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My Sister’s Hair – Creepypasta

Russian Doll - Creepypasta

11 Jun My Sister’s Hair


📅 Revealed on June 11, 2019 Written by S.R. Underschultz

Estimated studying time — 9 minutes

I wish I had my huge sister’s hair. Hers is delicate and lightweight. Touching her arms is like touching peach fuzz. When she sweats her pores and skin seems like melted butter.

It’s not truthful.

My hair is thick, wiry, and black as spider legs. I’m only thirteen and I’ve thicker hair on my arms and legs than most boys on the Tanglewood Junior Excessive football staff. My huge sister and I are virtually the same in every other means. But she obtained the peach fuzz and I received black bristles—all over. Arms, legs, chest, face…and even down there.

Washing the mop on my head takes over an hour. It will get knotted and unruly as a nest of snakes. Then there’s the process of eradicating my facial hair. It’s like plucking staples. I develop a full-on porn star mustache, so deep-rooted my prime lip goes beet purple after a painful session with the tweezers, and afterward, I have to dab off dots of blood.

My sister retains telling me to cease sporting lengthy sleeve shirts to fitness center class—to bathe with the other women. “Individuals are beginning rumors, Camilla,” she tells me. But I gained’t budge. I’ve worn lengthy pants and sleeves since Elementary and I’m not going to stop now. And I’d quite stink than wax my complete body for one bathe. Protecting exposed skin clean is dangerous sufficient.

My sister and I are sitting subsequent to one another. It’s lunchtime in the screaming, jam-packed cafeteria, and I’m poking my hen nuggets like they’re alien specimens, when Brittany and her two Mimi’s come over. I don’t know why my sister and I call Brittany’s two goons the Mimi’s, however belief me, the identify suits. They’re three distinct individuals, but I see them extra like a single entity. A 3-headed-goblin.

The goblin sits across from us. There have to be nowhere else to take a seat. Normally, Brittany and her Mimi’s wouldn’t be caught lifeless near me and my sister.

They ignore us, in fact, and speak like they’re the one three individuals on earth. Brittany (pink skin, feathered strawberry hair) is the middle one. She’s speaking about herself—asking the Mimi’s if she should get a braid. The Mimi’s appear torn.

My head stays down. Each time the Mimi’s make a dumb remark my sister and I trade smiling sidelong glances.

My hand gets pulled. My fork clatters.

I lookup and Brittany’s holding my hand.

She gasps.

“Oh my god,” the left Mimi says.

“Gross,” chirps the best.

I didn’t understand it, but my sleeve was pushed back, only half approach up my forearm, however sufficient to show a mangrove of black hair.

Brittany pushes again my sleeve, all the best way to the elbow.

I attempt to pull away, however her grip is vice-like.

The Mimi’s are transfixed.

“She’s like a gorilla,” one says.

“I knew it,” says the other.

My sister leans over, pulls the sleeve down, and bats Brittany away.

As if hypnotized, Brittany leans back, arms over her mouth. The Mimi’s are ready for her to say something.

“Camilla…” Brittany lowers her arms and sends me a wide-eyed look of epiphany. “I knew it…”

A splinter of a smile on every of their faces grows into three giant crescents that threaten to type one.

“Are you bushy throughout?” the left head asks.

“I guess she’s acquired a fowl’s nest down there,” says the suitable.

A pointy chuckle escapes Brittany’s mouth. The entire cafeteria hears it. The sound bores into my mind and lodges there.

I wipe my face with my sleeve involuntarily. The sleeve is soaked. I’ve been crying and didn’t even realize it.

Women on the table behind ask Brittany and the Mimi’s what’s happening. They inform them. I hear “Camilla the gorilla” being whispered.

“How thick was it?” somebody asks; I don’t know who. My sleeves are pulled over my palms, and my arms are masking my face, as a result of I’m crying, but I’m making an attempt arduous not to blubber and make issues worse.

‘Camilla the gorilla’ enters my ears from every angle, so I cover them. Somebody’s pulling my arm. Have to be my sister. She pulls my hand away lengthy sufficient to whisper, “C’mon, let’s go.”

I nod.

We minimize by way of stares, pointing fingers and muffled laughter to go away the cafeteria.

* * * * * *

“Simply wax it off,” my sister says.

It’s after faculty. We’re in her room, sitting on her mattress. I’m hugging a pillow nestled between my crossed legs. The pillow’s accomplished a great job soaking up all of the tears.

“Are you loopy?” I say. “If I wax my arms they’ll make even more fun of me because they’ll know they made me do it.”

“So what?”

“What do you imply so what?”

“They’re going to make fun of you either method, however for those who wax the hair—ultimately—they’ll overlook about it.”

