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The Creeps	By : SleepSomehow Category: +G through L > Hey, Arnold! Views: 6641 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hey Arnold! nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. Just another dorky fan.

Chapter List
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5: Closet Confessional
I'm writing this from a closet. It's probably my last will and testament. Either way, it's better than sitting here staring out the crack in the door any longer.

Seems like an eternity I've been hiding in this cramped, dark place. I shouldn't even be here. I can hear them muffled, moving about downstairs. I silently, repeatedly curse myself for ending up trapped here like a rat. Terrified by the prospect of being found. I could go home, although on my way out I would, unfortunately, bump into someone and this-this is not a predicament that can easily be explained away. I'm not even sure I'd have enough time to escape through the window or if I'd get caught halfway out and hauled back in, questioned, or worse. So I sit here waiting for movement in the adjacent bedroom.
My view is through the edged open door of my confined space, a mere inch or two displaying a good portion of the bedroom beyond. The room is empty. It remains so for quite a while until, finally, the bedroom door opens. I scoot back from the closet door, hunkering down in the blackness among clothes, shoes, and whatever else is in here, eyes still peering through the crack as I pretend to be just another jacket. Right now my purpose is to see, not be seen.

And to get that blasted book back from Arnold!!

My love, my everything, he can't know I'm hiding in his room like some common burglar. Football Head would totally freak. Then we'd fight, as always, resulting in me coming up with a legendary, lame excuse and leaving in a huff, doing the 'walk of shame' through his entire boarding house. I know my behavioral patterns and I know his. It'll be a damn disaster if I come out of hiding! It's much easier this way. I'm safe just sitting here, stuck indefinitely in my muse's closet, counting minutes. It's not so bad, really. Being this close to him, breathing in the all-too-familiar scent of his laundry detergent lingering on the encompassing garments. There's something intimate about actually being able to caress his belongings, feel his carpet beneath me, exist in the space he occupies, watch him live his life. Yeah... this isn't exactly terrible. It could be if I'm found. But that's not going to happen. Not on my watch! I'll be as silent as a dead mouse, minding my own business here in this coffin-sized hole in the wall. Ok, not minding my own business, exactly. After all, how can a girl not sit back and enjoy the view?
As if prepared for his one-man peepshow, Arnold steps into his bedroom and locks the door behind him. Is that normal, locking himself in?
There are a lot of people in the boarding house. Privacy seems a rarity around here.
Just you and me in here, Blondie. Turns out even with a locked door there's no privacy.
Spying on him in this way is familiar. However, being actually inside his room watching my sweet in his own house is surreal. Like peering in on a pet as it moves about its habitat. Although I often watch Arnold go about his daily chores and activities around town, it's never from the view of his closet! If this isn't the boldest move I've ever pulled, I don't know what is.
Gerald had walked out with Arnold awhile ago. From the noises downstairs I imagine Arnold was prepping for bed, brushing his teeth and whatnot. The boys spent the entire evening running odd, experimental tests trying to discover who the mysterious journal Gerald found belongs to. While the boys were outside chasing Arnold's pig, Abner, around the block I fell in from the windowed ceiling above and was caught like a cornered rat in a maze. I've spent the entire evening watching those two ignoramuses try to pin my painstakingly penned book of love poetry and musings on just about every girl at Hillwood High! The worst part was the childish, mocking laughter when mentioning my name. All I could do was sit here, cheeks aflame, chest a twisted knot, as those boys just brushed me aside like some common, flea-bitten stray dog with no emotions, no heart to speak of. As if I wasn't even capable of writing all those things.
Helga G. Pataki: an empty, soulless, raging beast devoid of love...
Well, guess what, Arnoldo!
Somehow the dolt hasn't even seen the last page of the journal yet! The page I put my own name to in a jest. Ugh I remember it perfectly:
H is for the head I'd like to punt
E is for every time I see the little runt
L is longing for our firstest kiss
G is for how good that longing is...
A is for Arnold
Oh, why did I have to sign that last page!? Why!!? Guess I'm a dolt too, sometimes.
Ok, moving on. This is going to be a play by play of what happens here. Since I don't have a video camera, notebook, you're my eyes. Let's do this.
Out in the bedroom the jerk I begrudgingly adore walks the length of his room, thankfully the opposite direction of my hidey-hole. He heads toward the bed, to my delight, shedding his sweater and hat along the way. Like every teenager, the items get discarded on the floor. Arnold pauses at the bedside and unbuttons his flannel shirt with some tired grumbles. I watch through the crack in the door, mesmerized. No matter how many times I see him shirtless; playing football in the neighborhood on shirts vs. no shirts teams, swimming at the shore, whatever occasion calls for a topless babe Arnold, it seems to get better every time. This is no different... until the flannel crumples to the carpet in a heap and he starts at the button fly on his jeans.
