This is a creepypasta audio recording made for the Creepypasta Collab 2023.

All voices and writing were done by Plasmarift (save for some of the laughing, which came from my nieces).

The ambient music was provided by Guileness.

sound effects:

falling water - https://freesound.org/people/kyles/sounds/454335/

carving flesh - https://freesound.org/people/mitchanary/sounds/505115/

stab - https://freesound.org/people/Podcapocalipsis/sounds/521030/

Transcript:

There are certainly worse ways to go, yet I have not told you which way you will be going. Well, no matter. The unknown is quite exciting, isn’t it. As is the case for those wandering the desolate streets at night. Afterall, darkness provides for those wanting what others would deny. Among them, thieves, murderers, degenerates, and perhaps an interesting man, searching for his next unsuspecting… guest. Like you. You lucky dog, you. In a haze, you open your eyes to a room painted with shadows. Adjusting your gaze, you see what looks like a preschool room yet the darkness cannot hide time’s transgressions. Ripped educational posters on the walls, filthy colorful décor, and various toys, lined up and staring at you, as if they were waiting for a show to start. It is then that you notice him sitting among them. A man not only shrouded in darkness, but one who wears it like a second skin. The only discernible features you can make out is an eerie grin and a sweater vest as he walks toward you.

           “Hello there. I’d introduce myself, but I think we’ll get to know each other pretty well without introductions.”

           The man, who was never taught the notion of personal space, leans in close to speak. Upon his face rests numerous patches of scaly red skin and pimples. His grin seems cemented in place, but worst of all is the sweater vest. It clashes with his shirt.

           “You look a little sad. You know what’ll cheer you up. Tickling.”

           Like a trained pianist, he begins running his fingers over you, looking for the special spot, delighting in your squirming body.

           “Oh, hold still there.”

Being the considerate man he is, he lets you speak your mind despite of your loud and vulgar nature, but he does not listen to your words, only your grunts and squeals. No one is coming. If he won’t address your words, then there is really no point in me relaying then, correct?

           “You know, it’s the strangest thing. You’re laughs kind of sound like screams. I used to just tickle myself, but it gets so lonely all alone. I just love sharing the tickles with other people. It makes me feel all ticklish inside.”

           He continues, but you resist, not wanting to play along with this game.

           “I hear some people use feathers to tickle, but that seems a little weird to me. But do you know what tickles the most? Knives…”

           He steps away from you just for a moment and grabs a leather satchel. He hurries back and opens it, revealing his collection of various knives; all different sizes yet all well-kept and sharp.

           “Oh they don’t just tickle the outside, they tickle the inside as well. These long ones are great for tickling under the rib cage. Oh I have this beautiful one with little teeth on it. This short one here is perfect for tickling the skin…

(he continues to talk about the knives in the background while the narrator talks)

           Funnily enough, his enthusiasm has typically only been matched by the terror of his guests. It’s difficult to find others who appreciate your hobbies. Though soon enough, his words cease and he channels that excitement into action, picking the perfect knife for the occasion.

           “I’ll tell you a secret. This is my favorite knife. Oh, who am I kidding. They’re all my favorites.” as he plunges it into your stomach. You wrench, cough, scream. So much screaming. He does not tickle with haste, wanting to draw out all the tickles he could. How considerate.

           “You know, I hear laughing makes you live longer. So I hope this makes you last just a bit longer.”

           Your blood pours onto the floor, quenching the darkness beneath, just as it was always meant to. Fear screams for you to run, but you cannot obey. Pain begs you die, yet you can’t. His hand never stops moving as he glides gracefully through you, trying to touch every organ, every bone, every cell. And the knife gladly obeys without question. As your consciousness fades, you hear something strange. Laughing. A cacophony of laughter. You can no longer tell if it is your own or an echo of the past.

           “Oh no. You're dead."