Entertainment => I Found It On The Web => Topic started by: Michael Myers on September 01, 2014, 07:56:32 pm
Title: Sanctuary's Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 01, 2014, 07:56:32 pm
I'd like to thank Arnox for stickying this thread. :)
TAKEN FROM MY THREAD AT ZOKLET.
Welcome to the official Creepypasta thread of Zoklet. I'll kickstart this thread with the best Creepypasta written so far.
I'd like to ask HelloClarice to keep this thread clean; which means deleting every post that is not a Creepypasta.
Each new creepypasta starts with a new title, which is bolded and in red.
Rule: no crappypasta!
The Hotel Room
A man went to a hotel and walked up to the front desk to check in. The woman at the desk gave him his key and told him that on the way to his room, there was a door with no number that was locked and no one was allowed in there. She explained that it was a storeroom, and that it was out of bounds. She reminded him of this several times before allowing him upstairs. So he followed the instructions of the woman at the front desk, going straight to his room, and going to bed. However the insistence of the woman had piqued his curiosity, so the next night he walked down the hall to the door and tried the handle. Sure enough it was locked. He bent down and looked through the wide keyhole. Cold air passed through it, chilling his eye.
What he saw was a hotel bedroom, like his, and in the corner was a woman whose skin was incredibly pale. She was leaning her head against the wall, facing away from the door. He stared in confusion for a while, was this a celebrity? The owners daughter? He almost knocked on the door, out of curiosity, but decided not to. As he was still looking, the woman turned sharply and he jumped back from the door, hoping she would not suspect he had been spying on her. He crept away from the door and walked back to his room. The next day, he returned to the door and looked through the wide keyhole. This time, all he saw was redness. He couldn’t make anything out besides a distinct red color, unmoving. Perhaps the inhabitants of the room knew he was spying the night before, and had blocked the keyhole with something red. He felt embarrassed that he had made the woman so uncomfortable, and hoped she had not made a complaint with the woman on the front desk.
At this point he decided to consult her for more information. After some gentle quizzing and the promise that the explanation would go no further than him she finally said "Well, I might as well tell you the story of what happened in that room. A long time ago, a man murdered his wife in there, we find that even now, people get uncomfortable staying there. But these people were not ordinary. They were white all over, except for their eyes, which were red."
Wristbands
When you are admitted to a hospital, they place on your wrist a white wristband with your name on it. But there are other different colored wristbands which symbolize other things. The red wristbands are placed on dead people.
There was one surgeon who worked on night shift in a school hospital. He had just finished an operation and was on his way down to the basement. He entered the elevator and there was just one other person there. He casually chatted with the woman while the elevator descended. When the elevator door opened, another woman was about to enter when the doctor slammed the close button and punched the button to the highest floor. Surprised, the woman reprimanded the doctor for being rude and asked why he did not let the other woman in.
The doctor said, "That was the woman I just operated on. She died while I was doing the operation. Didn’t you see the red wristband she was wearing?"
The woman smiled, raised her arm, and said, "Something like this?"
Sarah O' Bannon
Coffins used to be built with holes in them, attached to six feet of copper tubing and a bell. The tubing would allow air for victims buried under the mistaken impression they were dead. In a certain small town Harold, the local gravedigger, upon hearing a bell one night, went to go see if it was children pretending to be spirits. Sometimes it was also the wind. This time, it wasn't either. A voice from below begged and pleaded to be unburied.
"Are you Sarah O'Bannon?" Harold asked.
"Yes!" The muffled voice asserted.
"You were born on September 17, 1827?"
"Yes!"
"The gravestone here says you died on February 20, 1857."
"No, I'm alive, it was a mistake! Dig me up, set me free!"
"Sorry about this, ma'am," Harold said, stepping on the bell to silence it and plugging up the copper tube with dirt. "But this is August. Whatever you are down there, you sure as hell ain't alive no more, and you ain't comin' up."
The Tape
[/b]
During the summer of 1983, in a quiet town near Minneapolis, Minnesota, the charred body of a woman was found inside the kitchen stove of a small farmhouse. A video camera was also found in the kitchen, standing on a tripod and pointing at the oven. No tape was found inside the camera at the time.
Although the scene was originally labeled as a homicide by police, an unmarked VHS tape was later discovered at the bottom of the farm's well (which had apparently dried up earlier that year).
Despite its worn condition, and the fact that it contained no audio, police were still able to view the contents of the tape. It depicted a woman recording herself in front of a video camera (seemingly using the same camera the police found in the kitchen). After positioning the camera to include both her and her kitchen stove in the image, the tape then showed her turning on the oven, opening the door, crawling inside, and then closing the door behind her. Eight minutes into the video, the oven could be seen shaking violently, after which point thick black smoke could be seen emanating from it. For the remaining 45 minutes of video, until the batteries in the camera died, it remained in its stationary position.
To avoid disturbing the local community, police never released any information about the tape, or even the fact that it was found. Police were also not able to determine who put the tape in the well, or why the height and stature of the woman in the video didn't come close to matching the body they'd found in the oven.
The Girl In The Photograph
One school day, a boy named Tom was sitting in class and doing math. It was six more minutes until after school. As he was doing his homework, something caught his eye.
His desk was next to the window, and he turned and looked to the grass outside. It looked like a picture. When school was over, he ran to the spot where he saw it. He ran fast so that no one else could grab it.
He picked it up and smiled. It had a picture of the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She had a dress with tights on and red shoes, and her hand was formed into a peace sign.
She was so beautiful he wanted to meet her, so he ran all over the school and asked everyone if they knew her or have ever seen her before. But everyone he asked said "No." He was devastated.
When he was home, he asked his older sister if she knew the girl, but unfortunately she also said "No." It was very late, so Tom walked up the stairs, placed the picture on his bedside table and went to sleep.
In the middle of the night Tom was awakened by a tap on his window. It was like a nail tapping. He got scared. After the tapping he heard a giggle. He saw a shadow near his window, so he got out of his bed, walked toward his window, opened it up and followed the giggling. By the time he reached it, it was gone.
The next day again he asked his neighbors if they knew her. Everybody said, "Sorry, no." When his mother came home he even asked her if she knew her. She said "No." He went to his room, placed the picture on his desk and fell asleep.
Once again he was awakened by a tapping. He took the picture and followed the giggling. He walked across the road, when suddenly he got hit by a car. He was dead with the picture in his hand.
The driver got out of the car and tried to help him, but it was too late. Suddenly he saw the picture and picked it up.
He saw a cute girl holding up three fingers.
The Statue
A few years ago, a mother and father decided they needed a break, so they wanted to head out for a night on the town. They called their most trusted babysitter. When the babysitter arrived, the two children were already fast asleep in bed. So the babysitter just got to sit around and make sure everything was okay with the children. Later that night, the babysitter got bored and went to watch TV, but she couldn't watch it downstairs because they did not have cable downstairs (the parents didn't want children watching too much garbage). So, she called them and asked them if she could watch cable in the parent's room. Of course, the parents said it was OK, but the babysitter had one final request… she asked if she could cover up the angel statue outside the bedroom window with a blanket or cloth, at the very least close the blinds, because it made her nervous. The phone line was silent for a moment, and the father who was talking to the babysitter at the time said, "..Take the children and get out of the house…we will call the police. We do not have an angel statue." The police found all three of the house occupants dead within ten minutes of the call. No statue was found.
Camping
A few months ago a friend of mine, who is an up-and-coming nature photographer, decided to spend a day and night alone in the woods outside of our town. She wanted to get photos of the woods and wildlife as naturally as she could for her portfolio. She wasn’t afraid of being alone, as she had camped by herself many times before. She set up a tent in the middle of a small clearing and spent the day taking pictures. She filled up four rolls of film on that trip, but when she went and got them developed she saw four pictures that unsettled her, these four pictures were taken from inside the tent, of her, asleep in the middle of the night.
The Railroad
My cousin and I had gone to San Antonio, and we had heard rumors of some haunted railroad tracks. The story was, a school bus full of children had stalled on these tracks with a train coming. The train was going too fast for there to be time to get the children off. So they all died. When we finally found the tracks, we stopped the car, parking it right on the railroad tracks. We were both a little nervous, and scared, and waited for something to happen. Just when we were about to leave, the car started rolling. We were both too freaked out to do any more than grab each other and gasp, eyes wide, mouths open. After what seemed like an eternity, (but was actually less than five minutes tops) the car stopped rolling. We looked around, and we were off the railroad tracks.
Now, that may not seem spooky, but what we saw next scared us enough to jump back in the car and make the six hour trip home THAT NIGHT. Both of us got out of the car and walked around to the back. After the first six hour drive, our car had accumulated quite a bit of dust on it. That's not scary, no. But what was scary was the little sets of handprints all over the back of the car. All the size of children's hands.
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:24:08 am
A Mother's Love
One afternoon, a couple was traveling on by car when at a far distance they saw a woman in the middle of the road, waving frantically.
The wife told her husband to keep on driving because it might be too dangerous, but the husband decided to pass by slowly so he wouldn't stay with the doubt on his mind of what might have happened and the chances of anyone being hurt. As they got closer, they noticed a woman with cuts and bruises on her face as well as on her arms. They then decide to stop and see if they could be of any help.
The cut and bruised woman was begging for help telling them that she had been in a car accident and that her husband and son, a new born baby, were still inside the car which was in a deep ditch. She told them that the husband was already dead but that her baby seemed to still be alive.
