The Internet’s Oldest Urban Legend Might Be Real

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Frequent-cat
Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. 
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This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:02):
Urban legends usually start the same way. A whispered warning,
a cautionary tale, a rule you suppose to follow without
ever asking why. Don't go into the woods at night,
don't look in the mirror and call the name, don't
stop for the crying baby on the side of the road.
The counting Man belongs to that category. It spreads in fragments,

(00:26):
old message boards, lost blogs, anonymous confessions, enough to form
a pattern, but never enough to give answers. The rule
itself is simple. If you're walking alone and you hear
footsteps behind you that match your own, and a voice
begins the count, don't turn around. That's it. That's the warning.

(00:52):
The voice always starts at one low, deliberate, almost conversational.
Each night, it continues one number higher than before, two, three, four.
The timing is always the same after dark, when you're alone,

(01:14):
and the footsteps never break rhythm. There are two known
outcomes if you break the rules. If you turn around,
it's over instantly. There are no accounts testifying that someone
has done this, so it's safe to assume the worst.
If you don't turn the count goes on. Each night,

(01:37):
it climbs higher, step by step, pulling you toward the
number ten. And that's the part no one can fully describe.
No account ever survives past ten. Whatever happens when the
counting Man finishes counting, it doesn't leave anyone behind to
explain it. What we're left with fragments posts on forgotten forums,

(02:03):
transcripts from police reports, journal entries abandoned half way through,
all describing the same phenomenon, same footsteps, same voice. Taken together,
they don't look like folklore. They look like case studies.

(02:24):
One of the earliest online references to the Counting Man
comes from two thousand nine on a now defunct college
forum archived by the way Back Machine. The user went
by decard forty two, a sophomore nineteen, posting in a
humor thread about campus pranks. His first post was lighthearted,

(02:47):
someone's messing with me walking home from the library last night.
Heard footsteps behind me, thought it was a friend, looked
around nobody there, then swear to God, heard one like
someone whispered it in my ear. Funniest crap I've ever seen.
Whoever's pulling this, you got me, Other users teased him,

(03:13):
told him here was an echo or campers security playing games.
The next night, he posted again. It happened again, different street,
different time, steps right behind me, keeping pace this time
is said two, same voice, same tone, I'm not kidding.

(03:34):
This isn't funny anymore. The replies grew sharper. People accused
them of trolling, of building an arg but the patterns continued.
Each post a new number. Three outside my dorm window.
This time I didn't even leave the building. Four I

(03:56):
tried blasting music on my headphones. Still heard it louder.
Five I tried hiding. Didn't help with the read is
long over sixty replies, most of them mocking, but a
few start to show concern as his tone shifts from
joking to frantic. By seven, his posts are shorter, almost clipped.

(04:24):
I'm not sleeping. Every time it comes this one more,
it waits until I'm alone. Please tell me someone else
has heard this. No one had, or at least no
one admitted to it. His last entry, dated October fourteenth,
two thousand and nine, reads nine right outside my door

(04:47):
this time. I don't think I can keep this up.
And that's where it ends. The account went silent, his
email went dark. A roommate later posts did that. Decard
forty two ward dropped out suddenly and left campus, though
no records of a transfer exist. It's worth noting the

(05:09):
ip logs from his account show he made the last
post from inside his dorm room, not on the street,
not walking home, inside alone at his desk, which suggests
the counting man doesn't need you outside in the dark
to follow you. Once he starts counting, it goes wherever

(05:31):
you go. Cases like Deckard forty two's are usually written
off as the product of stress college kids pulling all
nighters walking home tired. The mind can play tricks when
it's short on sleep. Some psychologists argue it's a form
of auditory paradolia, the brain's tendency to find patterns where

(05:53):
none exist. The footsteps you think you hear, the whispered
one that isn't really there. But there's a problem with
that explanation. The posts don't exist in isolation. Dig deep enough,
and you'll find fragments of the same story scattered across
obscure forums and forgotten threads. A Usenet post from the

(06:17):
late nineties mentioning the man who counts as a bibleist
board warning not to let it get to ten. A
chain email from the early two thousands describing footsteps that
match perfectly night after night. The details line up too
neatly to be dismissed as coincidence. Always the same pattern

(06:39):
footsteps and sinc a man's voice counting one number per night.
The rule don't turn around and silence after ten. Folklore
doesn't usually cross mediums this way. It doesn't survive from
email forwards to Reddit threads, to discord servers unless there's

(07:00):
something feeding it. And that's where the unease comes in,
because if these stories aren't random, if they're connected, then
it means the counting man isn't just a legend, it's
a phenomenon. The following detailed account, dated twenty sixteen, buried

(07:22):
in a series of scan notebook pages uploaded to an
image board. The files were titled simply Commuter Journal. The
handwriting belongs to a woman in a mid thirties, judging
by the context, who describes herself as a night shift
worker taking busses home after midnight. The first entry picks

(07:43):
up at five. It's been going for almost a week now.
Always when I leave work and when I walk to
the bus stop, footsteps behind me perfectly timed. The voice
counting last night was four, tonight was five. I don't
know what happens when it reaches ten, but I'm starting

