Solomonari:Fables/Tales/Familytale, Creepypasta, Fairytale
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//: [Lost In Memoriam Collection : Chapter 1, Familytale, Creepypasta, Fairytale]
SparkySlime1311 | 2/14/2026
Tales speak of endless stories, endless horrors existing preternaturally in the woods. From the scant whispers of a freak in the woods, to the abnormal skinwalker…to the more, urban. From the strange campfire tales of the Slenderman to the eerie folktales of the Rake…there were even the scant whispers of one Masked Neko, one that has been taking precedence in these very woods, even now.
It should also be known that tales speak too of the Karcists of old and their blood-craft; some understand them in various manners, from witches of the deep forestry, to ghoulish vampirism of ye olden age.
Such tales even extend far back from the woods of the Japanese to the ranges of the American, from the skinwalker to the wendigo. All possibilities lying in root of those of myth.
Yet, such tales are not to be our focus on these past grand eerie weeks, perhaps even months…
You remain still, even now. Are you not satisfied with the battle you’ve wrought?
That creepy- mimic, that was- it was-
Reminiscent…somehow…
Was killing it reminiscent? Fighting with family?
Yet, such tales have their beginning sourced from an origin point. Perhaps a tragedy, mayhaps even just that, a beginning.
And this, this tale of tragedy, interconnectedness, love; it begins not with the journey of a child so young, but instead a burgeoning family.
One such, betwixt two individuals, one everlasting in their youth and whimsy to the world at large…and the other? An explorer, some may even call them, an expeditioner.
Chapter 1 – the Child, the Roadtrip, the loss, Lhe Grief –
Or In Other Words: The Kidnapping Of A Jane Doe
On the faint hour of the early morning summer of the far past, a youth of the ages would be seen soon awakening. A child much like any other, a small specimen bearing potential unknown to most her age.
“Kayaaaaaaa!!!!! K.K, kiddo, breakfast’s ready!” The sudden shout of her father upstairs immediately roused the girl from slumber, from the deep unconsciousness of the dream, the mind both belonging to the young girl, yet one she had yet to grow wholly familiar. Yet nonetheless, she abstained herself from returning to the sinking depths of sleep. The shackles of anxiety biting at the far reaches of mind as the little one leaves from her covers, finding it within herself to throw on a simple set of clothes–a grey sweater top and pink slacks significantly torn, clothes that of course have yet to taste the sweet sensation of proper cleanliness, yet, the child wore them nonetheless.
“Ah there she is! Heya kiddo!” The sole father of the child, the man who despite his cheery disposition held an air about him suggesting tiredness beyond his years. Yet before the father, before the child as she stumbles into the kitchen, tired from early-morning grogginess, their energy instead quenched immediately at the sight of such a silver platter fit for royalty. A breakfast for champions…waffles, frosted with a glaze of butter and sugary cream–fit with a large glass of chocolate milk and a side glass of crispy cold water–enough to water the child’s mouth, her hunger thirst clear and evident.
“Well, eat up K.K! We’ve a whole day to take hold of!!!”,
“Papa…you mean a whole day ahead of us.” The child corrected in a tone groggy, full of after school weekend whimsy-drought, every mumbled word an attempted retort. The child of the house taking a seat, eating slow, enjoying yet another moment to spend with her father. Dear old padre.
“Heh, that we do? Ain’t we, K.K?” The father replies in that oh so whimsy-drenched tone of his, the tone of one whom the potential of a thousand successes flew by his mind daily, never to consider the one failure seeding doubt at the back of his mind. Mental trepidation. Yet, nevertheless, trepidation encountered, trepidation overcome.
Soon, soon, the child and the father would eventually vacate the house they claim residence following scant conversation regarding next week’s prospects and the reveal from the girl, tired as can be, of her upcoming group project.
