MichaelLeroi vs Jeff the Killer

The stars of the hit YouTube show, Bad Creepypasta, were wrapping up another successful stream. It had been a lucrative evening. The audience's rapt fascination with the night's story, Jason the Toy Maker vs Laughing Jack, had netted the crew a McDuck-esque fortune in super chat revenue.
Toby was pleased with the stream's success, but he was uneasy. Dark rings below his eyes and a nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth attested to his distress. The show had taken a dark turn for him of late.
"Who is this 'Rupert' the chat keeps mentioning?" asked Jacob. "None of this makes any sense."
Rupert was a new character that had been added to Bad Creepypasta at the end of season 8, in a bid to shore up falling ratings. He was a green gremlin that no one but Toby could see or hear. Near the end of the stream a harsh, hissing voice had broken in from the next room. "William of Orange was a Dutchman! You surrendered your sovereignty and never realized it!" The others hadn't noticed it, but the chat had immediately come to life with a chorus of 'lol' and 'based' and 'well, actually...'
"Rupert is the monster I told you about!" said Toby, voice cracking. "He hides under my bed at night and whispers... things to me. He spent last night telling me that Thomas Hobbes was right." 
"That's silly, Toby." said Jacob. "And so is this imaginary friend of yours. But if it keeps the chat engaged I won't complain."
Toby looked toward Rupert's last known location. He saw a pair of unblinking yellow eyes staring at him from the darkness of the kitchen. A mouthful of vicious teeth grinned at him. "Please, Jacob," he said shakily, "I'm so scared. I haven't slept in days."
At that moment, a passenger train was making it's way to Great Britain on the Transatlantic Railroad. In a berth on that train was none other than Jeff the Killer. Jeff was traveling light, as was his preference. In his experience, he rarely needed to burden himself with much, since he could just kill others and steal anything he needed. That included lodgings. For some reason he had never been able to explain, the police had never seemed too put out when he killed a family and squatted in their house for months at a time. He doubted things would be different overseas.
The only extraneous things he carried with him were his passport and the U.K.'s number one guidebook "How to Pass as a Native Briton and Not Get Stabbed". It was a long read, but he figured he'd be able to finish it by the time he made landfall.
He also had his knife, but that was a given. It was a brand new knife, in fact, one which had cost him a pretty penny. It was a full tang blade forged from S60V steel and had a handle made of carved cocobolo. It was designed to look like a generic butcher knife because he had to stay on-brand. 
He'd been closely watching his popularity vis-à-vis the other creepypasta icons for years. His position in the top bracket was still secure, but the rapid rise of upstarts like Kandy Kane and Silent Sonya had taught him that having a signature weapon was integral to keeping an audience engaged. 
Jeff idly sharpened his knife. His reputation was the reason he was making this trip in the first place. And he wanted to be ready to put on a show.
 
Jacob was in the kitchen, tidying up. It had been several days since the last recording and Bad Creepypasta was scheduled to stream again that night. He belted out a song as he washed the dishes, an embarrassing indulgence for whenever he thought no one was around to know. "Don't be fooled by the subs that I got, I'm still, I'm still Jacob from the block" he sang, finishing up. His preparations were nearly complete and Matt and Toby were due any minute.
At that moment, he heard the front door open. He assumed it was Gemma, back from her pre-stream alcohol run. He went to greet her, but when he stepped out of the kitchen, no one was there. The front door was standing wide open. Through it streamed the fleeting remnants of daylight as the sun vanished behind the horizon.
Assuming that the door simply hadn't been shut completely, he went to close it. As he did, he heard a low laugh behind him. He spun around and froze, mouth agape. Standing before him was a short, lightly built young man. He had no nose or eyelids and his skin was somehow paper white.
"Hello, Jacob," the intruder said, pleasantly, "I know you know who I am."
Hearing the man speak snapped Jacob out of his stupor. "Oh my God!" he exclaimed. "You really do sound like that!"
