“Don’t Make Me Hunt You Down” | Creepypasta

I’ve been running for hours.

My legs feel like wet rope, my lungs scrape with every breath—but I can’t stop. I won’t stop. He’s still out there. Somewhere behind me. Watching. Waiting.

I used to think clowns were just a dumb fear. A childhood hangover from a fifth birthday party gone wrong—my parents hired one who trailed behind me squeaking balloon animals while I screamed. But I grew up. I faced grizzlies for the perfect wildlife shot. I’ve climbed cliffs in snowstorms for a photograph. Fear was something I’d left behind.

At least I thought so.

Four days ago, I set out solo into the Bitterroot wilderness in Montana. Forty miles from the nearest parking lot. Just me, my gear, and the silence of the forest. I needed it—after the divorce, the friends who vanished, the house she got. I kept the camera. The compass my dad gave me. And a crater of regret.

The first couple days were peaceful. Therapeutic, even. Golden aspens, fresh elk tracks, the smell of pine in every breath. I got some of the best shots I’ve taken in years.

Then came night two.

I woke up at 3 a.m. Thought it was the stream at first. But there was something else.

Music.

Faint, drifting through the trees like smoke. A warped, sluggish circus tune—like a calliope groaning its final breath. Notes that sounded like they were peeling apart as they played.

I told myself it was wind. Or altitude sickness. Or sleep paralysis. But deep down, I knew better.

Earlier that week, at the trailhead, a ranger had checked my permit. Tall guy. Thin wrists. Stiff posture. Name tag read R. Grinwell. His eyes didn’t blink enough. His smile didn’t quite fit.

“People go missing out here,” he’d said, breath faintly sweet like cotton candy. “Every year. Empty tents. No signs.”

Then, leaning in too close:
“Don’t make me come hunt you down.”

I thought it was a joke. Rangers try to spook solo hikers all the time. But the moment I heard that music, his voice played back in my head—like a warning I should’ve taken seriously.

By morning, I’d almost convinced myself I imagined it. Until I saw the balloon.

Tied to a tree near my tent. Bright red. Perfectly knotted. No other footprints. No broken branches. No signs of anyone.

Then my compass started spinning.

My camera wouldn’t turn on.

And I began to feel… watched.

Later, on the trail, I spotted a flicker of movement—a flash of red and yellow between the trees. I called out. Nothing. Just silence. Too much silence. Not even birdsong.

At an overlook, I found a second balloon. Blue. Bouncing gently in the breeze.

Then I saw him.

Down the trail. Standing motionless.

A clown.
White-painted face. Grotesque red smile. Just watching.

Through my binoculars, I saw the tilt of his head—curious. Wrong.
Then he waved.

I ran.

I ditched the trail, tore through the underbrush, scrambled over rock and root. My pack got ripped apart. My compass spun itself into a blur. And still, I could feel him behind me. Not chasing—just coming. Always coming.

That night, I slept under a granite shelf. No fire. No food. Just me, and the dark, and the sound of something breathing just beyond the stone.

It didn’t move. It just breathed. For hours.

And it smelled...sweet. Rotten. Greasepaint and decay.

When dawn hit, I bolted. Left everything. Even my gear. I’ve been running ever since.

Somewhere along the creek today, I stopped for water. Told myself he couldn’t have followed me this far. That I was safe.

Then I checked the compass.

The needle had stopped spinning.

It pointed directly behind me.

I turned.

Nothing.

Just the wind in the pines. The sun on the rocks. The illusion of peace.

I knelt to drink, trying to pull myself back into reality. Told myself this was exhaustion. Stress. Not real. Not possible.

But then… in the water…

His reflection.

Standing behind me. Not smiling anymore. The red grin melted, smeared, dripping down his chin to reveal raw, graying flesh underneath. Where eyes should’ve been—holes. Deep, endless.

And pinned to the chest of that dirty uniform...

R. Grinwell.

Same crooked name tag.

Same voice, low and soft and right behind my ear:
“I said… don’t make me come hunt you down.”