I difficulty my sister the coldest stare I can muster. “They’ll make fun of me either approach?”

“You realize what I mean.”

“You don’t know what it’s like. You have got good hair.”

“I don’t have good hair.”

I rise up away from bed. “No one ever makes fun of you about anything.”

She furrows her brow and makes that little pig snort I hate. “Keep in mind a couple summer time’s ago, once I fell on that Frisbee and reduce my forehead? They referred to as me Scarface for, like, six months.”

“Scarface is a cool identify.”

“Not once you’re twelve.”

“Superb,” I say, strolling to the door. I grasp the handle. “Let’s swap. I’ll be Scarface and you may be Camilla the gorilla!” I rush out and slam the door behind me.

* * * * * *

My room. Door locked. On my bed I sit for hours, inspecting my arms and legs, wishing the hair to go away. In fact, it doesn’t. It’s as coarse as it is stubborn.

Mother calls for dinner, however I don’t go. I don’t depart my mattress. It’s already dark outdoors, so I put my lamp on and proceed praying to God to eliminate the horrible hair. I don’t even consider in God, but I hold praying anyway. I’ll do something, I tell him. Anything. Just let me get up with nice mild nice hair like my sister’s and I’ll be the most effective, most trustworthy one that’s ever lived.

I pray and pray, till I fall asleep.

* * * * * *

It’s morning. I’m in the rest room standing in front of the mirror, taking a look at what’s popping out the aspect of my head. It’s coming out of my ear. Proper out of the center. A single hair. Lengthy and dark, it dangles next to my arm, all the best way right down to my hand. When it brushes towards my pores and skin it tickles.

Entwining it via my fingers, I discover my hand is trembling.

I give it a tug.

It looks like my mind will get pulled. Inside my ear blooms a scorching ball of sharp pain.

On closer inspection, I see in the mirror that the hair goes deep. I can’t see where it ends.

My respiration quickens. With my different hand, I clasp the aspect of the sink. My shoulders rise and fall in time with each panicked breath. The hair is tightly wound round my fist.

The strand is robust, like floss. It’s in all probability rooted deep. I’ll need to tug onerous to get it out. If I reduce it, it’ll simply develop back. I have to eliminate it.

My toes are curled towards the cold tile flooring. My lungs inhale damp air. I naked my tooth, take one last take a look at myself, tilt my head and shut my eyes.

With full power, I yank it.

A flash of white.

My legs flip liquid. I collapse to my knees. Intense nausea. The room tilts. I catch a glimpse of the pulled hair. The top that got here out of my mind is coated in a movie of blood specked with tiny white lumps.

I’m on all fours. Globs of saliva spill from my mouth.

My ear throbs.

But I don’t scream. Not once. I don’t need anyone to know.

Not even my sister.

* * * * * *

Faculty. The lunch line. I’m waiting next to my sister with a plate in my hand. One step at a time, we inch sideways—nearer to trays of meals. In my head, I’m making an attempt to process what occurred. What’s doing this? Why hassle with somebody like me? I’m no one. All I would like is to be left alone.

Is it regular for hair to grow out your eardrum? Perhaps it’s. Perhaps I don’t need to know.

Brittany shoves in next to me, sidled by her two Mimi’s.

“Hey, Camilla. We needed to ask you one thing,” Brittany says.

“Yeah,” says one Mimi, leaning in.

“It’s actually essential,” provides the opposite, leaning additional to point out me her beaming smirk.

“Depart me alone,” I tell them.

“Why don’t you wax?” Brittany says. “Do you want us to point out you ways?”

I ignore her and raise my plate in front of lunch woman Saunders, whose starched white outfit and square glasses seem too massive for her frail previous body.

“How a lot, Camilla?” croaks Saunders, holding tongs filled with… of… one thing black, and—

No. It may well’t be.

Hanging in her tongs is a wad of dark, bloody hair. My eyes comply with pink beads touring down a strand into the tray beneath—a pile of hair tangled in blood.

Saunders lays the bushy wad on my plate. It makes a moist slap. Blood spatters my uniform.

My backbone becomes chilly metal.

My palms lose feeling.

I drop the plate.

When it meets the floor shards explode in every course, but make no noise. In sluggish motion, soundlessly, pieces of plate revolve by way of the air. The hair sits in a heap on the floor—pulsing—a black mass curling in on itself.

“My spaghetti’s that dangerous, is it?”

Lunch Woman Saunders crosses her arms. I blink and rub my eyes with the palms of my arms. Within the tray in entrance of her—

Spaghetti. In tomato sauce. And the same around my ft.

The spaghetti doesn’t transfer. It just sits there, lifeless.

A hand grips my shoulder. It’s my sister.