(08:03):
to believe the people online. She admits the trying to
test the rules, putting in earbuds, taking different routes, pausing
to see if the steps would pause too. They always did.
By seven, her tone shifts. It's getting closer. I feel

(08:24):
breath on my neck, but I won't turn. I can't.
I try to use the bus window as a mirror,
just the check thought. Maybe if I looked that way,
it wouldn't count as turning round. I don't know if
it was a mistake. I saw my reflection mouthing the
number seven. My lips weren't moving. The next entries are

(08:49):
increasingly frantic. She describes covering mirrors in her apartment, refusing
to glance at the black surface of her phone when
it's off. But reflections aren't problem. The footsteps never stop.
Her last entry is dated February third, twenty sixteen. By nine,

(09:10):
the pages are shaky, smudged. It's with me everywhere, not
just on the street anymore, in the break room, in
the stairwell, in the bus aisle. I hear it even
when there's no room for anyone to be walking behind me.
Nobody reacts, no one else hears it. I'm not safe anywhere.

(09:36):
The scans and there a curious detail. Users on the
forum cross reference to the bus route times against the
city's open transit records. She stopped tagging into the system
after that date. No last trip, no exit scan, no
ride logged under a card. Again, she didn't just vanish

(09:57):
from the bus, she vanished on it, which raises a
disturbing question. If turning around means you die, and reaching
ten means you disappear, which fate is worse. It's easy

(10:18):
to think the counting men might be tied to a
city block or state, a place you could avoid, but
the accounts don't agree with that. Reports come from everywhere,
quiet suburbs, isolated, country highways. It isn't the location that matters,
it's the person. Once the counting starts, it follows you

(10:44):
across neighborhoods, across state lines, even across oceans. If some
of the scattered foreign posts are to be believed, The
common thread isn't where people hear it is that they
all describe the same rules, the same footsteps, the same
voice that suggests the counting Man isn't a haunting or

(11:05):
a cursed road, or even a local legend. It's a phenomenon, portable, persistent, personal,
and if it attaches to a person instead of a place,
then running may not save you. Among the scattered accounts,

(11:28):
one of the most sighted is a Reddit thread from
twenty fourteen. The user went by ground level. He described
the first few nites much like everyone else, the footsteps,
the voice, the steady climb of numbers. By four, he
admitted he was already panicking, But unlike most cases, he

(11:50):
tried something different. Iran full sprint, no rhythm, just chaos.
The footsteps behind me stumbled, the voice stopped, and when
it came back the next night, it was back to one.
I think I broke it. His post drew immediate attention.

(12:11):
Dozens of commenters asked for details. Was it a trick,
a glitch? And whatever this thing was? Could you reset
the sequence just by running for a while. His updates
gave people hope. Second night after running, it worked back
to one. If I keep this up, maybe I could

(12:31):
hold it off forever. But a week later the tone shifted.
It's different now. Even though it reset to one, it
doesn't sound the same, louder, closer. I feel it breathing harder,
and the steps don't stumble when I run anymore, they

(12:52):
keep pace. By the next reset, the escalation was Apparents
grew increasingly distorted, deepening with each passing moment. The footsteps
struck harder, like boots on concrete, even when he was indoors.
His final reset brought him back to one again, but

(13:13):
with a consequence he hadn't expected. It's behind me all
the time now, not just at night, grocery store, elevator, bathroom.
I don't know how much longer I can handle this.
Other users begged him to stop running, to just let
it play out rather than making it worse, but his

(13:36):
posts kept coming shorter, more frantic, louder than before. Walls shake,
my ears are bleeding. I can't reset it this time.
His account went silent immediately after. A cross check of
his profile shows he'd been an active user for years.

(13:58):
After that final post, nothing no comments, no logins, no
activity at all. What stands out about his case is
the pattern. The reset didn't save him, It only made
things worse. The numbers always start over, but the intensity doesn't.

(14:20):
It builds layer on layer, and that suggests the counting
Man isn't just telling knights, he's tallying you, which leaves
the question is it better to let the count finish
or to run and make what comes after even worse.

(14:41):
It's tempting to think of the counting Man as a
digital age creation, a creepy paster that spread across forums
and message boards, dressed up with the same ritualistic rules
we've seen in hundreds of other urban legends, but the
pattern didn't start online. The earliest t face reference appears
in an Ohio newspaper from eighteen ninety one. The article

(15:05):
is grainy, barely legible, preserved only through a university microfilm scan.
It reports and a farmer's family outside Culler Cothe who
complained of phantom footsteps circling their porch every night for
nine days. Neighbors dismissed it as coyotes or trespassers. On

(15:26):
the tenth night, the family vanished. The sheriff's deputy, who
arrived the next morning, found the dinner table still, set plates,
half eaten, red torn mid bite, no signs of struggle,
just silence and empty chairs. Go back further, and the
fragments grow a stranger. In a sailor's diary from seventeen