The husband that was traveling decided to get down and try to rescue the baby and he asked the hurt woman to stay with his wife inside the their car. When he got down he noticed two people in the front seats of the car but he didn't pay any attention to it and took out the baby quickly and got up to take the baby to it's mother. When he got up, he didn't see the mother anywhere so he asked his wife where she had gone. She told him that the woman followed him back to the crashed car.
When the husband went back to look for her, he noticed that clearly the couple in the front seats were dead, one of whom was unmistakeably the woman who had flagged them down.
The Tundra
The native villagers around these parts say that there's a stretch of tundra just north of here that is occupied by benevolent spirits. These spirits grant insight and warning to whoever visits them at night, once the sun has disappeared entirely and left the world in jet darkness. I drove out to the middle of the frozen expanse of ice and waited, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever commanded these people’s reverence. They send their children out, bundled in furs to keep from freezing, on the eve of their 15th birthday to seek an audience with these spirits. Once they have achieved this, the children run home to their parents to share the news. From then on these children are considered adults in the village. Engaged couples visit this tundra on the night before their wedding. The entire village stays up all night awaiting their return, as it is upon their return that the couple either decides to proceed with their marriage, or to abandon it. The elderly visit the tundra whenever they are sick or ailing, and often make their condition worse by staying all night in the cold. When they return, however, it is most often with an air of sheer serenity.
So I waited, curious to see what phenomenon might inspire people so powerfully. I waited for hours, bundled in my parka and sitting on the hood of my pickup. I waited until I felt that I was going to freeze to death, even in my thick clothing.
I heard the spirit before I saw it. A crunching of snow in the silence made me jump off my truck and spin around. A hunched, gray-skinned man stood a few meters away. Sad, yellowed eyes stared back at me, set inside a skull from which sprouted only a few greasy hairs. He breathed heavily, with a rattle that shook his fragile ribcage, and one of his arms looked as if it had been messily broken and then neglected, allowing it to knit back together imperfectly. Badly scarred flesh marred his splayed legs. The man stared at me for perhaps ten seconds, breathing in the frigid air and exhaling a sickly dribble of steam, before disappearing when I blinked my eyes.
I spun around, looking for the man, but he was truly gone. Approaching where he had stood, I found a pair of bloody footprints in the snow. Frantic with fear, I got into my pickup and headed for the village as fast as the ice would allow. A few villagers were waiting for me when I arrived, knowing that I had gone out and curious as to what might happen. I hastily got out of my truck and, approaching the nearest villager, I demanded, “What is so benevolent about these spirits? What is so insightful? How do these spirits help you?”
“What did you see?” he asked, the look on his face now mirroring the fear in mine. “I saw a man, horribly disfigured and desperately sick!” I screamed into his face, and the rest of the villagers around us backed away a step. “Why? What does that mean?” I begged him. “The spirits show only one thing,” the man explained. “They show their visitors, a year in the future.”
Upstairs
When I was a child my family moved to a big old two-floor house, with big empty rooms and creaking floorboards. Both my parents worked so I was often alone when I came home from school. One early evening when I came home the house was still dark. I called out, "Mum?" and heard her sing song voice say "Yeeeeees?" from upstairs. I called her again as I climbed the stairs to see which room she was in, and again got the same "Yeeeeees?" reply. We were decorating at the time, and I didn't know my way around the maze of rooms but she was in one of the far ones, right down the hall. I felt uneasy, but I figured that was only natural so I rushed forward to see my mum, knowing that her presence would calm my fears, as a mother's presence always does. Just as I reached for the handle of the door to let myself in to the room I heard the front door downstairs open and my mother call "Sweetie, are you home?" in a cheery voice. I jumped back, startled and ran down the stairs to her, but as I glanced back from the top of the stairs, the door to the room slowly opened a crack. For a brief moment, I saw something strange in there, and I don't know what it was, but it was staring at me.
Her Name
It wasn’t a big deal at first, you know? It was just another story online, one you’d read in the comments of a YouTube video, designed to scaring you into posting it on eight other videos. You know the kind, where you die a horrible death or your crush will reject you if you don’t spread the word? I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but now it’s the only thing I can think about.
The comment started by saying that “she hasn’t left [the poster] alone in days” and “by reading this, she’ll come for you.” I don’t even remember the exact wording because it was late and I was tired and I’d seen a hundred other comments like it before.
I forgot all about it.
Until she started coming after me.
It started with little things. A flash in the corner of my vision, a strange shadow on the hallway floor. Then it got worse. I started to hear whispering when I was alone in the house, giggling, the sound of footsteps. I now know that she was teasing me. Sort of like how a cat will clamp its paw over a mouse’s tail and bat at it before it kills it.
Mirrors were the worst. She liked to stand just out of frame when I was brushing my hair, so when I shifted my head to get the other side, she would be there, standing next to the bookshelf, with her long, tangled hair, matted with blood, falling down her shoulders. And that grin.
Oh, God, that grin.
Her teeth were always bloody. I was never sure if it was her blood, or… I don’t even know.
Every night it seemed to get worse. I would see her on my way to class, in the rear view mirror of my car, dragging her talon-like fingernails across her own, rotting flesh as I stared in abject terror.
For a while I put it off to sleep deprivation. Finals, you know?
And then she came to me.
It was late, so late it was technically early. I couldn’t sleep because all I could hear was her giggling. I covered my face with the pillow and shut my eyes tight, when I felt something cold on my hand.
I was paralyzed with fear. It was sharp and it was cold and it was moving down my arm towards my elbow.
“Come out to play,” she said in that lilting, upsetting voice I’d heard one too many times before.
I screamed and sat up but she was gone. For the moment.
My biggest mistake was when I talked to her. I’d just stepped out of the shower and she was right there when I opened the curtains. I shrieked and stumbled back and she leaned down to me.
“Why?” I asked. “Why are you doing this?”
She told me why. It was because I knew something about her. That altercation ended with a serious head injury that landed me in the hospital.
That’s where I am now.
I can’t take this anymore. I’m just one person, it’s too much. I know what I have to do. I think I always knew.
God, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
Her name is Nora. She should be there soon.
Marine Drives Through Amboy
I was driving a shortcut from Twentynine Palms, CA to Albuquerque, NM. Twentynine Palms is located in the desolate high desert east of LA. The shortcut was all two lane road through total nothingness, except for passing through Amboy, CA. Amboy is a nearly abandoned town nearly as far below sea level as Death Valley, with a dormant volcano and lava field on one side and a salt flat on the other. It was also, at the time, a hotspot for satanic group activity.
So I was driving by myself in the afternoon. I stopped in Amboy and snapped a picture of the city sign, just to prove I was there to friends who dared me to take that route to I-40. I got back in my car and proceeded to drive up into the mountain range between Amboy and I-40. Once I reach the top I am driving north through a canyon with high grass on both sides of the road. Up ahead I see some stuff in the middle of the road. As I approach I slow down to see a red Pontiac Fiero stopped sideways across both lanes, a suitcase open with clothes scattered everywhere and two bodies laying face down in the road, a man and a woman.
I stop a hundred feet or so away and the hair on the back of my neck is standing up. Being a Marine, I reach under the seat and pull out a 9mm pistol and chamber a round. Something seemed very wrong, it looked too perfect as if it were staged. An ambush? Was I being paranoid? Something was just wrong. Getting out of the car seemed unthinkable, it was the horror movie move.
As I scanned the road I saw a line I could drive. Pass the guy in the road on his left, swerve to the right side of the woman, behind the Fiero and I'd be on the other side. I dropped it into first gear, punched it and drove the line I planned.
I passed the back of the Fierro without hitting it or either of the bodies in the road. I continued forward a couple hundred feet and slowed down so I could breathe and let my heart slow down. As I looked up into the rearview mirror I saw that the two bodies had gotten up to their knees and twenty or so people emerged from the tall grass on either side of the road by the car and bodies.
At that moment my right foot smashed the gas pedal to the floor and did not let up until I had to slowdown for the I-40 east onramp. I will never know what would have happened to me had I gotten out of the car to check on the bodies or stopped my car closer to them. Somehow I do not think it would have been good. Sometimes real life can be scarier than a movie.
Gateway Of The Mind
In 1983, a team of deeply pious scientists conducted a radical experiment in an undisclosed facility. The scientists had theorized that a human without access to any senses or ways to perceive stimuli would be able to perceive the presence of God. They believed that the five senses clouded our awareness of eternity, and without them, a human could actually establish contact with God by thought. An elderly man who claimed to have “nothing left to live for” was the only test subject to volunteer. To purge him of all his senses, the scientists performed a complex operation in which every sensory nerve connection to the brain was surgically severed. Although the test subject retained full muscular function, he could not see, hear, taste, smell, or feel. With no possible way to communicate with or even sense the outside world, he was alone with his thoughts. Scientists monitored him as he spoke aloud about his state of mind in jumbled, slurred sentences that he couldn’t even hear. After four days, the man claimed to be hearing hushed, unintelligible voices in his head. Assuming it was an onset of psychosis, the scientists paid little attention to the man’s concerns. Two days later, the man cried that he could hear his dead wife speaking with him, and even more, he could communicate back. The scientists were intrigued, but were not convinced until the subject started naming dead relatives of the scientists. He repeated personal information to the scientists that only their dead spouses and parents would have known. At this point, a sizable portion of scientists left the study.
