22 Dec A Face Only a Mother Could Love – Creepypasta
Have you ever heard the sound a scalpel makes as it slides over bone?
If you haven’t, it’s a little like a blade scraping over a hollow rock. The bone isn’t as solid as you might think, not as solid as the blade at least, and the sound has an eerie quality to it. The more I reflect on the sound, the more it reminds me of nails on a chalkboard or sidewalk chalk that kids drag over the pavement. It’s a weird noise that sets your hair on edge and makes you grit your teeth against the intrusive grinding.
I’ve had a lot of time to think about that sound in the years following my wife’s death.
That was the sound, though, that woke me that night. It had been a long week, the department reeling over a series of brutal murders, and this was the first night I had got to sleep in my own bed in almost four days. I had been crashing in the break room, sleeping in my car, and living one cup of coffee at a time while we tried to track this sadist son of a bitch. I know many cops in the same situation, but as most of us are locals, the desire to see this guy brought to justice is palpable.
The killer had been sticking to a certain area, my area actually. He was killing with no pattern, no particular demographic, and seemed to be sticking to those in this particular part of town. These were low to middle-income families, people who couldn’t just afford to up and leave because a crazy killer was on the loose, no matter how heinous the crimes were.
And the crimes were absolutely heinous.
Seven different victims, none of them having anything in common, had been found with their faces skinned down to the bone and removed. The whole face. It was as though someone had cut the face off, skinned it down to the skull, and took it with them when they left. Nothing was ever taken from the apartments, no messages were ever left, and the killer never lingered after doing their strange deed. We called him a killer, but the victims were usually still alive when they left. They died from the blood loss afterward, sometimes living for hours, lying there as they watched their life leak away as they screamed wetly.
The last one was a store owner, well-liked in the community. The one before that was an eighty-year-old grandmother. Before that, it was a nineteen-year-old girl who was popular with the boys in the neighborhood. A bike messenger, a beat cop, an aspiring actress, a highschool student who was once a beauty queen, none of these people even knew each other! There was no connection besides where they lived, and no one could find even a single person that any of them knew in common.
The only connection they all had was being well-liked.
I had been sent home that night, my captain telling me that I looked like crap and I needed some sleep in a real bed.
My wife had been waiting for me, Captain Wymes may have called her before I left, and the night had been a good one. She had saved me dinner, roast, and potatoes, which I like, and we had cuddled on the couch as we watched something on Netflix. As tired as I was, I remember feeling warmer just by the time I spent with her that night. When she looked up at me, her head pillowed in my lap, I remember thinking I was the luckiest guy in the world. When I fell asleep after a rather heated lovemaking session, I found myself looking forward to the next day, hopeful that we could catch this guy and get rid of some of the fear that was hanging around like a cloud.
When I came awake, it was because of the scraping noise.
Some night, I wish I had just stayed asleep.
I lay awake for a few seconds, listening to the scraping sound and wondering what it could be.
It was an alien sound, like a nail dragged across a window.
There was an unlying sound as well, a wet and muffled sound that sounded like someone having a bad dream. I rolled on my side, thinking that my wife was having a bad dream and wanting to comfort her. She was prone to nightmares, her childhood had been less than ideal, but I found myself unable to move. My whole body was heavy, my muscles unresponsive, and all I could do was lie there and listen to her soft groans and husky moans. I kept trying to move, but this was different than a bout of sleep paralysis somehow. This felt like being out of my body, unable to control it.
Then my eyes tracked to the mirror that sat atop my wife’s vanity, and felt a scream hang in my throat like a piece of meat. I was choking, choking on the scream, as my mind tried to process what I was seeing. I was dreaming. I had to be. Things like this did not exist in the real world. This was a nightmare; maybe I was even the one making those noises I kept hearing. This simply could not be happening. I was dreaming, I was nightmaring, I would wake up, and this would all go away.
The longer it went on, though, the more I concluded that it was happening.
The thing reflected in the mirror was nearly seven feet tall. It crouched in the bedroom, leaning over my wife as it slid one, long finger over her face. Its head was large, like a large gray babydoll head, with the face covered by a grotesque mask that looked stuck on. There was a spread of red around the mask’s corners, and it looked stretched and frayed. The creature’s body was gray, long and disproportionately slim, on a pair of spindly legs that disappeared below the corner of the bed.