“-and I’m the only one actually participating in the project…do I-” The girl, tired as can be, blinks away her heavyset eyelids only to find, a shift in environment. A shift in the surround silence replaced then with her father’s calm intonation.
“There she is! Ya drifted off to sleepytown, kiddo. Got the rest of the ya needed R&R?” The father, cheery as can be despite the clear injustice the girl attempted to make manifest. …Yet, “kiddo, don’t’cha worry nuthin’. We can talk ‘bout in length the idiocy of ya fellows out in them woods, alright? Clear the air to nature’s freshest!” The sudden sharpness to his words, the near-protective edge doused with the ol’ cheery charm. The father already out the car, girl soon to follow–smile renewed, a brighter expression to her face at his words, both the needed rest and needed uplifting vocal healing done wonders to her little anxious head.
“Ehehaha, alright papa! Vamos, vamos!!!” The girl’s cheerful sudden utterance, then barely 14, whom had already gotten a strong-armed grasp of the English lexicon, was batting for seconds, utilizing various media to consume upon herself the Spanish tongue. Something which was of much delight to the father, ignoring his own ancestry in Spain and the southern Americas, no, instead he was far more proud of her early intelligence. A fierce, witty developing mind which was beholden to the girl and beholden to the very green around them. The bushels of windswept trees, sunlit dew shining off of leaves moist from yesterday’s monsooning showers, the prior night a riptide of water logged mildew greenery.
“Que Suertudo soy de tener una hija tan inteligente…” An utterance, a whisper, a truth bore fruit to the whispering woods around them as they navigated past the sign marking their location off towards the graveled path, or, well…once graveled path.
“Mnnn, papa? Do you, uhm-” The girl, bereft of all nervousness that which was quickly replaced via the sight before them full of dripping concern. They had found a body.
“...Papa? What is- uhm, that?” Yet of course, the father, the good man of an untold year’s work keeping clerical certainty to his dear child’s protected mind. Yet, the girl to seeing the decomposed human-shaped mound on the distant moss could only rationalize the fact that something was wrong and that something was clearly, bothering, her father.
“It- It- is, just someone taking a nap K.K!...They just- they likely ended up-” For just a moment, in the glint of an overcast sun illuminating the most of a clearing in the green. He saw it. Surrounding the dead the blooming flowers of a fresh faerie circle. Opportunity presented before him on a mossy platter.
“They- ended up deep asleep! Deep, deep asleep, Kaya. Do you remember? The changeling myth? How they would-”
“Oh- OH! Oh, oh! Oh no no, no! The poor person’s stuck in the faerie circle then, papa! Mn, guess we can’t help them, can we?” To say the palpating relief that the father felt throughout not just the core of his being but his entirety was anything sudden, would be but a fool’s assumption. For the relief coursing through his very core like adrenaline shot through the veins was felt the instant the faerie flowers were noticed. Yet nonetheless, he allows himself an ease of composure in his success with averting his child’s purity, a sanctity slowly crumbling over the years yet nevertheless his sworn oath to protect.
“No we unfortunately cannot Kaya! For if one steps unto the circle of faerie flowers?...”
Then only, only then, will the bait be prepared. Right?
“...Papa? Papa!! Are you okayyy? You’re looking pale- oh! Hello!!!”
It wouldn’t be entirely foolish, nor would it be a fool’s assumption to say a myriad of confusion or oddities of the emotional or even logical variety would be assaulting the father of the child right this instant. A voice heard to a direction that the father heard and knew quite well, that there was no such persons. Yet here and now, in this very instant in these whispering blackened woods, stood a person nay – a persons, two bearing garish scarlet robing; a set of individuals whom despite their harmful disposition suggested an otherwise inviting nature.
Please. Continue that fantastic story! We only just arrived to hear it.
“Oh- Papa! Papa, they’re speaking in that uhm- gobbeeel-deeeh-guuuk language you used to talk to me in!!! Papa, papa, do you know-”
“...Ustedes verdaderamente estan aqui para escuchar una historia? tu y tu gente carnosa?”