After a week of conversing with the deceased through his thoughts, the subject became distressed, saying the voices were overwhelming. In every waking moment, his consciousness was bombarded by hundreds of voices that refused to leave him alone. He frequently threw himself against the wall, trying to elicit a pain response. He begged the scientists for sedatives, so he could escape the voices by sleeping. This tactic worked for three days, until he started having severe night terrors. The subject repeatedly said that he could see and hear the deceased in his dreams.
Only a day later, the subject began to scream and claw at his non-functional eyes, hoping to sense something in the physical world. The hysterical subject now said the voices of the dead were deafening and hostile, speaking of hell and the end of the world. At one point, he yelled “No heaven, no forgiveness” for five hours straight. He continually begged to be killed, but the scientists were convinced that he was close to establishing contact with God.
After another day, the subject could no longer form coherent sentences. Seemingly mad, he started to bite off chunks of flesh from his arm. The scientists rushed into the test chamber and restrained him to a table so he could not kill himself. After a few hours of being tied down, the subject halted his struggling and screaming. He stared blankly at the ceiling as teardrops silently streaked across his face. For two weeks, the subject had to be manually rehydrated due to the constant crying. Eventually, he turned his head and, despite his blindness, made focused eye contact with a scientist for the first time in the study. He whispered “I have spoken with God, and he has abandoned us” and his vital signs stopped. There was no apparent cause of death.
The New Bride
During a wedding reception of a young couple the guests decided on a drunken game of hide and seek. It was decided that the groom was “it” and he eventually found everyone but his new bride. Eventually the man became furious and decided it wasn’t funny anymore and left her there. As weeks went by he accepted that she’d had second thoughts and went on with her life so he did the same. A few years later a cleaning lady dusted off an old trunk in the attic of the building where the reception had taken place, out of curiosity she opened it. Inside the trunk was the rotted body of the missing bride who’d apparently became locked in the trunk she’d hid in. Whether she’d suffocated or starved was unknown, but her face was frozen in a scream and there were huge scratches in the inside of the trunk where she had tried to get back to the man she loved.
Across The Border
There was a couple from Texas who was planning a weekend trip across the Mexican border for a shopping spree. At the last minute, their baby-sitter canceled, so they had to bring along their two year old son with them. They had been across the border for an hour when the boy got free and ran around the corner. The mother tried to find him, but he was missing. The mother found a police officer who told her to go to the gate and wait. Not really understanding the instructions, she did as she was told.
About 45 minutes later, a Mexican man approached the border, carrying the boy. The mother ran to him, grateful that he had been found. When the man realized it was the boy's mother, he dropped him and ran. The police were waiting for him. The boy was dead, and in the 45 minutes he was missing, he had been cut open, all of his organs removed, and stuffed with bags of cocaine. The man was going to carry him across the border as if he were asleep.
The Medic
In the winter of 1944, with overtaxed supply lines in the Ardennes, a medic in the German army had completely run out of plasma, bandages and antiseptic. During one particularly bad round of mortar fire, his encampment was a bloodbath. Those who survived claimed to have heard, above the screams and barked commands of their Lieutenant, someone cackling with almost girlish glee. The medic had made his rounds during the fire, in almost complete darkness as he had so many times before, but never had he been this short on supplies. No matter. He would do his duty. He had always prided himself on his resourcefulness. The bombardment moved to other ends of the line, and most men dropped off to sleep in the dark, still hours of the morning - New Year's Day, 1945. The men awoke at first light with screams. They discovered that their bandages were not typical bandages at all, but hunks and strips of human flesh. Several men had been given fresh blood transfusions, yet there had been no blood supplies available. Each treated man was almost completely covered, head-to-toe, with the maroon stain of blood.
The medic was found - sitting on an ammunition tin - staring off into space. When one man approached him, and tapped him on the shoulder, his tunic fell off to reveal that large patches of his skin, muscle, and sinew had been stripped from his torso and his body was almost completely dried of blood. In one hand was a scalpel, and in the other, a blood transfusion vial. None of the men treated for wounds that night, in that camp, saw the end of January 1945.
Baby Doll
In rural southern Illinois a toy company began selling "realistic" baby dolls to expectant mothers. But apparently after the mother had her child the toy baby would start crying. Eventually the "rocking motion" advertised to calm it down wouldn't work, and you couldn't get it to stop without shaking it. Eventually when it started crying the parent would have to beat it, and the beatings and thrashings would have to get harder and harder to get it to be quiet. The only thing that seemed to shut the baby doll up permanently was the bash its head against the wall to destroy whatever mechanism triggered the crying. On more than one occasion though, neighbors called the authorities to report child abuse, and when the police arrived they found the bloody remains of infants smeared across the walls and the floor. In most cases the mother couldn't understand why the police were there, she just "got rid of the stupid doll" as she rocked a baby-shaped bundle in her arms.
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:24:30 am
Leon Czolgosz
Leon Czolgosz, assassin of William McKinley, the 25th President of the United States, was electrocuted for his crime on October 29, 1901, at Auburn Prison in Auburn, New York. Among the personal effects found in his cell was a U.S. quarter stamped with the date 2218. The face in profile on said quarter was not George Washington, but rather a face which has yet to be identified.
The Most Important News
Who discovered the existence of the dead? Everyone knows the name of Antonia Simone, but the exact circumstances of her discovery are wildly varied. In 1992, her younger brother Ricardo, was injured in a martial arts accident that left him completely paralyzed. He needed a respirator to live and could only communicate through eyeblinks. She was a computer scientist at the Xerox Palo Alto Research Center and decided to create a computer terminal sensitive to the slightest energy source. She was a student of Kirlian photography and strongly believed the body’s electromagnetic fields could affect sensitive electronic equipment. She created a terminal that could not be affected by traditional means - no keyboard, mouse or other input devices. A veritable black box.
Ms. Simone was devoted to her brother and tried for years to make a computer terminal that would allow her brother to communicate naturally. Distraught over the failure of her terminal, which she thought would free thousands of similarly afflicted people, she killed herself by hanging. When paramedics found her body days later, there on a computer screen was the message: “What took you guys so long? I’ve got the most important news.”
Sleepover
A young girl had a sleepover with several of her teenage friends attending. Shortly before midnight she told her guests that there was a grave in the edge of the woods behind her house and anyone going there on a full moon and standing to close to the grave would be pulled into the grave by the bony hand of the old man buried there. One fifteen year old girl scoffed at the story and after much teasing accepted the challenge of going alone to the grave. As proof she had actually gone all the way she was to stick a large pitchfork into the top of the grave for inspection by all the others the next morning. The girl left and did not return. The others got scared - afraid to wake the adults in the house - fearful they were in serious trouble. Next morning they all huddled together and nervously made their way to the grave. There they found their friend lying dead from exposure beside the grave with her long night gown pinned to the grave where she had stuck the fork through it and into the hard clay covering the grave.
The Trap
In Berlin, after World War II, money was short, supplies were tight, and it seemed like everyone was hungry. At that time, people were telling the tale of a young woman who saw a blind man picking his way through a crowd. The two started to talk. The man asked her for a favor: could she deliver the letter to the address on the envelope? Well, it was on her way home, so she agreed.
She started out to deliver the message, when she turned around to see if there was anything else the blind man needed. But she spotted him hurrying through the crowd without his smoked glasses or white cane. She was, naturally, suspicious, so she went to the police.
When the police paid a visit to the address on the envelope, they made a gruesome discovery, three butchers had been harvesting human flesh and selling it to the starving people.
And what was in the envelope the man gave to the woman? A note, saying simply "This is the last one I am sending you today."
The Old Lady
One day at a shopping mall in the afternoon, a woman was coming out of the mall from a shopping spree. She was in a happy mood. She had gotten to her car and loaded her stuff that she had bought into her trunk. When she was done loading, she shut the door of her trunk and she saw an old lady standing by the passenger side of her car.
The old woman said "Would you be a darling and give me a lift home? I don't have a car and I was walking all day." The woman said "I'd be happy to." So she unlocked the door for the old woman.
As she started to make her way around the car to the driver's side, she started to feel uncomfortable. So when she got in the car, she looked in her purse and said "Darn, I can't find my credit card. I'm going inside to see if anybody found it." The old woman said "I'll wait for you here."
The woman left to go look for help. Then she found a security guard and told him the situation. They went back to the woman's car and the passenger door was wide open. On the seat of the car was a shopping bag that the old woman had been carrying. Inside of the bag was the old woman's dress and a gray haired wig, along with a huge butcher's knife, a video camera, and a roll of duct tape.
The Vials
You come into possession of an old box. Inside are several glass vials filled with dirt, dust and tiny bits of gravel or cement. The vials are labeled with places and dates such as “Port Chicago 7/17/44?, “Halifax 7/6/17? and “Guernica 7/17/36?. A trip to the library confirms that all are dates of massive loss of life in explosions. A few days later a package arrives with no return address.
Inside is an empty vial labeled with your home town and next week’s date.
Snuff Film
You ever seen someone die on camera?
A snuff film is a recording of the actual murder of human being that is subsequently passed around for entertainment purposes. Suicides and accidents don’t count. According to the MPAA, the FCC, the FBI and the ever-lovin’ Snopes.com, there’s no such thing as a snuff film. Yes, this includes Faces of Death. Anything you think might count is faked, falsified, or not made for that purpose, such as those tasteless videos you find on shock sites.
