’s help, this investigation will likely be a bit easier now. Not really. She ends up touching everything and screwing up the crime scene. “OK.  You stay with us, don’t speak unless spoken to and don’t touch anything.  If we find something of significance, we’ll tell you,” he explained.

“Shut up and stay out of the way. I’ve been told that quite a bit. But stay with you guys.  Got it,” Chloe assured them.

“Get it. Got it. Good!  Let’s go,” said Michael, eager to get to the crime scene, forgetting about Starbucks. The lure of death kills Michael’s inner white girl.

With that, they departed for the crime scene at the edge of downtown.  This time, on the poor side of the tracks. The southeast side. It wasn’t too far from Chloe’s elegant abode.

“So, Chloe, what do you do for a living nowadays? “Prostitution.” I mean... hard to make a living as a writer. Damn it, there went any ideas I had for a future career.” Chris made small talk with Chloe to calm her nerves.

“I work in mortgage fulfillment.  I help people trying to get a home loan.  Nothing to write home about. Well, yeah, because they don’t have a home. It pays well.  But as you may know by now, writing is my true passion now. “It turns me on just thinking about it.” I never knew I’d be good at it.  It’s actually pretty easy for me,”  she said, finally relaxing in the backseat.

“That’s good.  Never had the patience for writing myself.  We write a lot of reports. “They don’t appreciate my smartassery in the reports.” They have to be perfect for the D.A.,  when they’re used in court.  A lot of editing, descriptive details.  I do enough of that shit already,” Chris said, trying to justify why he never got around to writing.

“But you see, that’s precisely what you are doing… you are writing. “Sure, it’s soul crushing, but it’s writing!” I mean, with all that you’ve seen, you could write several novels.  Just take bits and pieces from cases and jumble it all together.  Boom! You have the makings of a novel. He later writes a novel that’s critically derided. You should try it sometime.  I’m sure it could also be therapeutic for one who’s seen what you have.” Chloe went on about writing, trying to convince Chris he had everything he needed to write. Why?

“How about you? I heard you married Sheriff Allen’s daughter” Chloe asked, shifting the focus on Chris. Awkward. Chris was silent as he drove slowly through the snow. You mean nature’ blow? He looked at her in the rear-view mirror.  Michael looked at Chris, unsure of what was going to be said next.  Unsure if he should say anything.

Chris took a deep breath and exhaled.  “Yeah, we got married.  We even had a son, Emphasis on the “had”” Chris answered Chloe, looking ahead at the road.

“Oh, sorry.  You guys divorced?” Chloe asked, sensing some sort of underlining issue there, unaware of the awful truth.

“Something like that, Wait, death equals divorce? Well, I now know what to do if I end up hating my wife.” Chris answered her, still keeping his focus on the road.

Michael looked out the window, biting his tongue. “It hurt like hell.” He knew Chris could handle it though.

“Sorry,” Chloe said in a hushed tone as she looked away from Chris and looked out of her window at the snow and the warm, glowing street lights.  The memories from so long ago came flooding back.  She was so young and naïve. She still is. She had been taught that the world was an evil place.  Those scumbags were now in the ground somewhere, but their ghosts seemed to haunt her still. Satan brought them back from the dead.

She recalled suffering many cruel and unusual punishments at the hands of the fiends posing as her parents. “You forgot to watch the dishes? “Batman and Robin” for you.” “No, anything but that!” In time, she became numb to it all.  The only time she ever felt anything was the rare occasion she got to see much, less talk to, other people.  Those two crazy kids, Those Duke boys? Joey and Jason, had changed that for her, though.  They had been her only real friends up to that point. Before then, her only friends were imaginary. She still kept in touch with Jason but that’s another story. Oh, there’s going to be another one of these stories?

The car was silent, except for the reports on the police radio.  Chloe thought it was cool to listen to. Some Guns N Roses might have been better. Upon studying Chris, he had indeed aged. Well, he does look 67. He was still good-looking but he was no longer that fresh-faced, young, twenty-something-year-old.  Life had caught up to him. Took long enough. She looked down at the empty seat on her left. “That Old Spice guy was there.” There was an empty bottle of Jim Beam whiskey lying all alone, used up, dried up;  a temporary vice to kill the pain.  In that instant, she felt sorry for him. But only for that instant. Just like everyone else.  She realized now that his domestic life was likely a big part of the reason for his downward spiral. Actually, it was his addiction to collecting Yu-Gi-Oh cards.

“So he’s an alcoholic. Looks like his troubles run deeper than I thought!” she said inside her head. You mean thought?

