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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/HughEhhoule on 2024-11-15 18:19:35+00:00.

No idea how to break this gently so I guess I’ll just lay it all out there and let you make your own judgements.

I’m no monster slaying wunderkind, I’m not a security guard or a gas station clerk. I’m not the most relatable person on the planet I guess is what I’m saying. In fact, a lot of folks wouldn’t really classify me as a person to begin with. I would, but I’m a little biased.

Guess I should just pull out the splinter shouldn’t I?

I have black hair, light brown skin, hazel eyes, weigh about 80 to 90 pounds, stand about 3 foot 6, and while we are probably shaped the same, about half of me is cloth, plastic and ceramic.

I’m a golem, if you want to be nice, or an evil doll if you want to be an asshole about it. There, I said it.

Don’t get the wrong impression , I’m totally made to kill. But the person who did it…they had a whole lot more rage than talent. They took a hell of a lot of shortcuts, and let’s say that I’m less than the perfect killing machine.

Optimally I’d be a new entity, created from scratch, with a superhuman intellect , a body that is damn near impossible to destroy, and a faultless devotion to the person who created me.

As it stands my entire personality ( not memories) is from some poor asshole that got kidnapped and tortured by my psychotic creator. My body is one fifth a corpse from the same guy, with the durability to match, and honestly, while I have to follow the instructions given, it’s to the letter not the spirit.

But while those instructions are beyond fucked up, my unlucky self is in the middle of something worse somehow…I think.

See my mission is to wait in the attic of this house, for the next ten years until a certain family moves in (the creator had a bit more talent with foresight than construction.) . At that point I’m to terrorize the child for a couple months then off him.

No occult reason, creator is just an asshole, 3 year old annoyed her, and that was that.

But that is small potatoes compared to what is going on in this place right now.

I’m one year in to my decade long stint, from what I was told the house should have stayed empty till then. But a few weeks ago while I was counting the new spiders in the attic I heard a lot of banging and scraping coming from downstairs.

I couldn’t very well go down and see what was happening so I waited until the wee hours of the night.

The majority of the flesh in my body is held in my oversized head, being that top heavy, trying to navigate the drop stairs from the attic silently was no easy task. I hate to keep bitching here, but levitation is another thing my creator could have given me if she decided to put in more than the minimum of effort.

Sure enough the house is set up for habitation. Dated pastel furniture , an old tube television and all kinds of knick knacks instantly tell me I’m walking through the place of an older person. The pile of pornographic vhs tapes tells me it’s likely an older man.

There are bookshelves, a lot of westerns, but an equal amount of books on the occult, ranging from Coles bought garbage to a couple I swear I can feel tugging at whatever eldritch shit holds me together.

Or maybe it’s nerves. For some reason I get to feel nervous, if I was going to create a murder doll I’d like to think I’d make sure it couldn’t get spooked out. Just my opinion though.

I stand perfectly still and listen to see if whoever has taken up residence here has waken. I hear nothing so I make my way to the kitchen.

Knives. …so many knives. Kitchen knives, hunting knives, combat knives, what look to be ritual knives, just about anything with an edge and a point is on magnetic strips, butchers blocks or just angrily jammed into a counter.

As someone who has detatchible hands I can replace with knives, when there are enough blades to make me worry, something drastic is going on.

I listen for another moment before making my way to the fridge, slowly I open the door, the harsh light from within lighting up the room.

Nothing.

Not an apple, a soda, or severed human head. Just a discolored , slightly damp smelling fridge. Not the strangest thing here, but odd.

Then I hear it, an extremely soft footstep, not at the bedroom door like I’d expect (Hearing and sight wise I’m pretty immaculate. Nessecary for my…line of work?) But about half way down the stairs.

I don’t have a heart to skip a beat, but my eyes begin to dart around looking for a place to hide. I leave the fridge door open, and crab walk up the plaster wall silently, wedging myself in the corner of the ceiling, hoping this person doesn’t just turn on the lights. I’m am ambush predator, not a brawler.

