The THUMBUS (A Parody of Creepypasta)

The Thumbus

Walking through the neighborhoods that lead up to my house after school, I noticed flyers posted on a utility pole marked with shaky, scrawled writing about a garage sale only a few blocks from where I was. Following the directions given to me by the flyer, I ponder what gems I might find at the sale. My mind was racing with the limitless possibilities on what booty I would plunder. Being so preoccupied with thinking of what they may be selling, I hadn’t noticed the address. Stopping dead in my tracks, I realized where I was. “Garage Sale at 666 N Elm St,” plain as the nose on my face. You see, the house that I had made my way to was the oldest house in the neighborhood, rumored to be haunted. The couple (The Thumbletons living there had lost their son just a year prior while out on a vacation that began in the Bahamas--but ended forever in Washington. After this fateful day, not many people had seen the Thumbletons outside of their home, some people even saying they believed they were dead and rotting in there. Suddenly at random, something changed. Everything that belonged to their dead out for purchase at this garage sale, with what seems to be the parents’ belongings packed into a large moving truck. Tepid but innately curious, I cautiously approached them.

“Excuse me?” I asked meekly. “Why are you having this sale?” The wife, the only present at the purchasing table, blankly looked up at me.

Without skipping a beat, she spoke in a very matter of fact way. “We must leave. The house is old, and the walls th-they whisper.”

She proceeded to get up and walk into the house. I was left to my own devices, I looked up and down at all the items on display. I came across a box marked “N64.” Upon opening it up I found myself face to face with a working N64, brand new controllers, and the whole library of games. I immediately went back to the checkout table to await the wife’s return, when I saw her step out of the front door and back to her post, well I tell you. My heart skipped a beat I was so excited. I slapped the box on the table and asked, “How much.” She spoke, and again, without missing a beat and in that groggy monotone she replied. “Heed true and bare witness to me boy, you should not own this box, you should not have seen this box, and this box will hurt you. Please, it is not for sale.” I should have listened; I should have known better. But me being me, I waited. When she went back in, I slammed a crisp $20 bill on the table and ran home as fast as Sonic. Finally, I was alone with my precious video games. Retro night was in session, I hastily unpacked the console and got to gaming. I started with some classics to get my loins warmed. Mario 64 booted up just like I remember, his smiling face and Italian “Hello.” Pure bliss. The next game after that was Star Fox, I was barrel rolling to victory. Had some Smash Bros Tournaments with my older bro too! Then we got into the real shit, I’m talking the horrific likes of Glover and Rugrats in Paris. Finally, after a few hours of epic gamer moments I noticed something at the bottom of the box. It was a picture of their long dead child. I never knew him, just his name. They called him Thumb (or that was his nickname at least). It was weird but I thought nothing of it and decided to return it to the family tomorrow. I heard what I could only describe as a muffled whisper in the walls once I placed the picture back in the box. I just chalked it up to over imagination about the boy’s fate. That night I had a dream, I saw the family on the plane. I was right next to them. The turbulence hit hard, and then the deafening sound of an engine explosion. Families, mothers and children all screamed in terror and clutched onto one another. There was the Thumbltons, they prayed and cried. Then finally the crash. I woke up in a cold sweat, or so I thought. I looked down to see a hyper realistic thumb in my lap. I again woke, but this time for real. I looked to the box; the picture still lay inside. Something looked a little off about it, however I chalked it up to the darkness playing tricks. Oh, how wrong I was, if I could know then what I do now. I would pray to the lord that family found peace. The next morning, I wrapped the picture into a nice envelope you would use to send video games to someone over eBay. I hopped on my bike and road off. When I arrived at the house however, the van, the truck and THE HOUSE were all gone. I peddled back and began to cry, fear struck me like an abusive lover. I immediately ran to my room not removing the picture from the manila envelope. I searched for some meaning to my dream on the internet, but I found nothing. I was hoping to find some sort of foolish relief. That maybe those dreams meant nothing, purely coincidence and nothing more. I slipped the photo into my bottom drawer, and figure I would get their new address from townhall tomorrow. As I lay there trying to drift, I swore I heard a faint muffled “Help me” coming from behind me. That couldn’t be possible though, all that’s behind me is a wall. Nothing more. I finally dozed off ignoring it thinking I was just freaked out, soon I dreamt of the crash aftermath. This time I was searching the wreckage for survivors. Now and then I would come across someone bleeding out or slowly begging me to save them. Some people were already dead, a mash of white and brain matter smeared to the ground like shit on a boot heel. I moved toward the section of the plane where the Thumbltons were seated. What I saw next was indescribable, the father clutching his son’s lifeless body as his mother stared. That same thousand-yard stare she had given me the day before at the garage sale. His father motioned me over, as I got closer, I could see his hands trembling. He opened his hands to show two severed hyper realistic thumbs. He spoke in a meek broken voice. “Please, my son needs his thumbs. Please, my son NEEDS his thumbs. Help him, he needs his thumbs.” That’s when I looked over at the boy’s body, his eyes snapped open. His mouth became agape. He let out a sound I can only describe a s a dead scream, a dry scream. He sounded like a goose. The sound grew louder and louder until I could hear it in my own head. The world went dark, then I woke up. I had peed my bed. These dreams were becoming too hyper realistic. The next day I tried to tell my parents what had been happening in my dreams, they scoffed and chalked it up to listening to too many ghost story Youtubers. However, I knew better. That picture carried a curse, a curse of a dead boy and his family. I needed to reunite them. I grabbed myself some breakfast, a Jimmy Dean’s breakfast sandwich and a Caprisun. I hopped on my bike and rode like a bat out of hell to the townhall hoping to rid myself of this heck. I parked my bike out front on the bike racks and busted through. The lady at the front desk gave me a stern look and cleared her throat. “May I help you sir?” I rushed up to her and in a frantic voice I belted out “I need to know where the Thumbltons moved to, I accidently bought a picture of their dead child with my N64!” She had me escorted off the property. If I was going to send them their child back, I would need to look somewhere else. That night I sent an SOS out to some internet hacker pals. I explained my situation to my elite hacker friend whose screen name was Sir_Gubsy_III. Below are the chat logs.

GameD00d: Hey bro you up? I need an address. [10:46pm]

Sir_Gubsy_III: Yeah man, what’s up? [10:46pm]

GameD00d: Accidently bought photo of dead kid when buying N64. [10:47pm]

Sir_Gubsy_III: *has disconnected* [10:47pm]

It took a while but eventually he returned.

Sir_Gubsy_III: I’m assuming you didn’t know it was in the box?? [11:30pm] 

GameD00d: No shit. [11:31pm]