Upon studying Michael, she noticed a wedding ring. “Hm, I could probably get a few bucks if I sell that,” she thought. Michael was obviously younger and cute, likely a family man.  Wife, a few kids, the whole white picket fence American dream. I thought the American dream only applied to rich white people. He was clean-cut, well dressed and seemed more… put together than Chris, who was likely his mentor.

“So we got the older, hard-edged, experienced, tortured, brooding Detective and the young, modern, progressive, less experienced, trying to make a name for himself, who will likely become Chief one day detective.  How cliché is that? You said it, not me.” Chloe thought.

“So, you guys been working together long?” she asked. Long enough to fall in love.

“Too long if you ask me,” Michael answered before Chris could speak a single word.  He turned to Chris and looked at him with a slight smirk.

Chris turned and looked right back at Michael with that same expression. “Well, I’ve been babysitting Ole’ Mijo here for about 2 years now.  And he loves every minute of it. LOVIN’ EVERY MINUTE OF IT.

The rapport between them made Chloe smile.  She was seeing a side of the police she had never seen before. The slightly homosexual side. She could tell there was a respect between them.  They may joke around and act like they can’t stand each other but you knew it was just an act. “In truth, they hate each other.” It’s how they were.  They were more like siblings.  Chloe remembered Chris as that young deputy and The Sheriff, The Sheriff is so awesome that the The is capitalized. his mentor.  She thought about how life really does move on, even after you die. Life doesn’t move on for you if you die. Life and people will always move on. 

“So, Chloe, can you recall what Chris here looked like as a young buck?  I’ll bet he had more hair then? Yep, a mullet. Was he always this ugly?” Michael asked her as he looked over at Chris. 

“He’s not ugly!  He’s handsome. Shit like this is why people ship you two. And yeah, he had a little more hair then.  He looked happier though,” Chloe said, looking at Michael.  Chris shot Michael a “There you go!” look. “There you go! I was happier!”

“And you Chloe, you’ve grown up to be quite the looker yourself,” Chris repaid the compliment to Chloe. She’s like 20 years younger than you. That’s kind of creepy. She really was beautiful.  She just didn’t doll herself up like all the hoochies out there. He doesn’t want hoochie poochie, apparently. His eyes caught a glimpse at Chloe’s in the rear-view mirror.  He quickly looked away, remembering his dead wife and son.

“This is kinda funny,” Chloe said.

“What's kinda funny?” Michael asked. “The fact that you’re falling in love with me since I look like your dead wife.”

Chloe explained the reason for her amusement.  “Well, the fact that we’re headed to a crime scene, a murder at that. Ha ha ha, murder scenes are funny! And you guys are joking around like it’s nothing.  I guess I figured you guys would be all serious and brooding, preparing yourselves mentally for it or something.”

The detectives looked at each other. 

Chris attempted to rationalize. “You have to have a sense of humor in our line of work. Guess I should be a cop then. All the ugliness we see, you’d go crazy if you didn’t.  You know you’ve been on the job too long when you’re standing in front of a house still on fire and one of you asks, 'Anyone bring marshmallows?' Oh, marshmallows. I love marshmallows.

The snow continued to fall.  Chris was beginning to wonder if reaching out to Chloe was a mistake.  She was an old ghost from his past and he had enough of those already.  Certainly she could be of some help on the case. Not really. Or, was it something more which compelled him to enlist her help? An attraction to women half your age? They were now turning right on North St. Mary’s street, a block which housed not so well-to-do working class families.

St. Mary’s Catholic Church rested at the end of the block.  It served as a beacon of hope for those lost souls working themselves to death in this snowy city on fire.  Houses were close together like any downtown street. It made walking through there a pain in the ass. Apartment buildings, much like the Camino Real Apartments where Chris drank his demons away and slept most of the time.  Living room windows were glowing; some still had their Christmas lights up on the outside eves. The apartments with Jews do not. There were more clunkers than new cars nestled curbside on both sides of the street.  Each and every one was covered in ice and snow.  How come you never call it nature’s blow anymore?

In this neighborhood, everyone looked out for each other.  If they needed help, neighbors were there to help. “If you needed someone dead, the neighbors knew a guy.” There was a sense of community on this block, unlike many of the other surrounding blocks.  Really, it all depends on the caliber of people you have around you.  The gangs and other scumbags tend to stay away from North St. Mary’s. They did go to South St. Mary’s though.

Tonight though, the first sight you would see were police lights, ambulance, photographers and other officials littering the city block. “The second sight you would see is some guy putting on sunglasses after making a pun.” The entire neighborhood was out in front of Mrs. Vera Lopez’s house. They were concerned that one of their own had perhaps fallen victim to a horrible crime, the very thing they tried so hard to prevent in their neighborhood.

