123

Ms. Kelleny sobbed wretchedly as she realized her mistake. "Oh god, I'm sorry, officers! I'm just... Just so lost for explanation!"
Sheriff Doogud and Sargeant Madsen paused in their interrogation to let the daycare owner calm down. They both knew she could have had no idea of what was going to happen, but now time was of the essence to fix everything before it was too late.
"He just... Just stopped by the playground, called out... Called out '123 for a loving father', and just... Took the boy in his car! He would trust anyone... I knew I should have watched the kids better! Oh god, that poor, poor child!"
Doogud was stoic as he listened to the grieving caretaker. "We need to start a manhunt right away. Did you see what direction the car drove away in?"
Ms. Kelleny gestured towards the distant outskirts of the city before breaking down again. Doogud had an idea where to start searching, and he turned to his deputy. "Take my squad car and go door-to-door. Use the sirens. You'll have backup in a jiffy."
Madsen understood what he had to do. Turning, he ran back to the vehicle and went to throw open the door.
"Madsen," came the voice of the sheriff. The officer turned and met the calculating gaze of the experienced lawman, standing with his back to a darkening horizon. He nodded towards him. "Make your first day on the job worthwhile."
The rookie returned the gesture and slipped into the driver's seat, the words "Borough of Robloxity" printed on the side of the automobile. Within moments he left the parking lot of the daycare, driving past the police barricades and speeding through the residential streets, a wailing noise relaying the grim urgency of the situation.
"This is a nice house, Mr. Michael." Luke said as he looked around the living room. The wallpaper and carpet were a bright white, but the furniture a contrasting grey. "Can I swim in the river soon like you promised?"
The tall, older Robloxian laughed to himself from behind. "We'll see, buddy. It looks like the clouds are gathering for a rain shower, so get yourself settled in and make yourself at home first."
The young boy ran to the large black sofa and hopped up. "Can I watch TV?" he asked eagerly.
"Go right ahead," Michael replied. He watched as his "adopted son" picked up the remote on the coffee table and flipped on the power. "The cartoon channel is 45," he added.
What showed up on-screen made the color disappear from his face momentarily in dread. Channel 16 was the local news, and he caught the words "AMBER ALERT" scrolling across while a female anchor was reading in mid-sentence. "but what we don't know is where exactly the two of them could have gone."
Michael said nothing as he looked anxiously at Luke, searching for the buttons on the remote, and pressing slowly. 4. "He doesn't have a registered household, so he could be anywhere, either downtown--" 5. The picture changed to an animated dragon trying to pitch a tent. A sigh of relief escaped. The boy had no idea.
"Uh," Michael spoke up. "I'm going to go take a quick walk outside." Luke's eyes were glued to the television. "Can you stay here and be good for a second?"
"Okay."
Wordlessly Michael left through the front door, down the patio steps and strolling around to the right. A fence separated the lawns to the neighboring home. Casually he stretched his legs to see over the top of it. The couple that lived there was supposed to be on vacation, but he couldn't be too sure. Reaching the back, he approached the dock and looked up at the overcast sky starting to move in from the direction of the city, and down at the expanse of dull blue water flowing to the east. In his mind, Michael steeled himself. Today, a twisted dream would be complete.
Shortly after, he stood looking through the window in the back door. It was another way into the kitchen, which was past the living room if you were to enter from the patio. Luke was still watching the screen, and Michael could see him rocking back and forth a little bit as he laughed while the dragon accidentally knocked over the tent with his tail.
Michael went in quietly. He had oiled the hinges the other day. He intentionally left the door open behind him and slid out of sight around the corner, sneakers softly tapping on the linoleum.
On the stove was the knife.
He had no idea when he had snapped. He wouldn't call it going insane, but it was more like a realization of a long-held hatred. The world hated Michael, and Michael hated the world. He would do his deed to express the evil that he held in his heart, and the knife was the instrument to help him satisfy his yearning to finally spill blood.
He gently handled the knife, practically hearing the glimmer of light flash off of the serrated steel and climb up to the tip with a beautiful, dangerous glow. He clutched it in his right hand, trying not to shake too much. Pointing towards the ground, arm raising, trembling, into a stabbing position. He became conscious of the dull throb of his heartbeat. The deep, powerful pulse that drove him to murder.