What interested me most, however, were the long gray arms that ended in very sharp fingers.
Fingers, he was currently sliding over my wife’s face. He was taking that long finger along the same track, again and again, and I could just see a trickle of blood sliding down one of her cheeks as I watched helplessly. I could see a trench working its way through her skin, the blood beginning to run more freely as he went. His eyes, his overly expressive blue eyes, followed the fingers path as he worked, and I tried with all I had to break out of whatever held me. The too big head looked up from its work, and I realized I was shaking a bit as I watched him. His hand stretched out, impossibly long, and one of those claws came to rest in my ear. It was cold and wet, like a fish that’s been plucked from a stream.
Suddenly, my shuddering stopped, and I realized why I couldn’t move.
This thing had done something to me.
Had done something to my wife.
I was forced to lay there and watch as he went about his work. The process was not quick. Whatever tool he had at the end of his wrist must be dull indeed. He had to make the circuit for nearly an hour and a half, and my wife’s muffled cries were becoming more and more piteous. The blood was really coming down now, pooling on the bed and turning the white sheets a deep red. I saw my wife starting a shutter, thinking she might come out of it, but he touched her with one of those claws, put the tip in her ear, and she went still again. I was going to have to watch as he took her face. At some point, I realized that, but all the realizing in the world wouldn’t prepare me for it.
Finally, after what felt like hours, he pulled the finger back and bent low over her face. He brought both hands up, ten scalpel fingers peeling the face I had loved so much from her too white skull. That’s the other sound I will never forget until the day I die. The sound of my wife’s face being peeled away sounds like nothing so much as velcro separating. I saw it in the murky glass as it came free, and for just an instant, I could see the creature’s face too. It pulled off the old mask, and I realized too late that it was the face of the shopkeeper we had found a few days ago. It…it put the face into its mouth, and as it chewed, I could see a face like a swollen potato, its mouth like a carved jack-o-lantern’s sneer. Its rubbery teeth chewed at the flesh as those eyes stared blankly into space. It had a pair of way too expressive blue eyes, and for a moment, I thought they might have come from a doll. They looked at me suddenly, locked mine as I stared into the mirror. Those horrible blue eyes held my gaze for a count of twenty before it slapped the new face on with a wet chuck sound. Those eyes stared back at me through the eyeholes of my wife’s detached face, and the creature went out through the window without a second look back.
Those eyes, peeking jealousy out of my wife’s face, were the worst part, and that face haunts my dreams every night.
By the time I could move, she was dead.
She came out of it before I did, though. She lay on the bed, gasping wetly, and calling for me. I didn’t know if she could see me, did her eyes still work? She passed out a few times as she tried to turn her head, finally just laying in her own blood and calling for me softly. She wanted me to save her, wanted me to wake her up from this dream. It was impossible for her to be dying in her own bed after having her face cut off. I began to get some feeling back in my arms as her voice trailed off. I could flex my fingers, but my arms didn’t start to work until after she had slipped off.
The light had begun to peek in by the time I could fall out of bed and scramble for the phone.
I told them everything. I told them about the creature. I told them about its long claws. I told them about the paralyzing dread. I told them how it had taken my wife’s face and left out the window. Their response was to send me to a therapist, to give me time to grieve, to have my work with a hypnotherapist to try and decide if I had actually seen something. I suffered through the bereavement period. I went to the therapists and told them what they wanted to hear. They wanted to tell me that the creature was a way for my mind to cope with what had happened.
I knew better, though.
I used that downtime to gain information on this creature. There wasn’t much to go on. The crimes had all been committed within two blocks of each other, all in a central location, all in the part of town that housed several large apartment complexes. I asked around, seeing if anyone had seen anything like it, but I got a few answers. Some of the homeless people told me they had seen something skulking about lately, but most of them were too strung out to be credible. A few of them led me to an abandoned underground station that had once been central to the area but now stood abandoned. The homeless didn’t stay there anymore, and if they did, they stayed forever; or so they told me.
