23 Jul The Day I Killed the Judge

Posted at 23:08h in Strange and Unexplained by CreepypastaStories.com 0 Comments

📅 Published on July 23, 2025

“The Day I Killed the Judge”

Written by Arthur Dedrick
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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⏰ ESTIMATED READING TIME — 16 minutes

Rating: 10.00/10. From 1 vote.

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I suppose I should start by saying that I’m not the kind of guy who ever thought he’d be the villain in a story. I’ve always been a good dad, a devoted one, and all I wanted was to be there for my kids, just like any father would. But things went wrong—no, more than wrong. Things went horrifically, and I’d like to say it wasn’t my fault, but… that’s a lie. And if I’m being honest here, it all comes down to one person: Judge Levi Moleski.

You’ve probably never heard of him, but Moleski was the judge in my divorce case. He’d just been elected—some upstart with an Ivy League degree, a total rookie who thought he knew better than everyone else. There were whispers around the courthouse that he was arrogant, biased, and, worst of all, easily swayed. I didn’t think it would matter, though. All I needed was a fair shot to prove I was the better parent, that my kids deserved to be with me at least part of the time.

But I didn’t get that fair shot. Instead, I watched as Moleski practically handed my kids over to my ex-wife, ignoring everything I said, everything my lawyer presented. My ex had a history—alcohol abuse, some run-ins with the law—nothing massive, but things that definitely should have raised questions. But to him, it was like I didn’t exist.

Moleski ignored me, no matter what I said or did. I tried not to get angry at first. Tried to play it cool, thinking maybe he’d just need to hear more. But after six months of court dates and custody hearings, he’d ruled in her favor. She got full custody. Not even a single weekend for me. Moleski never looked at me, not once. It was like he’d made up his mind from the beginning. The worst part? He did it with this smug smile, like he enjoyed it. I could tell he thought I was the problem, that I was wasting his time.

That final court date…I don’t think I’ll ever forget how I felt. My kids, whom I’d done everything for, taken to every doctor’s appointment, helped with every science project…they were gone, just like that. And Levi Moleski was the one who’d signed their future away with the stroke of a pen.

I felt betrayed, powerless, and humiliated. I’d trusted the system to be fair, but it had failed me. And that was when something changed. I don’t know if you’ve ever felt pure rage, that kind of hatred that makes you see red, but that’s what happened to me that day. I was done playing fair. I wanted justice—no, I wanted revenge. And somewhere deep down, I thought, If the system can’t give me justice, maybe something else can.

* * * * * * *

After that last hearing, I couldn’t sleep. Every night was the same—I’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying that smug look on Moleski’s face, hearing his gavel come down as if he’d struck it against my chest. The anger didn’t fade. Instead, it got worse, boiling up until I could barely think straight. I stopped going to work and stopped answering my friends’ calls. All I could do was sit in that empty house, staring at the photos of my kids, wondering if I’d ever see them again.

That was when I started looking into things. I’d heard about some… unconventional methods for revenge. At first, it was just venting, reading online forums where people discussed getting even. Mostly junk, but then, one night, I found this post buried in a dark corner of the internet. It was from someone who claimed to have used something called “divine retribution” to punish someone who had wronged them—a ritual, they said, powerful enough to make even the mightiest fall.

I didn’t really believe it. I’d never been one to believe in the supernatural. But desperation does strange things to a man. I read through the instructions, which included simple materials, basic symbols, and an incantation. I even saved the post, more out of morbid curiosity than anything else. But over the next few days, the idea haunted me. Moleski deserved this. He’d taken my life apart, and he wasn’t going to get away with it. I convinced myself that I wasn’t doing anything wrong—that this wasn’t about murder or anything violent. It was just… balancing the scales.

I finally decided to go through with it. I gathered everything I’d need—a few candles, a doll I made to look like Moleski, even a lock of my own hair. The instructions said that rage and intent were key, that my hatred would fuel the ritual. By the time I was done setting up in the garage, I was seething. This was going to be justice, pure and simple. And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to end this nightmare and bring my kids back to me.

I knew it sounded crazy, but by then, I didn’t care. All I had left was my anger, my need for revenge, and a flickering hope that this ritual might actually do something. And if it didn’t? Well, at least I’d tried. At least I’d done something.