Jeff's eyes would have narrowed if his face were capable of expression, but somehow Jacob knew what the look Jeff was leveling at him was meant to convey. "You've been mocking me for years, Jacob. Don't think I don't about you and your little YouTube show. I Google myself regularly, you know. I have to keep an eye on my image, and you're making me look bad!" With that he drew his knife. "I'm going to kill you Jacob. Or Michael, or Cobe or whatever the fuck your name is supposed to be this season!"
In a panic, Jacob turned and ran through the open front door. He ran across the narrow street and tumbled down the embankment opposite his house, landing at the edge of the forest that I assume is there. 
As he lay on the ground regaining his equilibrium, a shadow fell across him. Jacob looked up to see a figure emerge from the treeline. It was obscenely tall and inhumanly slender. Its spider-like limbs jutted out at unnatural angles, twisting grotesquely as it moved toward him like a stop-motion nightmare brought to life. He could hardly see it as it loomed over him, for its skin was so pallid it vanished from sight against the backdrop of the full moon.
"Toby! Am I glad to see you!" Jacob exclaimed in relief. "What are you doing down here?"
"I got lost on the way to your house again," explained Toby, "Are we still on for recording tonight?"
"There's no time for that!" exclaimed Jacob. "Jeff is here, and he's trying to kill us!"
Toby helped Jacob get to his feet. "Where's Matt?" he asked.
"He hasn't arrived yet," answered Jacob. "We should go meet him along the way."
They started in the direction of the train station, where Matt was coming in from Cornwall or wherever he lives. They had only walked a few blocks when they saw him. They jogged over to him and explained the situation. Then they all returned to Jacob's house.
"So where are Gemma and Logan?" asked Matt.
"Logan isn't in this story because the age rating is too high," explained Jacob. "And Gemma hasn't returned yet. She must be buying enough booze for an Irishman's night in."
The three of them entered the house. They decided to search the place, room by room. Matt and Jacob went upstairs to sweep the second floor and the loft. Shaggy and Toby, both played by Toby, decided to go to the kitchen and check the fridge for clues. 
After a quick snack of waffles and lemonade, Toby was ready to begin his search. As he was cleaning his glass, a sibilant voice rang out.
"Look out, Toby!" it shouted. He reflexively flinched away from the direction the voice had come from and a knife slammed through the space he had occupied a moment before.
Shocked, Toby spun around. Standing in front of him was none other than Jeff the Killer, holding a butcher knife. He could just make out the tip of a green tail disappearing behind the oven.
"Nice reflexes, scaredy crow," said Jeff dismissively.
"Oh my God!" replied Toby. "You really do sound like that!"
Jeff ignored the comment and continued talking. "You know, Toby, I have it out for you most of all. You called me a cunt in one of your recordings."
"I say that about a lot of the stories we read," Toby replied. "I think I have anger issues or something. I might need therapy."
Matt and Jacob appeared in the doorway of the kitchen; they had been alerted by the noise coming from downstairs. Jeff whipped around to face them, intending to say something suitably showy, but as soon as his attention shifted Toby took the opportunity to escape. Raising his hands above his head, he sinuously slipped out of the house through the window over the sink. As Jeff turned to stare in confusion at what had just transpired, Matt and Jacob fled. 
They ran with no destination in mind, escape their only goal. Out of sheer habit, born of alcoholism, Jacob's feet carried him to the liquor store. There they met Gemma, finally finished with her booze run and loaded down with a Gaelic fuck-ton of alcohol. She was surprised to see them there and even more surprised to see their flustered state.
"What's wrong?" she asked. "Are we rescheduling the stream?"
"Jeff the Killer is here and he's trying to kill us." Jacob said, bringing Gemma up to speed.
"Jeff is real?" asked Gemma. "Huh. Who would have guessed?"
Just then, Jeff caught up to them. Jeff's hand went to the knife in the custom auto-sharpening sheath he kept on the back of his belt. He liked to keep it behind him so that his victims (and audience) could watch him dramatically produce it as though from hammerspace. He drew his knife, secretly pleased by the audible shing sound it made as blade slid against ceramic, and brandished it menacingly.