This is a lie.
There are, as best as anyone can tell, between 30-40 snuff films floating around out there. The earliest is a silent film on decaying nitrate celluloid, simply titled La mort d’une fille, and bears the date of 1896.
The latest, judging by the hairstyles and the presence of a “Frankie Says Relax” t-shirt, was probably made in 1983 or 1984 and is on Betamax.
The films vary in violence, but they all include seemingly ritualized sex, followed by the slaying of a girl with dirty blonde hair and piercing blue eyes who appears to be around 19 years old.
Every film has the exact same girl in it.
The Portraits
There was a hunter in the woods, who, after a long day hunting, was in the middle of an immense forest. It was getting dark, and having lost his bearings, he decided to head in one direction until he was clear of the increasingly oppressive foliage. After what seemed like hours, he came across a cabin in a small clearing. Realizing how dark it had grown, he decided to see if he could stay there for the night. He approached, and found the door ajar. Nobody was inside. The hunter flopped down on the single bed, deciding to explain himself to the owner in the morning.
As he looked around the inside of the cabin, he was surprised to see the walls adorned by several portraits, all painted in incredible detail. Without exception, they appeared to be staring down at him, their features twisted into looks of hatred and malice. Staring back, he grew increasingly uncomfortable. Making a concerted effort to ignore the many hateful faces, he turned to face the wall, and exhausted, he fell into a restless sleep.
The next morning, the hunter awoke - he turned, blinking in unexpected sunlight. Looking up, he discovered that the cabin had no portraits, only windows.
Please Come
A 15-year old boy in a small town in Maryland sat down at his computer after getting home from school one day. He turned it on, logged into AIM, and was then surprised to receive an IM from a classmate of his, who had been absent that day.
It consisted of two words; "Please come." Confused, the boy sent a reply, asking why he'd been absent that day. After two more messages and fifteen minutes with no response, he decided to get on his bike and head over to his classmate's house. It was a short ride, only about five minutes away.
When he got to the house, he found the door was unlocked. Inside, partially dried blood was splattered over the walls and floors, and an unrecognizable figure was crumpled against the far wall. It was missing an arm and a leg, and bloody streaks on the floor lead away from the body and into the kitchen. The boy slammed the door closed, and immediately called 911 on his cell phone.
When the police arrived, they found three corpses, as well as tracks leading away from the house from the back door. The forensics report concluded that the entire family, the boy's classmate and his parents, had been killed sometime the previous night.
Copies
You're at work alone, when you suddenly hear the copy machine start up. You walk out to take a look at what's going on and see several copies filling the tray. Picking up one of the pieces of paper you discover that it is a copy of a picture depicting you sitting in your office chair, dead, with your eyes torn out and your throat cut. The others are the same picture, but taken from increasingly bizarre angles. There is no original picture in the copy machine.
Bad Dreams
"Daddy, I had a bad dream."
You blink your eyes and pull up on your elbows. Your clock glows red in the darkness — it's 3:23. "Do you want to climb into bed and tell me about it?"
"No, Daddy."
The oddness of the situation wakes you up more fully. You can barely make out your daughter's pale form in the darkness of your room. "Why not, sweetie?"
"Because in my dream, when I told you about the dream, the thing wearing Mommy's skin sat up."
For a moment, you feel paralyzed; you can't take your eyes off of your daughter. The covers behind you begin to shift.
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:24:42 am
Peripheral Vision
Have you ever gotten a glimpse of something out of the corner of your eye? A simple movement caught in your peripheral vision. Most will simply dismiss this as a shadow brought about by a flickering candle, or perhaps a pet jumping down from a piece of furniture. Ninety-nine out of a hundred times, these people are right.
But then there's that one elusive sight. It can easily be explained by the above conditions, but something feels wrong about it. A chill down your spine, a slight pain in your side. Maybe even a complete blanking of your mind, only to recede moments later.
Should any of these symptoms be felt, there may be cause for worry. Our peripheral vision is designed to catch motion, even in the dark. This was used to defend against predators in our early days, and as with many aspects of our human nature, it has remained, but weakened.
This view out of the corner of our eyes still alerts us to danger, and although predators have dropped on the list of dangers we may face today, they still exist. Should you ever feel that queer chill in your back, try not to focus on that shadow you saw in the corner of your eye. It might be better not to see.
Home Alone
You are home alone, and you hear in a news bulletin about the profile of a murderer who is on the loose. You look out the sliding glass doors to your backyard, and you notice a man standing out in the snow. He fits the profile of the murderer exactly, and he is smiling at you.
You gulp, picking up the phone to your right and dialing 911. You look back out the glass as you press the phone to your ear, and notice he is much closer to you now.
You then drop the phone in shock. There are no footprints in the snow.
It's his reflection.
Elizabeth Krull
The phone rings. I run to get it, thinking it may be my dad, coming to rescue me from Myrlie's house and tell me everything about Elizabeth and then everything would be alright. Mom would stop crying, Elizabeth would just be some girl Mom knew during childhood, and everything would be alright.
I finally reach the phone. "Oh, Elizabeth!" the person on the other end cries.
It's not my dad. It's mom.
"Mom? This is Bethany. Not Elizabeth."
"Oh, Elizabeth, you silly girl! Is this one of your made up aliases? Listen, Elizabeth, I've called to say good-bye."
"Mom? This isn't Elizabeth. This is Bethany. What are you talking about?"
"Elizabeth! I know you're a little doped up on the medicine the hospital's been giving you. Ever since the crash I've been knowing exactly what would happen."
"Mom, you're scaring me, please," I beg. But mom will not listen.
"I wanted to say good-bye, to tell you that I loved you, even though you're not the same, and that you will be with us again soon after you...pass away."
"Mom? Is that you? Mom, please! Tell me what you're talking about!" I cry
"We've saved some of your cells, and we'll make an exact copy of you. There are only a few left so the next one will have to be the last. It'll be like it never even happened, Lizzy!" Joy is amidst in her voice.
There was a long silence on the phone. "What do you mean?" I whisper.
"Oh, Elizabeth, you'll be alive once more, you'll look exactly the same. So will Mommy and Daddy. Your thirteenth birthday has come, and you will die tonight, just like all the others. I love you so much, sweetie. Myrlie will give you your poison, then the next one will can be started." Then she hangs up, leaving me with the haunting monotone "boooop" noise.
My heart is racing. I hear Myrlie's footsteps. I skirt out of the kitchen and run out front. That's when I notice that the doormat is gone. Written in chalk in all capital letters is: "BETHANY: Place of figs; a town of resurrection."
Then, "DIGISPUR CLONING."
The next feeling I feel is a piercing ache, silver bullet in the brain.
.....
"Oh, she's beautiful, what will you name her?" the nurse says.
"I don't know. I have a good feeling about this one, perhaps Elizabeth."
The Pile Of Photographs
A young girl walking home from school found a small pile of Polaroid photos lying in the gutter. There were twenty in all, neatly wrapped in a rubber band. She picked them up, and as she walked she started to browse. The first photo was that of a ghostly white man on a black background, standing just far enough away from the camera that she couldn’t make out his features.
The girl slid the photo to the back of the stack and looked at the next one.
The photo was of the same man now standing a bit closer.
The girl flipped through the next several photos quickly. With each one the man in the picture came a bit closer and his features were a bit clearer.
Turning the last corner to her house, the girl noticed that the man in the photos seems to be looking at her even when she moved the stack from side to side. It frightened her, but she kept flipping them over, one by one.
By the nineteenth picture, the man was so close his face completely filled the frame. His expression was the most horrifying the girl had ever seen.
Walking up the driveway, she turned to the last photo.
This time, instead of an image, there were two words: "Close enough."
Hearing a scream outside their house, the girl’s brother rushed to the door and opened it. All he saw was a pile of photographs lying on the doorstep.
The top one looked like an extremely pale version of his sister, but she was standing too far back for him to be sure.
A Girl And Her Dog
A beautiful young girl is left home alone with only her dog to protect her. On the news that night, they announced there is a serial killer on the loose in the area. Before she goes to bed, she locks all the doors and tries to lock all the windows, but the one in the basement won't lock. She decides to leave it unlocked, but locks the basement door and goes to bed. Her dog takes its customary place under her bed.
One night a young girl is left alone in the house with only her dog for company, she had been watching a scary movie before she went to bed and decided to have the dog sleep with her in the room. She climbs into bed, and the dog curls up beside it, she let's her hand drop down to stroke the her dog and it gives her a friendly lick, the girl giggles and eventually falls asleep.
In the deep of night she awakens to a dripping sound coming from her bathroom. Half-awake, the girl drops her hand down and feels the comforting lick from her dog and falls back to sleep. She reawakens to the dripping sound, reaches her hand down to the dog where she feels the reassuring lick and falls back to sleep. Once more, she awakens to the dripping sound.
Deciding to find the source of the problem, she drearily gets out of bed and slowly walks towards the bathroom, the dripping sound getting louder as she approaches. She reaches the bathroom and turns on the light. She is greeted by a horrific sight; hanging from the shower nozzle is her dog with its throat slit open and its blood dripping into the bathtub. Suddenly the hairs on the back of her necks stand up as a thought flashes through her mind.
What, or who, was licking her hand?