This, such a proclamation before the “flesh people”, before the red robed betrothed to Nälkän strangers before the father and child. Such a proclamation causes yet little reaction, except, for a smile. A seedy, small smile spread wide over the shadowed hooded face of the persons before the two. Then, from one of them, a faint noise of sorts…a building of air, wretched, wretched gulps of air that are quickly realized as laughter. They were laughing at him. They were laughing at his very words. They thought him weak. They thought him amusing.
My my, is that how you wish it to be ‘Dave’? Father of ‘Kayana’? Husband to ‘Mark-
“...Papa? Who’s “Mark”? I thought you didn’t like talking about-”
“...”
Any further utterances, words, potential promises, threats, or deals composed for the days overmorrow were all cast for nought. The father, the man spoken of “Dave”, hears naught but static. Not to say that his hearing’s been drowned out, no, but more that his focus has been cast to the wayside; his very mind walking the plank for daring to re-encounter the past.
How truly, truly understated it is to finally be face to face, ‘Kayana’. Apologies undoubtedly we must profess for this sudden intrusion to what is likely a family outing ‘twixt you two. But-
“Since when did y’all get the clearance to be near my Kaya?”
He, the father, takes a singular step, hand crossed in front of his dearest child’s eyes as he stares affront to the robed persons. A wordless gesture, a simple crossing of the fingers and gesticulation suggesting clearly to the girl her resolute destination yet she risks padre’s ire; get in the car. And so, she turns and makes little time, quick as can be.
Oh? …Folly the opportunity, falling so simply from our grasp. Yet, ‘Dave’, you fail to see it upon yourself the matter so simply before you. Unless?
The smile dressed so plainly upon the persons’ faces remains stagnant, no matter its tattered state in emotional hesitation as the father glances once, yet then twice upon an impossibility. Once, his daughter’s body lay bare; consumed almost entirety from the shoes to the chest in vegetation, expression vacant, inky black puddles of soulless dark for eyes. Yet second, his daughter, his most precious walking clear to the car as ordered…
Yet, aside the clear hallucination of the matter, yet a second concern lays bear upon his immediate instinct to give chase, his first heavy footfall ceased upon the immediate sighting of something utterly horrendous in the green first before him then yet surrounding the decaying body of the child.
Faerie flowers, those disgusting mixture of plantlife seeded so plainly. Both in circlet right before his outstepped left foot, and the larger ring constraining his enrooted daughter’s cadaver.
The next few instances, the next minutiae of the following actions that he would take were all shrouded in a slurry of white hot. Blinding emotions.
He first rushed past the circles of plantlife, every instinct screaming at him otherwise as he crushes the flowers surrounding his daughter’s corpus; that which he grabs at – finding little resistance as he pulls free, getting nary a breath or shout as he barrels towards what he presumes to be the fake. Only-
For his lights to go out, as the very world around him goes an eerie black. The very last thing he sees before being knocked out are a snapshot of sequences:
- The slow upturning grin on the face of his daughter’s double, as she slowly turns ‘round and stares to him…what was already a confirmation in his mind turning to slow confusion at the oddly quick turn from smug cheer to almost pitiful fear–gaze far past the father’s to something far, far distant and behind the man.
- A roar. A shout. A scream. A cry of something so vaguely human, yet almost distinct enough to imply its erroneous difference.
- The simple fact that the pain he felt as the world went dark spread as quick as it did ‘cross his body. In a singular instant he went from convicted, determined even, to…burning all over. Nerves on fire as if every spot of skin on his body was being ripped to shreds.
Yet, what was infinitely more strange than all…was that after he slowly regained the capability to blink, panic, and then regain full comprehension of the sight before him. Was the very fact that he could see at all.
