Chevonne Rojas was five years old when she first heard the whispers.
They slithered into her mind, like tendrils of smoke curling around her thoughts, darkening them with something unnameable. At first, they were faint—soft murmurs just beyond her comprehension. But as the days passed, they grew clearer, voices murmuring her name from unseen corners, from reflections where nothing should be. Then came the eyes—always watching, peering at her from behind furniture, beneath the bed, or in the glass of windows where no one stood.
“You’ve got an overactive imagination, Chev.” Her mother, Racheal, would say, ruffling her dark curls, before turning back to whatever task had briefly been interrupted. She had always been dismissive of her daughter, but she seemed particularly avoidant of this subject, prompting Chevonne to drop it completely.
Then, a few weeks later, her father—who she could barely remember—vanished. No goodbye, no note, no trace. The only person to show Chevonne true unconditional love—one day he was there, the next, he was simply gone. He had been the one to affectionately give her the nickname ‘Bunny’, poking fun at how she would stomp her foot when she was upset, and wrinkle her nose when she was thinking.
Chevonne didn’t know if his disappearance was connected to the voices, but something in the pit of her stomach told her it was. She believed her mother knew something about it as well, though never spoke of it. After all, who would believe her?
By the time she was ten, Racheal remarried, and Chevonne’s new stepfather, Saul Weiss, was a cruel man. He didn’t hit her, but his words cut deeper than any slap. He called her worthless, made sure she knew she was unwanted. He forced her to change her last name to his, as if claiming her as his property. Worse, he hurt her mother. She learned to stay out of his way, retreating to her room when he was in a foul mood, listening to the sound of glass shattering and her mother’s muffled sobs through the thin walls.
Her mother didn’t speak it aloud, but she grew to resent Chevonne. Her daughter looked too much like her father—sharp features, dark eyes, complexion, everything that reminded her of the man she once loved but now loathed. To her, it was as if Chev was an echo to her dark past.
At twelve, her brothers were born, just a year apart from each other, but they were different; light-haired, fair-eyed—little replicas of their mother. They were loved, doted upon, while Chevonne was invisible, save for being their full-time caretaker. She fed them, rocked them to sleep, changed their diapers, everything their mother should have done. For years, she juggled the constant demands of two infants while their parents neglected their children. Her childhood slipped through her fingers, as if it was never meant to be hers in the first place.
Racheal’s neglect was harshest toward her daughter, and her step father’s cruel words were constant. “They ain't even your real brothers. Don’t act like they are!” He spat one night as Chevonne fed the youngest, her hands trembling with exhaustion. She didn’t argue, instead she just swallowed the bitterness and moved on.
At fourteen, during one of Saul and Racheal’s violent arguments on the second floor, Chevonne stepped between them. Her mother was frail, her health deteriorating from years of drug use. Chevonne knew her mother wouldn’t survive a fall down the stairs. So she took the hit instead.
The world spun as she tumbled down, her body colliding with the jagged wooden railing. A scream tore from her throat as a shattered baluster sliced into the back of her neck. She landed at the bottom in a heap, blood pooling around her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move.
The wound left scars that would never fade, and the damage from the fall left her in constant pain. Doctors called it fibromyalgia, and the painkillers they prescribed dulled everything; including the emotions she refused to feel.
By her sophomore year, she was pulled from school entirely, forced to care for a family that barely acknowledged her existence. She would end up cutting her long black curly hair herself; unable to find time to take care of it, and to feel a sense of control of her own life.
At sixteen, Saul lost another job due to his drinking, and the family spiraled into homelessness again. They crammed into shelters and couches, barely scraping by. When an opportunity arose to move to an old friend’s trailer in the country, over two hours away, Chevonne jumped at the chance, taking the next bus she could.
After being dropped off at the edge of town, she recalls walking across the old bridge, separating the humble town from the rural country. It was rusty and overgrown with foliage beneath. It looked peaceful, making her feel drawn to it. Unfortunately, she couldn’t stay long, her friend was waiting for her.
The trailer was old and rusty, nestled deep in the quiet woods. It was quaint, comfortable; and at night, when sleep evaded her, Chevonne wandered through the tall thin trees. That was when she found it.
It was ancient—decaying, abandoned, looking like a large shed repurposed into a small house. Furniture sat undisturbed, walls dilapidated, dust and dirt coating every surface, calendars frozen in the year 1940. Additionally, books and papers with strange writing were found scattered about, all of which looked similar to books her parents owned. Perhaps there were some dark truths her mother was hiding from her.
