“Mom, there’s someone under the bed.” You bend down and see your son there instead and he whispers “Mom that’s not me up there!” You take a step back when someone tugs your shirt. You turn, your son is in the closet asking “who are they?” You suddenly hear him calling from downstairs “Mommy?”
From writing prompts tumblr.
It’s Downstairs Son that makes you go, “wait, this is stupid,” and this destroys the glamour your bratty little housemate inflicted on you. It doesn’t stop the physical feelings of horror, it just lets your brain know that it’s being tricked. It’s a little embarrassing that it took you three iterations of “Mommy that’s not me” before you realized that you were being memed at by the fae child you’ve been friends with since you were a kid.
Despite the chills running up and down your spine at this extravagance of creepypasta you close your eyes and take a deep breath. Then you count backward from ten before saying, “I don’t have a son. I have a clutch of very silly bogles. What the heck, Joeys?” The dreamlike certainty of the creepypasta story fades and you open your eyes. Glittering, deep indigo bogle eyes stare back at you, unblinking from acorn faces. Your “son” is now three vaguely child-sized, child-shaped beings with curly white hair, wide-set eyes, noseless faces and thin-lipped mouths full of sharp teeth. You can hear quick footsteps up the stairs from the fourth member of the clutch.
“Awwww,” the little brat chorused in Creepy Unison.
Bogles aren’t really one of the more dangerous kinds of fae. They love scaring people, but their pranks aren’t usually malicious. (And it usually takes a lot to make a bogle turn nasty.) You’ve known this particular clutch since he hatched in your grandmother’s basement way back in middle school. (And followed you home after deciding you were The Most Fun Ever.) “Seriously?”
Actually, you aren’t that surprised. Most of Joey’s pranks were based in creepypasta internet ghost stories and horror movies. He was also a big fan of a bunch of ghost and paranormal websites as well. (For inspiration for their own pranks and “hauntings.”)
“We got you going though, right?” Joey on the bed asked.
“Exponentially ridiculous creepy pasta, very innovative,” you say dryly.
“Three was one too many?” Closet Joey asks with a sharp-toothed grin. He’d come around to sit by Bed Joey. Under the Bed Joey has pulled himself half way out from under the bed, and is lying on his back. Downstairs Joey is now at the bedroom door.
“One was one too many,” you tell him. “You know I have to get up early tomorrow. Did I really need to be woken up in the middle of the night by a meme?” You had a lot of errands to run, including some early gift shopping for the holidays.
“Technically, you were already awake,” Joey under the bed says.
“To go to the bathroom,” you tell him. “Now I’m very very awake, and if you were really my son, I’d be wondering if grounding you would be too harsh a punishment for messing with my head.”
The bogle clutch makes dismayed noises at that, a tangle of teasing apologies and protests. “You wouldn’t really do that,” Joey by the door says.
“Hah, try me,” you say, and retreat for the bathroom.
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