CreepyPasta-horror译：大嘴巴先生

Chapter 4: MR. WIDEMOUTH 

第四章 大嘴巴先生

在我的童年，我和自己的家人就像大海中的一滴水一样漂流，居无定所。直到八岁时，我们才正式定居在罗德岛州，并且直到我去往科罗拉多斯普林斯大学完成学业。我的大部分记忆都植根于罗德岛州，但依旧留有一些碎片零散于我脑海里的楼阁，碎片属于我年幼时租住过的各个家。 

这些记忆大多是不甚清楚，甚至是毫无意义的——是在北卡罗来纳州一所房子的后院追逐另一个男孩，还是试图建造一个漂浮在我们宾夕法尼亚州租寓后面溪流上的木筏………等等。但有一组记忆仍然像玻璃那般地清晰，就好像它们是在昨天刚刚制作的那样。我常常在想，这些记忆，是不是只是那年春天我所经历的漫长疾病时所发生的一场恶梦，但在我心里，我知道它们都是真实的。 

我们住在缅因州繁华大都市新葡萄园外的一所房子里，有643位住户。这是一个很大的空间，尤其是对于一个三口之家来说。在我们住在那里的五个月里，有很多房间我都没有来得及参观。在某些方面，这些多余的空间需要我们支付更多的租金，但它确是当时市场上唯一的租房（至少距离我父亲的工作场所仅有不到一小时的路程）。 

在我五岁生日后的第二天（由我的父母单独照顾），我发烧了。医生说我患有单核细胞增多症，这意味着至少三周内不能外出以及随之而来的不间断发烧。

我们正在收拾我们的东西以计划搬到宾夕法尼亚州，我的大部分东西都已经打包在盒子里，这使我的房间变得空荡荡的。母亲每天都会给我带几瓶姜汁汽水和书籍，这些都成为了我接下来几周的主要娱乐来源。无聊总是在拐角处若隐若现，等待着抬起自己那丑陋的头颅，以期加剧我的痛苦。 

我不完全记得我是怎么认识大嘴巴先生的。我想那是在我被确诊的一周后。我对这个小生物的第一个记忆是问他是否有名字。他让我叫他大嘴巴先生，因为他的嘴巴很大。事实上，与他的身体相比，他的一切都很大 - 他的头，他的眼睛，他弯曲的耳朵 ——但他的嘴巴是所有身体部位里最大的。 

“你看起来有点像弗比（Furby，美国电子机器人玩具，一种类似仓鼠或猫头鹰的生物），”我翻阅我的一本书时说。 

大嘴巴先生停了下来，困惑地看了我一眼。“弗比？什么是弗比？“他问。 

我耸了耸肩。“你知道...玩具。大耳朵的小机器人。你可以抚摸和喂养它们，几乎就像一只真正的宠物。 

“哦，”大嘴巴先生恢复了他的活动。“其实你不需要哪些东西。他们和拥有一个真正的朋友是不一样的。 

我记得每次我母亲过来检查我时，大嘴巴先生都会消失。“我就躺在你的床底下，”他后来解释道。“我不想让你的父母看到我，因为我怕他们不再让我和你一起玩了。 

在最初的几天里，我们没有做太多事情。大嘴巴先生只是看着我的书，着迷于它们所包含的故事和图片。在我遇见他的第三或第四天早上，他脸上带着灿烂的笑容迎接我。“我有一款我们可以玩的新游戏，”他说。“我们得等到你母亲过来检查你之后，因为我不能让她看到我们玩。这是一场秘密的游戏。 ”

在我母亲像往常一样送来了更多的书和苏打水后，大嘴巴先生从床底下溜了出来，拉着我的手。“我们必须去走廊尽头的房间，”他说。起初我反对，因为我的父母禁止我在未经他们允许的情况下离开我的床，但大嘴巴先生执拗得可怕。 

房间里没有家具或墙纸。它唯一的区别特征是门口对面的窗户。大嘴巴飞快地穿过房间，用力推开窗户，把它推开。然后他招手让我看看下面的地面。 

我们在房子的第二层，但它在一座小山上，从这个角度来看，由于倾斜，下降的高度要比两层楼更远。“我喜欢在这里跳下来，”大嘴巴解释说。“我假装这个窗户下面有一个大而柔软的蹦床，然后我就跳了下去。如果你跳下来时足够用力，你就会像羽毛一样反弹回来。我想你可以试试。” 