Gemma leaped into action. Swinging her Santa sack of alcohol like an Olympic hammer, Gemma clubbed Jeff to the ground. He lay there stunned. Why couldn't he react? He'd seen the strike coming, but he'd felt like he was underwater. Something was preventing him from acting.
Gemma rushed into a nearby parking garage. In a matter of seconds, she had located a Mercedes-Benz A-Class, picked the lock, hot-wired it, and returned to the others. She executed a flawless bootleg turn, hitting Jeff with the rear fender and knocking him into a cluster of trashcans. The other three piled into the car, and Gemma sped toward the house.
"Ah, fuck!" shouted Jeff, picking himself up. "I forgot they added a female lead!" Gemma had been introduced as a guest character in season 3. In a bid to combat falling ratings, she'd been added to the main cast as Jacob's love interest in season 4. "The stakes have just gone straight down the loo! As long as she's here I'm about as threatening as tits on a... bike." He frowned. It sounded right enough. It could probably pass for South Worcestershire, at least. "I have to find some way to write her out of this thing. But I have to careful. If I go about it the wrong way, I might get canceled." 
Jeff pulled out his phone and made a call. "I have to see you right away." 
Gemma pulled up to the house. When her friends got out she went to dispose of the car, to dodge liability for its theft. She soon returned and they began discussing their situation.
"We have to call the police. We can't handle this ourselves." said Jacob.
"What are we going to tell them?" asked Matt. "That the Bogeyman is after us?"
"We could try calling Kolchak," mused Jacob.
Jane the Killer appeared from a nearby alleyway. Jeff had known she'd be nearby. As a derivative character, her existence almost fully revolved around his. "What is it?" she asked.
"Janey! Something wonderful as happened, and I had to share it with someone," Jeff said. "I've met someone. I've never felt this way before."
Jane had no response to Jeff's confession. Her characterization was so inconsistent across her stories that she was still waiting to see what her role would be.
"She sets my soul ablaze, Janey! I'm sorry, but I can't be with you any longer!"
There it was. Now that she knew which version of herself was in the story, Jane responded. "Who is she!? I'll kill her for taking you from me! And then I'll kill you for breaking my heart! And also because I hate you for killing my family!" 
"It's Gemma from Bad Creepypasta," Jeff explained, trying to hurry things along. "She went that way."
As Jane departed, Jeff pumped his fist in exultation. Jane would surely get Gemma out of the picture! Better yet, his legion of adoring fans would already be splitting into rival camps and savaging each other online over their preferred ship, in a war that would no doubt consume them for years. They'd be too busy fighting to notice that the only female protagonist in the story had been disposed of.
Jane found the cast still bickering outside. "You! Gemma!" she cried. "You think you can take Jeff from me? He's mine! And also mine to kill!"
Gemma stared at the KISS groupie, drawing a blank. Was she supposed to know who this was? Some edgy self-insert "girl's name the killer" oc who wanted to bang Jeff? Weren't there, like, ten of those? After a moment it came to her. "Jylien? Isn't Jeff supposed to be your brother or something? That's really gross, lady."
"It's Jane! Jane the Killer! I'm famous! I started the whole gender-swapped Jeff thing!"
"Alright, fine, Jane then," Gemma said, not really caring. "It's still nasty that you like your brother that way."
With an enraged scream, Jane threw herself at Gemma. The two of them tumbled down the embankment and into the treeline. They began their epic battle, which would continue until the heat death of the universe because writing a conclusion would require one of them to lose, and they're both women so depicting that would be sexist.
The three remaining protagonists watched Gemma's departure with dismay. "Hey there, fucklechucks," said a voice behind them, "where were we? I believe I was about kill you. Does that sound about right?"
"And what do you think you're going to do, Jeff?" asked Matt heatedly. "There are three of us!"
Jeff swiftly drew his knife.
"Oh, yeah," said Matt. He turned and ran, with Jacob and Toby following right on his heels. As they fled, Matt had an idea. "To the docks! The fog should be rolling in! He'll never find us!" Having no time to come up with a better idea, the other two agreed and they sped toward the warehouse district. 