Within moments he was crossing linoleum again. Once he reached the carpet, his legs suddenly felt trapped in quicksand. The couch where Luke sat oblivious to his presence seemed to move farther away. With unnaturally slow, agonizing steps he crept closer, his pulse racing out of control. There was a brief sensation within him that made him feel faint, and he stumbled over his own feet. The sofa reared forward to meet him.
Michael gripped the back of the headrest with such force that Luke had to have felt it. In that second, the boy turned his head and Michael's arm automatically fell forward faster than either of the two could perceive it.
Michael was then suddenly aware of two things: a deafening shriek that coursed through his head and down his body, and the sickening crunch that came with the piercing, the warping, and splitting of plastic. For a surreal and almost photographic instant, time stood still for Michael to take in everything in grotesque detail. Luke's right shoulder collapsing inward with the force of the blow, the orange school jacket suddenly bubbling with crimson, the knife disappearing into the body of the victimized Robloxian.
"OWWWWW-HOW-HOW-HOW!" came a second wind of screaming from Luke. He pulled away from the blade, tearing open a wound that reached all the way down to the side of his sternum. He toppled backwards over the coffee table, writhing all the way down to the floor and coating the furniture in red.
Michael was completely enveloped in the moment. He vaulted the couch in a surge of adrenaline, bounding over the table with all of the intensity of a crazed killer. Luke was wailing in pain as his foster father engaged him, clutching hopelessly at the gape in his side. Michael knelt heavily over the boy, wildly swinging the knife as an undersized arm tried desperately to knock away the weapon. Each frantic thrust was met with another anguished cry, another hole in Luke's chest, and more blood painting both of their bodies in a slippery pool of fluid.
After several additional attacks, one stab plunged especially deep into Luke's stomach, resulting in not so much of a scream to be heard, but more of a strangled, weakened gag for help. Michael wrenched away at the knife, finding it stuck in the mangled plastic. He roared as it came free with an audible pop, and went sailing clumsily out of his grasp behind him, cutting a gash into his hand that further burned his aching limbs. A string of thin cube-shaped entrails spread out across the destroyed torso underneath him, a mess of morbidly colored pink and orange.
In his rage, finding himself weaponless, Michael beat away at the face of the boy, belaboring it with his limp hands, numbed from the effort, before switching to his damp forearms. He gasped in exertion with each blow, mindlessly fighting a dead body.
For a time he continued to throw punch after punch until his senses took control again. Choking sobs escaped Michael's throat as he stared into the sightless eyes of his young assailant, colored maroon where the white should be. His own vision unclouded and he began to hear sounds again. The sounds of the cartoon dragon laughing along with the words of a song. The sounds of sirens.
He should have finished the murder faster. The screams went on for far too long. He figured there wasn't even enough time to carry the remains to the dock and throw them into the river, or wait for the rain to wash away the stains.
Almost to prove the failure of his plan, a crash was heard towards the front of the house. "MICHAEL SCOTTS!" shouted a male.
Michael staggered to his feet, realizing that all over his shirt and dripping down his legs and arms was the shimmering, coppery-smelling evidence that would ensure his conviction. He hobbled around the corner to the hallway, where he faced a uniformed Robloxian silhouetted in the doorframe.
Too weak to form any words, Michael tried to step forward, but this time the quicksand didn't let him budge. He tripped forward, startling the figure on the other end of the corridor. He heard a noise that took away his hearing and made him slump to his knees. His right shoulder felt like it was ablaze, then the burning sensation spread to his chest and then finally to his abdomen. Just as soon as he realized there were three holes littering his body, they disappeared in a red mist that darkened his vision forever.
Sargeant Madsen couldn't stop his hands from shaking until at last he reloaded his gun. Keeping his weapon trained on the unmoving Robloxian that collapsed against the wall, he edged his way further into the household, aware of the overpowering stench of blood and the sound of giggling coming from around the corner, accompanied by a low roll of thunder outside.
He beheld the sight of the living room, a crimson film over the couch, table, and carpet. Giving into the sensations of his feet sinking into the floor below him, the deputy fell on all fours, and with mortifying realization, knew he had arrived too late.
Category:Bad Creepypasta
Category:Roblox
Category:Pages with grammar that doesn't suck
Category:Pointless Violence