Mrs. Vera Lopez was a widow, drawing on her late husband’s social security.  She had 3 children, 5 grandchildren and 2 great-grandchildren. She and her husband apparently went at it back in the day. She was home-bound due to a number of medical conditions such as diabetes, congestive heart failure, and emphysema. She needed oxygen and a smorgasbord of pills to survive daily.  She was always friendly to everyone in the neighborhood and never had anything bad to say about anybody. “Except those annoying kids next door. She had quite a potty mouth when talking about them.”

Chris had placed his red flashing light on his dashboard and pressed the single siren button, catching the attention of everyone. Once they caught it, they never let it go. People began to clear the way for the black muscle car.  Chris would need to find a spot somewhere down the street to park Miss Sunshine. “I might have to run people over to park,” he said. A uniformed officer waved them down in front of Mrs. Lopez’s house.  The front of the house was taped off and the medical examiner was standing in the doorway, looking at everything yet seeing nothing. Where will you be when blindness strikes? What had he seen to put him in such a state? Shrek is Love, Shrek is Life?  Michael rolled down the window to greet the officer curbside.  They would have to shout a little over the loud engine of the Camaro.

“How’s it going, Ray?” Bennett? Michael asked his buddy from when he was on the beat.

“Mike.  Chris. “Random girl.” It’s going.” Ray shook his head.  His face told of how sick and disappointed in humanity he was at the moment. How I felt after reading “White the Killer.” They both understood that look, that feeling.  It’s why they did what they did. To hate humanity?

“You can park over there by the church, fellas,” Ray said as he pointed down the street.

Michael looked at him and said “Thanks Ray”. I like Ray. He’s not appearing again, is he?  He rolled up the window as Chris began moving the car forward slowly again.

“I can’t believe she’s gone!  I just don’t get it.  She never hurt anybody.  She was so nice,” said a woman in a white parka, speaking to a woman standing next to her in a purple wool coat. This feels very cliché. They both were sniffling and wiping their tears.  Obviously, they knew Mrs. Lopez. Actually, they were talking about Joan Collins.

“How can something like this happen here?!” a man a few groups away asked his buddy. Someone comes over there and kills someone?

“It’s a damn shame!” his friend answered. Both men had their hands in their pockets.  Other conversations about how awful this is, and how nice Mrs. Lopez had been, blended together in a mix of conversations. I think Mrs. Lopez was a good person.

Chris found an open area in front of the Church and parked, leaving the police light flashing on the dash. He turned off the engine and turned back to address Chloe. “OK, remember what I said.  Be quiet, stay close but don’t get in the way…”

“And don’t touch anything,” Chloe finished his sentence, confirming her understanding. “What? No. Get us coffee from time to time. You can touch whatever you want to.”

Michael turned back and said, “Relax. Just stay close.”

They all made their way out of the warmth of the car and into the cold, freezing night air, walking on the snow-covered sidewalk towards Mrs. Lopez’s house.  The crunch of their shoes breaking through the newly fallen snow was amusing to Chloe, as she had never seen snow in person prior to this year. She kept this thought to herself now.  She wanted to look like one of them: cool, calm, collect. “She ending up looking suspicious and awkward.” Chris led the way as Michael tried to keep up.  Chloe walked steadily behind Michael, observing the chaos. 

She tried to soak it all in so that she could recall it later when she wrote about it.  The flashing red and blue lights took her back to that night so long ago.  She had let all that go, however. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight, Maybe it was the emotions… like electricity in the air.  Or the fact that she was about to see a dead body. Definitely the dead body. She noticed the look of shock on the medical examiner's pale face as he stared out from the porch.  Maybe the body was torn to shreds or something worse. “Please be torn to shreds please be torn to shreds…” Chloe thought.

The three of them entered the front yard and made their way up the short sidewalk.

Chris’s eyes met with the medical examiner.  He continued up to the porch where Tony stood. Tony Stark?

“Tony.  You OK, buddy?” Chris asked as he neared closer.

“No, I’m not Chris.  The... uh, vic is someone I know. “She was my lover.” Vera Lopez, 75, widowed.  She... uh… was stabbed and her eyes removed and placed into her mouth. Serial killer, please be more original. She has what looked like a web address carved into her left forearm, like Von Drack. The web address is to the 2 Girls, 1 Cup video. Chris, she was my Mother's best friend.  I knew this woman most of my life.  She was like an aunt to me,” Tony said shaking his head, sniffling and wiping the tears away from his eyes.  “I’m just glad my mother isn’t around for me to have to tell her the bad news. “I’ll let my brother do that.”

