Mr. Creepy

They called him Mr. Creepy.

No one knew his real name, and no one cared to ask. He lived alone in the sagging old house at the end of Marrow Lane—the one with the chipped paint, crooked shutters, and overgrown weeds that reached like fingers through the rusting fence. Kids dared each other to run up to the porch, touch the front door, and sprint back. Most never made it closer than the sidewalk.

I was twelve the first time I saw him.

It was just after dusk. I was walking home from my friend Tyler’s house when I felt eyes on me. I turned, and there he was—standing behind the window, motionless. His face was pale and long, pressed to the glass as if trying to melt through it. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. Just stared.

That night, I dreamt of those eyes. Hollow, yet full of something cold and ancient.

Over the years, stories piled up like leaves on his lawn. They said he had once been normal, maybe even married. But something happened. His wife vanished without a trace. The police came and went. No arrests. No answers. Just Mr. Creepy, growing older and stranger in his crumbling house.

Then kids in the neighborhood started talking.

“He watches us sleep,” one girl whispered on the school bus.

“I saw him in my backyard. He just stood there, smiling,” said another boy, pale as milk.

Their parents brushed it off. “Just stories. Overactive imaginations.”

But I knew better.

It started small. My bedroom window, which I always kept locked, would be slightly open in the morning. I’d hear faint tapping at night, like nails brushing against glass. Then came the gifts—small, dead birds left on the windowsill. A single marble on my pillow. A black-and-white photo of me sleeping, tucked under my door.

I begged my parents to believe me. They changed the locks, installed cameras, even called the police.

Nothing helped.

The cameras never caught him. Just static. As if he knew where to stand, when to move, how to disappear.

One night, I woke up to the sound of breathing.

It wasn’t mine.

I stayed frozen, eyes barely open. Across the room, half-covered in shadow, stood Mr. Creepy. His silhouette was long and misshapen, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. He said nothing. Did nothing. Just watched.

I screamed.

My parents rushed in, but by the time the lights came on, he was gone. No broken locks, no signs of forced entry. Just cold air and silence.

We moved shortly after that. Across town. New home, new locks, new alarms. For a while, things were peaceful.

Until the tapping started again.

It was faint—barely audible. But I knew it. It was his tapping.

One night, I left my window blinds open. I needed to know. At 3:11 a.m., he appeared.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t break in. He was already inside.

Standing in the corner of my room, half-hidden behind the dresser.

My blood turned to ice.

“I never left,” he whispered, his voice brittle and dry, like old paper. “You brought me with you.”

I don’t remember screaming. I don’t remember what happened next. I woke up in the hospital. They said I had a panic attack so severe I passed out and hit my head. But I know the truth.

Mr. Creepy is not a man.

He’s something else.

Something that finds cracks in your life—tiny openings in the fabric of your reality—and slips in. A shape, a presence, a hunger.

He doesn’t need to break down your door.

He just needs your fear.

Now I live with the lights always on. Every lock checked three times. Windows sealed. Salt along the doorframes. Lavender under the pillow. I pray. I plead. But nothing works.

Because the truth is…

You can lock the doors,

You can change your name,

You can run to the ends of the earth…

But you can’t shut him out.

He’s already inside.

And he’s waiting.

Let me know if you'd like to extend the story, make it more psychological, or adapt it into a script or video format.