They soon reached the docks. The ancient, weathered buildings were blanketed in pea soup fog, as they had hoped. The air was filled with the calls of seagulls, the clanging of buoy bells and the bellow of the last shift's tugboat horns. The last few workers were beginning to clear out of the district.
As they ran, Toby lost sight of Matt and Jacob. He was worried until he saw a cat walking down an alley. It was a proper dock cat, with coarse, wiry fur and a missing eye. "Oh, look at the cute kitty!" Toby exclaimed, and he began to follow it.
Jeff had arrived at the docks moments after his targets. He was conflicted. On the one hand, rows of dark, abandoned warehouses and creaking, fog shrouded piers were the perfect place for edgy oc's like him. It was child's play to look scary here, a dark shape lurking in the gloom. But when it came to hunting people, the maze-like warehouses and substandard lighting had always proved a larger hindrance to him than his intended victims. Creepy docks were really best suited to ambushes, not chases.
He heard a door slam not far away. He knew it had to be his quarry. One advantage of being the star of character-driven horror stories was that they were always set after business hours. No one else would be around.
He entered the building that the sound had come from and began to search the warehouse floor. At first he put on a show, exaggeratedly sneaking through the narrow pathways formed by rows of shelves and disorganized stacks of crates. But as the minutes ticked by, he began to get bored. He dropped all pretense and strode quickly, up one path and down the next.
As he searched the dusty warehouse, Jeff felt a hot tide of frustration boiling beneath his skin. This was taking too long. He had other targets to kill, and the more time he wasted on hide and seek, the worse his chances grew. He paused, listening for any morsel he might snatch out of the gentle cacophony. The London docks weren't necessarily loud, at least at that hour, but they were a confusion of white noise. The sound of the water lapping at the pier played over his senses. The old wooden building creaked, and the wind whistled through gaps in the poorly maintained walls. The obligatory rats that seemed to haunt all such environs skittered just out of sight, the soft ticking of claws in the surrounding shadows gave the decrepit building an eerie feeling of life. Jeff frowned. This wasn't getting him anywhere. He had to find a way make the prey reveal itself to him. 
A predatory grin lit Jeff's face as a devious plan came to him. He resumed stalking the dark warehouse. "Now where, oh where, would I be hiding," he began in a mocking, sing-song tone. "if I were a--" 
"IF I WAS!" roared Jacob, nearer than expected. Jeff's hand shot through the row of shelves that separated them and latched around his throat. With a grunt of exertion Jeff dragged Jacob toward him. The rotted wood and rust-eaten frame of the time-worn shelving gave way to Jacob's angular face. With a resounding crash the shelving unit collapsed in a heap of broken hardware, opening the space around them.
Jacob was on his knees, with Jeff's hand clamped like a vice around his throat. Triumphantly, Jeff began to speak. "I know your weakness, Jacob. Your viewers have always known on some level that your ignorance of the subjunctive mood would be your downfall! Now I can finally put you and your channel to bed! IN HELL!" As he shouted he thrust his knife at Jacob's ribs.
"No! Jacob!" shouted Matt. In a confusingly edited sequence, Matt crossed the room and threw himself in front of Jacob. Jeff, who had been holding Jacob's neck and stabbing toward his body in an underhand motion, was now far enough away for Matt to intercept his strike. Jeff's knife plunged into Matt's chest as he flew by and Matt hit the cluttered ground with a pained groan.
"Well that was unexpected," Jeff said jovially. "But not entirely unwelcome. I was going to off you eventually, so if you insist on cutting in line, be my guest!" Jeff looked at Jacob, who was numbly staring at Matt's motionless form. "You know well enough by now that my stories follow something of a formula." Jeff said, casually wiping the blood from his knife. "I'm bound by convention to kill my victims one by one. I'll be going now. But don't go getting too cozy. I've wasted enough time on you and your friends as it is. I'll be back for you shortly. Ta-ra." With that, Jeff departed.