Genetic Memory
Many classic horror icons, such as Giger’s xenomorphs, Silent Hill’s Pyramid Head, and other disturbing creatures, share common characteristics. Pale skin, dark, sunken eyes, elongated faces, sharp teeth, and the like. These images inspire horror and revulsion in many, and with good reason. The characteristics shared by these faces are imprinted in the human mind.
Many things frighten humans instinctively. The fear is natural, and does not need to be reinforced in order to terrify. The fears are species-wide, stemming from dark times in the past when lightning could mean the burning of your tree home, thunder could be the approaching gallops of a stampede, predators could hide in darkness, and heights could make poor footing lethal.
The question you have to ask yourself is this: What happened, deep in the hidden eras before history began, that could effect the entire human race so evenly as to give the entire species a deep, instinctual, and lasting fear of pale beings with dark, sunken eyes, razor sharp teeth, and elongated faces?
… Just be careful out there.
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Industrial on September 02, 2014, 02:25:39 am
BBCodes are different
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:26:31 am
Yes, I figured that out. I just edited the OP (which is why you didn't see it right away) and said I would fix that later on. First I'm going to post everything before it gets deleted.
The Old Man's House
For four days straight screams came from the old man's house.
Yet nobody wanted to help the poor bastard, instead they all tried to ignore it, or stayed far away.
Might've been because the old man had been dead for two weeks now.
Focus
Did you ever see one of those videos where you are asked to look for, or follow a specific thing through out the video? Then, at the end, they reveal that as we were watching, something large and intrusive moved around in plain sight and you never even noticed it. It's frightening how often that happens, like how I just moved from the doorway into your room as you read this.
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:26:57 am
Here is a very long, but very good creepypasta that's been haunting me for a while now. It's just so goddamn good. A real classic. I would post it here, but that would take me way too long.
http://www.dionaea-house.com/
And no worries, there is no screamer on the website. Nothing about the design of the website is spooky/creepy, just the story. Hope you enjoy!
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:27:18 am
Here is another classic, it's called Candle Cove.
Candle Cove
NetNostalgia Forum - Television (local)
Skyshale033 Subject: Candle Cove local kid's show? Does anyone remember this kid's show? It was called Candle Cove and I must have been 6 or 7. I never found reference to it anywhere so I think it was on a local station around 1971 or 1972. I lived in Ironton at the time. I don't remember which station, but I do remember it was on at a weird time, like 4:00 PM.
mike_painter65 Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show? it seems really familiar to me…..i grew up outside of ashland and was 9 yrs old in 72. candle cove…was it about pirates? i remember a pirate marionete at the mouth of a cave talking to a little girl
Skyshale033 Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show? YES! Okay I'm not crazy! I remember Pirate Percy. I was always kind of scared of him. He looked like he was built from parts of other dolls, real low-budget. His head was an old porcelain baby doll, looked like an antique that didn't belong on the body. I don't remember what station this was! I don't think it was WTSF though.
Jaren_2005 Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show? Sorry to ressurect this old thread but I know exactly what show you mean, Skyshale. I think Candle Cove ran for only a couple months in '71, not '72. I was 12 and I watched it a few times with my brother. It was channel 58, whatever station that was. My mom would let me switch to it after the news. Let me see what I remember. It took place in Candle cove, and it was about a little girl who imagined herself to be friends with pirates. The pirate ship was called the Laughingstock, and Pirate Percy wasn't a very good pirate because he got scared too easily. And there was calliope music constantly playing. Don't remember the girl's name. Janice or Jade or something. Think it was Janice.
Skyshale033 Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show? Thank you Jaren!!! Memories flooded back when you mentioned the Laughingstock and channel 58. I remember the bow of the ship was a wooden smiling face, with the lower jaw submerged. It looked like it was swallowing the sea and it had that awful Ed Wynn voice and laugh. I especially remember how jarring it was when they switched from the wooden/plastic model, to the foam puppet version of the head that talked.
mike_painter65 Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show? ha ha i remember now too. ;) do you remember this part skyshale: "you have…to go…INSIDE."
Skyshale033 Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show? Ugh mike, I got a chill reading that. Yes I remember. That's what the ship always told Percy when there was a spooky place he had to go in, like a cave or a dark room where the treasure was. And the camera would push in on Laughingstock's face with each pause. YOU HAVE... TO GO... INSIDE. With his two eyes askew and that flopping foam jaw and the fishing line that opened and closed it. Ugh. It just looked so cheap and awful.
You guys remember the villain? He had a face that was just a handlebar mustache above really tall, narrow teeth.
kevin_hart Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show? i honestly, honestly thought the villain was pirate percy. i was about 5 when this show was on. nightmare fuel.
Jaren_2005 Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show? That wasn't the villain, the puppet with the mustache. That was the villain's sidekick, Horace Horrible. He had a monocle too, but it was on top of the mustache. I used to think that meant he had only one eye.
But yeah, the villain was another marionette. The Skin-Taker. I can't believe what they let us watch back then.
kevin_hart Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show? jesus h. christ, the skin taker. what kind of a kids show were we watching? i seriously could not look at the screen when the skin taker showed up. he just descended out of nowhere on his strings, just a dirty skeleton wearing that brown top hat and cape. and his glass eyes that were too big for his skull. christ almighty.
Skyshale033 Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show? Wasn't his top hat and cloak all sewn up crazily? Was that supposed to be children's skin??
mike_painter65 Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show? yeah i think so. rememer his mouth didn't open and close, his jaw just slid back and foth. i remember the little girl said "why does your mouth move like that" and the skin-taker didn't look at the girl but at the camera and said "TO GRIND YOUR SKIN"
Skyshale033 Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show? I'm so relieved that other people remember this terrible show! I used to have this awful memory, a bad dream I had where the opening jingle ended, the show faded in from black, and all the characters were there, but the camera was just cutting to each of their faces, and they were just screaming, and the puppets and marionettes were flailing spastically, and just all screaming, screaming. The girl was just moaning and crying like she had been through hours of this. I woke up many times from that nightmare. I used to wet the bed when I had it.
kevin_hart Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show? i don't think that was a dream. i remember that. i remember that was an episode.
Skyshale033 Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show? No no no, not possible. There was no plot or anything, I mean literally just standing in place crying and screaming for the whole show.
kevin_hart Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show? maybe i'm manufacturing the memory because you said that, but i swear to god i remember seeing what you described. they just screamed.
Jaren_2005 Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show? Oh God. Yes. The little girl, Janice, I remember seeing her shake. And the Skin-Taker screaming through his gnashing teeth, his jaw careening so wildly I thought it would come off its wire hinges. I turned it off and it was the last time I watched. I ran to tell my brother and we didn't have the courage to turn it back on.
mike_painter65 Subject: Re: Candle Cove local kid's show? i visited my mom today at the nursing home. i asked her about when i was littel in the early 70s, when i was 8 or 9 and if she remebered a kid's show, candle cove. she said she was suprised i could remember that and i asked why, and she said "because i used to think it was so strange that you said 'i’m gona go watch candle cove now mom' and then you would tune the tv to static and juts watch dead air for 30 minutes. you had a big imagination with your little pirate show."
Candle Cove - Parts of the original show are supposed to be in this video - PROOF? - YouTube (http://"http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Po1XJe94oKA")
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Buggernaut on September 02, 2014, 02:27:26 am
tl;dr
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:27:57 am
The following Creepypasta is rather... mediocre to say the least. But it's still nice. Others will be better.
Jason's Home
Jason’s home. He calls everyone, no one answers, as always. His family is so stubborn that they don’t even answer his calls. They’re so stubborn; they don’t even wanna talk to him anymore. Maybe they’re mad at him, but they can’t be mad for two weeks.
What’s their problem? They’ve always been mad at him, but it never came to the point that they ignored him so much. He’s so depressed.
“Mom, why won’t you talk to me?” he said, but his mom just continued to lay on the bed. She’s still sick.
He goes to his dad. “Dad, are you still mad at me?” but his dad just sits there, reading the newspaper. “Dad, your coffee’s cold.”
Then he goes to the front of their bathroom, and calls his sister. “Hey, Lizzie, you’re taking forever. You still stink, though.” He never really liked Lizzie, but she’s still his sister.
Wait, Jason thinks, if there’s someone who’s not going to ignore him, it’ll be Bea, his little baby sister.
He goes to her crib. Oh, she’s still sleeping. She’s been sleeping the whole day. Even his mom. And his dad won’t go to work. And Lizzie never finished her bath.
Why?
What’s happening to them?
He just played with Collins, their cat, and then they became mad at him?
They’re so stupid. Very stupid.
Collins is so stupid. He’s so lazy. He doesn’t even want to move after they played Frisbee.
Then he remembers when his mom came scolding him for throwing Collins to the tree.
Then he remembers. He gets his favorite toy, the one he used for Lincoln, the neighbors dog, and Justin, his friend.
He never had played with his family before.
He went to his dad, and then he asked, do you want to play? "No, stop that. I don’t want to play. Stop that." But he wanted to play. So he insisted. And he’s been sitting there ever since.
He’s forgiven by his mom, but, she didn’t want to play either. But he insisted. Even with his sister, Lizzie.
Then Bea, she wanted to play too, but she got tired early. They’re so lazy.
He wishes they would take a bath too, cause they’re stinking bad.
He wishes that his Dad would put his throat back, because his adam’s apple is showing.