"Ah jeez," I whisper, backing away from the door.
Shy even when safely concealed and unseen. Who would figure? After a moment of gathered breaths and delighted anticipation, I crawl back to the crevasse.
And am met by Arnold still standing at the bed turned away from my direction and wearing only blue plaid boxer shorts. I thought he would be a boxers kinda guy nowadays. At least he's graduated from tighty whities. Arnold grabs a remote off a shelf and turns on his tv then, with another click, dims the lights in the room. The sound on the set is low although I recognize the program as one of his favorites, some strange show about space aliens and government cover-ups called, 'The Z Files'. Shrouded in flickering shadows from the TVs electronic glow, Arnold moves back to his bed and lays on top the covers, slumping back against his headboard and pillows. I Cheshire-cat grin at his lean physique wrapped in blue-white shadows from the glowing tv screen.
"So... so beautiful," I breath, speaking impossibly low to the clothes around me, "If only I could touch..."
With a dreamy sigh, I lean my head on my hand against the door frame and watch as my Football Headed Love God relaxes the day away. No sooner had I got comfortable, Arnold reaches up to the bookshelf beside his bed and grabs one of the larger books, taking it down and opening it.
"What you got there, handsome?" I squint, curious, "Last year's yearbook again?"
"Who does that little pink book belong to?" He mumbles to himself as he clicks on the reading lamp over his bed.
"Oh come on," Helga sighs, "Give it a break already!"
Arnold smiles down at the book. Not the usual smile. A half smirk, flirtatious and deviant.
"What... who are you looking at!"
Arnold must've heard as he looks up to the tv then around the room.
I duck back, cursing myself. Waiting a good, solid minute before I move my face back up to the crack, I'm incredibly thankful to see he's not stomping toward the closet.
Arnold has climbed half under his covers.
I groan in disappointment.
Of course, not knowing how or when to shut up, I get his attention again. Arnold's head snaps back up at the sound. This time I duck back down for awhile, covered in a pile of coats and the like, making a point not to move so as causing any rustling sound.
Nothing to see here but us musty old coats.
Careful, head tucked under the large hood of a winter coat I had taken down earlier, I barely peek an eye back out. Arnold had stood from the bed during my absence and was just now getting back in, unfortunately, pulling the covers up to his waist again. Oh well, at least I wasn't caught. I smile dreamily, watching the boy flip through the yearbook. At least he hasn't picked up my little pink book again.
Arnold sighs and closes the book, setting it on the bed beside him.
"I can't believe this," He stretches and lays back, closing his eyes and smiling,"To think there's a girl at school who actually wants me like that! Nobody's ever wanted me before..."
"Well get used to it, Football Head," I smirk a little.
"I... bet she's pretty...,"His smile slowly fading into a sort of concentration. His brow narrows, lips tighten.
"Just what are you up to, weirdo?"
My love's hand slips under the covers and, with a choked gasp, I suddenly know.
He's... oh my god he's going to...
Unable to pry my eyes from the scene now, with a perverse fervor I focus on the movement under the comforter just at his crotch.
Oh, mercy...
I slap a hand over my mouth preventing the gasp and squeal of glee from trying to escape.
None-the-wiser, Arnold continues playing with himself beneath the covers, face an expression I have never seen before on the boy of my dreams nor could ever fathom. My brain loses it, shrieking in delight and mortified horror. I've... always wanted to see Arnold turned on. Just never expected to do it from his bedroom closet seated precariously on what feels like mud-caked rain boots, wrapped in one of his winter coats, pretending to be one of his winter coats, while he jerks it to the Z Files. Still... There's no prying this girl away from a front row seat to her number one crush getting down with himself. Not now, not ever! Oh if only that damn blanket wasn't there!
I blush, hand still at my mouth locked in place, knowing damn well I'd yelp, tumble face first out of this closet, and possibly faint if I could actually see everything the boy was doing.
"It'd be worth it!," I whisper, muffled through my hand.
Eyes widening, I slap another hand over my mouth, watching for any sign of trouble from Arnold.

Do NOT disturb this moment, Helga!
He doesn't flinch, obviously too distracted by the task at hand (heh). Within a few minutes of Arnold's self-love session, the young man's pace has gradually quickened. He has also started working up a sweat. There's a sheen to his chest glistening in the television glow.
I've worked up a heat of my own, tucking a hand between my legs and wishing my mind had a record function so I could save this moment for later when I'm back home alone in my own bed and in dire need of a visual this... yes. It's hard to breathe as my throat has gone tight. My face, neck, chest, all burn with a heated flush.
I can't believe this is happening!
Eyes locked on the boy in bed, I give a shiver of my own lust, grasping myself.