After a month of bereavement, I came back with my information compiled and ready to hand to the chief, but I returned to a very different work environment.
No one believed that I had seen a monster steal my wife’s face, and I began to hear rumbles around the station that I was a suspect now. A fifteen-year officer had just laid there and watched his wife have her face taken off? Not likely. It seemed more likely that I had been out all night and came home to find her like that. It seemed more likely still that I was the killer, banking on the idea that my reputation would put me above suspicion. I didn’t care, I knew what I had seen, and I took my information straight to my boss.
My boss, however, was in another camp altogether.
“Is this how you’ve spent your period of mourning? I wanted you fresh, all this monster stuff out of your system. The others already think your unhinged, the ones who don’t think you’re the killer. You need to be careful talking about this kind of crap around here. Get back to your desk, you’re on light duty until further notice, and I don’t want another word about this damn monster!”
I seethed behind my desk, already planning my next move.
If it was proof that they wanted, it was proof I’d give them.
I left early that afternoon and went home to prepare. I packed a bag. I took my service pistol and a shotgun from the hall closet. The little pump action fit nicely into my camp sack, as well as a rope, a flashlight, and some trail bars. I dressed warmly, the November weather already becoming frigid after dark, and I looked back at my apartment before leaving, unsure I’d ever see it again. A glance at my wife’s portrait on the mantel, though, was enough to send me on my way.
This creature wouldn’t be wearing her face for long.
The old underground was a dilapidated relic, a toothless mouth that gaped out of the pavement. The gate was locked, but I had been told the fence was cut around the back. Some industrious vag had made a neat little hole to scurry through, and I entered the perimeter without much fuss. The sun had begun to set as I flipped on the flashlight, and it cast a red glow across the grimey tiles.
The glow was gone after the second staircase, and I was plunged into true darkness. The outside had looked bad, but the inside was a ruin. The tiles had been shattered in places, light fixtures hanging from a leaking roof, and a single train stood like a hulk on dead tracks. There was a constant sound of dripping water, a constant sound of scurrying feet, and it was easy to imagine that this was what Bilbo Baggin had found under the goblin mountain. I found myself swinging my flashlight about at every sound, my years of cool police training melting away as I descended into the station.
Near the tracks, I found a handprint that looked red with dried blood.
I jumped down onto the tracks without a second thought, drawing my gun and looking right and left. My light fell across a fainter smear going left, light red staining the side of the train, and I decided this was my direction. I moved quietly, not wanting to tip my prey off, but he could have been hanging over my head, and I’d have never seen him. If he lived here, he could probably see in the dark, and bringing a beacon with me would be as good as screaming down the tunnels. As I moved, I had little doubt that he knew I was here.
The deeper in I went, the worse the scuttling and the scittering became. I told myself it was rats, but how sure of that was I? How sure was I that the scrabbling I heard wasn’t the sound of those sharp fingers scampering across the ceiling? How sure was I that that scrabbling was the sound of his equally long toes, toes I had never seen, gripping the pavement and moving his body along in a quiet scuttle? As I took another corner, I could swear that something big moved just out of my flashlight beam. I held it there for a count of twelve before turning away and continuing down the tunnel. The blood smears were all but gone, but I felt drawn deeper in as I took turns at random. It was almost as if I could hear my wife’s voice calling me, and I had little doubt that he knew I was here now.
I had even less doubt when he fell onto my back, slamming my head against the floor and sending my gun spinning out of my hand.
I blacked out, and when I came too, I wished I had died.
I was laid across a metal bench somewhere deep in the tunnels. An eerie light lit the space, some kind of plant life may be, and I found I was paralyzed again when I tried to move. That was when my wife’s face, a face made terrible by those too expressive eyes, loomed over me, and I’d have cringed away if I were not held by whatever power the creature had. It studied me, maybe it even recognized me, but its regard was terrible as it came from a face I loved so much. Her face was decomposed, rotting away as it clung to the creature’s skull, and I felt something goopy fall onto my cheek as he leaned in close to inspect me.
I had only thought it couldn’t get any worse.
