The Jeff the Killer’s Rage Horror Story

Table of Contents

Go to Sleep CreepyPasta Thriller Full Story

The night was unusually quiet, with only the soft rustling of leaves breaking the silence. The small town on the outskirts of the forest lay cloaked in a blanket of darkness. For most, the quiet was comforting. But for others, it was unsettling, as though the silence was hiding something sinister, waiting to break free. Among the shadows, a figure stirred. His pale face, wide grin carved into his skin, and soulless eyes glinted in the faint moonlight. It was Jeff. Jeff the Killer. And tonight, rage burned hotter in him than ever before.

Jeff’s reputation was well-known in whispered conversations and online threads. Parents warned their kids, police dismissed it as folklore, and teenagers used his name in dares to prove their courage. But what they didn’t know was that Jeff wasn’t just a story. He was flesh and blood—or what remained of it. His rage was real. His voice, deep and cold, whispered only two words to his victims: “Go to sleep.”

In a small, dimly lit house near the edge of town, siblings Clara and Michael were getting ready for bed. Their parents had gone to visit relatives, leaving them alone for the weekend. Clara, the older sister, sat by the window, scrolling through her phone, while Michael set up his laptop on the desk.

“You ever hear about Jeff the Killer?” Michael asked, his eyes never leaving the glowing screen.

Clara rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on, not this again. That’s just an internet story. People love to scare themselves for fun.”

Michael shook his head. “No, seriously. There were posts online last week about kids disappearing in towns like ours. Some people say they heard him whisper before it happened. ‘Go to sleep.’”

Clara smirked. “And I’m guessing you’re trying to freak me out before bedtime, huh?”

Before Michael could answer, the lights flickered. The siblings froze. A low hum echoed in the air as if the house itself groaned in protest. The power died, plunging the room into darkness. Clara scrambled for her phone flashlight, her heart skipping a beat. Michael turned slowly toward the window. His face went pale.

“Clara,” he whispered, “there’s someone outside.”

She turned her light toward the glass, but there was nothing. Just the empty yard, the tall trees, and the endless black sky. Yet Clara felt it—the heavy weight of someone watching. The air was colder now, and her skin prickled with unease.

“Probably just a neighbor,” she said, trying to sound calm, though her voice trembled.

“At midnight? Just standing there?” Michael’s voice cracked. He quickly shut the laptop and backed away from the window.

Then came the sound. A dragging noise. Slow, deliberate. Like someone pulling a heavy blade across the concrete outside. The sound grew louder, closer, until it scraped against the wall of the house. Clara’s flashlight shook in her hand.

“Michael… lock the door,” she whispered.

Michael ran to the front door, twisting the lock with shaky hands. The dragging sound stopped. Silence fell once again. Clara inched closer to the window, against her better judgment, and peered out. Nothing. She let out a shaky breath, relieved.

“See? It’s fine,” she muttered.

But when she turned back toward her brother, her breath caught in her throat. Standing just behind Michael, half-shrouded in darkness, was a figure. Pale skin stretched over sharp cheekbones, hair black and wild, and eyes wide with madness. His grin was unnatural, scarred into his face. In his hand, the glint of a knife caught the faint moonlight.

“Go to sleep,” Jeff whispered.

“MICHAEL!” Clara screamed, but it was too late. Michael dove out of the way, narrowly avoiding the slash of Jeff’s blade. The knife cut into the wooden door instead, splintering it. Jeff’s laughter filled the room, a chilling sound that echoed off the walls.

Michael scrambled to his feet and ran toward Clara. “We have to get out!”

Clara grabbed his arm, and together they bolted toward the back door. Jeff’s footsteps followed, deliberate and mocking, as though he enjoyed the chase. The siblings burst into the backyard, the cold night air hitting them like ice. Clara’s flashlight beam danced across the yard, but the shadows seemed endless.

“Where do we go?” Michael panted, panic flooding his voice.

“The forest,” Clara replied. “We can lose him there.”

They sprinted into the trees, branches scratching their arms and faces as they plunged deeper into the woods. Behind them, Jeff’s laughter grew louder. It wasn’t rushed; it was steady, certain, like a predator who knew his prey had nowhere to hide.

“He’s toying with us,” Clara whispered between breaths.

“What do you mean?” Michael gasped.

“He’s not chasing us. He knows we’ll exhaust ourselves. Then he’ll strike.”

The siblings stumbled upon an old shack deep in the forest. Its wooden door hung crooked, the windows shattered. Desperation drove them inside. Michael slammed the door shut, though the rusty hinges barely held it in place. Clara searched the shack, finding only broken furniture and the stench of decay.

“We can hide here,” she whispered. “At least for now.”

