Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or any of the characters; those belong to Hidekaz Himaruya. All credit to creepypastas has been given to their respective owners. If a story has been credited to an anonymous person and you know/are the author, please let me know so I can make the correction (and be honest). Thank you!
Seychilles smiled. Everyone else blanched. As for America, he was tightly clinging to Canada's neck as if it were a life saver. "Thanks a lot! Now how the heck am I supposed to go to sleep tonight? New rule– no more stories about nightmares!"
"Cho…king…me…" America remembered to regain control over his strength, releasing Canada from his deadly embrace. "GUAaaah!" the Canadian inhaled deeply.
"Sorry bro."
"We're only five stories in; are you sure you want to continue, America?" Japan asked, showing the slips of paper in his hand, though he already knew his friend's answer.
"Of course I want to keep going. Um…but uh, why don't we tell a slightly less creepy Creepypasta, huh? Just so we don't all get too excited—yeah."
"I g't a n't cre'py Cre'py'sta," Sweden said. Denmark and Finland turned to him.
"You do?" asked the Finnish man. The Swede nodded.
Shopping For My Wife
Based off of "I Need Some Bread & Cereal, Too"
Credited to its anonymous author
Warning(s): Blood, Implied character death
Berwald answers his cell phone. His wife is calling. Once again, for some strange reason, his wife wants viili, ruisleipä, and fish. Ever since the car broke down, Berwald was tasked with doing the shopping after work. The Swedish man never questioned his wife's taste though (he himself has a fairly similar one), and so he goes to the store like it's his own little ritual.
He doesn't even write down a list as he walks to the market. Lately his wife only asks for those three items, and every day too. As he purchases the items, the cashier he is growing increasingly familiar with gives him a funny look. "You know, it's not like we're in any danger of running out of bread soon." Berwald pauses for a moment, finding the comment curious. But he quickly lets it go; he needs to hurry home to his wife.
When he gets home he notices several grocery bags lying on the counter and table. "Hm?" The Swede is surprised to see all these bags contain the same items he just bought, albeit spoiled and no longer edible. Berwald quickly puts down his bags and walks to the other room. "'Ello?" he says out loud, wondering if anyone is home. Rather than being greeted by his wife's voice, he stumbles into the living room, finding the walls splattered in what he assumes to be thick brown-red paint and the entire floor in disarray, things scattered everywhere. If his wife is redecorating, he is going to need to explain how one goes about doing this without totaling half the room.
"'Ello?" He calls out again, stepping into the room and moving around to the couch. Something is lying on the floor, poking out just from behind the furniture. Berwald approaches. It takes him a couple seconds to recognize what's in front of him. It takes him a few more to hold his lunch down. The police are immediately called.
The investigation team is quick to respond and analyze the scene. According to their reports, Berwald's wife has been dead for almost a week. They ask him some questions, and he gives them everything he knows. As Berwald sits outside in the winter breeze, he overhears the crime scene investigator talking to one of his men. "It's not unheard of for people to suddenly develop schizophrenia after witnessing something traumatic. Poor guy—having to relive such repetitive behaviors."
Berwald is naturally confused. Do they honestly believe he is schizophrenic? And even if he were, do they not realize that he would have called them sooner about his dead wife? It's not as if he could spend a whole week in a murder scene and not notice his surroundings.
He blinks when his phone vibrates. He answers the phone. "Hi!" his wife says from the other end, "Do you think you could stop by the store on your way back home from work? There are a few things I need you to get…"