CREEPYPASTA: The phony police officer
My name is Gregory Wallace Standish. i’m twenty-four years old, and I still sleep in the same bed as my mother. She’s beside me now, sound asleep. Rain is falling steady outside the window, the kind that makes the whole house feel like it’s holding its breath.
If you’re wondering why a grown man shares a bed with his mother… it’s because I can’t sleep alone. Not since the night it happened, twelve years ago.
I was twelve, and my mom was out late for work. I was used to being on my own. I made myself a snack, watched TV, and when it got dark, I locked the doors. Just like she told me.
Then came the knock. Heavy, deliberate, rattling the frame.
When I looked through the peephole, a police officer stood on the porch. Dark blue uniform, dark blue hat pulled low so I couldn’t see his eyes.
“Let me in,” he said.
I hesitated. Something about him was… wrong. I forced my voice to sound older than I was. “May I ask what the problem is, officer?”
“I’ll explain when you let me in.” His tone was sharp, impatient.
“Can I see your badge?” I asked.
His voice changed then. Rougher, more hostile. “You don’t need to see my badge. Do what I say and open this door.”
My chest tightened. I slammed the peephole closed and bolted up the stairs, into my mother’s room. My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the phone as I dialed 911. I whispered, “There’s a police officer at my door. He won’t show me his badge. He’s demanding to come in.”
The dispatcher’s voice was calm but firm: “Don’t open the door. His behavior is suspicious. Stay on the line. Stay hidden.”
Downstairs, the man’s knocking turned violent. He pounded the door so hard the wood shook in its frame. Then he started shouting: “Open this fucking door now! Do you hear me? Open it or I’ll put you in jail!”
I could barely breathe. My mom’s room felt too small, the walls too thin. I whispered to the operator that I couldn’t just sit there. She told me not to move, but I hung up anyway. I was desperate.
I ran to my room and grabbed my laptop. I remembered a video I’d seen once — gun training. My fingers fumbled on the keys, but I found it: the sound of a shotgun being cocked.
I crept to the top of the stairs and turned the volume up high.
CH-CH-CHK.
The knocking stopped.
For a moment, the house was dead quiet. Then the man cursed under his breath, footsteps stomping off the porch. A car door slammed. Tires squealed. And then he was gone.
They never caught him.
After that, my mom never left me alone again. For weeks I couldn’t sleep unless I was in her bed, pressed against her side, listening for phantom knocks at the door. Weeks turned into months. Months into years.
Now I’m 24, and I still can’t sleep alone. Not with the rain on the windows. Not with the memory of that man’s voice demanding I open the door, threatening to throw me in jail if I didn’t.
So yeah… if you’re wondering why I’m lying here beside my mother tonight, it’s because sometimes the only thing scarier than sleeping with your mom at 24… is what might be waiting if you sleep alone.
If you’re wondering why a grown man shares a bed with his mother… it’s because I can’t sleep alone. Not since the night it happened, twelve years ago.
I was twelve, and my mom was out late for work. I was used to being on my own. I made myself a snack, watched TV, and when it got dark, I locked the doors. Just like she told me.
Then came the knock. Heavy, deliberate, rattling the frame.
When I looked through the peephole, a police officer stood on the porch. Dark blue uniform, dark blue hat pulled low so I couldn’t see his eyes.
“Let me in,” he said.
I hesitated. Something about him was… wrong. I forced my voice to sound older than I was. “May I ask what the problem is, officer?”
“I’ll explain when you let me in.” His tone was sharp, impatient.
“Can I see your badge?” I asked.
His voice changed then. Rougher, more hostile. “You don’t need to see my badge. Do what I say and open this door.”
My chest tightened. I slammed the peephole closed and bolted up the stairs, into my mother’s room. My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the phone as I dialed 911. I whispered, “There’s a police officer at my door. He won’t show me his badge. He’s demanding to come in.”
The dispatcher’s voice was calm but firm: “Don’t open the door. His behavior is suspicious. Stay on the line. Stay hidden.”
Downstairs, the man’s knocking turned violent. He pounded the door so hard the wood shook in its frame. Then he started shouting: “Open this fucking door now! Do you hear me? Open it or I’ll put you in jail!”
I could barely breathe. My mom’s room felt too small, the walls too thin. I whispered to the operator that I couldn’t just sit there. She told me not to move, but I hung up anyway. I was desperate.
I ran to my room and grabbed my laptop. I remembered a video I’d seen once — gun training. My fingers fumbled on the keys, but I found it: the sound of a shotgun being cocked.
I crept to the top of the stairs and turned the volume up high.
CH-CH-CHK.
The knocking stopped.
For a moment, the house was dead quiet. Then the man cursed under his breath, footsteps stomping off the porch. A car door slammed. Tires squealed. And then he was gone.
They never caught him.
After that, my mom never left me alone again. For weeks I couldn’t sleep unless I was in her bed, pressed against her side, listening for phantom knocks at the door. Weeks turned into months. Months into years.
Now I’m 24, and I still can’t sleep alone. Not with the rain on the windows. Not with the memory of that man’s voice demanding I open the door, threatening to throw me in jail if I didn’t.
So yeah… if you’re wondering why I’m lying here beside my mother tonight, it’s because sometimes the only thing scarier than sleeping with your mom at 24… is what might be waiting if you sleep alone.
31-35, M