Seven
(original creepypasta origin created by sporadically-erratic)
TW : Depictions of gore, blood, and suicide
I woke up from another seemingly-endless nightmare—it was becoming a regular occurrence now; I had been restlessly sleeping every night for the past few years of my life, and it never seemed to stop. It was still dark out, and the town was quiet (mind the crickets and cicadas); it was late.
The nightmares were always the same.
It would always begin in a cabin in the middle of the woods. The cabin was relatively normal in itself; it was made of pine cypress and smelled of linen. It was a comfortable home—more comfortable than my actual home—and it always felt like a sacred haven for me.
The only strange aspect of the cabin was some of its decoration. Multiple number sevens were discreetly planted around each room. I never understood why that was, and it always drove me insane. I tried everything in my power to figure out that anomaly, yet I came to no avail.
The nightmares would always end in bloodshed. Every moment always felt real in these restless dreams, and I always woke up with a vivid memory of them. I had never actually been a necessarily violent person, yet in my dreams, I became someone entirely different. It scared me, at first, to see myself ending human lives. Now it is routine to watch and endure; it took awhile at first to become desensitized, but now even the worst gore won't effect me. Sometimes I even enjoy it.
In these dreams, I would invite seven innocent people to the cabin. To spare details, I would always end up brutally killing all seven of them.
Seven...
There it was again.
I knew there had to be a reason.
I wasn't crazy. I know I wasn't crazy. I know I wasn't crazy, but I knew I was something. I knew there was significance in the number seven, yet I could not prove it. I knew there was a meaning or prophecy behind it that I could not figure out.
For eternity, I had been trying to decipher the code behind the number seven, but nothing ever seemed to make sense and it wasn't like I could have asked around for an answer either. I became more distant from others because of my extreme interest in figuring out this phenomena and my growing fascination with gore. Maybe I just wanted to believe my life was more extraordinary than it was.
When I awoke that night, something in me changed. I felt that I had known what I was supposed to do this entire time, yet I continued to ignore it because I didn't want it to be true. I was a good kid; I had good grades, good behaviour, good articulation—I was the ideal son. This feeling that was growing inside of me—it wasn't me. Maybe the constant reoccuring dreams I'd been having for three consecutive years had finally been catching up to me.
First, I had noticed the quick glimpses of sevens I would see outside of dreams after about six months of having those nightmares. I had begun to tap my foot and fingers in intervals of seven after seven months, and after about a year, I had started obsessively writing the sacred number on almost anything I could.
New violent, aggressive thoughts and ideas whirred in my head, begging me to succumb to insanity as I laid in the bed I dreamt in every night. I was lost, and I didn't know how to prevent or bring an end to the erratic instrusive thoughts. I tried to ignore them the best I could and fall back asleep. After trying and trying and trying, my bedroom window started to lighten. I had stayed up all night fighting my own thoughts.
I looked over to my digital alarm clock on my beside table.
7:07 A.M.
Ironic. This had to be some sort of joke or something.
I jumped as I heard a strong fist bang on my bedroom door—it was my father. I had forgotten that I had archery practice today.
"Hyun-Woo! It is time to wake up! 좋은 아침이에요!" My father had yelled from the other side of the door. His voice was booming and loud—it only made me dislike him even more than I already did.
My father, Seung Lee, had always been a stuck-up prick. He grew up in an overachieving family and always expected me to do the same, hence the archery practice. Although, it isn't the worst—the archery practice, I mean. It is actually one of the stupid things I have to do every other day that I fairly enjoy.
I sprung out of bed and dressed myself in straight-fitted black jeans and my favorite black ripped denim vest. I grabbed my knife belt and my silver keris, attaching the sheathed weapon to my belt before slipping on socks and my black combat boots. I tied my hair up in a quick, simple ponytail and left my bedroom. As I walked outside to the shooting range, I spotted my father standing near the targets with his arms crossed. He didn't look happy, but when did he ever?
My father was a tall, and fairly handsome, strong man. He was a stubborn man who presented himself as unempathetic and unapologetic to everyone around him. He was not always like this. Before mother died ten years ago—when I was seven—my father was a sweet, charming man. He had always been an overachiever and always had excelling academic intelligence, physical fitness, and socialization skills. He was the perfect man and of course everyone loved him. When he started dating my mother, he was content with being with her. He was loyal, honest—all of the things that he defies now. Through several acts of adultery, he harmed my mother's trust and pride in him. My mother, Dae Lee, was a charismatic and loving mother before she found out about her husband's infidelity. She became depressed and barely talked anymore. She stopped taking care of me, so I had to learn how to take care of myself because my father was too busy screwing around with whores behind my mother's back. She started heavily drinking and wouldn't even get out of bed some days; she stopped taking her medication. It was horrifying to witness my mother after she finally stopped taking her pills. She started drawing on the walls and talking to herself and crying over the smallest things. She always had to "re-do" her movements, claiming that it "just didn't feel right." She started to look and act utterly insane. My father prevented me from seeing her at some point because of how awful she had been behaving. Eventually, while my father was at work, my mother had committed suicide by taking as many pills as she could find in every cabinet as I was outside practicing my archery skills. I was the one who found her.
Today is the anniversary—July 7, 2007—exactly ten years after she died in 1997.