Chris pulled out his pocketbook and pen, clicking it, and asked Tony, “Do you know of any reason why anybody would want to do this to her?” “Well, she was swearing vengeance upon some children who wouldn’t get off her lawn…”

Tony Shook his head. “No, she didn’t have enemies.  She was just a kind, sweet old lady.” Bet she was hiding something.

“Do you know if she had any contract work done recently? Or had any visitors around lately?” Chris asked.

Tony shook his head, still trying to wrap his head around it all. “No, I don’t know… both questions, no.” Nokay then.

Chris looked at Michael, putting away his pocketbook and pen. “I’m sorry for your loss buddy,” Chris consoled him, slowly patting him on the shoulder.

Tony looked up at Chris dead square and in the eye. “Just find who did this, Chris!  Please!” “As a cop, I can’t do this myself!”

Chris nodded and said, “We’re gonna… go ahead and go in now.”

Tony nodded his head, as if giving permission like a relative would.  Chris walked up the steps.  Michael patted Tony on the arm as he followed Chris.  Chloe gave Tony a sympathetic half smile and followed Michael into the house. Wow, Chloe, your comforting game is weak.

As the trio entered the small house, there was chaos.  C.S.I. was around taking pictures Really? Selfies at a murder scene? Ugh. and collecting samples, and uniformed officers were posted near the entrance and around the house.  The living room was ahead on the right.  Mrs. Lopez was in her bedroom on the left, lying on her queen size bed. Well, at least she died comfortably. As they carefully walked past the officers and C.S.I. people, the first thing they saw was a message. “HAIL HYDRA!” Written out on the right-side wall in blood, it read, “Now You Sleep!” Is this going where I think it is? Chloe’s eyes fixed on the message.  She instantly knew what this was.

They walked past the blood-riddled wall and saw Mrs. Lopez lying on her bed in a blood-soaked robe. Really, killer? At least have the decency to wash the robe. Holes in her gown from the stabbing were concentrated around her chest. “Take that, old lady boobs!” Defensive wounds covered her hands.  Blood surrounded her empty eye sockets.  Her mouth was slightly open, exposing her eyes inside. Seriously, why does the guy keep doing that? Do something else. She had not bit down on her eyes as they were placed into her mouth postmortem.  Her left robe sleeve was neatly rolled up, exposing the web link carved into her forearm.  Chloe’s eyes widened as she covered her mouth, trying not to scream.  She spoke a muffled, “Oh my God!” Well, she failed at the not screaming thing. and closed her eyes, looking away.  She ran outside to vomit. Ew. Chris and Michael looked at each other.  Michael immediately took two pictures of her arm “for his scrapbook” while Chris looked around the room and studied Mrs. Lopez’s lifeless corpse. 

“Go check on her and bring her back in when she’s ready. “By ready, I mean well cooked.” She’s a consultant on the case,” Chris ordered the uniformed female officer guarding the body. 

“Yes, sir,” she said before walking out of the room.

Chris and Michael stood over Mrs. Lopez. “I count ten stab wounds to the heart area. There are 25. You suck at counting. Throat wasn’t slashed this time.  Nothing taken.  No signs of forced entry.  I wonder if she knew him.  But why take out her eyes again and place them in her mouth? Schtick?” Chris stated.

Michael shook his head. “Damn shame Tony had to see her like this.” It’s actually not the worse he’s seen her.  He looked at Chris and closed his eyes, immediately realizing his folly.  Chris had to identify Abby and Connor. Awkward. “I’m sorry, man.”

Chris’s face had grown long as he stared away into his memories. “It's OK.  Let’s work on getting Chloe back in here. “I’ll get the rope.”

Chloe walked back in to the room slowly with the female officer ahead of her.  Chloe was cringing, trying not to look at Mrs. Lopez. Let me read ahead…ok, now I definitely see why she’s cringing. Chris turned to her and asked, “You OK?”

“I’ll be OK,” she answered, trying to get ahold of herself.  “Snap out of it, Chloe. Grow a pair. You’re a grown ass woman!” she told herself.

Chris pointed to the message on the wall and asked, “'Now you sleep.' Do you know this?” Sounds like a Jeff the Killer wannabe.