Standing in that dark, silent garage, I felt a strange sense of calm. It was almost comforting to know I was taking matters into my own hands. And in that moment, I was certain of one thing: Moleski was going to pay for what he’d done to me and my family.

* * * * * * *

The night I performed the ritual, it was raining. Not a gentle drizzle, either—one of those brutal, destructive storms that makes you feel like the sky is falling. Somehow, it felt fitting. I waited until midnight, the exact time specified in the instructions, and set everything up in the garage.

I’d cleared a space in the center, laying the doll on the concrete floor, surrounded by candles I’d stolen from the basement. Each candle had to be placed at specific points to form a rough pentagram, with the doll positioned directly in the center. According to the ritual’s instructions, the setup was meant to channel my energy and hatred directly to the target. Moleski.

I wasn’t religious and never had been, but standing there, with the storm raging outside and those candles flickering in the dark, I felt… something. Maybe it was the anger building up again, that smoldering resentment I’d carried for so long, or perhaps it was something else, something older and darker, filling the air around me like smoke. Either way, it was too late to back out. I’d come this far.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and started to chant the words I’d memorized. The language was strange and guttural, and each syllable felt like I was carving it into the air. I could feel the anger pouring out of me with each word, my hatred twisting and coiling around me. I tried not to think about how insane it all was, that here I was, invoking some ancient force, cursing a man I barely knew but despised with every fiber of my being.

As I chanted, I heard the wind pick up outside, howling against the garage door. The air grew cold, colder than it had any right to be in August. I opened my eyes briefly and saw the candles’ flames flickering, bending sideways as if something was pushing them. It felt like the entire room was frozen in suspense.

Then, in one final burst, I shouted the last line of the incantation—and the candles went out all at once, plunging the garage into pitch-black darkness. I stood paralyzed and in disbelief, struggling to breathe, in the wake of the ritual.

Just when I thought I’d imagined it all, I felt a chill ripple across the floor, like a wave of icy water spreading out from the doll in the center. And in that moment, I knew something had happened. I don’t know how to explain it, but there was this… shift, like the air itself had changed, becoming heavier and darker.

I stood there in the dark for what felt like hours, waiting for something else to happen. But nothing did. Finally, I fumbled for my phone, using its light to find the candles and relight them. The garage looked the same, the doll lying there like an abandoned toy, and I couldn’t see any physical sign that the ritual had worked.

I wanted to laugh, to brush it all off as some twisted game I’d played on myself. But as I stood there, a faint, unshakable dread crept in. I left the garage without looking back, telling myself it was over, that nothing had happened. I hadn’t really done anything… right?

But even as I crawled into bed that night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. That I’d somehow set something in motion that couldn’t be stopped.

* * * * * * *

A week later, I woke up to my phone buzzing with notifications. I didn’t think much of it at first—probably some news alert or spam email. But as I scrolled through my messages, my stomach dropped. Every one of them was talking about the same thing: Judge Levi Moleski was dead.

It didn’t seem real at first. There was no way, no possible way, that my little ritual had anything to do with this. I’d barely convinced myself that the ritual was anything more than some sick fantasy. But the more I read, the more I began to doubt my skepticism. They said Moleski had died in his sleep—an apparent heart attack. He’d been found in his bed that morning, his body contorted in a way that no one could explain, his face frozen in a horrified grimace.

The descriptions from the articles were… unsettling. Paramedics on the scene mentioned that the room was ice-cold when they arrived, despite it being mid-August. Some of them swore that they felt an unnatural chill just being near his body. The paper didn’t go into much detail, but I could tell from the language they used that it hadn’t been a normal death. There was something wrong about it, something that left them disturbed.

My mind started racing. I knew, was absolutely convinced, that somehow this was connected to what I’d done. But I didn’t want to believe it—I couldn’t. I’d never believed in supernatural forces or dark magic. It was ridiculous. And yet, here I was, reading about a man who had died under circumstances that seemed to mirror everything I’d envisioned that night in the garage.

There was a sick sense of satisfaction at first. I won’t lie—I felt some twisted justice, a sense that Moleski had finally gotten what he deserved. But it didn’t take long for that feeling to sour. As the day went on, I started to feel uneasy, and it only got worse the more I thought about it.