"If only I could help you, Arnold. What I'd give to see you make that face at me... because of me..."
I slide a hand down my panties knowing damn well I've already soaked them through.
Arnold bites his lip on the bed, closing his eyes and stroking himself with vigor, fantasizing about whoever wrote the journal, or whoever he thinks wrote it.
I let out a happy little moan, leaning against the side wall of the closet and pressing a finger inside myself. I'm so wet it slips right in. Like he would. Like I wish to hell he could. Arnold's hard dick holds the heavy comforter up on its own now as he pauses and reaches up on the shelf for something.
Oh no that's- that's my journal!
I pause in my own self-love, not liking where this is going.
"Please... Just put it down. Don't you dare see that last page yet! Go back to what you were doing, Arnold. That was so nice..."
He opens the small book to a random page, at the beginning thankfully, his eyes skimming through my writing. After a moment of flipping pages, he must've found something he likes, pausing and grinning to himself.
"What will you taste like, my sweet Arnold?" He murmurs with a snicker, just barely audible over the television as my love reads my own words aloud, "Will you want me as I have desired you? Will our words fall on batted breath, our hearts fluttering with lust as our bodies entwine on tangled sheets? If only my you knew how much I yearn for your touch every night! How I need you...' Mmmm, man! I have to know who wrote this!!"
"Criminy...," I give a helpless whimper as I push another finger inside myself, driving them slow between my legs as I crouch on the carpeted closet floor. Knowing my written words have turned Arnold on is enough to send me to the moon and back infinity times.
Even if he never like-likes me at least he enjoys my art.
" Arnold, my inspiration, my muse-"
He moans low, "I'd tear that girl apart! Damn..."
"Jeez, Football Head," I bite my lip, "Is that how it's gonna be?"
Warm wetness drips down my inner thighs to the carpet below and I don't care. Even if I leave a trace I was here, I'm in extacy watching him get off on my handiwork. Arnold is quickly working up to a climax. I've already had one myself and am nearing the next with every word Arnold utters. He drops the book and lays back on the bed, hand pumping his hard cock faster. The blankets sit low on his hips as I catch a come-and-go glimpse of his erection.
I can't believe I'm seeing him like this. I've got to be dreaming! This is all some cruel, wonderful fantasy and I'm going to wake up any second snarled by my own sheets half-hanging off the bed!
No, it's real! It's happening!
"I-I want you so badly, my love..." I sigh, admiring this new, passionate side of Arnold.
How I'd love to sit on that glorious cock and let him penetrate me right to the base. All of him inside me. Every beautiful damn inch. He could have my cherry right here and now. It would be perfect. So perfect.
Eyes slits, mouth open, back arched, Arnold gives a curse followed by a low, long groan, covering his cock with his free hand to keep from staining the sheets. With the wall as my only support now, I, too, inhale sharp and finger-fuck myself to orgasm. For once I don't need to imagine him naked and panting before me. I just have to open my eyes.
In the aftermath I rest against the side of the closet, breathing low as I try to collect myself. Legs spread, damp spots on the carpet beneath, hand sticky wet, with the biggest, stupidest grin.
I can't believe.... No one would believe what just happened! Not that I'll tell. Nooo, no way. This is our little secret! Recorded here, in writing at least. Forever a memory I'll cherish-
Arnold places the journal down in a fluster. His cheeks burn with a chaotic mix of shock and serious arousal. His bare stomach sticky, hand still on his cock.
She watched me!
The boy closes his eyes, cursing and biting his lip as he had in her writing.
She watched me masturbate... while I read her poems about me... while she fingered herself... in my closet! That's TOTALLY unbelievable!
At least, before tonight it would've been.
Arnold turns his head, looking at the closed closet door with a terrible longing. He remembers when that night took place. The journal Gerald found in his books after hopping off the bus was Helga's all along. She's the girl who has an obsession with him. Not Ruth McDougal, not Jennifer or Dodie or anyone else he tried to pin it on. Helga, the girl he and Gerald blacklisted from being the writer... wrote all those crazy sappy, angst-ridden, strangely flattering poems. That's not all, there were some really great sketches of him scribbled throughout the many pages, life drawings no doubt, hand-penned while he was nearby. Some at his desk, some at lunch, even a few outside school just bumming around with friends. She's always nearby, glaring yet, oddly enough, admiring him? With all these discoveries coming to light it seems Helga Pataki's affection for Arnold runs far deeper than he realized. Their conversation tonight online skimmed the surface. Barely skimmed it.
She's obsessed with me! How...
Still shaky from the orgasm the journal entry just gave him, the teen stands on wobbly legs and cleans himself with a discarded t-shirt nearby. He slides his boxers back up and decides to investigate the closet, clicking on the light inside. Arnold crouches on the ground and feels the carpet. To his complete shock, there are some stiff spots in the fibers.
