I’m writing this because…Well I hope someday my words will be found by others. And I need to write my story down to occupy my mind, before I go insane from isolation.

I’m the last man on earth. The last human, at least.

I…don’t know my own name, if I ever even had one I forgot it some time ago. I think it started with an ‘S’…Maybe. I don’t know. I woke up on a sandy shore, dressed in tattered clothing, with the sun beating down on me. How I got there, I don’t know that either. All I knew was I needed a shelter, because the world around me seemed to be almost vacant of other lifeforms.

I managed to make some crude tools out of wooden branches, and with those I was able to chop down larger blocks of wood with greater ease. I started to sculpt my first simple shelter, and in the months since I woke up on that beach I’ve since expanded and improved on the wooden shelter, adding new rooms and protective layers, mainly walls of stone and a moat of water. I had to add these little defences; I had to make it safer.

The world is full of monsters, creatures who come out during the night. They are all malformed abominations, and all have an intense loathing for me, always wanting to kill me on sight.

I have seen the dead rise from the ground, creatures that might once have been human like me. I’ve seen giant venomous insects stalk me from above, intent on ripping me to shreds when I least expect it. I’ve seen creatures come from the shrubbery itself, willing to blow themselves apart if it means killing me. There is one breed of creature even worse though, and I’ve only caught fleeting glimpses of them. Giants seemingly made of shadow itself that flit away in the blink of an eye.

I’ve even died out here a few times you know. Killed by the monsters that roam the forests, shores and grasslands around my hideout whenever I go foraging. When I do die, I’m simply…brought back to life somehow. I lose whatever possessions I was carrying before I died, save for my clothing and am usually resurrected inside my home. I lose a little more of my mind every time I come back, because I briefly get to glimpse the afterlife. Simply put, there is nothing there. Nothing. And I see more of it every time I die.

Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m getting off the point, it’s just…now that I have the means to speak my mind, I feel the need to write down everything I’ve kept bottled up.

There are other creatures in this strange land, peaceful life forms. I even found a village of deformed little humanoids, and as racist as it may sound they all look the same with their bulbous craniums and overgrown noses. Sadly I can’t understand whatever alien language they speak in and they can’t understand my words either. Still, they know how to trade so it’s better than nothing.

Trading with those strange villagers won’t be able to hold me over much longer, so I’ve resolved to take some action. That’s part of the reason why I’m writing this, because my plan is rather dangerous and I fear if I die from it, it might just be a permanent death. On the off chance that some other human ever finds this shelter of mine, then I want them to know that…that they might not be totally alone in the world.

I finished my first pickaxe today, crafted it from iron I traded from the villagers. I’m going to craft a mine near my hideout, I plan on bringing up whatever resources I can find underground.


If something down there kills me for good…Well, that’ll be that. If I do die and another happens to find this log…I apologise that I couldn’t meet you in person.

Beware the night.



Well, my first attempt at a mindfuck Creepypasta. If you deduced the reveal early, tell me when you did and what gave it away. Feel free to critique.

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