Plunge into Penpal, a chilling short horror story from the eerie depths of creepypasta horror that weaves a tale of childhood stalker dread. This Penpal creepypasta traces a boy’s fragmented memories of a mysterious penpal, unraveling a disturbing correspondence mystery through balloons, letters, and photos that reveal a sinister truth.
With its creeping tension and devastating revelations, Penpal captivates fans of internet horror mysteries seeking a descent into terror.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: The Balloon’s Journey
In a quiet suburban town, I was six, a curious kid with messy hair, always exploring with my best friend, Josh. Our kindergarten class launched a memory project, releasing balloons with tags tied to notes, each asking for a penpal to write back. Mine was a red balloon, floating high above the park, carrying my name and our school’s address.
Weeks later, a letter arrived, scrawled in shaky handwriting, describing a white house near a play structure, a green slide, and a creek lined with weeds. It felt oddly familiar, like the sender knew my neighborhood. I called them D, excited, and wrote back, my words wobbly, mentioning my treehouse, our climbing tree, and Mrs. Maggie, the neighbor’s tabby cat.
More letters came, each stranger, D describing my backyard, the old shed behind our house, even the red coat I wore to the park. Mom helped me reply, her smile fading as the envelopes piled up, all with no return address, just a local postmark. Josh, whose blue balloon got no reply, loved reading D’s words in our treehouse, laughing at phrases like “I see you play.”
But I felt a chill, the letters too specific, mentioning Mrs. Maggie sunning on the fence, or my sneakers by the creek. One night, I woke to a flashlight beam sweeping the backyard, its light grazing my window. I froze, heart pounding, but it vanished, leaving only shadows. Mom called it a neighbor’s prank, but I dreamed of a shadowy figure by the white house, its gaze heavy, unblinking.
Josh and I made a map in the treehouse, pinning places D mentioned—park, play structure, climbing tree, old shed.
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Chapter 2: The Cat Vanishes
First grade brought new games, but D’s letters grew unsettling, describing my red coat sliding down the green slide, my sneakers muddy from the creek, the weeds where Josh and I built forts. I wrote back, thrilled, asking if D lived near the white house or saw Mrs. Maggie prowling the neighborhood.
The replies came faster, the handwriting messier, mentioning my treehouse naps, the old shed’s creaking door, even my stuffed bear on my bedroom shelf. Mom’s eyes narrowed, checking the envelopes—no return address, just our town’s postmark. She called the post office, but they had no answers. Josh and I added pins to our map, marking play structure, creek, fence, feeling D’s presence like a shadow.
One morning, Mrs. Maggie was gone, her food bowl untouched, her collar missing. We searched the neighborhood, calling her name, checking the creek, the weeds, the park. A letter from D arrived, chilling: “I took Mrs. Maggie. She’s with me, purring on a red blanket.” My chest tightened, tears stinging as I showed Mom.
She called Sheriff Green, who searched but found no trace—no fur, no paw prints. I wrote to D, begging for Mrs. Maggie’s return, my hands shaking. The reply was brief: “She’s mine now, safe.” Josh and I sat in the treehouse, rereading the letters, the childhood stalker dread sinking deeper, D’s words no longer a game.
That night, the flashlight beam returned, sweeping the backyard, lingering on my window. I hid under my blankets, heart racing, the shadowy figure from my dreams too close, its presence heavy. Mom locked the doors, added curtains.
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Chapter 3: Tracks in the Mud
Second grade was tense, D’s letters relentless, detailing my red coat on the green slide, my sneakers by the creek, the old shed where Josh and I hid during hide-and-seek. Our map in the treehouse was crowded, pins at park, play structure, white house, climbing tree. Mom kept every letter, her hands trembling, showing them to Sheriff Green, who shrugged—no return address, no crime, just a strange penpal.
But Mrs. Maggie’s absence lingered, her food bowl dusty, and I felt D’s eyes in the weeds, the flashlight beam haunting my nights, sweeping the backyard.
One morning, Josh found footprints in the backyard—large, uneven, bare feet pressed deep in the mud, leading from the old shed to my window. We showed Mom, who paled, calling Dad home from work. The footprints were fresh, no sneakers, too big for a kid, circling the fence. Sheriff Green took casts, but no matches, no suspects.
