Yes, this is the suicide hotline Creepypasta by JEN4 (I OWN COPYRIGHT)

by JEN4216

When you call anyone, a family member, a friend, etc. How do you know they are who they say they are? How do you know that kind voice coming threw wire and satellite isn't hiding a deeper, darker entity? Something that makes people afraid. Something that remains unknown in the shadows? No one would suspect this person as a killer. They never have before. (based on true events)

PLEASE NOTE: IF YOU WANT TO MENTION OR USE THIS PASTA IN SOME WAY GIVE ME CREDIT AND ASK FIRST! DO NOT STEAL! I HAVE A COPYRIGHT AND I WILL REPORT THOSE WHO DON'T FOLLOW INSTRUCTIONS! THANK YOU AND ENJOY!

A/N: This is based off of true events (told to me by the Vintage News) I can't even think right now (just heard) I legit would have spit taken (is that how you say it?) if I was drinking, XD ENJOY!

The phone rings. But that's it's job here. One call may signal the saving of a life. Or not, in some cases.

I reach out, taking it in my hand before telling the caller on the other end, "Yes, this is the suicide hotline-" "I need help." A man, clearly having finished crying seconds before calling, says to me. I nod, sitting up in my chair, "Don't worry, sir, I'm here to help. What seems to be the trouble?" "I just want to die," he tells me, "I want it to all end." "What made you feel this way, Mr...?" "Collins, Jacob Collins," he tells me before explaining in a slightly hysterical voice, "My wife left me last week, she took everything, I'm staying in an apartment. I just miss her so much, I can't think without her. Why? Why would she do this? 13 years together and she does THIS!" The man lets out a sob into the phone.

"Women are... like that at times..." I explain, then go back to work, "Mr. Collins, no woman is worth taking your life. No one is, and nothing is. This is what you call 'reaction depression'. Life is beating you down right now, but that doesn't mean it should end. It will get better, Jacob. Besides," I say, "The thing isn't there are lot of 'fish in the sea', it's that there is one out there who will be better to you than Mrs. Collins ever could be." He sniffed a little and then said "Maybe. She's just Carolyn now, Carolyn Parker... Maybe you're right." I lean forward again, I do when getting into something like this and knowing I'm winning, and say "I know I'm right, and deep down, you do, too."

I stay on the phone with Mr. Collins for another 20 minutes, but I feel confident after the phones are put down that he's going to be okay. I studied phycology, that is why this is a good position for me. I know the mind. I looked up at the clock, seeing it was 17 minutes past my work hours, but who really cares? I don't. I have plans, but they're for later tonight..

I walk into the hallway, spotting Ann, one of my favorite co workers, walking to the door, coat and bag filling her hands. "Hey, Ann!" I say, jogging a little to make up for the past distance. She smiles the bright one that welcomes me every night leaving work and says, "Oh, Ted, nice to see you!" I smiled, opening and holding the door for her. It's so dark out here I always make sure she gets to her car. Not out of attraction or hormones, because she's a nice person, and one who I call friend.

"How was it today?" She asks, I tell her it was slow and a little about Mr. Collins, purposely leaving out his name and making sure to ask her the same question. After the small talk, we reach her car. "Well," she says, sitting in the driver's seat, "See you tomorrow?" I smiled to her and said "Of course. Good bye." I say, walking the short distance to my own car.

The night is cold, enough to fog the windows until the heater can start up. My breath makes the classic tell-tail winter cloud that hangs in the air a moment before fading. I wait for safe driving, and as I do, pull out a phone book I keep in the glove compartment. Once, just this once. Using the flickering, orange light from the street lamp above my car, safety first, to read the names. Carolyn Parker wouldn't show up by that name yet, it's far too soon. But with Mr. Collins having told me he was in an apartment, I know she's at what was their home. She may be there with a lover, but I'm not sure. I've never dealt with something like this. But, I don't think it matters much anyway, that's the fun part.

Ah, yes, here's the Collins' address right here. Okay, I know where to go now. I start the rather short trip to the home, it looks like a nice place. I pass by, though, last thing you want is someone spotting your car at the scene. The police will track it back to you. I've been careful all the times before, but those times they came to me. Easily. I find a nice space 3 blocks away, angled right for me to be able to go through the alleys, hopefully no one's randomly staring out their window at 2 am. I turn the key, starting to feel adrenaline build up as I turned the ignition off, silence filling the air. I pick up the tools I'll need: an ice pick, a gag, my crow bar, and some hand cuffs. Why yes, I keep these in my car. Always ready.

My heart starts beating faster as the door of my Volkswagen quietly opens. I take a breath then begin the walk, each step my heart beats faster. The air having a stinging my cheeks as a train horn blows in the distance, disrupting the sound of the wind, from filling the night air. I'm not the kind of person to do something like this, I normally would ignore such a little thing. But what can I say? It's been slow lately. My needs must be met.