我是一个发烧的五岁孩子，所以当我低头思考这种可能性时，只有一丝怀疑在我脑海中闪过。“这里好像有一点高，”我说。 

“但这都是乐趣的一部分。如果只是一小段，那就不好玩了。否则，你不妨在真正的蹦床上蹦跳。” 

我否决了这个想法，想象自己在稀薄的空气中摔倒，只是为了反弹回窗户，看到人眼看不见的东西。但我内心的现实主义占了上风。“也许还有其他时间，”我说。“我不知道我是否有足够的想象力。我可能会受伤。 ”

大嘴巴先生的脸扭曲化成一声咆哮，但只是一瞬间。愤怒让位于失望。“如果你这么说的话。”他说。他整天都在我的床下度过，安静得像只老鼠。 

第二天早上，大嘴巴先生拿着一个小盒子来了。“我想教你如何玩杂耍，”他说。“在我开始给你上课之前，这里有一些你可以用来练习的东西。” 

我看了看盒子。里面装满了刀子。“我的父母会杀了我！”我顿时大叫起来，惊恐地发现大嘴巴先生把刀子带进了我的房间——那是我的父母永远不允许我碰的东西。“我会被打屁股，禁闭整整一年！” 

大嘴巴先生皱了皱眉头。“玩这些很有趣。我要你试试。 ”

我把盒子推开了。“我不能。我会惹上麻烦的。而且…把刀扔到空中是不安全的。” 

大嘴巴先生的眉毛深深地化成了一阵皱眉。他拿起那盒刀，滑到我的床底下，在那裡待了一整天。我开始怀疑他有多少次就这样睡在我身下。 

在那之后，我开始难以入睡。大嘴巴先生经常在晚上叫醒我，说他在窗户下面放了一个真正的蹦床，一个很大的蹦床，一个我在黑暗中看不到的蹦床。我总是拒绝并试图回去睡觉，但大嘴巴先生坚持了下来。有时他会一直陪在我身边，直到清晨，并且鼓励我跳下去。 

他玩起来不再那么有趣了。 

一天早上，我母亲来找我，告诉我，她允许我在外面走动。她认为新鲜的空气对我有好处，尤其是在被限制在这狭小的房间里这么长时间之后。我兴奋地穿上运动鞋，小跑到后门廊，渴望阳光照在脸上的感觉。 

大嘴巴先生在等我。“我有一些我想让你看到的东西，”他说。我想我一定是给了他一个困惑的表情，因为他接着说，“我保证，这是安全的。” 

我跟着他走到一条鹿道的起点，这条小路穿过房子后面的树林。“这是一条很重要的道路，”他解释说。“我有很多跟你一样年龄的朋友。当他们准备好了，我会带他们沿着这条路，来到一个特别的地方。你还没有准备好，但有一天，我希望能带你去那里。” 

我回到房子里，想知道在那条小径的尽头通往何方。 

在我遇见大嘴巴先生两周后，我们最后一批东西被装进了一辆移动的卡车里。我会坐在那辆卡车的驾驶室里，就在我父亲的旁边，开车去往宾夕法尼亚州。我考虑过把自己将要离开的消息告诉大嘴巴先生，但即使在五岁的时候，我也开始怀疑这个生物的意图也许会对我不利，尽管他另有说法。出于这个原因，我决定对他隐瞒了我的离开。 

凌晨4点，我和父亲坐在卡车上。他希望在明天午餐时间之前到达宾夕法尼亚州，借助着无限量的咖啡和足足六瓶能量饮料。他看起来更像是一个即将跑马拉松的人，而不是一个即将枯坐两天一动不动的人。 

“够早了吧？”他问。 

我点了点头，把头靠在窗前，希望在太阳升起之前睡个好觉。我感觉到父亲的手正放在自己的肩膀上。“这是最后一次（搬家），孩子，我向你保证。我知道这对你来说很难，你病得那么重……一旦爸爸得到晋升，我们就可以安定下来，你可以交到新的朋友”。 