D’s next letter chilled me: “I stood by your window. You were sleeping, red blanket pulled high.” I froze, the flashlight beam vivid, the childhood stalker dread suffocating. Josh and I checked the map, every pin a place I’d been—park, creek, play structure—D’s words mirroring my life, too close, too real.
We stopped playing outside, the creek and park off-limits, the treehouse abandoned. Mom installed locks on the windows, but I saw the shadowy figure in dreams, tall, silent, by the white house, its gaze heavy. A new letter described my bedroom—the stuffed bear’s position, the red blanket’s fold, the curtains’ gap.
I stopped writing back, but D persisted. Its disturbing correspondence mystery a weight I couldn’t shake, tying me to a shadow that never left.
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Chapter 4: The Library Encounter
By third grade, I was nine, the Penpal letters a constant fear, each one detailing my school hallways, the library where I read with Josh, the green slide where we whispered about D. The map in the treehouse was a web of dread, pins marking creek, park, old shed, white house, climbing tree.
Mom stored the letters in a locked box, her face pale, but Sheriff Green found no clues—no return address, no fingerprints, just words that knew too much. Mrs. Maggie’s food bowl sat empty, and I felt D’s presence in the weeds, the flashlight beam piercing my window at night.
One afternoon, Josh and I went to the library, searching for books on stalkers, our map hidden in my backpack. A man approached—tall, pale, in a hooded jacket, his face shadowed, eyes hidden. He dropped a photo by my chair, a blurry shot of me on the play structure, my red coat bright, my sneakers dangling.
“Tell D I said hi,” he rasped, his voice low, then vanished into the stacks. I grabbed the photo, my heart racing, and showed Josh, who paled, urging me to run. We told Mom, who called Sheriff Green, but the library’s cameras were broken, the man gone. D’s next letter mentioned the photo: “You looked scared in the park. I was so close.”
We abandoned the park, the creek, the treehouse, staying inside, the neighborhood no longer safe. Mom installed a security system, curtains drawn tight, but footprints reappeared in the backyard, circling the fence, bare and deep in the mud. D wrote of my bedroom—the stuffed bear’s tilt, the red blanket’s texture, the window’s faint creak.
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Chapter 5: The Chase in the Woods
At ten, I was consumed by fear, D’s letters relentless, describing my school routes, the green slide’s rust, the creek’s muddy banks where Josh and I once played. The map in the treehouse was a shrine, pins at white house, old shed, play structure, climbing tree.
Josh and I, desperate to find D, snuck to the woods near the creek, our flashlights shaking, the weeds crunching underfoot. A flashlight beam flickered ahead, not ours, and we hid behind a pine tree, hearts pounding. A shadowy figure moved—tall, in a hooded jacket, carrying a box, its contents rattling softly.
A photo fell from the box, fluttering to the ground—me, asleep in my bedroom, my red blanket crumpled, my stuffed bear beside me. Josh gasped, and the figure turned, its face hidden, then bolted deeper into the woods. We chased, branches snapping, the creek’s gurgle masking our steps, but the figure vanished, leaving only the photo. We ran home, the photo clutched tight, proof of D’s violation.
Mom called Sheriff Green, who searched the woods but found no box, no footprints, no trace. D’s next letter was chilling: “You shouldn’t have followed me in the woods. I see you always, near the white house.”
We moved to a new house, hoping to escape, but the letters followed, no return address, describing our new backyard, the fence’s slats, the weeds growing wild. The flashlight beam returned, sweeping the new window, the shadowy figure a constant in my dreams.
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Chapter 6: The Truth Unearthed
At twenty, I was haunted, the Penpal letters a scar from childhood, their words etched in my mind—red coat, green slide, creek, white house. Josh and I, now distant, returned to our old town, the neighborhood unchanged, the park quiet, the play structure rusted.
We visited the white house, now abandoned, its old shed crumbling, weeds choking the fence. Inside the shed, we found a box—tattered, filled with letters, photos of me, Josh, Mrs. Maggie, my red blanket, my stuffed bear. A note from D: “I never left you, not once.”
We took the box to Sheriff Green, now retired, his face lined with guilt. He admitted D was real—a drifter, obsessed, seen near the creek, the park, the white house, but vanished after our move.
The photos were his, taken with a stolen camera, the letters his fixation, the flashlight beam his nightly ritual. No arrests, no justice, just a shadowy figure who slipped away. The map we’d made, the treehouse pins, the footprints—all proof of D’s pursuit, the childhood stalker dread a truth we couldn’t escape.