What had I done? Had I really wished death upon this man so strongly that it had come true? And if so… what did that mean? I found myself looking over my shoulder, feeling watched, haunted by some invisible presence. I couldn’t go a few minutes without picturing Moleski’s face, twisted in that awful, frozen expression, as if he’d seen something unimaginable in his final moments.

By the end of the day, I felt sick, my hands shaking as I tried to keep myself calm. I couldn’t get the image of Judge Moleski—contorted and cold, his eyes wide open in terror—out of my head. Whatever satisfaction I’d felt was gone, replaced by the grim reality that maybe, just maybe, I had been the one to make this happen.

* * * * * * *

Two days after Moleski’s death, a plain white envelope showed up in my mailbox. There was no stamp or return address, just my name scrawled in thin, careful handwriting across the front. I stared at it for a long time before finally opening it.

Inside was a single piece of paper, folded neatly. I unfolded it and felt a chill run down my spine as I read the message:

“I know what you did.”

I froze, barely breathing as I read the words over and over. I know what you did. The letters were thin and sharp, like they’d been scratched onto the page with a pen held too tightly. But it wasn’t just the words themselves that scared me. There was more. Below the accusation were details, things only someone who’d been there that night would know. It mentioned the candles, the doll, even the words I’d chanted. Things I’d never shared with anyone. I’d had no audience for my ritual—or had I?

I felt my throat tighten as I looked around, half-expecting to see someone watching me from the street, but there was no one, just that eerie quiet that follows you when you know you’re being watched. I went back inside, locked the door behind me, and reread the note, trying to make sense of it. Who could have sent this? No one else was aware of the ritual. I’d done it alone, in the dead of night, and hadn’t told a soul.

The note went on to threaten exposure, promising that my “transgressions” would be made public. And there, at the end, was a line that made my blood run cold: “Justice demands a price, and you will pay it.”

My first instinct was to throw the letter away and pretend it didn’t exist. But no matter how much I tried to ignore it, the words lingered, festering in the back of my mind.

I know what you did.

Someone knew, someone who shouldn’t, who couldn’t possibly know. And yet they did.

For the next few days, I was on edge. I couldn’t focus on anything, my mind racing as I tried to figure out who could have sent the letter. I even considered going to the police, but what would I say? That someone knew about my “ritual” to curse the judge? They’d think I was insane. And maybe I was. Perhaps the whole thing was just some twisted prank.

But deep down, I realized there was more to it than that. And as much as I tried to convince myself otherwise, I knew that whoever—or whatever—had written that letter was deadly serious.

* * * * * * *

From that day on, my life became a nightmare. I couldn’t sleep or eat, and couldn’t focus on anything except that letter and the feeling that someone was following me. The shadows in my house seemed to stretch further, and I began to see things in the corners of my vision—dark shapes and strange flashes of movement. I’d turn, and nothing would be there, but the feeling that something had been lurking just out of sight wouldn’t go away.

Every sound set me on edge. I’d hear footsteps outside my window in the dead of night, whispers too faint to make out but close enough to feel. I stopped answering my phone, convinced that every unknown number was someone calling to tell me they knew, that they were coming for me. My friends stopped checking in; my family grew concerned, but I pushed them away. I couldn’t risk them finding out what I’d done. I felt like I was being swallowed up by darkness.

Sometimes, I’d think of my children, whom I’d tried so hard to win back. I’d convinced myself that getting rid of Moleski would be a victory for them, a chance to somehow reclaim the life I’d lost. But they were gone, still gone, and no amount of dark magic or vengeance could bring them back. Far from feeling like I’d won something, I felt emptier than I ever had. I thought about what I’d done, how far I’d fallen, and wondered if, when I saw my kids again, I’d even be able to look them in the eyes. What kind of father would they see?

Then there were the symbols. At first, I thought it was a prank, perhaps my mind playing tricks on me. But one night, as I went to close the curtains in my bedroom, I saw it—a faint, foggy symbol traced onto the glass. It was a pentagram, just like the one I’d drawn for the ritual, now etched faintly into my window. I wiped it away, but the next night, it was back, clearer than before. Each time I wiped it clean, it would reappear the following night, as if to mock me, a constant reminder that I wasn’t alone.