And what he saw, would rather make a man wish for death right quick then and there than deal with the hell that he had awoken to; it was like every patch of greenery was set ablaze. He had somehow made it to his car, and was currently by his best estimate crumpled hard against the passenger side door of the vehicle, safe from the upsettingly close forest inferno that he had the displeasure of experiencing. And even worse? His daughter, both of them, were missing.
Not only the fact that his only reason for persisting in this world was M.I.A, the infinitely more concerning element was the blood. Oh the blood…the sanguine paint lining his arms like a dot painting, incomplete splatters running down both limbs like he’d stuck the appendages into a bathtub full of the stuff.
Just what was the father meant to do? Stand? As he even attempted to do so he quickly finds that in whatever occurred between his unwarranted nap and the world ablaze, his legs were apparently broken! How lovely. Just how wonderful this very situation was; hell - why wasn’t he dead-
And that’s when he felt it. The headache.
That oh so painful, cloudy headache. So upsettingly uncomfortable, worse than the worst migraine he’s ever had- so damned painful that his vision goes static. He pukes. He groans. He wipes his lips with dirt-caked fingers-
“So he lives. Spanish Mc Father Fuckerface.”
A crass, rough voice sounding like it belongs to both a chainsmoker yet also someone fairly young alerts the father to the presence of two distinct individuals before him. Well, technically three. Standing- or well, crouching, before him was seen an individual dressed in greased dark slacks and a horrendously stained white hoodie. His hair so shaggy, jet black and long that most of his face was difficult to discern; but what was discernible was…offputting, the only clean attire worn by the boy-a stainless medical mask restraining his mouth, and a butcher knife. Said knife held utmost casual, like one would wear a watch or hold a flashlight. And the other? A woman, bearing fairly plain forestry attire–the only…unique…aspect of her character being a clockface almost sewn in place of her eye. Of which…her eyes were, glowing, somehow?
“Where is she-”
“Where do ya think mate? Likely dead-”
“Ey- EY- FUCKING SHUT IT- LET ME DO THE-”
The two…intimidating? Figures above the father almost immediately start squabbling as the father props himself up. Despite the pain of putting pressure on what’s likely broken bones, broken everything, it does allow himself the opportunity to peer into the ceaseless inferno. Staring deep into the forestry to see the shadow of a quickly moving shape. A figure, a black blur that almost appears to react to his gaze by ceasing in movement. It is only then upon himself does eerie trepidation creep down his spine like early morning chicken pox. A pair of red, threatening eyes glow from the woods, a pair of almost catlike ears stand sharp and at attention atop the fluffy hair of the rather strange looking intimidating woman. Yet interestingly, the father’s gaze upon the red-eyed woman didn’t just seem to draw her own attention-
“EY- YOU FUCK- LOOK AT ME, gaze upon me and IGNORE her ignore all of this you gringo Mc Fuckfa-”
“Jeff. Let’s go at this in turns, eh? Look’it this mans his legs are broken!”
“Yet he’s related to those freaks that she’s cleaning up! Aren’t all those pissants sucking Nalky dick-”
“Nälkän. Now- where is she-”
“Nalky Nakaka Na- NAH- WHO GIVES A SHIT?! Hehe–ahahahaha-ahahah- you’re about to die! We’re about to make you so damn beautiful and pretty~, SO SHUT UP!”
“...guess we ain’t doing the whole good cop bad co-”
The two… rather quickly resume their squabbling routine. So much so to the point that they lose sight of the father, who quietly scoots away–understanding right quick that the two who are attempting to appear intimidating…just, aren’t. If anything they appeared more immature than bloodthirsty. Taking note of that simple, distinct measure of their character despite their rampant insanity…he attempts to crawl away further, stumbling upwards to find purchase on his legs bearing far more strength than he’d given them credit for bearing; yet it bears little fruit. For whatever movement he tries, what escape attempt he seeks…
It is never reminiscent to fight with family. You know this well. Family is far from what you reminisce, Family is the route of pain.
