Born in the early 2000s, and blessed with having lived through the rise of ‘creepypastas’ firsthand, you have a pretty clear idea of what they look like in your mind; though it’s not exactly the one they were meant to be remembered as. Of course, some recall Ben Drowned as a low-poly statue, and others as a playful boy with bloodstained eyes…

Maybe that’s why the shock is so great.

All of that is now nothing more than a nostalgic memory for you, an idea that still crosses your mind, something to laugh at because, heavens, back then anything could become ‘terrifying’...

Those very thoughts run through your head as the only light in your room comes from your phone screen, while you scroll through social media, play some mobile game, or… whatever else keeps your short attention span busy—until it’s interrupted by the creak of the wooden window frame.

Jeff the Killer. What a ridiculous name and story, etched in your mind with old images of a skinny, emo boy, attractive and flirty.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

The man standing before you, now an adult shaped by the passing years, with weak black hair, his skin completely charred, destroying any trace of cartilage on his face, tired bloodshot eyes, and of course, gums easily visible thanks to the smile-shaped cut that twists his lips. He is tall. He is strong. He is imposing. He is terrifying.

— “Still awake? What bad luck, you’ll be conscious for this.”

A whispering, mocking voice, while his heavy steps carry him toward you, that old, rusty but sharpened kitchen knife in hand…

— “Though it’ll be more fun putting you to sleep this way.”