And his Mom’s lungs hanging out her chest, maybe she needs to take a deeper breath once in a while.
And Lizzie’s flooding the bathroom, why won't she pick up her head floating in the toilet and put it back on her neck?
Oh, of course, his toy!
It’s still stuck in Bea’s brain. Now he remembers.
Well, maybe someday, they will stop ignoring him and play with him and his knife again.
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:28:11 am
This is a very long Creepypasta, but it's worth the read. Very good, too. I've always been a fan of these kind of Creepypastas. Very elaborate, provided with pictures, etc. Makes it all seem so real.
http://www.angelfire.com/trek/caver/
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:28:33 am
There is another really good Creepypasta I had read a few years back on my PSP. It was in the summer (I think), very late at night with the screen lighting up very little space of my room. I read the story, and then I took a look at the accompanying picture. At first I didn't see it, but when I did... it scared the shit out of me. Instant nightmare. I'll try to find it and then I'll post it here, it's pretty similar to [color="red"]The Rake[/color]
In June 1972, a woman appeared in Cedar Senai hospital in nothing but a white, blood-covered gown. Now this, in itself, should not be too surprising as people often have accidents nearby and come to the nearest hospital for medical attention, but there were two things that caused people who saw her to vomit and flee in terror.
The first being that she wasn't exactly human. She resembled something close to a mannequin, but had the dexterity and fluidity of a normal human being. Her face was as flawless as a mannequins, devoid of eyebrows and smeared in make-up.
There was a kitten clamped in her jaws so unnaturally tight that no teeth could be seen, and the blood was still squirting out over her gown and onto the floor. She then pulled it out of her mouth, tossed it aside and collapsed.
From the moment she stepped through the entrance to when she was taken to a hospital room and cleaned up before being prepped for sedation, she was completely calm, expressionless and motionless. The doctors thought it best to restrain her until the authorities could arrive and she did not protest. They were unable to get any kind of response from her and most staff members felt too uncomfortable to look directly at her for more than a few seconds.
But the second the staff tried to sedate her, she fought back with extreme force. Two members of staff had to hold her down as her body rose up on the bed with that same, blank expression.
She turned her emotionless eyes towards the male doctor and did something unusual. She smiled.
As she did, the female doctor screamed and let go out of shock. In the woman's mouth were not human teeth, but long, sharp spikes. Too long for her mouth to close fully without causing any damage…
The male doctor stared back at her for a moment before asking "What in the hell are you?"
She cracked her neck down to her shoulder to observe him, still smiling.
There was a long pause, the security had been alerted and could be heard coming down the hallway.
As he heard them approach, she darted forward, sinking her teeth into the front of his throat, ripping out his jugular and letting him fall to the floor, gasping for air as he choked on his own blood.
She stood up and leaned over him, her face coming dangerously close to his as the life faded from his eyes.
She leaned closer and whispered in his ear.
"I... am... God..."
The doctor's eyes filled with fear as he watched her calmly walk away to greet the security men. His last ever sight would be watching her feast on them one by one.
The female doctor who survived the incident named her "The Expressionless".
During the summer of 2003, events in the northeastern United States involving a strange, human-like creature sparked brief local media interest before an apparent blackout was enacted. Little or no information was left intact, as most online and written accounts of the creature were mysteriously destroyed. Primarily focused in rural New York state and once found in Idaho, self proclaimed witnesses told stories of their encounters with a creature of unknown origin. Emotions ranged from extremely traumatic levels of fright and discomfort, to an almost childlike sense of playfulness and curiosity. While their published versions are no longer on record, the memories remained powerful. Several of the involved parties began looking for answers that year.
In early 2006, the collaboration had accumulated nearly two dozen documents dating between the 12th century and present day, spanning 4 continents. In almost all cases, the stories were identical. I’ve been in contact with a member of this group and was able to get some excerpts from their upcoming book.
A Suicide Note: 1964
"As I prepare to take my life, I feel it necessary to assuage any guilt or pain I have introduced through this act. It is not the fault of anyone other than him. For once I awoke and felt his presence. And once I awoke and saw his form. Once again I awoke and heard his voice, and looked into his eyes. I cannot sleep without fear of what I might next awake to experience. I cannot ever wake. Goodbye."
Found in the same wooden box were two empty envelopes addressed to William and Rose, and one loose personal letter with no envelope:
"Dearest Linnie,
I have prayed for you. He spoke your name."
A Journal Entry (translated from Spanish): 1880
"I have experience the greatest terror. I have experienced the greatest terror. I have experienced the greatest terror. I see his eyes when I close mine. They are hollow. Black. They saw me and pierced me. His wet hand. I will not sleep. His voice (unintelligible text)."
A Mariner's Log: 1691
"He came to me in my sleep. From the foot of my bed I felt a sensation. He took everything. We must return to England. We shall not return here again at the request of the Rake."
From a Witness: 2006
"Three years ago, I had just returned from a trip from Niagara Falls with my family for the 4th of July. We were all very exhausted after a long day of driving, so my husband and I put the kids right to bed and called it a night.
At about 4am, I woke up thinking my husband had gotten up to use the restroom. I used the moment to steal back the sheets, only to wake him in the process. I apologized and told him I though he got out of bed. When he turned to face me, he gasped and pulled his feet up from the end of the bed so quickly his knee almost knocked me out of the bed. He then grabbed me and said nothing.
After adjusting to the dark for a half second, I was able to see what caused the strange reaction. At the foot of the bed, sitting and facing away from us, there was what appeared to be a naked man, or a large hairless dog of some sort. Its body position was disturbing and unnatural, as if it had been hit by a car or something. For some reason, I was not instantly frightened by it, but more concerned as to its condition. At this point I was somewhat under the assumption that we were supposed to help him.
My husband was peering over his arm and knee, tucked into the fetal position, occasionally glancing at me before returning to the creature.
In a flurry of motion, the creature scrambled around the side of the bed, and then crawled quickly in a flailing sort of motion right along the bed until it was less than a foot from my husband's face. The creature was completely silent for about 30 seconds (or probably closer to 5, it just seemed like a while) just looking at my husband. The creature then placed its hand on his knee and ran into the hallway, leading to the kids' rooms.I screamed and ran for the lightswitch, planning to stop him before he hurt my children. When I got to the hallway, the light from the bedroom was enough to see it crouching and hunched over about 20 feet away. He turned around and looked directly at me, covered in blood. I flipped the switch on the wall and saw my daughter Clara.
The creature ran down the stairs while my husband and I rushed to help our daughter. She was very badly injured and spoke only once more in her short life. She said "he is the Rake".
My husband drove his car into a lake that night, while rushing our daughter to the hospital. They did not survive.
Being a small town, news got around pretty quickly. The police were helpful at first, and the local newspaper took a lot of interest as well. However, the story was never published and the local television news never followed up either.
For several months, my son Justin and I stayed in a hotel near my parent's house. After we decided to return home, I began looking for answers myself. I eventually located a man in the next town over who had a similar story. We got in contact and began talking about our experiences. He knew of two other people in New York who had seen the creature we now referred to as the Rake.
It took the four of us about two solid years of hunting on the internet and writing letters to come up with a small collection of what we believe to be accounts of the Rake. None of them gave any details, history or follow up. One journal had an entry involving the creature in its first 3 pages, and never mentioned it again. A ship's log explained nothing of the encounter, saying only that they were told to leave by the Rake. That was the last entry in the log.
There were, however, many instances where the creature's visit was one of a series of visits with the same person. Multiple people also mentioned being spoken to, my daughter included. This led us to wonder if the Rake had visited any of us before our last encounter.
I set up a digital recorder near my bed and left it running all night, every night, for two weeks. I would tediously scan through the sounds of me rolling around in my bed each day when I woke up. By the end of the second week, I was quite used to the occasional sound of sleep while blurring through the recording at 8 times the normal speed. (This still took almost an hour every day)
On the first day of the third week, I thought I heard something different. What I found was a shrill voice. It was the Rake. I can't listen to it long enough to even begin to transcribe it. I haven't let anyone listen to it yet. All I know is that I've heard it before, and I now believe that it spoke when it was sitting in front of my husband. I don't remember hearing anything at the time, but for some reason, the voice on the recorder immediately brings me back to that moment.
The thoughts that must have gone through my daughter's head make me very upset.
I have not seen the Rake since he ruined my life, but I know that he has been in my room while I slept. I know and fear that one night I'll wake up to see him staring at me."
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:28:54 am
The Russian Sleep Experiment
Russian researchers in the late 1940s kept five people awake for fifteen days using an experimental gas based stimulant. They were kept in a sealed environment to carefully monitor their oxygen intake so the gas didn't kill them, since it was toxic in high concentrations. This was before closed circuit cameras so they had only microphones and 5 inch thick glass porthole sized windows into the chamber to monitor them. The chamber was stocked with books, cots to sleep on but no bedding, running water and toilet, and enough dried food to last all five for over a month.
The test subjects were political prisoners deemed enemies of the state during World War II.
Everything was fine for the first five days; the subjects hardly complained having been promised (falsely) that they would be freed if they submitted to the test and did not sleep for 30 days. Their conversations and activities were monitored and it was noted that they continued to talk about increasingly traumatic incidents in their past, and the general tone of their conversations took on a darker aspect after the 4 day mark.