Chloe nodded her head, saying, “Yes.  It’s from a pasta called ‘Bob the Murderer’. And this is why she cringed. Also, Jeff? There’s a whole library of Creepypasta characters you could rip off/pay homage to, and you go with Jeff? And the fact that it’s a Jeff wannabe makes the web link thing weird, since his story is on the Trollpasta Wiki.  Uh…. the story goes that Bob was a teenager, around 17 or 18.  He was just a normal kid when he was forced to defend himself and his sister from some punks trying to kill them.  He was doused with liquor and set on fire, burning his face and all of his hair off. Slightly more logical than the original story. He was in the hospital for a while and when he was released, he went crazy and killed his whole family. Well, now we officially know what happened to Liu. He then went around killing people he randomly chose.  Just before stabbing them with a butcher knife, he would say 'Now you sleep' in sort of an insane, angry voice. Ok, please rewrite “Jeff the Killer.” I think you’d do a good job.

“Yeah, I remember reading the title ‘Bob the Murderer’ on the site but never got around to actually reading it. That shouldn’t be on there. If the Scarypasta site is anything like the Creepypasta Wiki, then Chris shouldn’t be able to read it. In the story, are the victims always stabbed?” Chris questioned her.

“Yes,” Chloe nodded.  “Wait! How many times was she stabbed?” It better not be 666.

“Ten times. Ok, good, so it’s not cliché. Why?  Does that mean something?” Michael asked.

Chloe seemed excited that she knew the answer. “Well, yeah! In the story, Bob had a set number of victims he planned on killing before he was done. Because plot.  He usually left the number at the crime scene.  Sometimes he would stab the person the same amount of times as the number of victims that were left.  Always in the heart and chest. I hope he didn’t kill women. What kind of a monster who destroy breasts?

“Why ten?” That’s a good question. Michael asked Chris as they stared at Mrs. Lopez, trying to make sense of it.

“Hell, ten is pretty high.  This marks number two.  He is definitely just getting started! No, really?

Chris looked at Michael and said “OK. Go ask Tony if she had any next of kin.  We got a hell of lot of people to question.  You take the left side of here, I’ll take the right side. Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am, investigating a crime with you. Chloe, you come with me.  Mikey, call me if something turns up.”  “If nothing turns up, then fuck off.”

“I’m on it,” Michael said as he walked out of the bedroom.

With that, they made their way out of the house and parted ways to question the neighbors.

From the crowded street, the killer observed the symphony he created, blending in with the crowd.  He saw Michael, Chris and Chloe enter and exit the house. Always watching, has eyes. Now he knew who was hunting him.  The big guy, who seemed to be in charge, was intense looking and focused.  The younger, smaller guy looked intelligent and had movie star looks. “Everyone else seemed kind of useless.” The woman seemed new to the game, a rookie, although she was a knockout. I love this guy’s thinking. “Well, this girl is helping to track me down, but hot damn she’s cute.” He looked around once more, soaking in the aftermath, the excitement, the cold night air and the fear put into the hearts and minds of everybody around him. Humility isn’t your strong suit, is it? He had bested this tightly knit block and their neighborhood watch program. “Take that, neighborhood watch!” Nobody even suspected him.  He was just another curious face in the crowd.  His work here was done.  He crossed the street and blended in with the shadows, disappearing into the night, beaming and aroused. Wait, killing arouses him? Weird. He was God. HE IS YOUR GOD NOW!

This part kind of annoys me. So Scarypasta is basically a not-so-subtle ripoff of Creepypasta. If it's anything like the Creepypasta Wiki, then it doesn't have "Jeff the Killer", or this version of Jeff. (By the way, I'm sure there's a Jeff spinoff called "Bob the Murderer") If it's anything like the original Jeff story, then it shouldn't be on the Scarypasta site. Also, really, Jeff? There are a lot of well-known Creepypasta characters you could ripoff: Slender Man, Ben, the Rake, Eyeless Jack, Laughing Jack, Zalgo, Smile Dog, etc. And you go with Jeff? Why not do a Slender Man ripoff? Call him the Thin Guy or something. In the original mythos, Slender Man took the organs of his victims out of their bodies and put them into plastic bags. Why not do something with that? This is just something off the top of my head. I don't know, this just kind of bothers me. It really doesn't take away from the story, which is pretty good, but it's something that bothers me. Also, there's the pictures and videos. Why are there two pictures of Chris and one of Chloe? Why not have a picture of Michael? Why those two characters? And why two of Chris? And why the videos? And why only those two videos? I like Motley Crue as much as the next guy, and think Johnny Cash is alright, but why are there videos there? I read the story without watching the videos, and I still got it. This just annoys me. But, once again, it doesn't really take away from the story, which isn't that bad.

So, what do you all think? Was the story good? Was the Riff good? Do you wish I would be killed in the style of a Jeff the Killer wannabe? Leave your thoughts in the comments below.

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