It was odd, but for some reason, the old house comforted her, drawing her to return night after night. The house became her sanctuary, a place where the whispers in her head didn’t seem as loud, as if appeased.
By seventeen, her friend, once a refuge in the beginning, had become a cruel shadow; taking advantage of her gratefulness, manipulating her into being his personal maid and verbal punching bag. The emotional abuse was different from home, but it stung just as deeply. The isolation began to gnaw at her, and her hallucinations worsened
The voices weren’t just whispers anymore. They screamed at her, urging her to do things—things that terrified her. When she lay awake at night, she could hear them calling her name, not from the walls, but from within her own mind. Her skin felt like it was crawling, itching, like something inside her was trying to claw its way out. She saw things that weren’t there—shadows moving in the corner of her eyes, dark figures watching her from the mirrors, and in the darkest corners of the house, something that didn’t belong.
Against her better judgment, Chevonne returned to her family in the city. The old wounds reopened, but at least it was familiar.
And of course, it didn’t last.
A week before her eighteenth birthday, they kicked her out for good. She was almost an adult, so she wouldn’t be their responsibility much longer anyways. Soon after, Chevonne took back her last name, Rojas, rejecting Saul’s name completely.
With nowhere else to go, she returned to the trailer. When she arrived, her friend was gone—vanished. The trailer was still there, fully furnished, stocked with food. A note, written in unfamiliar handwriting, greeted her:
“Make yourself at home! Don't worry about bills, and you’re good on food!”
She knew it was wrong, that something was off, but she was tired. Numb. If something bad happened, so be it.
For the first time in her life, she was alone. Truly alone.
And then everything changed.
She started to lose track of time. Days blurred together over the next few months. Sometimes, she couldn’t tell if she was asleep or awake. The world felt… wrong. Distorted. As if reality itself was slipping through her fingers, the hallucinations becoming too overwhelming.
She left the trailer to seek refuge in the abandoned house in the woods, hoping it would soothe the voices like it always did; but what she got instead was sudden, violent, and agonizing.
Her body twisted, reshaped itself in ways that felt as though her very bones were shattering and regrowing at once. It felt like her skin was tearing itself apart, her bones shifting and contorting beneath the surface. Her skin burned with an unnatural fire, the hunger inside her grew unbearable, gnawing at her like an animal trapped in her chest.
She could hear the voice of the thing inside her, whispering commands in a language that felt as if it had always been there, buried deep within her. She saw visions of her mother, much younger, hiding those strange books away from her father. In secret, she would perform rituals, attempting to fix a curse she had brought upon herself and her future first born.
She finally managed to scream, but the sound was alien to her—like it came from something else entirely.
She collapsed, unable to move, unable to breathe. Her bones cracked and realigned, her limbs growing longer and more twisted. The hunger surged within her, a primal force that tore through her mind, clawing at her very soul—her jaw unhinging, the flesh of her cheeks tearing agonizingly. Her senses became painfully sharp, her vision blurring with golden flashes. She could feel everything—every heartbeat, every footstep, every tremor in the earth. Her teeth and nails elongated, sharp like daggers.
Finally managing to drag herself to the mirror, the broken reflection that stared back at her wasn’t her own. It was something else—something monstrous.
Her body had never functioned right before, she was always too cold or too hot, her hunger cues never quite normal, her organs not working like they were supposed to. Doctors had called it a disorder, but now she understood. It wasn’t just a disorder—it was something far darker, something demonic.
The hunger took hold first—feral, ravenous. The hunger consumed her, instincts becoming ruthless, as she felt it gnawing at her, urging her to hunt, to feed. Her thoughts were no longer her own. She became a shadow, a nightmare moving beneath the old chain bridge, where she felt that sense of comfort from before.
The legend of the “Chain Bridge Crawler” spread—of glowing yellow eyes, of a monstrous figure dragging bodies into the ditch below; but no evidence was ever found.
When the fear in town reached its peak, Chevonne vanished. Not because she feared capture, but because she needed the town to believe she was just another victim—another scared soul fleeing the monster.
And so she disappeared, leaving only whispers, bloodstained memories, and the faintest echo of a name: The Chain Bridge Crawler.
In honor of Chev's birthday (March 14th), here's her official creepypasta story!!
This is my first time ever seriously writing, so please forgive me if it isn't very good haha;;
If you want more information on her, she has a toyhouse! It includes tons more details, lots of art drawn by me, fanart of her drawn by other people, and even fanon stuff including other creepypasta characters!
Thank you for taking the time to read my cringe <3
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