WARNING/DISCLAIMER: NOT FOR THE WEAK OF HEART. Please take this warning seriously, especially if you have problems with gore/torture scenes.

Author Note:

Scarabimi here, all~ Sorry I haven't been writing much, I haven't had many good ideas lately; but after reading the creepypasta: BEN drowned (for the first time) I've been inspired... so to speak.

UPDATE: I did all the editing, so yeah... (Also I apologize for the choppiness of this story, but it was the only way I could do it without making it too ridiculously long[for a OneShot])

And as always...

Love chu all~ Keep Reading :)

~Scar

The Story:

"It hurts," was all he seemed to be able to say at this point. He'd stopped trying to ask why, he'd stopped begging. "It hurts." The figure was shadowy, that of an old man. He'd stopped struggling, he was loosing blood rapidly. "It hurts," the man didn't speak much. There had been something fundamentally off about him from the start; Ben wished he had payed it more attention. The mask was pressed tightly against his face now, his own blood was slowly pooling on top of his face, there was nowhere for it to go. The sutures that helped the mask cling to his face were so tight that they had begun to make the skin around them bruise an ugly purple-black color. Struggling didn't help much either, seeing as he was strapped tightly to the rough wooden operating table in the man's basement. The screams that had rung out so loud and desperate hours ago had been cut short, his vocal chords strained to produce any intelligible retort whatsoever. "It... hurts..." he choked out. With each word spoken, more drops of his own salty crimson lifeforce invaded his mouth, coating his tongue with an awful metallic taste.

The man wasn't doing much anymore, just watching.

Ben could practically hear him staring. His breathing was even and soothing, his touch had been soft, but his actions so malignant, so awfully twisted. Some small part of Ben wasn't there, on that operating table, crying out in pain and tasting his own blood. It was at home, playing his Nintendo while his mother cooked him a big plate of breakfast. She always used to complain about that game he was always playing, about how it was bad for him. Something about how it'd hurt his eyesight. Ben had worn glasses since he was eight years old, he didn't really understand why it mattered if his eyes got worse, he'd just get a new prescription after all.

Ben heard the man stand. "You've met with a terrible fate, haven't you," he murmured, the light brushing of the old man's fingertips tickled his neck. Ben felt the old man undo the buttons of his pants, and slide them off, his breathing was still even, still soothing. He felt the fingertips again then, this time on his calves, and up to his thighs, he shivered; the blood trapped under his mask starting to clog up his nose. And then there was the pain again, the horrible, stinging pain. Ben tried to struggle, it just made it worse. Red. Red everywhere. Whenever he opened his eyes the only thing there was to see was his own blood. The blood that was trying so desperately to sweep him away, to poke its way back inside him. His legs seemed stuck, they just wouldn't move properly. "It. Hurts." The needle was working higher up now, halfway up his thigh, in and out, in and out, sewing his limbs together with a thick black chord. Ben was on the verge of choking by now there was so much blood in his mouth, he couldn't swallow it all; and it had clogged his nose by now. The agony was unbearable. He closed his eyes again, hoping to return to somewhere like home.

But he wasn't home when he opened his eyes again. He was in his favorite game, Majora's Mask. His heart swelled a bit then, and he smiled in spite of himself as he swung his sword and looked down at the familiar character design. Woah.

Meanwhile, the man had removed the rest of Ben's bloodstained clothing, and was busy sewing his arms to his sides. Ben had started thrashing, there were no noises coming from him anymore, nothing but his delightful gurgling and choking. The man had smiled a bit as he finished up his gruesome masterpiece. By the time he had cut the chord that kept Ben's right arm in line with his chest, all movement had ceased. The man stood, and left the room, discarding his own bloodied clothing on his way up the stairs, and sinking into a warm bath in his humble abode up above. He bathed, while Ben bled. Even in death, Ben bled. The man went to bed peacefully that night, without a single care in the world.

The next day, the old man decided to get rid of the evidence, things wouldn't be so good for him if he were found out. This hadn't been his first kill after all, 5 children. 5 children with five masks. Ben had been a good choice for the final child, he had been deserving of the final mask: Majora's mask. The man was happy, it was over. He had put his house up for sale the previous day, and was carrying out boxes of his own belongings when it happened. The stranger had just pulled up into the driveway, staring at the table of things the man had been moving. Cops? It can't be cops. I left no trace, and little Ben couldn't have been reported missing already, could he? "Hello sir, my name's Matt... I've been driving around looking for something... do you-er- happen to have any old video games?" The younger man, who identified himself as 'Matt' paused, scratching his neck uncomfortably. He radiated a sense of discomfort and awkwardness.

"Yes, I think I recall having one or two inside... I'll go get the box for you," the old man hobbled off, a smile plastered across his face. Perfect. His age-wrinkled hands gently picked up the small, plain cartridge. Procuring a black sharpie from his desk drawer, he wrote across it simply "Majora". This was going to be the hardest thing to get rid of, a first-edition Majora's Mask game cartridge. Anyone in their right mind would've questioned where I got it. When the man returned, Matt was staring at one of the older man's paintings. "This is the only one I could find," he smiled, "it used to belong to a boy just a bit younger then yourself." The young man had looked at it for a while before shrugging.

"Okay, how much?"

How much? "Free, of course," he dropped the small piece of grayish plastic into Matt's outstretched hands. Did he mistake this for some sort of shop? Maybe a yard-sale?

"Wow! Thanks!"

And that was that. The last thing the man really had to take care of was the body; Ben was still in the basement, after all. He grudgingly descended into the darkness, stretching his arms and yawning loudly. But when he got downstairs, the large wooden table was empty; the place where Ben should have been. Where was he? A message had been traced onto the wood with what appeared to be blood. HIDE AND SEEK? The man stared. There was a trail, leading from the table to the other side of the room, a dark corner. The man searched the room momentarily, before plucking a flashlight from its peg on the wall. Hide and Seek? What kind of sick joke is this? He's dead. The device flared to life with the click of a button, illuminating the gruesome, blood-splattered basement. He sighed, and set off across the room, towards the corner the blood led to. BEN. Another blood-written message read, which had another small trail of blood leading from it. DROWNED. The man was nervous now; extremely nervous, his breathing was heavy, his gaze shifty. IN. He had to keep walking though, what would happen to him if the truth got out? HIS. The blood seemed to be getting wetter, fresher, while the first few splatters had been completely dry. OWN. The man's shoes stuck to the small puddles of blood, sticky, red blood. The trail ended at a door, a small door, one that the man hadn't opened in a very long time.

BLOOD.

The second the door opened, the man fell. Almost as though something had tripped him. The flashlight fell from his hand, casting a long beam of light on the lone word that was hurriedly scrawled in large, dripping letters. And then the door shut again, and the man was left inside the horrible room, alone. But he wasn't alone, not at all. They were there. 5 children, 5 shadows in the night, only illuminated by the weak yellow glow emitted by the flashlight. "YOU'VE MET A TERRIBLE FATE, HAVEN'T YOU."5 voices. 5 masks. The man was shaking, crying out in complete, utter terror.

"You shouldn't have done that."

And the man screamed then, screamed just as little Ben had; because you see, he had his own mask, and the children were so very excited to dress him up in it. Eerie childish laughter and the scent of blood tore into the night.

And that's how our story ends. Just as it began, in unspeakable terror. By the time the children were done playing, the poor old man was so unidentifiable mangled. Who would've ever thought... that someone like him would make such a nice mask salesman... such a very happy mask salesman.

Ben drowned. In his own blood.