After five days they started to complain about the circumstances and events that lead them to where they were and started to demonstrate severe paranoia. They stopped talking to each other and began alternately whispering to the microphones and one way mirrored portholes. Oddly they all seemed to think they could win the trust of the experimenters by turning over their comrades, the other subjects in captivity with them. At first the researchers suspected this was an effect of the gas itself...
After nine days the first of them started screaming. He ran the length of the chamber repeatedly yelling at the top of his lungs for 3 hours straight, he continued attempting to scream but was only able to produce occasional squeaks. The researchers postulated that he had physically torn his vocal cords. The most surprising thing about this behavior is how the other captives reacted to it... or rather didn't react to it. They continued whispering to the microphones until the second of the captives started to scream. The 2 non-screaming captives took the books apart, smeared page after page with their own feces and pasted them calmly over the glass portholes. The screaming promptly stopped.
So did the whispering to the microphones.
After 3 more days passed. The researchers checked the microphones hourly to make sure they were working, since they thought it impossible that no sound could be coming with 5 people inside. The oxygen consumption in the chamber indicated that all 5 must still be alive. In fact it was the amount of oxygen 5 people would consume at a very heavy level of strenuous exercise. On the morning of the 14th day the researchers did something they said they would not do to get a reaction from the captives, they used the intercom inside the chamber, hoping to provoke any response from the captives they were afraid were either dead or vegetables.
They announced: "We are opening the chamber to test the microphones; step away from the door and lie flat on the floor or you will be shot. Compliance will earn one of you your immediate freedom."
To their surprise they heard a single phrase in a calm voice response: "We no longer want to be freed."
Debate broke out among the researchers and the military forces funding the research. Unable to provoke any more response using the intercom it was finally decided to open the chamber at midnight on the fifteenth day.
The chamber was flushed of the stimulant gas and filled with fresh air and immediately voices from the microphones began to object. 3 different voices began begging, as if pleading for the life of loved ones to turn the gas back on. The chamber was opened and soldiers sent in to retrieve the test subjects. They began to scream louder than ever, and so did the soldiers when they saw what was inside. Four of the five subjects were still alive, although no one could rightly call the state that any of them in 'life.'
The food rations past day 5 had not been so much as touched. There were chunks of meat from the dead test subject's thighs and chest stuffed into the drain in the center of the chamber, blocking the drain and allowing 4 inches of water to accumulate on the floor. Precisely how much of the water on the floor was actually blood was never determined. All four 'surviving' test subjects also had large portions of muscle and skin torn away from their bodies. The destruction of flesh and exposed bone on their finger tips indicated that the wounds were inflicted by hand, not with teeth as the researchers initially thought. Closer examination of the position and angles of the wounds indicated that most if not all of them were self-inflicted.
The abdominal organs below the ribcage of all four test subjects had been removed. While the heart, lungs and diaphragm remained in place, the skin and most of the muscles attached to the ribs had been ripped off, exposing the lungs through the ribcage. All the blood vessels and organs remained intact, they had just been taken out and laid on the floor, fanning out around the eviscerated but still living bodies of the subjects. The digestive tract of all four could be seen to be working, digesting food. It quickly became apparent that what they were digesting was their own flesh that they had ripped off and eaten over the course of days.
Most of the soldiers were Russian special operatives at the facility, but still many refused to return to the chamber to remove the test subjects. They continued to scream to be left in the chamber and alternately begged and demanded that the gas be turned back on, lest they fall asleep...
To everyone's surprise the test subjects put up a fierce fight in the process of being removed from the chamber. One of the Russian soldiers died from having his throat ripped out, another was gravely injured by having his testicles ripped off and an artery in his leg severed by one of the subject's teeth. Another 5 of the soldiers lost their lives if you count ones that committed suicide in the weeks following the incident.
In the struggle one of the four living subjects had his spleen ruptured and he bled out almost immediately. The medical researchers attempted to sedate him but this proved impossible. He was injected with more than ten times the human dose of a morphine derivative and still fought like a cornered animal, breaking the ribs and arm of one doctor. When heart was seen to beat for a full two minutes after he had bled out to the point there was more air in his vascular system than blood. Even after it stopped he continued to scream and flail for another 3 minutes, struggling to attack anyone in reach and just repeating the word "MORE" over and over, weaker and weaker, until he finally fell silent.
The surviving three test subjects were heavily restrained and moved to a medical facility, the two with intact vocal cords continuously begging for the gas demanding to be kept awake...
The most injured of the three was taken to the only surgical operating room that the facility had. In the process of preparing the subject to have his organs placed back within his body it was found that he was effectively immune to the sedative they had given him to prepare him for the surgery. He fought furiously against his restraints when the anesthetic gas was brought out to put him under. He managed to tear most of the way through a 4 inch wide leather strap on one wrist, even through the weight of a 200 pound soldier holding that wrist as well. It took only a little more anesthetic than normal to put him under, and the instant his eyelids fluttered and closed, his heart stopped. In the autopsy of the test subject that died on the operating table it was found that his blood had triple the normal level of oxygen. His muscles that were still attached to his skeleton were badly torn and he had broken 9 bones in his struggle to not be subdued. Most of them were from the force his own muscles had exerted on them.
The second survivor had been the first of the group of five to start screaming. His vocal cords destroyed he was unable to beg or object to surgery, and he only reacted by shaking his head violently in disapproval when the anesthetic gas was brought near him. He shook his head yes when someone suggested, reluctantly, they try the surgery without anesthetic, and did not react for the entire 6 hour procedure of replacing his abdominal organs and attempting to cover them with what remained of his skin. The surgeon presiding stated repeatedly that it should be medically possible for the patient to still be alive. One terrified nurse assisting the surgery stated that she had seen the patients mouth curl into a smile several times, whenever his eyes met hers.
When the surgery ended the subject looked at the surgeon and began to wheeze loudly, attempting to talk while struggling. Assuming this must be something of drastic importance the surgeon had a pen and pad fetched so the patient could write his message. It was simple. "Keep cutting."
The other two test subjects were given the same surgery, both without anesthetic as well. Although they had to be injected with a paralytic for the duration of the operation. The surgeon found it impossible to perform the operation while the patients laughed continuously. Once paralyzed the subjects could only follow the attending researchers with their eyes. The paralytic cleared their system in an abnormally short period of time and they were soon trying to escape their bonds. The moment they could speak they were again asking for the stimulant gas. The researchers tried asking why they had injured themselves, why they had ripped out their own guts and why they wanted to be given the gas again.
Only one response was given: "I must remain awake."
All three subject's restraints were reinforced and they were placed back into the chamber awaiting determination as to what should be done with them. The researchers, facing the wrath of their military 'benefactors' for having failed the stated goals of their project considered euthanizing the surviving subjects. The commanding officer, an ex-KGB instead saw potential, and wanted to see what would happen if they were put back on the gas. The researchers strongly objected, but were overruled.
In preparation for being sealed in the chamber again the subjects were connected to an EEG monitor and had their restraints padded for long term confinement. To everyone's surprise all three stopped struggling the moment it was let slip that they were going back on the gas. It was obvious that at this point all three were putting up a great struggle to stay awake. One of subjects that could speak was humming loudly and continuously; the mute subject was straining his legs against the leather bonds with all his might, first left, then right, then left again for something to focus on. The remaining subject was holding his head off his pillow and blinking rapidly. Having been the first to be wired for EEG most of the researchers were monitoring his brain waves in surprise. They were normal most of the time but sometimes flat lined inexplicably. It looked as if he were repeatedly suffering brain death, before returning to normal. As they focused on paper scrolling out of the brainwave monitor only one nurse saw his eyes slip shut at the same moment his head hit the pillow. His brainwaves immediately changed to that of deep sleep, then flatlined for the last time as his heart simultaneously stopped.
The only remaining subject that could speak started screaming to be sealed in now. His brainwaves showed the same flatlines as one who had just died from falling asleep. The commander gave the order to seal the chamber with both subjects inside, as well as 3 researchers. One of the named three immediately drew his gun and shot the commander point blank between the eyes, then turned the gun on the mute subject and blew his brains out as well.
He pointed his gun at the remaining subject, still restrained to a bed as the remaining members of the medical and research team fled the room. "I won't be locked in here with these things! Not with you!" he screamed at the man strapped to the table. "WHAT ARE YOU?" he demanded. "I must know!"
The subject smiled.
"Have you forgotten so easily?" The subject asked. "We are you. We are the madness that lurks within you all, begging to be free at every moment in your deepest animal mind. We are what you hide from in your beds every night. We are what you sedate into silence and paralysis when you go to the nocturnal haven where we cannot tread."
The researcher paused. Then aimed at the subject's heart and fired. The EEG flatlined as the subject weakly choked out, "So... nearly... free..."
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:29:29 am
A few posts back I stated that I had read a Creepypasta on my PSP and it scared the shit out of me, right? Remember when I said it reminded me of The Rake? Well, I was wrong. I meant [color="red"]Smile.jpg[/color]. The second Creepypasta is not really a Creepypasta, but I'm posting it anyway. If you ever browsed 4chan's Paranormal board, then you would've seen a lot of threads pop up regarding The Grifter, asking if someone could give them a link to the video. These threads would pop up a lot between 2010 and 2012, especially during the summer. The people who have seen The Grifter have been traumatized very badly. If anyone has seen it before, please share your experience with the Grifter if you are able to. I know I said I left out two classics in my previous post, but I'm adding a third Creepypasta.
