“Fidget's Bar” | Creepypasta Storytime

If you're reading this, I apologize in advance. Sorry this is so long; there's a lot I've been keeping on my shoulders for a long, long time. I trust all of you here, and I have to share my story.

You don't have to believe me; I'm sure most of you won't, but I'm laying it all out here so at least it won't go to my grave with this horrible secret. So, I'll stop rambling now, and I'll lay it down for you. For a long time, my two closest friends, Logan and Joel, and I had a ridiculous tradition: whenever one of us had a birthday, the birthday boy got pranked.

A little background on my friends: Joel was always the skinny kid. No matter how much junk he ate, he always seemed to be 10 pounds underweight. He usually wore the same clothes—t-shirts and jeans.

If it was cold, he wore a hoodie; if it was warm, he wore shorts. He had shaggy blonde hair that usually fell over his face and couldn't grow facial hair if he tried. And believe me, he tried.

Joel was naive, endearingly so. Logan was the outgoing person in our crew. He was athletic and at least a foot taller than the other two of us.

He had buzzed black hair and thick eyebrows and came from a family with Mediterranean roots. Logan could be very persuasive. He had this amazing way of talking himself out of almost any situation; he could diffuse people without saying anything.

He always said it was his award-winning smile. And me? You can call me Edward.

Anyway, our tradition started when we were high schoolers in the late '90s. Joel and I decided to pull a practical joke on Logan for his birthday in July. We showed up at his house before he got up and prepared him for the worst morning of his life.

We almost woke him up giggling like idiots. Just a few of the highlights: we put plastic wrap over his toilet seat, we filled his shower head with red Kool-Aid powder, and we replaced his face soap with school glue. Let's just say that he had an interesting morning.

Of course, he swore revenge shortly after. Joel and I got a good laugh out of it. Since my birthday is in mid-October, I would have been next on the list.

I braced myself for retaliation. At first, I thought I was off the hook, as my birthday came and went uneventfully. The prank didn't come until Halloween night.

I spent the entire evening out in my neighborhood with my little cousin, who was dressed as a secret service agent, complete with a little black suit, aviator sunglasses, and a coiled earpiece. He was even strapped with a plastic pistol in a holster. When I got home, I was exhausted; chasing a 9-year-old around and making sure he didn't get run over was a lot more tiring than I anticipated.

At the end of the night, I ambled to my room like a zombie and flung the door open, intent on passing out the second my head hit the pillow. As soon as my door completely opened, an ear-piercing siren assaulted my ears, instantly triggering my fight-or-flight response and filling me with adrenaline. My brain struggled to understand while my body decided to attack the door frame, clawing helplessly at the wall.

I spun around on my heels and bolted in the opposite direction, slamming my shoulder hard into the door frame. After my senses returned, I realized the noise was coming from inside my room. When I checked behind my door, I found an air horn duct-taped to the wall, perfectly aligned with the door handle.

I instantly knew who was responsible. Joel, of course, was next; his birthday was in late January. Logan and I got together and planned our prank carefully.

Logan invited Joel over for a night of Starcraft, pizza, and various sugary junk foods. I was also invited but pretended to have other plans so I wouldn't be able to make it. While the two of them were hanging out, I snuck into Joel's house and kidnapped his 2-year-old dog, Rocco.

The next day, Joel came to school thinking his dog ran away, which for him was the cruellest thing imaginable. It wasn't long before we told him the truth; he didn't speak to either of us for a week after that. And so, this tradition was born, and it went on for years.

That is, until things went wrong. One year, when we were all in our mid-20s, Logan and I ran into each other at a party; we hadn't seen each other for a couple of years. After catching up, we started reminiscing about our old pranks.

It was only a matter of time before we had formulated a plot to prank Joel. The first part of the plan was to invite him to Logan's grandfather's cabin for a weekend. It was situated in the woods by a lake, around three hours out of town.

Well, of course, Joel, knowing his birthday was just around the corner and the fact that we hadn't hung out in a while, immediately suspected foul play and called us out on the prank. Miraculously, we were able to convince him that we were done pranking and too grown-up for dirty tricks. When we finally got out to the cabin, we actually had a great time bonding, doing buddy stuff.

This basically amounted to drinking, goofing off, and telling ghost stories around the campfire pit behind the cabin. On the second night, after we were good and toasted, we engaged the second part of the plan. We were passing a cigarette around when Logan suggested we take his grandpa's boat out into the lake to go fishing—"Catch the little while they're asleep," he said, laughing.

This was, after all, a tradition of. . .

