>Sorry for what? Our daddy taught us not to be ashamed of our dicks, especially since they're such good size and all.
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Why is goot like that

ITT we make scary goot creepypastas
“Thread 404: User Goot”

No one remembers when the forum first went live.

It didn’t have a proper name—just a string of numbers and a broken logo that never loaded. The users called it the Board, half-joking, half-nervous. It was one of those places you only found if you weren’t looking for it: a dead link on a dead site, a reply to a deleted comment, a cached page that shouldn’t exist anymore.

You couldn’t sign up. You didn’t choose a username. The Board chose one for you.

That’s how people first noticed Goot.

His posts were different. While everyone else traded in recycled memes and nonsense, Goot wrote in plain sentences. No jokes. No reactions. Just observations.

“He leaves his curtains open at night.”
“Second-floor apartment. Blue door. Always forgets to lock it.”
“Walks the same route every Thursday.”

At first, people thought it was a bit—some kind of performance. The Board thrived on absurdity, after all. But then users began to realize something unsettling.

Every description was too specific.

Someone replied once:

“lol where is this even”

Goot answered immediately.

“You know where.”

The user never posted again.

That wasn’t unusual on the Board—people vanished all the time. But then another thing started happening. Users who joked about Goot’s posts, who mocked him or asked too many questions… they’d disappear too.

Their accounts didn’t get deleted. Their posts remained, frozen in time. But no new replies ever came. Not anywhere. Not on the Board. Not on other sites.

Gone.

That’s when people started digging.

One user—handle: archivist_88—made a thread compiling Goot’s messages. He mapped out the locations, cross-referenced details, even tried matching them to real-world places.

His final post was just a single line:

“These are all real people.”

Minutes later, Goot replied.

“Not anymore.”

The thread locked itself.

After that, something changed.

Goot stopped describing strangers.

He started describing users.

At first it was subtle—small details slipped into replies:

“You type with your left hand more than your right.”
“There’s a crack in your ceiling above your bed.”
“You checked the door twice tonight.”

People laughed it off, nervously. Coincidences. Lucky guesses.

Until the photos started appearing.

Blurry images. Dark rooms. Hallways. Reflections in windows. Each one attached to a Goot reply, each one showing a place that looked… familiar.

Too familiar.

The Board became quieter after that. Threads died faster. Users stopped engaging. Some tried to leave, swearing they’d never return.

But the Board didn’t let you leave.

You could close the tab. Clear your history. Smash your device. It didn’t matter. Sooner or later, you’d find yourself back there. The same broken logo. The same threads.

And always, somewhere, a new post from Goot.

Watching.

Waiting.

One night, a new thread appeared. No title. No replies. Just a single image.

It showed a dimly lit room. A desk. A screen.

The screen displayed the Board itself.

And in the reflection—barely visible—was a figure standing behind the person taking the photo.

The caption read:

“You’re closer than you think.”

No one responded.

No one dared.

Because by then, everyone on the Board understood one thing:

Goot didn’t find his victims on the forum.

The forum was just where he announced them.

And if you could read this—

If you could see his posts—

Then he’d already found you.
 
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