But that was before he pressed that finger to the cleft in my chin. He began to circle, the claw digging against my skin as he slid the nail around and around and around my face. It didn’t hurt at first, it was little more than a discomfort, and I began to wonder how long he had been carving at my wife. I stared at him, and he stared back, those baby blues boring into me. His eyes were mesmerizing, terrifying as they held unwaveringly still, and as the minutes stretched into hours, I began to feel my face heating up. It was subtle at first, just a little warmth around my chin and forehead, but as the circling finger went round and round, I felt like someone was holding a lighter to my skin. I would have screamed, my flesh becoming seared, but I couldn’t move, and my horror was trapped in my throat again.
I started the feel the flood as it slid down my cheeks and head. First, it was just a trickle, a damp line or two, but soon it was running in rivulets. Soon I could feel my flesh parting from my skull. Soon I could feel that sizzling heat as it cut my skin, and I felt as though I must pass out; I must blackout from shock. There was no way that everyone was awake as he cut their living face from their body. It was impossible, it was sick, it was…
He pulled the finger back, suddenly, and I realized with real horror what was about to happen. All ten fingers gripped my flesh, and I tried to pull away then. Maybe I could still make it to a hospital. They could fix me; they could make this right. There was no way he was going to take my face. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. It wasn’t suppose to…
He gripped my face, and I heard that same velcro ripping as my own face came free of my skull.
Then, he devoured my wife’s face as I watched as slapped my own across the gore-soaked canvas that was his lumpy head.
He hooted then. Hooted and cried in his strange, unknowable language. He turned to a deeper tunnel and cried out in pure pleasure as he fulfilled whatever ritual he was performing, whatever dark spell he needed these faces for. I hoped he would let me go now, I had lost a lot of blood, but maybe I could still get some medical attention. I felt groggy, weak, but when I heard something struggling out of the depths of the tunnel, I felt something heavy settle into my guts. What fresh hell was this?
Out of the darkness, lit only by whatever phosphorescents dwelt down here, came a hulking thing that slid on long gray limbs. It was spiderlike, a massive gray blob that pulled itself along on something like tentacles, each of them ending in the same hooked fingers as the creature. It lowered its equally mushy face to the creature, taking in the face, and I heard something speak in a voice made of broken glass.
“Doos it please ooo, motha? Do I please ooo, MOTHA!” it cried, and that voice was full of hope and terrible longing.
The gray creature seemed to contemplate for a long moment before it opened its shapeless mouth and whispered a single, horrible word in a language like snakes crawling across a naked face.
Then it pulled itself back into the depths, and I heard the creature sobbing as it fell to its gray knees and wept.
Then, suddenly, I was running. My mind had set itself to autopilot, and my body and mind simply could take anymore. My self pushed against this thing, this thing and its terrible need, and my body propelled itself away before this knowledge could do my brain lasting harm. I ran and ran, blind in that lightless world, as the blood trickled down my naked face. If the creature came after me, I never knew. If the thing that wore my face came after me, I never knew. I was running one second, the darkness pressing in all around me, and the next, my world was full of light, and I was falling into oblivion.
The next thing I knew, I was in a hospital, being told how lucky I was to be alive.
An undercover cop had followed me to the underground entrance and had waited to question me when I came back out. When I didn’t come out for several hours, he called in people to come look for me. Those people had heard me screaming through the tunnels, caught sight of my faceless form in their flashlights, and caught me just before I fell. I had nearly died on the way there, I had simply lost too much blood, and my body was in some kind of shock. They had sedated me, my night terrors causing me to buck and scream, and I had spent nearly a week in a hospital bed.
No one thinks I’m crazy anymore, and no one thinks I’m the killer.
Certainly, no one believes that I cut my own damn face off.
I’m writing this as a warning, a warning to anyone living in the area. Get out, leave your home, and get out. This creature has no rhyme or reason for his actions. He seeks only to gain something that I believe he will never find. I’m safe now, a faceless horror who will have to live with the knowledge I discovered until the day I die, but you needn’t suffer my fate. Get away from the cheap side, get away from the concrete apartments, and get as far from the city as you can.
Lest you be one more face for this monster to show its mother.