Ours as well. The three of us had fished together countless times on that lake over the years; this was as good a time as any. It was cold, but not cold enough for the lake to freeze.

We climbed into the boat, and I paddled us out into the center of the glassy lake. I could see my friend's breath puffing out in swirly wisps. We then proceeded to drunkenly fumble through an old stained tackle box, attempting to bait hooks.

Suddenly, Logan shouted at me, “Hey, be more careful! ” He grabbed my left hand as blood ran down his fingers. “You slashed me with your hook, jackass!

” I stood up in the boat. “You did that yourself, you drunken idiot! ” I fired back.

Logan stood up and shoved me with his good hand, forcing me back down into a sitting position. Within moments, we were wrestling and rolling around on the floor of the small fiberglass boat. “Stop it!

The boat's going to tip over! ” Joe yelled helplessly. I let go, and Logan stood up abruptly, yelling something at me.

He lost his balance, suddenly pitching off the side of the boat. He fell backward and was swallowed up by the black water; instantly, he sank like a stone. “Holy!

” Joel screamed, looking over the edge into the water. It was too dark to see our friend; he wasn't thrashing around and didn’t seem to be surfacing either. I pointed a flashlight into the water.

Joel quickly hit the switch on his Duracell headlamp. The beams cut into the murky lake, but apparently not deep enough to make contact. First, there were bubbles—lots of them—then there was nothing.

“Do something! ” shouted Joel, on the verge of tears. Joel's head was on a swivel, checking back and forth for Logan in the water.

We silently shone our lamps from point to point, looking for any sign. Logan was just gone. Joel turned to me, his headlamp shining in my eyes.

“What the hell, man? ” he said, and he was crying now. “Logan’s a good swimmer; it doesn’t make sense!

” Joel slumped back into the boat, cradling his face in his hands. I leaned back over the boat's edge, shining my light again. Logan was nowhere to be found.

Now, of course, I knew Logan was a good swimmer. He was an exceptional swimmer, as a matter of fact. He spent time at the lake every summer growing up.

He was such a good swimmer that Joel didn’t realize he had swum under the boat and toward Fidget's Bar, a small island near the center of the lake. The actual name was Box Island, if you were to look it up on a map. In an age long past, Logan's grandfather had an Australian shepherd named Fidget, and he named the island after the pooch, allegedly.

Long before they did, we always called it Fidget's Bar. The island was only about 100 feet or so away from where our boat was situated, so I had no doubt the swim was a breeze for Logan. At that moment, Joel looked back at me again.

“Do something! Why don’t we do something? ” I started to remember back in high school when we made Joel think his dog had run away—that feeling of guilt that the joke had maybe gone a little too far.

I saw Joel’s face now—his eyes red and swollen, his nose running, his hands trembling. I shouted to Joel, “Let’s go over to Fidget's Bar and regroup. ” I grabbed the oars and started to paddle in the direction of the island.

Joel grabbed onto the front of the boat anxiously. Soon, the boat made landfall, scraping ashore. Joel sprung out and pulled the front of the boat in.

He yanked hard as I was getting up, and I fell backward into the boat. I didn’t say anything as I was climbing out of the boat—Joel was already stripping his clothes off. “What are you doing, Joel?

” I asked. “I’m going in after him,” he shouted, as he pulled his shirt off. “Look, look!

” I started, but he wasn’t hearing any of it. Joel waded out until he was way deep in the frigid water of the lake. I shouted after him, “Joel, it was a prank!

Logan's here on the island! ” The word “prank” escaped my mouth. I could see Joel’s shoulders go up.

He didn’t turn around, but he was frozen in place. There was a long pause as I stood at the shore, near the fiberglass boat, looking out at Joel. An icy wind dragged across the surface of the lake; the trees on the island behind us thrashed about in the gust.

For a moment my eyes caught the moon in the sky, and I looked up just for a moment. The hit came next, and I didn’t expect it. Joel’s fist collided with the bridge of my nose, hard.

I heard a pop, and then nothing. Then I was on the ground; the cold wind was still blowing, but for the moment, my face was hot. I heard a ringing in my ears for a few seconds.

Joel paced around the rocky shore. When the wind stopped blowing, it was suddenly eerily quiet on the shore of Fidget's Bar. I stood up and saw that Joel was standing with his back to me, still shirtless, shoeless, and only wearing wet boxer shorts.

His ribs stuck out as he breathed. I didn’t say a word but started to pick up his clothes. Once I had gathered all of his stuff, I handed it over to him.