Jacob felt cold shock coursing through him, slowing his movements and his thoughts alike. He made his way to Matt and dropped to his knees beside him. The pool of blood around him was spreading with dismaying speed. He turned Matt over and was relieved to see him still breathing. Elation flooded through him as it dawned on him which shirt Matt was wearing. "Oh, thank God!" cried Jacob, shakily. "That's the shirt with the squib for your death scene in Logan's newest film, The Heliraptor Hunts Again!"
"No..." Matt weakly replied, "we weren't scheduled to film today. I don't have the squib in."
"Oh." said Jacob. "Well, shit."
Toby was beginning to worry. Shortly after they'd reached the docks, he'd gotten separated from his friends and had begun following a fascinating cat. After a while it had jumped over a fence he'd been unable to climb. Since then, he'd been searching for Matt and Jacob. He was getting tired, as well as sick of banging his shins on the edges of the dumpsters that seemed to hide in the fog until it was too late. He was on the verge of giving up when he finally heard a voice calling.
"Toby! Where are you?"
It was Jacob! He'd finally found them! And, Toby reasoned, Jeff must be gone too, or Jacob wouldn't be making all that noise. He followed the voice around two buildings and saw a shape in the fog. "Jacob!" he called, "where's Jeff? Did you lose him?" As the fog seemed to thin a bit, he looked around. Another question, one he almost didn't want to give voice, made its way to his lips. "Where's Matt?"
"Matt didn't make it." Jacob said sadly. "Jeff killed him."
"No..." said Toby, unable to believe what he was hearing. "It can't be."
"It's true," confirmed Jacob, "and Jeff is going to strike again soon. I found this note he left. The gist is he's going to make England suffer like Peter Parker by taking our collective 'Uncle Ben' from us."
"That has to refer to Benjamin Huntsman, the inventor of crucible steel!" exclaimed Toby. "Without his genius, England would never have become the globe-spanning superpower we are today! To Attercliffe Common!"
"Jeff's an American, Toby." Jacob said wearily. "He means Big Ben."
Toby and Jacob made their way to Westminster. Toby's face brightened when they reached Westminster Palace. "Thank God!" Toby exclaimed. "We're not too late! Big Ben is still here!"
"Yes, Toby," replied Jacob. "But the clock tower is gone."
Toby calmed down and looked again. Sure enough, the clock tower was missing. Jeff must have made the classic tourist's blunder. 
"Well, no matter," said Toby. "Big Ben is safe." 
Toby climbed Big Ben and looked around. He looked to the West. From his vantage he could see all the way to Stonehenge. Surprisingly enough nothing was happening there. Then he turned North. There! At Stonehenge! He could see a sign hanging from one of the lintel stones. Toby narrowed his eyes and read it. In large, blocky letters the sign read LOOK BEHIND YOU.
"Took you long enough to catch up," said a familiar voice behind him. Toby turned around with a start. Jeff was there with him, atop Big Ben. "I was beginning to think you'd never make it."
Toby whipped his head around, seeking a means of escape. He was trapped with Jeff. In desperation, he looked over the edge. Far below, he saw the river Thames. Unable to see any other option, Toby dove from Big Ben and plunged into the river.
"Damn!" swore Jeff. "Why are these guys such a pain in the arse to kill?" He began to climb down.
Toby found himself helplessly washing down the river. It was flowing too fast for him to stop himself. He had no choice but to ride it out and hope that the current let up somewhere downstream. Jacob and Jeff raced along the river's course, each hoping to be the first one to reach Toby. Jacob's path took him down the thoroughfares where he repeatedly found his way obstructed by gaggles of sidewalk-blocking tourists and teenagers on scooters who didn't best observe right-of-way legislation. Jeff made his way through the back alleys, getting hopelessly lost because London was designed to provide 13th century clubmen a surfeit of dead-end alleys with blind corners in which to mug unsuspecting victims.
 
By the time the current began to ease up, Toby found himself back at the docks. He was exhausted, but he had survived, and that's all that mattered to him at the moment. He found a ladder and began to climb to the pier above.
"I finally caught you!" panted an all-too-familiar voice. Toby looked up to see Jeff doubled over, his hands on his knees, attempting to catch his breath. "Don't think you'll be getting away this time. Look around you, there's nowhere left to run!"