I had never stopped feeling guilty for my own mother's death since that day. Though, my father never once took responsibility for the depression and insanity that lead to her suicide. Instead, he became a brute and an even worse father. He started "training" me to be better than I was, and it seemed like it never was enough to satisfy him. I lived by a motto of "be the best or be nothing at all;" it was awful. I never had any fun, nor did I really have any friends. I was sort of an outcast because my father had always expressed to me that it was a waste of emotion and time to actually connect with someone in a way that a friend would. In contradiction, my father would always remind me to find a beautiful, obedient woman to marry and reproduce with. I never knew what he wanted from me.
I hated seeing him; everytime he was in my sight, I would feel intense and overwhelming anger. He drove me almost as crazy as the number seven did. I had to live alone with the bastard for ten years at that point. He was always more intense when the anniversary came by. He was more of a prick too.
"What took you so long, Hyun-Woo? You were supposed to be out here ten minutes ago. We need to work on your punctuality," he spoke in a frustrated tone.
My father paused for a moment, giving me time to make a response if I wanted to. Though, if I spoke, I would always regret it later. He did not like when I talked too much, so I decided to stay silent.
He commanded, "Get yourself set up. I don't have time to wait for you today."
I hurried over to grab my bow and a quiver with a sheath of arrows from the ascham. I tuned the arrow to its correct position and drew it to my anchor point, nocking the fletching onto the bowstring. I aimed for the nearest target from the range and released. The arrow flew with a strong cast, disappointingly hitting the petticoat of the target face. I didn't even want to look my father in the face after that shot.
He was certainly livid. The moment the arrow hit, he started to yell and berate me. It happened so quick; it seemed like he had been waiting for me to do something wrong so he could yell at me
Though, after a moment, I did not understand what he was saying to me. I could not hear him over the sound of other voices whispering in my ears. They were taunting me, just as my father. This angered me in a way I could not comprehend by myself. It felt uncontrollable, like a flame burning inside of my body. I was heated, and I could not find a way to cool down—not now, at least. Not on my mother's death anniversary and not in this humiliation. I lost control of my thoughts and my actions. I could not control my movements—I could not even think straight.
Before I knew what I was doing, I drew an arrow and shot my father directly through his eye and into his skull.
I blacked out. When I came to, I awoke in the forest with a shovel in hand. I still wore my special bow and the quiver of arrows and the keris was still sheathed in my pocket. I had no idea where I was or how to get home. I didn't even know if I *wanted* to go home. At least, I did not try to navigate my way back. I dropped the shovel and drew my bow and arrow at the sound of hikers approaching. I did not know what I was thinking. My regular thoughts became scattered and distant, being replaced with new violent instincts. Voices urged me to harm the innocent, to fulfill the prophecy. I finally knew exactly what I had to do—it was obvious all along, yet I chose to ignore all of the blatant arrows pointing in this direction. I was chosen to do it—only *I* could do it.
I finally knew the truth.
I quickly hid behind a tree before the hikers arrived. They spoke of topics useless to me; they seemed to be average people. There were six of them in a group, three women and three men. It was perfect; it was convenient. I held my bow in hand as I drew an arrow. I followed them as they walked their trail, keeping my distance and stealth. They stopped to take a break from their hike, still in the middle of nowhere. This gave me time to climb up to a higher place, somewhere convenient for my aim.
It all started when I shot one of the men right in the back of his head. The black eagle arrow impaled right through his skull, killing him almost instantly. There was screaming and there was crying, and I enjoyed every second of it. A wicked smile grew on my face as I drew another arrow back up to my anchor point. Those idiots stayed right in place as they surrounded their late friend, screaming for help. I noticed the way they looked around to figure out where the arrow came from, but I suppose they did not look up high or far enough. I aimed and fired another arrow that managed to impale one of the women in her back. The arrow was directed downwards near her right side. The arrow penetrated deep into her skin amd would most likely leave her to bleed out and die if not treated fast enough. Now there was even more of a commotion. I could tell they were confused and they had no idea where to go or what to do. Before jumping down from the tree, I aimed another arrow at one of the other male hikers. I released it and it implanted itself into his calf. As the others were distracted by the third arrow, I pulled my bow over my shoulder and wore it, making it easier to run. As I ran towards the group, I pulled my keris from its sheath and tackled the nearest person—one of the women. I stabbed her in ear, piercing her skull and killing her. Of course, the others tried to run, but they were no match for me. I pulled out my bow and another arrow, aiming precisely at the running man. I shot him through the back, impaling him through his heart. It killed him almost immediately. There was only one woman standing. Eventually, the unnamed woman could no longer run from me; she stopped to catch her breath. In the few seconds she was still, I walked up behind her quietly. In one quick motion, I grabbed the woman with one hand over her mouth and stabbed her in the neck with the bloody keris. As I released my grip and pulled the knife out of her throat, she fell onto the leaf-covered ground in a pool of blood.
I finally felt complete. I could finally hear my mother. She spoke to me solemnly; she congratulated me for my sacrifices. She was proud. I asked if I could join her. Mother said it was not my time.
I was not finished. The prophecy was fulfilled, but my mother wanted more. So I caved over and over and over again for her, sacrificing seven lives every seven days. She was never satisfied.
I have never felt closer to my mother.
I love my mother.