Joel took the clothes and got dressed; meanwhile, I sat back and lit a cigarette. I ran my hand over my face and felt my nose—my hand came back bloody. “So,” Joel asked me quietly, “where's Logan?

” I pointed my thumb behind me at the thick mass of trees—the ones leading into. . .

Absolute darkness. I have no idea why he should be here on the bar somewhere. I pulled myself to my feet and looked into the dark of the woods.

There was no noise on Fidget’s Bar; the wind had ceased to howl. The trees stood still and silent. Joel and I stood side by side at the precipice of darkness.

It occurred to me that I had never actually explored the island before; neither had Joel, to my knowledge. Logan used to talk about blading trails in the brush of the bar with his grandpa, but that was years ago. Presently, we stood at the edge of the dark woods with no real knowledge of what lay ahead.

In fact, one fact remained: Logan hadn't shown himself yet. Then, Joel inhaled sharply and took a step towards the woods. He flipped the switch on his headlamp, casting a beam into the darkness of the forest.

I turned my flashlight on and followed suit. Joel's head was on a swivel, sweeping back and forth to dimly reveal our surroundings. Together, we walked upon what appeared to be a trail that led deep into the trees of Fidget’s Bar.

Up ahead, there seemed to be some kind of clearing. At this point, I wanted to find my friend and get the hell off the island. I wasn’t upset about the punch; I deserved it, probably.

Mostly, I was still in shock over what had happened and regretted the whole prank idea. Also, something felt wrong. We hadn't discussed hiding on the island like this.

We should have seen Logan by now. The original plan was to regroup on the island, and then Logan would jump out and scare Joel. That should have been the end of it.

Joel would have laughed and got me, and we would have headed back to the cabin for drinks and shenanigans. This plan had gone sour, and I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach—one that I couldn't shake. Up ahead in the clearing, we could see—well, it was an old-fashioned well built from stone, with a pulley suspended above.

The rusted crank looked like it hadn't been touched in ages. Ferns and spiny vines of ivy had grown around the base of the well and coiled up around the wooden frame above. No rope or bucket was to be seen.

Just beyond the well, nearly swallowed by trees, was a small shack buried in the underbrush. I couldn't hear a single sound. For a brief moment, I felt as though I might have hurt my ears.

Joel hit me? Maybe it was the fall. There were no birds, no voices, no wind, no nothing but stillness—silence in the forest.

Finally, a noise. It was nearly inaudible at first, but it grew. It was a voice calling out.

I recognized it as Logan's. Initially, I was flooded with relief, but his voice sounded far away and echoed. Joel and I ran towards the sound, which appeared to be coming from inside the shack.

It was a dilapidated old building, not much larger than a detached garage. Once we looked into one of the foggy, cracked windows, it was obvious that someone, at some time, had lived in there. Most of the windows were broken or covered in branches.

The siding was unpainted, the roof collapsed, and the front door, which had once been painted green, was all bubbled and rotten, splitting from the inside. One hard push from Joel, and the door disintegrated. We went inside and saw a pale blue table turned upside down with a heap of broken chairs.

There were some utensils scattered about the floor, as well as broken plates and a rusted-out kettle. A pile of ancient newspapers bound in string was stacked to the ceiling in one corner. The place was wet; it smelled like mildew.

Then we heard the voice again—Logan's voice. It didn't seem to be coming from the house this time; no, it was coming from below us, somewhere. Joel and I noticed this at the same time and started searching the damp floor for a trapdoor, a hatch of some kind to get below the shack.

I pushed the pile of newspapers over, and they fell to the floor with a heavy thump. Meanwhile, Joel was throwing the rotted old chair parts aside, looking underneath. It occurred to me that the part of the floor we were standing on was actually matted with the remains of a hairy rug.

I pushed with my shoes to try and move it, but it seemed to be fused to the floor. I dropped to my knees and felt around for a seam. It was in vain; we didn't find anything.

After our exhaustive search, we went outside to look for a cellar hatch or anything to get to Logan's voice below. I realized it almost immediately when I stepped out onto the crude porch—the well. The two of us made our way over to the ancient-looking stone well.

We stood on either side and peered down. Joel's headlamp cut downwards, but the bottom of the well remained dark. We shouted down the shaft, “Hey, Logan, are you down there?

” and Joel yelled too, “Logan, can you hear us? ” Then Logan's voice echoed up. “Hey, you guys made it finally!

” Joel gave me an inquisitive look. “What are you doing down there? ” Joel said to the darkness of the well.

There was no answer. “Logan,” I said, “how the hell did you get down there? ” Finally, his voice came back.