The guy walks into the room without a sound, I can hear snoring 4 houses away, and this guy is dead silent as he calmly scans the room.

He is tall, 6 foot 3 or so, and dressed completely in a Catholic bishops garb. His face is pale and weathered and his eyes show about as much emotion as mine do. He scans the room like a shark, coasting from corner to corner, abruptly turning , but thankfully , not looking up.

I can’t see his arms, but there is some strange peristaltic motion under his robes. And the longer I am around him the more I feel…dirty, not that I understand how that is possible without skin mind you.

Eventually he seems satisfied at the lack of intruders and makes his silent way back to his bedroom. When I’m certain this isn’t just a ruse, I scuttle down the wall, and back to the attic , I climb to the ceiling and lower the door just enough to squeeze through.

I don’t sleep, so I spend the next dozen hours running that situation through my head.

See, I don’t know much about the paranormal beyond my own creation, hell, I don’t know much about many things I don’t need to. But I know that something isn’t right here, and in a huge way.

When I hear the front door shut and a car pulling out of the driveway , I sneak back out of the attic. The place is much the same during the day, creepy, not so subtly violent, and generally having a ghost hunters meets horders vibe ( Don’t know about the paranormal but I know shitty cable shows, way to prioritize , creator.) .

But what I didn’t notice last night was the door to the basement.

Newly painted a deep scummy looking black, and having a myriad of locks studding one side, I walk up to it, I can barely hear something on the other side.

I don’t know what kind of soundproofing this guy has going on , but it must have cost him an arm and a leg. I place my head against the door with a small clink of porcelain.

I can barely hear the sound of a person, obviously in distress, I listen as the scream, trying to make out exactly what they are being harmed by. I can’t do it, but I have one trick I can play.

My head unfolds like a rose, exposing the withered remains of the man’s face, skull and sensory organs that compose me. I’m hit with a stinging rush of input that stuns me for a moment. The head is protective, but also let’s me tone down the sensory overload that comes from the overclocking of the eyes and ears.

Suddenly the voice is crisp and clear.

“I’ve told you everything I know. Just end it, for God’s sake just end it.” A male voice says , sobbing.

There is a wet slithering noise and a violent ripping, the man must still be alive though judging by his screams.

“Just stop talking…please, just do that at least…” the man continues as a sudden high pitched shriek makes me stumble backward exclaiming “Shit” or rather that’s what I wanted to say, my mouth is full of steel capped Pointed fangs, made for combat, not eloquence. The noise I make sounds more like an agressive far than English.

Before I have the time to get fully back to my feet something throws itself against the door the locks straining, barely able to hold whatever it is back.

I scramble back to the attic , hoping that whatever that was isn’t smart enough to pass on any information.

I spend the rest of that day deciding my course of action. And eventually I come to a conclusion.

Likely, I’m going to have to do some screwed up stuff. I don’t know if I have a soul, but if I do my mission in life is going to guarantee it to a pretty shitty eternity regardless of who’s right religion wise. But maybe I can…I don’t know, build up some good karma? Something? I know I’m what goes bump in the night, but this guy… I’m starting to think he is the fucking boogeyman.

So I decide, in a very vague way to try and do something about this.

I’ve had a full year to get to know every nook and cranny of this house. Every angle of attack, every hiding spot, vent and hollow wall. I might not be able to tear this guy and his…partner?Pet? Apart, but I can do what I was made to do. Watch, learn, wait, and when the time is right make these bastards leak.

The thought of direct violence sends a surge of excitement and pleasure through me. Reminding me I’m not the good thing, just a force of nature pointed in a good direction.

My shoulders and hips dislocate as I slide into the vent , hands and feet rotating to let my spider like fingers and toes propell me through the air vents.

I’m silent, and I’m quick, I feel more at home in the confines of the vent, more in control, I find myself hoping the bishop hears me, mayve sticks his head up to investigate, the thought of his face shredding under my teeth , my hands plunging into his neck pushes me forward even quicker.

I slow as I get to the basement v…

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