Jeff was right. Aside from the ladder that led to him, the only choice was the water. Toby, worn out but still defiant, spoke. "If you want to kill me, you're going to have to work for it, you fish-faced bastard!" With that, he dove back into the water and let the current carry him farther from shore, out toward London Bay.
"Fuck me runnin'," said Jeff tiredly, and he dove into the water.
Toby was swept along by the out-bound tide, barely having the strength to keep his head above water. He was sure he would die out there and, in truth, he was nearly too exhausted to care. At least that way Jeff wouldn't get the satisfaction. As he was on the verge of giving up, he felt sand under his feet. He had, by some miracle, made it through the shipping lanes to wash up onto a small island near the mouth of London Bay.
As he got to his feet, he heard a splash behind him. There, standing thigh deep in the water, was Jeff. They faced each other for a moment, both gasping for breath. Jeff looked exhausted, but triumphant. Now there really was nowhere else to run.
A gurgling scream made itself heard, and a wave roughly deposited Jacob on the beach. Spitting out a mouthful of sand, he stood and moved to Toby's side.
"I finally have the both of you right where I want you," said Jeff. "No more games. It's time for you to die."
"I don't see how we're going to get out this one," said a voice to Toby's left. The three men stared in confusion. There, standing on the beach with Toby and Jacob, was a glowing blue ghost that looked like Matt.
"Matt? What are you doing here? How are you here?" asked Jacob.
"I didn't want to stop doing the show," answered Matt, before turning his attention to Jeff. Jacob and Toby followed suit. Jeff drew his knife and ran his thumb along the blade, his eyes fixed on Toby.
"It looks like the puffin's in the treacle this time, lads," Jacob said manfully. "It's been a pleasure knowing you."
As Jeff began his approach, Toby had an epiphany. "WAIT!" he roared, thrusting an arm out to point dramatically at the empty space nearly a meter and a half above Jeff's head. The others present chose to overlook Toby's blunder, except for Matt who loudly snort-laughed because he has no social graces. Toby continued speaking. "You can't kill us!"
"Why not?" asked Jeff.
"Because this is the Isle of Man!" Toby cried. Everyone stared at him nonplussed. Everyone, that is, except for Jeff.
"That doesn't mean a thing--" he began, but Toby interrupted.
"The Isle of Man has its own visa and passport requirements! You can't kill us because you can't enter! You don't have the documentation."
Jeff felt his strength leave him. Toby was right. The Isle of Man wasn't covered by his travel plan. Even so, he couldn't give up yet. He searched his memory for anything from the guidebook that could help him. "But the people of the Isle of Man are British citizens," he said in desperation. "The island and the the U.K. signed an agreement to that effect in 2007!"
"Yes, but the Isle of Man is a self-governing dependency," Toby responded victoriously. "Only people from the Common Travel Area can freely enter, and that doesn't include the United States!"
Jeff lowered his head, defeated. He was many things. A murderer. A monster. An international sex symbol. Possibly a demon who lives on the Internet. But he would never violate a country's sovereignty. He turned away and began to walk back into the water. He stopped at about waist deep and turned back, the fire in his eyes returning slightly. "I'll be watching you! If you ever leave this island, I'll be there. And there'll be no hiding from me next time!" With that, he began the long swim back to America.
Jacob, Toby and Matt stayed on the island from then on, subsisting on coconuts and crabs and whatever shipwreck survivors happened to wash ashore. They lived happily ever after as urban legends, the cannibals that stalked the Isle of Man. Except possibly for Matt because Parliament has never officially ruled on whether spooky ghosts count as human when it comes to criminal liability. He may just have been a man-eating cryptid. 
People began to avoid the island, except for the shipwreck victims who didn't have much choice in the matter.
And that's how the Isle of Man came to be known as the Isle of Wights.
Category:Trollpasta
Category:Satire
Category:Jeff the Killer
Category:MOTHER OF FUCK THIS PAGE IS LONG LIKE MY PAINIS
Category:Pages with grammar that doesn't suck
Category:Read by MichaelLeroi
Category:Featured Pastas
Category:Hall of Fame