“Hey, Ed, remember what made Joel think his dog was gone? ” Joel and I exchanged a glance. “Yeah, I remember,” Joel said smartly.

“Right here, dick. ” Logan's voice again: “Hey, Ed, it's really cold down here. How do we get you out?

” Joel shouted back, “So cold, you guys,” Logan's voice said. “Give us a second, Logan; we'll think of something! ” I shouted, grabbing.

. . Joel grabbed my jacket and pulled me away from the well.

When we were a few feet away from it, I pulled Joel close enough that our faces were nearly touching. “Joel, he’s not making any sense,” I said. “I know.

What do you think he’s doing down there? ” Joel asked. “Maybe he fell, maybe he’s in shock, maybe there’s—maybe there’s another way down there.

We should ask him,” I suggested. We went back to the opening of the well, and I shouted down, “Logan, is there another way into the well? ” There was a long silence, and then Logan shouted, “Joel!

The well! ” “What are you talking about? You’re in a well!

” Joel said back. “Hey! ” said Logan’s voice.

“You should really come down here. It’s delightfully cold. ” Logan's voice echoed, “Delightfully cold.

” Something sounded wrong about his voice; it was almost sing-songy and chilled me to the bone. Joel and I looked at each other. I could see the fear in Joel’s face.

“Joel whispered, 'Is he talking about…? '” Logan’s voice rose up from the darkness again, “We got you good with that air horn, didn’t we? ” I almost forgot about the air horn from Halloween all those years ago.

“Yeah, yeah, you got me,” I said. “Now let’s get you out of there. Don’t you want to go home?

” “Yeah, Logan, this island's creepy as hell,” Joel said down the well. “Maybe we could lower something down for you to grab onto, huh? ” Logan’s voice came back, “Just jump on down, guys!

I can catch you. ” “We need to get you out of there,” I said back. “There’s no way in hell we’re coming down.

” “Such a beautiful day,” Logan said in that strange sing-song voice again. “Such a beautiful day. ” And that was the last time I ever heard Logan’s voice.

Joel and I shouted for him for nearly an hour before we decided to go back to the cabin and call the police. For the following week, the search crew, including the local police, searched Fidget’s Bar top to bottom. They combed the entire half-mile stretch of the forest without finding anything.

After that, they searched the lake; police boats dredged the lake for days until finally, they found something. Nine days after the search began, they found what they were looking for: Logan’s body was extracted from the lake about 80 yards away from the shore of Fidget’s Bar. The police would tell us his neck was broken when Logan fell from the boat; he hit his head on a large submerged rock.

His death was instant, they told us; he would have been dead before he was completely in the water because of the sudden trauma. He exhaled sharply and sank to the bottom, they said; he never drew another breath. So if Logan was dead when he hit the water, who did we talk to in the forest on Fidget’s Bar?

Whose voice was that? You understand why my story needed to be told. Like I said, I don’t expect you to believe me, but why would you?

It’s crazy, but at least it’s out there, and now you can decide for yourself. Hey there, kids! It’s me, Mr Creepy Pasta, and I just wanted to tell you thank you so much for watching tonight’s video or for listening to tonight’s episode of the podcast.

It’s still cold; I don’t know if you guys have that major freeze that happened, but, yeah, it’s in Texas, and it’s snowing, so it’s pretty damn cold. But you know what’s not? A hot cup of tea!

My wife still sells tea, and as always, I want to give a very big thank you to everybody who supports me over at Patreon. That's for everybody who is down in the description, as well as Acid System, Bal Arms, The Rat, Blake Rattler, Randon Mendoza, Row Brimstone, Pandemonium, Cuna, Chain Smoker Dealer, Chicago Hitman, Cory Kin, Cronut, 8 Crusader, Chocoo, Cur Pox, Primark Dakota, Best Dangel Pson, Dante Kincade, Diana Cruss, Ellie Hut, Enchanted Buns, Estan, JY, Ha's Nephew, Kimbo, Jerry Hour, Minute, Seconds, Time, J Ke, Jet's Pet, Jordan Humble, King Crab, Mr Marcus Blitz, Old Penguin, Peaceful Buddha, Psycho, Red Shadow Cat, Remember The Sun, Rinku Star, Salty Surprise, Samar Line, Seclude, Simba's Bloody Mojo, Sky Harbor, Smiley, The Psychotic Sullyman, T. Sue, The Shavez Brothers.

Thank you guys so much for being here, thank you for listening, thank you for watching, and sweet dreams!