当我们退下车道时，我睁开了眼睛。我在卧室的窗户里看到了大嘴巴先生所在的筒仓。他一动不动地站着，直到卡车即将转向主干道。他可怜兮兮地向我挥手告别，牛排刀握在手里。但我没有回头。  

几年后，我回到了新葡萄园。我们家所在的那块土地除了地基外全是空的，因为房子在我家离开几年后就被烧毁了。出于好奇，我沿着大嘴巴先生给我看的鹿道走。怀着微小的希望盼望他可以从树后跳出来，把路过的行人（bejeesus英文同bejesus，此作一种委婉的强调。另译为耶稣）吓跑，但我觉得大嘴巴先生确实是不见了，不知何故被绑在了那座已不复存在的房子上。 

这条小径在新葡萄园纪念公墓结束。 

我注意到许多墓碑属于儿童。 

原文：

During my childhood my family was like a drop of water in a vast river, never remaining in one location for long. We settled in Rhode Island when I was eight, and there we remained until I went to college in Colorado Springs. Most of my memories are rooted in Rhode Island, but there are fragments in the attic of my brain which belong to the various homes we had lived in when I was much younger. 

Most of these memories are unclear and pointless– chasing after another boy in the back yard of a house in North Carolina, trying to build a raft to float on the creek behind the apartment we rented in Pennsylvania, and so on. But there is one set of memories which remains as clear as glass, as though they were just made yesterday. I often wonder whether these memories are simply lucid dreams produced by the long sickness I experienced that Spring, but in my heart, I know they are real. 

We were living in a house just outside the bustling metropolis of New Vineyard, Maine, population 643. It was a large structure, especially for a family of three. There were a number of rooms that I didn't see in the five months we resided there. In some ways it was a waste of space, but it was the only house on the market at the time, at least within an hour's commute to my father's place of work. 

The day after my fifth birthday (attended by my parents alone), I came down with a fever. The doctor said I had mononucleosis, which meant no rough play and more fever for at least another three weeks. It was horrible timing to be bed-ridden– we were in the process of packing our things to move to Pennsylvania, and most of my things were already packed away in boxes, leaving my room barren. My mother brought me ginger ale and books several times a day, and these served the function of being my primary from of entertainment for the next few weeks. Boredom always loomed just around the corner, waiting to rear its ugly head and compound my misery. 

I don't exactly recall how I met Mr. Widemouth. I think it was about a week after I was diagnosed with mono. My first memory of the small creature was asking him if he had a name. He told me to call him Mr. Widemouth, because his mouth was large. In fact, everything about him was large in comparison to his body– his head, his eyes, his crooked ears– but his mouth was by far the largest. 

"You look kind of like a Furby," I said as he flipped through one of my books. 

Mr. Widemouth stopped and gave me a puzzled look. "Furby? What's a Furby?" he asked. 

I shrugged. "You know… the toy. The little robot with the big ears. You can pet and feed them, almost like a real pet." 

"Oh." Mr. Widemouth resumed his activity. "You don't need one of those. They aren't the same as having a real friend." 

I remember Mr. Widemouth disappearing every time my mother stopped by to check in on me. "I lay under your bed," he later explained. "I don't want your parents to see me because I'm afraid they won't let us play anymore." 

We didn't do much during those first few days. Mr. Widemouth just looked at my books, fascinated by the stories and pictures they contained. The third or fourth morning after I met him, he greeted me with a large smile on his face. "I have a new game we can play," he said. "We have to wait until after your mother comes to check on you, because she can't see us play it. It's a secret game." 

After my mother delivered more books and soda at the usual time, Mr. Widemouth slipped out from under the bed and tugged my hand. "We have to go the the room at the end of this hallway," he said. I objected at first, as my parents had forbidden me to leave my bed without their permission, but Mr. Widemouth persisted until I gave in. 

The room in question had no furniture or wallpaper. Its only distinguishing feature was a window opposite the doorway. Mr. Widemouth darted across the room and gave the window a firm push, flinging it open. He then beckoned me to look out at the ground below. 

We were on the second story of the house, but it was on a hill, and from this angle the drop was farther than two stories due to the incline. "I like to play pretend up here," Mr. Widemouth explained. "I pretend that there is a big, soft trampoline below this window, and I jump. If you pretend hard enough you bounce back up like a feather. I want you to try." 

