The following story, originally credited to user perfectcircle35, is a first-person recollection of a dark and horrifying encounter the author claims to have experienced when he was only five years old… an encounter he now says he’s fortunate to have survived.
The author recalls having a rather unsettled early childhood, partially due to his family’s frequent relocation. This nomadic existence finally resolved itself when he was eight, when they settled down in Rhode Island; he remained there for many years, finally departing in his late teens to attend college out of state.
He admits most of his memories from the years before Rhode Island are a bit fuzzy, as he was still very young at the time… but one particularly bizarre incident, which he claims to remember with absolute clarity, continues to haunt him into his adult life; something so horrible his mind is still attempting to process it decades later.
It began the day after his fifth birthday, during a sudden onset of illness which he admits might have caused fever-dream-like hallucinations. But one specific event stands out among them — a chilling, bizarre encounter he still maintains actually happened.
That was the night he claims to have met the creature named “Mister Widemouth.”
According to his story (which has since been chronicled by Creepypasta.com and the Creepypasta Wiki), the author and his parents were living in a large older house in the outskirts of New Vineyard, Maine, when he was struck with mononucleosis the day after his fifth birthday.
His life was already undergoing another upheaval at the time, as his parents were preparing for a move to Pennsylvania, and most of his personal possessions were packed away in boxes. It was a lot for a five-year-old mind to process… but that was just the beginning.
Confined to his bed for several weeks, the boy’s imagination often drifted into flights of fancy… but during that time, he distinctly remembers being visited by a small, furry talking creature which he first thought was a Furby (the fuzzy talking robots were popular at the time, and he wondered if his mother might have decided to surprise him with one as a gift, to cheer him up while he was bed-ridden).
But when Mr. Widemouth spoke to him, he claimed not to know what a Furby was. He said he was no mere toy, but “a real friend.”
He managed to prove this by staying by the author’s side for several days, reading his books and making idle conversation… at least until the boy’s mother came to check on him, during which time Mr. Widemouth would hide under the bed.
“I don’t want your parents to see me,” the new “friend” explained, “because I’m afraid they won’t let us play anymore.”
The author never clarified what kind of games he played with Mr. Widemouth, except he did mention two specific “secret” games — the first of which the creature offered to teach him once the boy’s mother left the room.
“We have to go to the room at the end of this hallway,” the creature said, and despite the sick child’s protests, he finally convinced him to visit the room, which was now unfurnished and empty in preparation for the move. The only feature was a large window… which Mr. Widemouth pushed open.
He invited the boy to take a look outside, and gaze down at the ground far below (the room was on the second floor, and a steep hill made the drop even further).
“I like to play pretend up here,” the creature said. “I pretend there is a big, soft trampoline below this window, and I jump. If you pretend hard enough, you bounce back up like a feather.” He then encouraged the boy to try this “game” himself.
Even in the haze of his illness, the author knew it would be a bad idea… at least until he’d had a chance to recover fully. Mr. Widemouth looked angry at first… but eventually seemed to give up, returning to his hiding place beneath the author’s bed.
The next day, his new “friend” offered to teach him a different game… which apparently involved juggling several very sharp kitchen knives.
The boy protested even stronger this time — not only frightened of the dangerous blades, but of his parents’ reaction if they found out he was keeping a box of knives in his room.
Mr. Widemouth was now growing visibly irritated, but finally relented again and returned to his hiding place, taking the box of knives with him.
In the nights to come, the strange visitor became more threatening, continually trying to convince the boy to perform dangerous tricks and stunts. He had taken to whispering suggestions for more “games” in the author’s ear late at night, making it more and more difficult to sleep.
A while later, the author’s mother finally allowed him to go outside for a short while, thinking fresh air and sunlight would do him good. He immediately felt better, exploring their large back yard… that is, until he encountered Mr. Widemouth at the edge of the dense woods bordering their property.
“I have something I want you to see,” the creature told him. “It’s safe, I promise.”
What he showed him was the beginning of a narrow dirt trail, winding through the trees and disappearing into the thick growth beyond.
“This is an important path,” Mr. Widemouth explained. “I’ve had a lot of friends about your age. When they were ready, I took them down this path, to a special place. You aren’t ready yet, but one day, I hope to take you there.”
Weeks passed, and the author finally recovered. Mr. Widemouth made a few more appearances, but seemed less interested in teaching him “games,” and instead just sat on the bed, quiet and calm.
When it came time for the family to move, the author decided not to tell his secret “friend,” and instead focused his mind on the upcoming destination. He was comforted a little by his father’s assurances that this move would be more permanent (thanks to his new job promotion), and that they could settle down properly from now on.
On moving day, the author caught one last glimpse of Mr. Widemouth, framed in his bedroom window — the creature looked clearly saddened by the boy’s departure, and gave a meek wave goodbye.
That seemed to be the end of that surreal experience… until many years later, when the author, now a young man, felt a strange compulsion to visit his former home in New Vineyard. When he got there, he found the charred remains of what was once their house, surrounded by scorched trees and overgrown with weeds.
But the trail Mr. Widemouth had shown him long ago was still there… so the author decided to see where it led.
It ended in an open grove… which happened to be the site of the New Vineyard Memorial Cemetery.
Even through his growing terror, the author could see nearly all the grave markers belonged to children — most of whom had died between the ages of six and ten.
He left New Vineyard immediately, and presumably has never returned.