The paranoia became unbearable. I tore through my house, searching for hidden cameras and microphones, anything that could explain how someone knew about the ritual. I pulled up floorboards, yanked out ceiling panels, and checked every crevice, and found nothing. But I still felt as if I was being watched, that someone or something was out there, waiting to punish me.

I started seeing symbols everywhere: in the condensation on my bathroom mirror, scratched lightly into the wood of my desk, even traced in dust on my car’s windshield. The shapes taunted me, reminders of the dark forces I’d invited into my life. My reflection began to look haunted and unfamiliar, like the face of a man I no longer recognized.

Sleep became impossible. Each night, I lie in bed, staring into the darkness, my mind racing with every mistake, every regret. And every time I managed to drift off, I’d wake up in a panic, convinced I could hear someone breathing just outside my door. Eventually, I started to consider the idea of confessing, of just telling someone, anyone, what I’d done. Maybe it would make this stop, maybe it would lift this weight off me. But every time I got close to reaching out, the dread would swell up, a choking, suffocating feeling that stopped me in my tracks. Something didn’t want me to confess. Something wanted me to keep suffering in silence.

One night, I heard a distinct knock on my front door. I froze, too scared to move. The knock came again, louder this time, echoing through the silent house. I didn’t answer, didn’t even breathe, until finally, whoever—or whatever—was out there left. I peeked out the window, but saw only darkness and an empty street, as if no one had ever been there at all.

By then, I knew that I couldn’t run from this. Whatever I’d unleashed was here to stay, and it was closing in on me, waiting for the moment to demand “payment,” whatever that meant.

* * * * * * *

After a week of living in constant fear, I decided that I somehow had to put an end to this. The only thing I could think to do was to destroy every trace of the ritual and wipe out any evidence that it had ever happened. Maybe, I thought, if I erased all of it, this nightmare would go away. It sounded insane, but I was desperate enough to try anything.

I started by gathering all the materials I’d used that night—the doll, the leftover candles, the piece of paper where I’d written out the incantation. Each item felt like it was burning a hole through me. I couldn’t bear to look at them for long. Overwhelmed with guilt and shame, I threw them all into a metal trash can in the backyard and doused them in lighter fluid.

As I stood there, a match trembling in my hand, I thought about my kids again, about what kind of father I’d become. Would they even recognize me if they saw me now? All I’d wanted was to be with them, to protect them, and yet here I was, having invoked dark forces out of revenge. I’d done this to myself, and now I was paying the price. And they’d never understand why.

I dropped the match into the trash can, and the flames roared to life. I watched the fire consume everything, the smoke curling up into the night sky, the flames reflecting in my eyes. I wanted to believe it was over, that by burning these things, I was freeing myself from whatever curse I’d brought down. But deep down, I knew it wouldn’t be that simple.

When the fire finally burned out, I sifted through the ashes, and there, carved into the surface, were words that hadn’t been there before.

“Justice demands a sacrifice.”

My blood ran cold as I stared at the message, feeling the words sink into me like a brand. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. It was as if the doll were staring back at me, accusing and relentless. I picked it up with shaking hands and tried to break it, tried to crush it, but it wouldn’t budge. It was like the thing had a life of its own, reminding me that I couldn’t undo what I’d done.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing those words every time I closed my eyes, echoing in my mind, over and over. Justice demands a sacrifice. And I realized that no amount of fire or destruction could erase the weight of what I’d done.

* * * * * * *

I thought I’d reached the peak of my fear, but it only grew worse from there. Another letter arrived the following night, slipped beneath my door. This time, there was no pretense of subtlety—it held instructions for me to meet someone at an old, abandoned building on the edge of town. As before, there was no signature, nor an explanation, just a demand to show up at midnight.

Every instinct told me to ignore it, to burn the letter like the rest of the evidence and pretend none of this had ever happened, but something inside compelled me to act. Maybe it was guilt, or maybe it was the hope that if I went, I could finally put an end to this nightmare. So at midnight, I drove to the building, my heart pounding the entire way.

The place appeared to have been abandoned for decades, with broken windows and graffiti covering the walls. The streetlights around it had long since burned out, casting the place in complete darkness. I hesitated before going in—but there was no turning back now. I had to see this through. Inside, the air was thick with a musty stench, and every step echoed down the empty halls. I called out, my voice wavering, but there was no response.

