It’s taken a long time for me to rustle up the nerve to post what happened to me three years ago. I hope I’m remembering it all correctly and I haven’t blocked out everything.
I’ve read quite a bit of creepypasta since first being turned onto it by a good friend some years back. I always make the mistake of reading this stuff before bedtime- The Rake, in particular, gave me some very interesting, terrifying nightmares- but nothing scared me quite like the Black Eyed Children.
I don’t know what it was about those stories, but when I would have to venture out at night I would either bring my boyfriend or run back to the house as fast as possible. I figured BECs weren’t real, but I didn’t want to take any chances. After awhile I managed to put it all in the back of my head. Soon the Black Eyed Children were nothing more than stories I had read. I couldn’t have been more mistaken.
I have asthma. I rarely have attacks anymore, but my roommate at the time smoked like a chimney. I remember that it was winter, one of the coldest on record where I live, and we had placed blankets up over the windows because our house was old and drafty. My roommate had just broken up with his girlfriend and was chain-smoking, one cigarette right after the other, and before I knew it it felt as if a five hundred pound man was sitting on my chest. I couldn’t catch my breath to save my life and my boyfriend was at work. I keep my inhaler in the car in case I need it when I’m out and about. It was around midnight and with no other choice (my roommate was pretty useless and had the empathy of a turnip) I headed outside to where my car was parked. The Black Eyed Children were the furthest thing from my mind.
I usually kept my inhaler in the center console and of course that was the first place I checked. Wide-eyed and struggling for air, tears streaming down my cheeks, I proceeded to tear through the car. The house was located down a long dirt road and our nearest neighbor was a mile away separated by dense forest. I was trying my best to calm down, to not panic and risk making the attack worse so I didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until a small voice drifted to my ears.
“Can you help us?”
I stopped my search, my blood running cold, and I looked towards the source of the voice. There were three children standing there, two boys and a tiny little girl. The oldest boy, the one who had spoken, was perhaps ten years old, the other eight. The little girl couldn’t have been older than five. Wheezing, still in the clutches of the asthma attack, I shook my head and pointed to my house. Perhaps my roommate could help them, but I couldn’t waste my breath talking.
In my frantic searching, the car door had closed before the children had come to my attention. I cannot express how grateful I am for that. Given how cold it was, the driver’s side window was still cracked because when I drive, I like having a bit of air. The older boy stepped closer, regarding me with a curious tilt of his head. The two younger children simply stood behind him, staring. I do not know why the stories I had read did not come back to me then and there.
As my mind battled between finding my inhaler and trying to puzzle out why these children would be out at this time at night, alone, practically in the middle of nowhere, the older boy- the leader I assume- stepped closer. His face was inches from the window.
“Can you help us? Our mom’s car broke down and we need a phone.”
As I was shaking my head again, pointing frantically once more at our house, I spied something red peeking out from beneath the passenger side floor mat. I grabbed the inhaler and took a few deep puffs. Soon I could take a semi-deep breath. Climbing into the driver’s seat, I turned to where the children had been standing. They were still there. With oxygen returning to my brain, I was suddenly hit with a terrifying wave of dread that had nothing to do with the fading asthma attack.
The boy’s face was nearly pressed against the glass and his fingers were curled into the crack in the window. I could breathe again and despite the heebie jeebies I was feeling, my mind assured me that they were just children, and they needed help. All that I had to do was get out of the car and walk to the house. They could use my cellphone. Hell, maybe I could even drive them back to where their mom was.
I probably would have helped had not been for the sudden smile that appeared on the little girl’s face. It was bone-chilling and rung so many alarm bells that I worried I would have another asthma attack. The oldest boy seemed to sense my trepidation.
“You. Need. To. Help. Us. Our. Car. Broke. Down. Our. Mother. Will. Be. Worried.”
The hand gripping the inhaler had already started for the door handle. There was something in the air, something dark and wrong, and in the dim glow of the interior light I noticed something I had not before. Their eyes were solid black. I felt sick to my stomach, my head spinning. The Black Eyed Children were real. They were real and they were there, right outside of my car. I was so glad for having read the stories, for knowing that if I opened the door for them that it would end extremely badly for me.
The boy sneered and the younger girl, standing stone still, made a noise; a mix between human and alien. Luckily my doors had locked when the driver’s side had closed- child locks, ironically- but I would have to start the car to roll the window up.
“Open the door!” The leader snarled, his fingers wriggling. “You have to help us!”
I shook my head, ready to piss myself, and then I remembered my roommate. What if they did go to the door? What if his heart thawed enough to help them? I tolerated the guy at best, but he didn’t deserve whatever these awful children had in store. There was nothing I could do, and so I drew my knees to my chest, buried my face in them and cried.
When I wrangled the courage to look up, they were gone but the horrible feeling that had surrounded them still hung in the air as thick as fog. The next thing I knew the sun was peeking over the horizon. I had fallen into a fitful sleep. My back hurt, but the children were gone and I scrambled from the car as fast as I could. My roommate was asleep when I made it in the house and I didn’t tell him what had happened. He was a skeptic and would have laughed. I probably would have punched him in the face if he had.
My boyfriend was a lot more sympathetic though. I don’t know if he believed me, but after that he made sure all of the doors and windows in the house were locked.
I’ll never know what they wanted to do and I hope to God I never have to find out.
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