(15:50):
forty three recovered from a wreck in the North Sea,
one entry stands out. On the seventh night, he spoke
seven that no man was behind me. I must not turn.
The crew begs me. They do not hear it as
I do. The diary ends there. The next pages are

(16:13):
ruined by sea water. No mention of storms, mutiny, or shipwreck,
just an abrupt stop, as if the account itself had
no chance to continue. Other records exist in scattered folklore collections,
including a Bavarian folklore about da Zela, the counter who
walks behind men on into roads, and a letter from

(16:36):
a missionary in the sixteen hundreds describing an invisible step
matcher that tormented converts at night. Are these hoaxes folklore
bent to fit a modern Internet story? Maybe? Historical anomalies
are prone to misinterpretation, especially when a pattern has already

(16:57):
been suggested, but the concealer distancy is hard to ignore.
The details don't shift the way most legends do. The
same progression appears again and again, footsteps and sink, a
man's voice rising one each night, the climb toward ten

(17:17):
different cultures, different languages, different centuries, the same rules. These
records can't be verified. Of course, we can't know if
the farmer's family simply fled or if the sailor's diary
was fabricated. The similarities are too precise to dismiss as coincidence.

(17:39):
The counting Man didn't begin with the Internet. He didn't
begin with stories whispered on message boards or shared though
chain emails. The implication is darker. The counting Man predates
the Internet, predates cities, predates memory itself. He's always been
behind her. Yes, suppose the historical record shows the counting

(18:06):
Man isn't confined to the Internet age. In that case,
modern reports proved something stranger. Still, he isn't confined to
any one region. Threads from Brazil describe or Horman Kukonta,
always in Portuguese, always the same phrasing, footsteps, a man's voice,

(18:26):
the steady rise toward ten. A Japanese forum in two
thousand and seven called him kazairu Otago, the counting Man,
with the same warning not to turn around. South African
blogs mentioned Muntu Wakabala and posts from Eastern Europe repeat
the same detail. One number each night, whispered at your back.

(18:50):
Different languages, different continents, the same ritual unchanged. That isn't
how folklore usually works. As a rule, urban legends mutate
when they travel. The hitchhiker Ghost is American. In Japan,
she becomes the slit mouthed woman. In Mexico, she is

(19:11):
known as La Lurana. The details shift, molded by culture
and language. Endings change, Villains take on local masks, rules bend.
That's what keeps folklore alive. It adapts. The counting man doesn't.
Everywhere he appears. The pattern remains the same. No local embellishments,

(19:36):
no regional variations, just the same rules repeated with unnerving
precision footsteps that match her own a voice, counting one
number per night. Don't turn, don't reach ten. The consistency
suggests the phenomenon isn't cultural at all. It doesn't spread

(19:57):
like rumor or myth. It doesn't if it replicates exactly,
which leaves us with two unsettling possibilities. Either every culture
spontaneously invented the same story with the same rules the
same outcome, which is almost impossible, or the counting man

(20:21):
is in the story at all. He's a constant, something
real enough to appear the same way to anyone anywhere,
regardless of language or culture. And if that's true, there's
one more question worth asking, why is the pattern surfacing
more frequently? Now? There's one final pattern worth mentioning, though

(20:49):
it's easy to miss if you're only reading individual accounts.
In nearly every case, the victim heard about the counting
man before they heard the footsteps. The college student in
two thousand and nine admitted he'd read a stupid email
about a man who counts before his first encounter. The
commuter's journal included a line, I thought this was just

(21:12):
another Internet ghost story. Then I started hearing it myself.
Even the so called survivor who tried to reset the
rhythm wrote in one of his earliest posts, maybe I
shouldn't have read that thread. Maybe that's what started it.
And this detail isn't unique to the Internet era. The

(21:34):
Ohio Farmers family in eighteen ninety one, the newspaper Clipping
notes that neighbors had been joking about a local phantom
counter before the footsteps began. The Sailor's Diary from seventeen
forty three refers to a tale told by dock hands
the night before he first recorded the voice. It happens

(21:55):
again and again. Awareness comes first, then the foot steps,
then the count that suggests the counting man doesn't hunt randomly,
It doesn't linger on roadsides waiting for strangers. He comes
when you know the rules. In other words, knowledge itself

(22:17):
is the trigger that would explain the consistency across centuries
and cultures. The story doesn't mutate because it doesn't need to.
Every version is the same because it isn't focal spreading.
It's contagion. Each account isn't a warning, it's an infection vector.

(22:40):
The more detail you read, the more precise the rules
become in your head, the closer you are to hearing
that first step fall in sync with your own, which
reframes everything we've looked at. The vanished accounts, the broken journals,
the posts that stop mid sentence. Maybe they didn't end

(23:01):
because the victims disappeared. Perhaps they ended because by writing
them down and passing on the rules, they were ensuring
the cycle would continue in someone else. And perhaps that's
why the stories always stopped before ten, not because they've
nothing left to say, but because by the time you

(23:22):
know enough to ask what happens Next, the footsteps have
already begun behind you.