Only a few more steps, then I come up to her back door (Fences can help keep random strangers out) and think of the best way to take this. I always do before acting, that's why no one knows. She's most likely asleep, the house only being one story, it's easy to deduce she would hear me if I bluntly pried the door open. You can't let the pray know the hunter is near. I look in as good as I can, seeing it's a dark kitchen.

I feel the door, unable to see it in the dark, and find it to be metal. Metal doors are too noisy for my taste. Of course I'm somewhat new to breaking and entering. I start looking around, going to the window a few feet away. I feel around the edges, a warm breeze hitting my hand. I don't know why people leave their windows open, it's so naive of them. Anyone could just walk up, lift the window quietly, and invite themselves in. That is exactly what I do. Though the landing's a little hairy, the window having been above the kitchen sink.

But, I'm good at this, a few plates soaking for the morning won't stop me. The only thing that could stop me now is a bullet. My eyes adjust quickly, at least enough to begin. I follow the walls if I have to, my finger gliding across the smooth, cold wall. Leaving the kitchen behind, I reach the dining room. In the slight moonlight shining through the thin lace curtains, I see one place on the table had been sat at, which means she was alone. But she's not alone now.

A lot of houses have the same layout basically. The dinning room next to the living room, the living room to the bedroom. Surely she's there. I creep closer and closer, avoiding any thing that could signal my presence. Closer and closer. My feet fall softly on the carpet, leaving only a quiet sound of a shift of weight. I get a last second rush to power me through any nervousness or reservations I may have. I spot a short hall that has three doors, two on either side, and one at the end of the hall. I walk into the darker area, avoiding tripping on the coffee table hidden slightly in the shadows. I make it to the door at the end of the hall, placing my hand on the cool handle, and gently turning it. The excitement is almost too much to control. The door quietly clicks, signaling my entrance. I open it, only enough to look inside. I see the woman's frame, calmly and obliviously asleep in the bed. Alone. Perfect.

I push it just enough for me to slip in. No need for a mask. I don't need one. Her breaths carry a rhythm through the room, only broken by the sound of my foot steps against the floor as I approach. Closer. She looks so calm and so peaceful. I've never stood over a sleeping victim before. It's almost relaxing in a way, though my thoughts stray to everything I could do. Every way I could kill her. Any thing that could to bring blood to her. How I could cause her pain. I like it when they scream. But the scariest thing of all of this; she's still unaware of my being here.

Having enough of this waiting, I take her hands, quickly enough she doesn't have time to respond before I have her hands bound. She looks around, then up to me, terror filling her sleepy eyes. She starts screaming, which I solve with a gag I had in the car. "Now, now," I tell her as I tie it, "People might hear you-" I feel her thrash her legs into my back, almost sending me off the edge of the bed, but it's not enough. I turn around, hitting her in the stomach to knock the wind out of her for a minute.

"Well," I laugh darkly at her, watching her wither into her tossed and shifted blankets, "You're a fighter, that's for sure." She starts crying, eyes pleading to let her go. "Okay, Carolyn," I say, taking the ice pick from my coat, "You're a favor, not one of my normal victims, so for you, I'm just getting rid of you. Better for you, more boring for me." She shakes her head, trying to back away from it, but I grab her ankle. I'm not used to just catch and kill, we normally play a few games first. But, as I said, I'm not the kind of person who does this. And I doubt the police would connect her to me, as not being my normal kill.

Out of a bit of curiosity and my own needs, I decide to let her shaking foot escape my grasp. She quickly pulls away, glancing back up at me unsurely. I smile to her, and that seems to be enough. She bolts from her position, struggling to get her balance as she runs. I calmly watch her crash into things left and right, leaving a trail of broken pots and picture frames on the floor in her wake. I finally get up and follow her, having to walk a little faster than expected to catch up.

"Come back, Carolyn!" I say, my voice booms through the dark house. She trips on the coffee table, falling face down, and beginning to struggle to get back up. I come up, grabbing her hair to hold her head down as I say "Well, that was fun, but there are others waiting. Goodbye." She thrashes as I take the ice pick and drive it deep into her back. She struggles, trying to scream as the blood follows the blade in leaving her. I take a little time to watch it come out and glisten in the dark moon light. I repeat, this time she thrashes back a little more and I have to hold her down even more, but notice her screams aren't as strong. This time, I change my mind, better to get this over with since it's not one of the fun times. I start stabbing relentlessly, taking no time to watch her bleed. I feel her body slowly lose life, finally signaling I could stop. Her blood soaks into the light tan carpet as I roll her over, seeing her eyes are now as dull and lifeless as her body. The only sound now was my heavy breathing.

I wipe the sweat and blood from my forehead, siting back against the couch to look at the beautiful mess. After a minute, I get up, leaving her body. I don't care who finds it. It won't matter anyway; they'll never suspect me or connect me to her. They've never caught me, and with an IQ of 136, it isn't likely they will.