No way.
Until then it all felt like a sordid tale, a girl's wild imagination. No, this actually happened. Helga was here. He was here. She saw everything. All that was written, he remembers. At least from his side of things. Arnold recalls how sleepless and disheveled Helga looked the following day at school. He had worried something might've happened the previous night at her home.
No, it happened at MINE!
Arnold slumps to the carpet in front of the closet, staring with a thoughtful intensity at the tiny enclosure.
She's always nearby. Constantly harassing. Sometimes writing in notebooks and studying. Now I doubt she was EVER actually studying... there were poems and soliloquies, musings and sketches lovingly scribbled across those pages. All about me! This isn't just a crush.
There were other journals in her bedroom closet where the current journal on Arnold's bed came from. That closet, it felt like the scene from a detective show where the cops barge in and find where a crazed serial killer has mapped out their victims lives in newsprint on the walls. A sacred place he should not be. It felt like... a direct violation of himself. Someone painstakingly documenting his life. How something so intense, so in-depth carried on right under his nose...
Helga, she's... stalking me!
There were so many photos taken from various places. Thank goodness, not from some spy camera. Just various yearbook images, newspaper articles, and photos that had been hanging around school. She also had all those objects, my things; a t-shirt, some of my graded homework, random items I've lost throughout the years. These things may have made it feel like a shrine, however, the candles burning low turned it into an altar of worship. Arnold was seeing something he should've never witnessed. He had to leave. Still... something about the entire scene intrigued him. This was a girl who, unable to communicate her feelings verbally to Arnold for some reason or another, fawns over him in private as if he's the best thing in the universe.
I AM her universe.
As strange as it may be, as confusing and unnerving being pushed into that taboo altar of a walk-in closet was, oddly enough, gawking at the collection of objects Arnold had felt... so incredibly loved and adored. Call it vanity. Call it what you will. It felt great to be noticed, for once. Everyone Arnold ever crushed on cast him aside with a laugh and an eye roll. Girls didn't seem to know he even existed. Most just looked right through him. Except for Helga. Apparently, she was always looking right at him! Moreso than Arnold thought and for some very different reasons! Not with hatred, not with animosity, but admiration.
The journal at the base of the "altar" laid open with an uncapped pen nearby as if she had been writing and was probably taking a break to change into pajamas when Arnold came knocking. In a split second decision, with a burning need to learn more about what was going on with Helga, Arnold took the journal with him when he escaped the house and Big Bob's menace. The entire bike ride home the boy clutched this forbidden literature to his chest, peddling faster than ever, racing to get back to his room where he could safely open the book and, starting from the very beginning of this half-finished manuscript, ready to face the predicament he has found himself in.
"I have to know what's going on here," he had muttered under his breath, "I have to know!!"
Now I know.
Arnold rises from the floor and clicks off the closet light, shutting the door again. Instead of returning to the bed, he reclines back on the carpet, splayed out like a starfish, just staring at the night sky above. Mind clouded in too many thoughts at once.
If Helga's a stalker... And Brainy's a stalker...
He recalls the many love poems both in the first journal found with Gerald. These were very intimate, heartfelt prose. Brainy's infatuation was more perverse and confrontational.
I mean, a knife? C'mon. It's like the guy was preparing for something real bad. He tried proposing to Helga. That's insane... What did he plan on doing if it went wrong? If I wasn't there to witness?
Perverse and confrontational... Helga is both of those things. Yet she really does lack menace. Even with all her daily harassment the girl just was never, ever a threat. She's put the fear of God in him on more than one occasion, although he never actually feared for his life. Helga didn't appear to be a peeping Tom, more of a daydreamer. The situation with her stuck in his bedroom, it makes sense. The girl was desperate to get her journal back. If Arnold had been in her shoes, his embarrassment and pride would've probably driven him to do something similar.
The thought of her in his closet again causes Arnold to close his eyes, imagining the vividly described imagery she laid out for him of what took place in that private little nook he walks by every day.
She wanted to have SEX with me! She-She wanted me to take her VIRGINITY!
Arnold places his hands over his forehead, inhaling deep, trying to let the gravity of all this sink in. Realizing he is starting to look at Helga.Pataki way, way different. Not so much in a different light, seeing as he knows how great of a person Helga can actually be beneath the raging, er, well, bitch, she tends to show the world, but, say, at a new angle. Especially after a brief glimpse inside the girl's head via her provocative penmanship.
The boy sighs a heavy, long sigh, "I wish you had just told me, Helga! Before it got to this point..."
He pulls himself off the floor and retrieves the stolen journal. Ready to open it up and find out more. Really discover what's been going on behind his back all these years.
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The Creeps