Just as I began to think no one was there, I saw a figure standing in the far corner of the room, cloaked in shadow. They were dressed in a dark, hooded coat, their face hidden, but I could feel their eyes on me, cold and unyielding.

“Did you think there would be no consequences?” the figure asked.

“I… I’m sorry!” I stammered, my voice breaking. “Please, spare me. I regret it. I shouldn’t have done it, I just… I want to see my kids again.”

My legs felt weak, my body shaking as I tried to stand my ground.

“Someone must be punished to balance the scales,” it said. “Life in exchange for life.”

It dawned on me, with a sickening clarity, that if I didn’t accept responsibility, it would be my children who paid the price. Or at least, that was what I suspected. An unexpected pain shot through my chest as the horrifying choice closed in around me.

The figure tilted its head slightly, as if weighing my resolve. “Will you accept responsibility for what you’ve done?” it asked. “Will you accept the consequences?”

“Yes! Yes, whatever you want! Please,” I pleaded, desperation dripping from my words. “I take all responsibility. Do what you need to do to me to even things out. A life for a life. I’m ready to accept my punishment.”

The figure stood there for a moment longer, and then it finally said, “Very well.” Then it disappeared into the shadows.

For a moment, I had expected it to take me immediately, but I was still standing there, alive. I looked around in confusion.

“Wait, what? Come back! Does that mean you’ll take me?” I cried, my voice rising in panic. “Where did you go? Come back! Please! What are you going to do?”

But there was no answer, only silence.

I left the building in a daze, my mind spinning. The figure was gone, but its words echoed in my head, over and over.

“Very well.”

What had it meant? I tried to convince myself that my offer had been accepted, that maybe I’d paid my dues, but something felt horribly, indescribably wrong.

* * * * * * *

A few days later, I was still haunted by the encounter, replaying it in my mind, looking for answers that never came. My phone had been silent for days; I’d stopped talking to anyone, stopped trying to explain myself, consumed by guilt and fear. I kept waiting, kept wondering if the punishment would come, but nothing happened.

And then, one morning, my phone rang. The call jolted me from a half-conscious haze. It was an unknown number. I answered, barely able to form words, my voice thick with exhaustion.

“H-Hello?” I croaked.

“Is this Mr. Preston?” a calm, professional voice asked, with that tone that only meant one thing. “This is Officer Callahan of the River Grove Police Department. I’m calling from Mercy General Hospital. I’m very sorry to inform you that there was an accident involving your children and ex-wife.”

The room spun. I barely heard the rest: a car crash, a fatal collision, no survivors. My kids were… gone. My three children, the ones I’d loved more than life itself, the ones I’d tried to protect. All I had ever wanted was to be with them. And now, they were gone.

The officer’s voice faded into the background, but I couldn’t move. My phone slipped from my hand, landing on the floor with a hollow thud. I sank down beside it, numb, feeling like my world had been stripped bare. This couldn’t be happening. Not them. Not my kids. It was supposed to be me. I’d offered myself. I’d told the entity to take me.

I wanted to scream and tear at the walls, to find that figure and demand it take me instead. But there was no one to hear me, only silence.

As I sat there, a crushing emptiness settled over me, heavier than anything I’d ever felt. I’d spent so long raging and blaming everyone else, convinced that vengeance would make things right. But it hadn’t brought my children back or fixed anything. All it had done was hollow me out, leaving me more broken than before.

I don’t remember how long I sat there, the officer’s voice distant on the line, the room blurred around me. In the end, all I could do was sink to the floor, sobbing, my cries echoing into the empty house. I was alone, utterly and completely, left with nothing but the bitter reality of what my anger had cost me.

So here’s my advice to anyone who’s been wronged, anyone who’s ever tasted the bitterness of injustice and dreamed of vengeance: don’t. Don’t even think about it. Because once you let that darkness in, once you make that choice to hurt someone back, it takes everything. It doesn’t stop at revenge; it keeps going, feeding off you until there’s nothing left.

I thought I’d found a way to set things right. Instead, I’m left with a horror I’ll never escape.

Vengeance has a cost—and believe me, it’s one you can’t afford.