Even now, you cast aside pain. Cast aside blame. Cast aside reason, cast aside doubt. You are far from one to sow seeds; so why think of yourself to the past you threw away to the now? Here. Embedded upon this fetid wretch that took upon the form of your companion?
It is all I know. Family is pain adrift, cast overboard in the roaring tempest-
My Family, is err un suffering. It is all I know to dwell in it. You have stated as much.
Yet, Sparky. You forget yourself. Do you not remember what you saw in that man’s eyes on that day when the forest blazed eternal? That day when you snuffed not only the light from a genuine person’s being but their child and the doppel that was created? You are-
I am the cause. I am the provider. I am the substance abuser of the buzz that is nostalgic pain and suffering. It is my supple meat and drink. My ends that the means justify.
All I know. Is my own folly, that which is mine own desire.
For it is all I know.
For it is all I am.
Yet forget you not. You are both the enemy, yet too are you your own ally. Are you not? I’m still here, after all. Your, “Dad”.
…If one forgets but all the self that appears in the mirror, that all recollect upon them as that person that they themselves no longer recount as who they understand that self as them to be. Would that not be as akin to selfsame death?
To err. To ponder. To weep. To sonder. Yet, you remain atrociously violent. You were reborn under that red sun, yet, you still retain a desire seeded by, “Dad”. You still retain that shred of what is, what was, what will, what always shall be.
Id ego permanente. Then I must kill the thing I see before the mirror. Claim myself fiercely as “Me”, not just before, “Dad”, but before reality’s eye. To prudence.
…is but swiftly denied by that prior blackish blur. That same feeling of his body entirely alight enflamed. That same prior feeling of beady red glowing eyes upon his visage.
And that’s when yet again. His headache got worse.
The static in his mind the migraine so profound, that he stumbles, barely recognizing the suited in black-ish garb anomaly faceless freak standing aside the girl whose hands were lined bloody with broken glass. Another molotov freshly produced clasped tight in her grip as he stared dazedly at all this. At- …at the figure held clasp in the tall man’s grasp, it was his daughter; not the doppel not the fake, the dirt trailing her body and roots caked in her hair spoke enough of the truth. With a shout shattering glass against the unstable pain of his mind he lurches forward-
Only for his world to darken in entirety, one final time.
Then forever it be shall. To wit.
Then forever I shall endlessly apologize for mine prudence. To wit.
And forever shall more stories, more tales evermore be whispered among these blackened woods. The stories of a Masked Stalker in feline drape would of course continue from this. From the disappearance of the original proxies, to the stories of the Slender reduced to just that. Stories.
…Yet I ask thee but just this. What happens when the reality of a situation. When a child torn from their parent torn from their family are either forgotten, reduced to simplistic urban myth, or even reduced to slurry in the cog of a fleshy machine? But of course. What a silly question, is it not? Life moves on.
Yet betwixt these stories, yet forevermore folly to the pains of these novel’d experiences before the reader you I and every other peering eye can scry; what matters does it truly concern the difference between the fictional and the real?
What difference does it make if one such story of a father and his dearest kid happen upon the unthinkable? What difference does it make when the number of lives lost ‘ere onward reality are outweighed by the lives attained yearly?
Life moves on. Yet, there is but one critical difference clear that separates the fictional from the non. Yes, it is but that simple separation of the tangible to the fantastical; the thin line of creativity, the wall between Gods and their apostle.
The medium.
The format of which the tale, the experience, the art piece, the song, the feeling attains an iota of life to it’s lonesome. …So let me instead say but this dear reader.
Let me instead offer upon you the ponderance of the very thing, of the life of the fictional. Of the given reality we abstain from scrutiny absolute in our pursuit to suspend our current plight. An escapism, a reprieve. …One that will soon be ending.
As is the unfortunate truth to every tale, the unfortunate reality of it all.
That is the mere entropy of creativity.
That is, to say, for now,
The End.