I put my coat back on over my bloody dress shirt and use a dish towel from the kitchen to clean my hands and face, being sure to take it with me. No one would suspect me as a killer. They never have before. I clean any surface I came in contact with and take the tools I brought. I open the back door into the cool night, locking it and whipping the handle before pushing it shut behind me. Now, I've helped someone. After all this time of killing, I killed for a cause other then my own. Does it make up for it? Threw the eyes of the law, no. And so I remain an unknown. Now, I can go back to my game. I'm what people fear at night, after all.

"Hey, Ted." An greets me as I walk down the hall to my station. "Hello, Anne, how's everything going?" "Oh fine," She says, then asks about myself. I tell her "I'm good. How's your writing thing going?" "Oh," she says with that kind smile, "It's going." I nod and tell her "Just keep working on it, it'll work out." "Thanks," she says, then looks at her watch, "Oh! I have to meet with the boss, see you later!" "You too." I tell her, and after that continue my path. The people say their normal 'good morning's and so on, until I get to my place, and wait.

The phone rings. But that's it's job here. One call may signal the saving of a life. Or not, in some cases.

I reach out, taking it in my hand before telling the caller on the other end, "Yes, this is the suicide hotline. How can I help you today?" "Um, yeah," a woman's quiet, shaky voice comes through the receiver, "I- I've been feeling really depressed lately..." "Let's see what we can do, miss...?" "Angela Torrance," she says, then asks "W-what's your name?" "My name's Ted, ma'am, Ted Bundy." I tell her, then wait to hear her story. Back to my own game...

Ted = Ted Bundy, real life serial killer

Ann= Ann Rule, writer who worked along side of Bundy at the suicide hotline and wrote the book 'The Stranger Beside Me' about the Bundy case (Which I'mma just go run out to the book store and GET THAT.)

All others = I made them up for this story.

YES. THIS IS BASED OFF OF REAL CRAP. The story line and the Collins were made up for the purpose of story, but in fact,
Ted Bundy was a suicide hotline worker. DO ya know him? If not, let's begin: Ted Bundy was a serial killer of the 1970's,
killing around 30 women in his spree, some still remain unidentified. He was a sociopath, which is where a person can feel
no empathy towards others, can be manipulative with others, and normally, play charming until they can get the person
under their control. Are all sociopaths like Bundy? HECK NO. There actually are many people with signs of being a
sociopath, that aren't most of the things I've listed. And please don't think that; it is like any other mental illness in the act
the person can't help that they have it, and do NOT deserve hate over it (Not trying to make Bundy sound like a victim. He
was of his childhood, but even with a horrible childhood, that doesn't make up for 30 murders and r*pes.)

Next thing: If you need a suicide hotline, don't be afraid to call. These days these people are checked and monitored and most of all, it's like Titanic: This happened once so we could know what to look for and prevent it. So, please, I beg, if you need to call them, please do.

The Suicide Hotline Phone Number: 1-800-273-8255

Also, yes, the contents I listed from his car, and his car, were actually in his car and were his car. SO THERE. yeah, lol. I have a really bad habit of studying metal illness and serial killers. It's very interesting, but I've also seen some things that you
really don't want to see. I've seen the dark side of mankind. But still, I try to see good. ANYWAY, lol, I had to make this
when I found this picture that said 'Ted Bundy used to work at a suicide hotline' so... yeah... This is actual stuff, the 'Vintage News' was where I first read it, but Ann Rule WROTE A BOOK to confirm. So that's that.

Ann didn't believe it until he was arrested and tried. Bundy was put to death for his crimes (and the police force threw the biggest party, which, geez, he was a horrible person, but enough for fire works? wow, they party hard there) But in the end of the day, what matters is that the amount of justice man can bring came. But those families never got their loved ones back, friends never got their friends back.

My evaluation is that Bundy was a very high risk individual, having been arrested before for robbery and his childhood being as screwed up as a Creepypasta. Which is party why he's here. Ted Bundy, along with other serial killers, are real life Creeypastas. We need to evaluate cases like this and prevent things like this from happening. Maybe if someone would've done something, Bundy could've been a good psychologist. Maybe whoever Jack the Ripper was, he could've been a great doctor. This is why we need to take mental health seriously, and not poke fun at people, not put them down. They need help. And no, not nearly anyone with Mental illness will harm anyone. In fact, 1 in 4 people are affected by mental illness, making it a high likelihood you or someone you know is affected by it. So don't go off calling someone with mental illness a serial killer.

In summery, MY FIRST PASTA YEAH! I'll probably come back and do some editing, but, ehh, this is good for now! ALSO KEEP IN MIND I HAVE COPYRIGHT, JUST KEEP THAT IN MIND! I've been super busy, but I promise I'll be back regularly soon when stuff is over with here. BUT I LOVE YOU GUYS SO, SO MUCH AND THANK YOU!

- J