“Are you okay?”

I don’t respond.

Gently, she pulls me from the mess and sends Brittany a cold look.

“What did you do?”

Brittany, smiling, shrugs. “I didn’t do something. I wouldn’t touch Camilla with a ten-foot pole.”

“Yeah, Brittany didn’t lay a hand on her,” one Mimi says.

“Not a finger,” says the opposite.

“C’mon, let’s go,” my sister says.

She takes my hand. I comply with with out resistance.

I would like out of right here.

* * * * * *

The woman’s toilet. It’s just my sister and I. I’ve locked myself in a stall. From the other aspect of the door, she asks what’s incorrect. I’m coughing. One thing is caught in my throat. My breath smells like parmesan cheese and the lining of my esophagus is rough as fish scales.

After flushing a wad of tear-soaked tissue, I sit on the bathroom and attempt to inform my sister about what I saw. My physique is trembling and the skin on the back of my neck continues to be crawling. I’m scared to take a look at the reflection of my hair within the mirror, so I keep within the stall.

“You’ll want to see a physician,” my huge sister’s voice is adopted by an echo.

“A physician? I assumed you cared about me?”

“What do you imply?”

“They’d assume I’m insane.” I rip rest room paper from the dispenser to blow my nose.

“It’d help,” she says.

“I’m not seeing a physician. And you higher not inform anyone about—”

The sight of lengthy black hairs protruding my sleeves steals my breath. I roll my sleeves again. It’s doubled in thickness. I can’t see the skin of my arms. From my head hangs a dark curtain of hair—all the best way to my knees.

What’s occurring to me?

It isn’t truthful.

A scream tries to flee my mouth, however it could possibly’t. My throat’s plugged. I can’t breathe. Each heaving cough looks like needles jabbing my neck. I want oxygen. My fingers plunge into my throat. They prod something stuck there. I grip it between two fingers and yank it out.

A wad of saliva soaked hair.

Shortly, tossing it in the bathroom and flushing, I yell, “What is occurring to me?” I name to my sister, frantically unlock the stall door and stumble out. She catches me in her arms.

“Oh my god!” Brittany’s voice.

She’s standing throughout from us, in front of the toilet door, flanked by the two Mimi’s. All three are holding up their phones, filming me. A 3-eyed goblin. Their pink lipstick smiles threaten to type one.

“Take a look at the crazy eyes. She’s totally lost it,” one Mimi says.

“What a psycho,” says the other.

Their shrill voices echo off the partitions and drum into my head. They gained’t shut up. I rush on the three-headed-goblin. “Depart me alone!”

“She’s going to kill us!” the goblin screams, nonetheless filming.

Shoving past, I run out the door, into the corridor. My hair drags on the ground behind. It’s still growing. I have to half it with one hand simply to see what path I’m heading. Bursting out the varsity doorways, my legs carry me out into torrential rain. The sky is a swirling godhead of black clouds. A deafening thunderclap shakes the earth. My ft stamp throughout the wet pavement so fast tears fly from my face. The mop of hair clinging to my physique is heavy as a blanket. I really feel like it’s going to suck me down by means of the sidewalk.

I’ll wax it all off and all the things will probably be superb, I inform myself. The whole lot’s wonderful.

But I know that’s not true.

* * * * * *

Once I get residence I take Mother’s kitchen shears, those for slicing meat, and lock myself within the toilet. Thunder shakes the house. The facility cuts.

In muted blue mild I decrease myself into the dry bathtub and begin slicing hair.

Snip snip snip.

I reduce big chunks off, nevertheless it gained’t stop growing. Out of my nipples, my armpits, my legs, head, and even down there, the hair pours out.

Snip snip snip.

My hair gained’t stop growing and my hand can’t stop chopping—as if it’s obtained a thoughts of its own. My consciousness is locked in terror. Snip, snip, snip. My hand is moist. A bit of window at the prime of the toilet permits a white flash from a lightning strike. Big whorls of hair fill the bath. And, my palms. They’re the colour purple. However where’s the blood coming from?

Snip, snip, snip, snip.

One other strike of lightning and I see what’s occurring. I’m not simply snipping the hair—I’m snipping my flesh, too. For some purpose, I don’t register the pain. Something inside me should have short-circuited. Mind and body aren’t related. My hand retains going.

Snip, snip, snip.

“What a multitude,” I say. It’s a wierd thing to have stated. I’m not loopy. I simply should eliminate this hair. That’s all.

My sister is banging on the door.

So are my mother and father.

However I gained’t let them in. Not until I clean up this mess.

Snip, snip, snip.

Credit: S.R. Underschultz (Official Website • Twitter • Reddit)

🔔 Extra stories from writer: S.R. Underschultz

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