I was a five-year-old with a fever, so only a hint of skepticism darted through my thoughts as I looked down and considered the possibility. "It's a long drop," I said. 

"But that's all a part of the fun. It wouldn't be fun if it was only a short drop. If it were that way you may as well just bounce on a real trampoline." 

I toyed with the idea, picturing myself falling through thin air only to bounce back to the window on something unseen by human eyes. But the realist in me prevailed. "Maybe some other time," I said. "I don't know if I have enough imagination. I could get hurt." 

Mr. Widemouth's face contorted into a snarl, but only for a moment. Anger gave way to disappointment. "If you say so," he said. He spent the rest of the day under my bed, quiet as a mouse. 

The following morning Mr. Widemouth arrived holding a small box. "I want to teach you how to juggle," he said. "Here are some things you can use to practice, before I start giving you lessons." 

I looked in the box. It was full of knives. "My parents will kill me!" I shouted, horrified that Mr. Widemouth had brought knives into my room– objects that my parents would never allow me to touch. "I'll be spanked and grounded for a year!" 

Mr. Widemouth frowned. "It's fun to juggle with these. I want you to try it." 

I pushed the box away. "I can't. I'll get in trouble. Knives aren't safe to just throw in the air." 

Mr. Widemouth's frown deepend into a scowl. He took the box of knives and slid under my bed, remaining there the rest of the day. I began to wonder how often he was under me. 

I started having trouble sleeping after that. Mr. Widemouth often woke me up at night, saying he put a real trampoline under the window, a big one, one that I couldn't see in the dark. I always declined and tried to go back to sleep, but Mr. Widemouth persisted. Sometimes he stayed by my side until early in the morning, encouraging me to jump. 

He wasn't so fun to play with anymore. 

My mother came to me one morning and told me I had her permission to walk around outside. She thought the fresh air would be good for me, especially after being confined to my room for so long. Exstatic, I put on my sneakers and trotted out to the back porch, yearning for the feeling of sun on my face. 

Mr. Widemouth was waiting for me. "I have something I want you to see," he said. I must have given him a weird look, because he then said, "It's safe, I promise." 

I followed him to the beginning of a deer trail which ran through the woods behind the house. "This is an important path," he explained. "I've had a lot of friends about your age. When they were ready, I took them down this path, to a special place. You aren't ready yet, but one day, I hope to take you there." 

I returned to the house, wondering what kind of place lay beyond that trail. 

Two weeks after I met Mr. Widemouth, the last load of our things had been packed into a moving truck. I would be in the cab of that truck, sitting next to my father for the long drive to Pennsylvania. I considered telling Mr. Widemouth that I would be leaving, but even at five years old, I was beginning to suspect that perhaps the creature's intentions were not to my benefit, despite what he said otherwise. For this reason, I decided to keep my departure a secret. 

My father and I were in the truck at 4 a.m. He was hoping to make it to Pennyslvania by lunch time tomorrow with the help of an endless supply of coffee and a six-pack of energy drinks. He seemed more like a man who was about to run a marathon rather than one who was about to spend two days sitting still. 

"Early enough for you?" he asked. 

I nodded and placed my head against the window, hoping for some sleep before the sun came up. I felt my father's hand on my shoulder. "This is the last move, son, I promise. I know it's hard for you, as sick as you've been. Once daddy gets promoted we can settle down and you can make friends." 

I opened my eyes as we backed out of the driveway. I saw Mr. Widemouth's silouhette in my bedroom window. He stood motionless until the truck was about to turn onto the main road. He gave a pitiful little wave good-bye, steak knife in hand. I didn't wave back. 

Years later, I returned to New Vineyard. The piece of land our house stood upon was empty except for the foundation, as the house burned down a few years after my family left. Out of curiosity, I followed the deer trail that Mr. Widemouth had shown me. Part of me expected him to jump out from behind a tree and scare the living bejeesus out of me, but I felt that Mr. Widemouth was gone, somehow tied to the house that no longer existed. 

The trail ended at the New Vineyard Memorial Cemetery. 

I noticed that many of the tombstones belonged to children. 

Credited to perfectcircle35.