But Michael shook his head. “No. Hiding won’t work. You saw his eyes. He’ll find us.”

Clara gritted her teeth. “Then we fight.”

From outside, the dragging sound began again. Slowly, agonizingly, it scraped against the wooden planks of the shack. Then came the whisper, soft but clear: “Go to sleep.”

Michael’s hands trembled as he picked up a broken chair leg. Clara armed herself with a jagged piece of glass from the window. The door creaked as Jeff pushed it open, his smile never fading. His knife gleamed in the sliver of moonlight cutting through the broken roof.

“You kids are fun,” Jeff said, voice low and cold. “Most don’t last this long.”

Clara raised the glass shard, her voice shaking but determined. “We’re not like the others.”

Jeff tilted his head, intrigued, his grin widening. “Prove it.”

He lunged. Clara swung the glass shard, slicing across his arm. Jeff hissed, but the grin never left his face. Michael swung the chair leg, landing a heavy blow on Jeff’s shoulder. For a moment, Jeff staggered. But then he laughed, louder than before.

“Yes,” he whispered, eyes gleaming. “Fight me. Make it interesting.”

The siblings attacked together, desperation giving them strength. Jeff parried every move, his knife flashing through the darkness. Yet something was different. His movements were erratic, fueled not just by bloodlust, but by something deeper—rage. Every strike of his knife was harder, faster, as though he was battling not just them, but something inside himself.

“He’s losing control,” Clara realized. “Michael, keep pushing!”

But Jeff’s rage was overwhelming. With a sudden burst of strength, he knocked Michael to the ground, pinning him with the blade poised over his chest. Clara screamed, charging at Jeff with the shard. She drove it into his side, and for the first time, Jeff faltered. His laughter cut off into a growl of pain. Michael shoved him back, and Jeff stumbled against the shack wall.

Breathing hard, Jeff’s grin wavered. His eyes flickered, torn between fury and something else—something almost human. Then he looked at Clara and Michael with a strange intensity.

“You…” he whispered. “You’re different.”

Before they could react, Jeff turned and vanished into the night, his laughter fading into the distance. The siblings collapsed to the ground, trembling but alive. The forest was silent once more, but the memory of Jeff’s grin burned in their minds.

Clara looked at her brother. “He’s not done with us.”

Michael nodded, still shaking. “No. He’s waiting.”

The siblings managed to crawl back to their house by dawn, exhausted, bruised, but alive. The power was still out, and the splintered front door stood as proof of their nightmare. They wanted to call the police, but what could they say? That a legend had attacked them? They knew no one would believe them.

Over the next days, Clara noticed subtle changes. Michael jumped at the smallest noises, while she herself began to hear whispers at night. Sometimes it was faint, like the wind. Other times, clear and sharp: “Go to sleep.” The words haunted her dreams. She woke up drenched in sweat, clutching the flashlight as if it were her lifeline.

One evening, Clara found Michael sitting by the window, staring into the woods. His eyes looked distant, almost hypnotized. She shook his shoulder. “Michael, what are you doing?”

He blinked slowly, his lips trembling. “He’s out there. Watching. I can feel him.”

Clara’s heart sank. She wanted to deny it, but she felt the same. Every creak of the house, every shadow outside, carried the weight of Jeff’s presence. His rage hadn’t been satisfied. He was waiting for the right moment to strike again.

That night, the dragging sound returned. Louder. Closer. The siblings huddled together, armed once more with whatever they could find. But the sound didn’t stop at the door. It moved around the house, circling, taunting. Then, a soft tapping at the window. Clara lifted the flashlight with shaking hands and froze.

Jeff stood there, his face pressed against the glass, grin stretched wider than ever. His knife tapped rhythmically against the windowpane. He mouthed the words silently: “Go. To. Sleep.”

Michael panicked, screaming, and threw a lamp at the window. The glass shattered, but Jeff was already gone, his laughter trailing into the night. The siblings clung to each other, realizing the truth: there was no escaping him. Jeff wasn’t hunting them for fun anymore—he was obsessed. They had fought back, and that had only fueled his rage.

Days turned into weeks, but sleep never came easily. The siblings’ lives became a waking nightmare. Sometimes they would glimpse Jeff’s shadow in the yard. Other times they found scratches on the walls or messages carved into the wood: “Sleep.” The town dismissed their pleas, calling them paranoid. But the siblings knew the truth. Jeff was waiting, and one night, he would return for the final game.

And when he did, there would be no hiding, no running. Only one outcome remained. Jeff’s rage was unending, and his command eternal: “Go to sleep.”

The night held its breath, knowing the nightmare wasn’t over—it had only just begun.