Smile.jpg/Smile Dog
Smile Dog's story consists of a classic horror set-up – an amateur writer visits the house of a lady who supposedly has a story for which he can borrow from. Rather than speak, however, the lady has locked herself up in her room, crying and ranting about nightmares and visions and various other problems. All of these center around a floppy disk she had been given that contain the image smile.jpg – which is smile.dog. Other cases of this have cropped up... Viewing this image incites insanity, and no copy of the exact image exists on the web though likenesses of it do. The true image of smile.jpg is recognized due to the effect it has on the viewer – that is, they wind up dead. Attaching the file – that is, spreading the word, is the only way to save oneself from the smile.dog that appears in one's dreams demanding to spread the word. Some say that the original legend began with an image of the devil.
I first met in person with Mary E. in the summer of 2007. I had arranged with her husband of fifteen years, Terence, to see her for an interview. Mary had initially agreed, since I was not a newsman but rather an amateur writer gathering information for a few early college assignments and, if all went according to plan, some pieces of fiction. We scheduled the interview for a particular weekend when I was in Chicago on unrelated business, but at the last moment Mary changed her mind and locked herself in the couple's bedroom, refusing to meet with me. For half an hour I sat with Terence as we camped outside the bedroom door, I listening and taking notes while he attempted fruitlessly to calm his wife. The things Mary said made little sense but fit with the pattern I was expecting: though I could not see her, I could tell from her voice that she was crying, and more often than not her objections to speaking with me centered around an incoherent diatribe on her dreams — her nightmares. Terence apologized profusely when we ceased the exercise, and I did my best to take it in stride; recall that I wasn't a reporter in search of a story, but merely a curious young man in search of information. Besides, I thought at the time, I could perhaps find another, similar case if I put my mind and resources to it.
Mary E. was the sysop for a small Chicago-based Bulletin Board System in 1992 when she first encountered smile.jpg and her life changed forever. She and Terence had been married for only five months. Mary was one of an estimated 400 people who saw the image when it was posted as a hyperlink on the BBS, though she is the only one who has spoken openly about the experience. The rest have remained anonymous, or are perhaps dead.
In 2005, when I was only in tenth grade, smile.jpg was first brought to my attention by my burgeoning interest in web-based phenomena; Mary was the most often cited victim of what is sometimes referred to as "Smile.dog", the being smile.jpg is reputed to display. What caught my interest (other than the obvious macabre elements of the cyber-legend and my proclivity toward such things) was the sheer lack of information, usually to the point that people don't believe it even exists other than as a rumor or hoax.
It is unique because, though the entire phenomenon centers on a picture file, that file is nowhere to be found on the internet; certainly many photomanipulated simulacra litter the web, showing up with the most frequency on sites such as the imageboard 4chan, particularly the /x/-focused paranormal subboard. It is suspected these are fakes because they do not have the effect the true smile.jpg is believed to have, namely sudden onset temporal lobe epilepsy and acute anxiety.
This purported reaction in the viewer is one of the reasons the phantom-like smile.jpg is regarded with such disdain, since it is patently absurd, though depending on whom you ask the reluctance to acknowledge smile.jpg's existence might be just as much out of fear as it is out of disbelief.
Neither smile.jpg nor Smile.dog is mentioned anywhere on Wikipedia, though the website features articles on such other, perhaps more scandalous shocksites as ****** (hello.jpg) or 2girls1cup; any attempt to create a page pertaining to smile.jpg is summarily deleted by any of the encyclopedia's many admins.
Encounters with smile.jpg are the stuff of internet legend. Mary E.'s story is not unique; there are unverified rumors of smile.jpg showing up in the early days of Usenet and even one persistent tale that in 2002 a hacker flooded the forums of humor and satire website Something Awful with a deluge of Smile.dog pictures, rendering almost half the forum's users at the time epileptic.
It is also said that in the mid-to-late 90s that smile.jpg circulated on usenet and as an attachment of a chain email with the subject line "SMILE!! GOD LOVES YOU!" Yet despite the huge exposure these stunts would generate, there are very few people who admit to having experienced any of them and no trace of the file or any link has ever been discovered.
Those who claim to have seen smile.jpg often weakly joke that they were far too busy to save a copy of the picture to their hard drive. However, all alleged victims offer the same description of the photo: A dog-like creature (usually described as appearing similar to a Siberian husky), illuminated by the flash of the camera, sits in a dim room, the only background detail that is visible being a human hand extending from the darkness near the left side of the frame. The hand is empty, but is usually described as "beckoning". Of course, most attention is given to the dog (or dog-creature, as some victims are more certain than others about what they claim to have seen). The muzzle of the beast is reputedly split in a wide grin, revealing two rows of very white, very straight, very sharp, very human-looking teeth.
This is, of course, not a description given immediately after viewing the picture, but rather a recollection of the victims, who claim to have seen the picture endlessly repeated in their mind's eye during the time they are, in reality, having epileptic fits. These fits are reported to continue indeterminably, often while the victims sleep, resulting in very vivid and disturbing nightmares. These may be treated with medication, though in someses it is more effective than others.
Mary E., I assumed, was not on effective medication. That was why after my visit to her apartment in 2007 I sent out feelers to several folklore- and urban legend-oriented newsgroups, websites, and mailing lists, hoping to find the name of a supposed victim of smile.jpg who felt more interested in talking about his experiences. For a time nothing happened and at length I forgot completely about my pursuits, since I had begun my freshman year of college and was quite busy. Mary contacted me via email, however, near the beginning of March 2008.
To: jml@****.com From: marye@****.net Subj: Last summer's interview Dear Mr. L.,
I am incredibly sorry about my behavior last summer when you came to interview me. I hope you understand that it was no fault of yours, but rather my own problems that led me to act out as I did. I realized that I could have handled the situation more decorously; however, I hope you will forgive me. At the time, I was afraid.
You see, for fifteen years I have been haunted by smile.jpg. Smile.dog comes to me in my sleep every night. I know that sounds silly, but it is true. There is an ineffable quality about my dreams, my nightmares, that makes them completely unlike any real dreams I have ever had. I do not move and do not speak. I simply look ahead, and the only thing ahead of me is the scene from that horrible picture. I see the beckoning hand, and I see Smile.dog. It talks to me.
It is not a dog, of course, though I am not quite sure what it really is. It tells me it will leave me alone if only I do as it asks. All I must do, it says, is "spread the word". That is how it phrases its demands. And I know exactly what it means: it wants me to show it to someone else.
And I could. The week after my incident I received in the mail a manila envelope with no return address. Inside was only a 3 ½ -inch floppy diskette. Without having to check, I knew precisely what was on it.
I thought for a long time about my options. I could show it to a stranger, a coworker… I could even show it to Terence, as much as the idea disgusted me. And what would happen then? Well, if Smile.dog kept its word I could sleep. Yet if it lied, what would I do? And who was to say something worse would not come for me if I did as the creature asked?
So I did nothing for fifteen years, though I kept the diskette hidden amongst my things. Every night for fifteen years Smile.dog has come to me in my sleep and demanded that I spread the word. For fifteen years I have stood strong, though there have been hard times. Many of my fellow victims on the BBS board where I first encountered smile.jpg stopped posting; I heard some of them committed suicide. Others remained completely silent, simply disappearing off the face of the web. They are the ones I worry about the most.
I sincerely hope you will forgive me, Mr. L., but last summer when you contacted me and my husband about an interview I was near the breaking point. I decided I was going to give you the floppy diskette. I did not care if Smile.dog was lying or not, I wanted it to end. You were a stranger, someone I had no connection with, and I thought I would not feel sorrow when you took the diskette as part of your research and sealed your fate.
Before you arrived I realized what I was doing: was plotting to ruin your life. I could not stand the thought, and in fact I still cannot. I am ashamed, Mr. L., and I hope that this warning will dissuade you from further investigation of smile.jpg. You may in time encounter someone who is, if not weaker than I, then wholly more depraved, someone who will not hesitate to follow Smile.dog's orders.
Stop while you are still whole.
Sincerely, Mary E.
Terence contacted me later that month with the news that his wife had killed herself. While cleaning up the various things she'd left behind, closing email accounts and the like, he happened upon the above message. He was a man in shambles; he wept as he told me to listen to his wife's advice. He'd found the diskette, he revealed, and burned it until it was nothing but a stinking pile of blackened plastic. The part that most disturbed him, however, was how the diskette had hissed as it melted. Like some sort of animal, he said.
I will admit that I was a little uncertain about how to respond to this. At first I thought perhaps it was a joke, with the couple belatedly playing with the situation in order to get a rise out of me. A quick check of several Chicago newspapers' online obituaries, however, proved that Mary E. was indeed dead. There was, of course, no mention of suicide in the article. I decided that, for a time at least, I would not further pursue the subject of smile.jpg, especially since I had finals coming up at the end of May.
But the world has odd ways of testing us. Almost a full year after I'd returned from my disastrous interview with Mary E., I received another email:
To: jml@****.com From: elzahir82@****.com Subj: smile Hello
I found your e-mail adress thru a mailing list your profile said you are interested in smiledog. I have saw it it is not as bad as every one says I have sent it to you here. Just spreading the word.
:)
The final line chilled me to the bone.
According to my email client there was one file attachment called, naturally, smile.jpg. I considered downloading it for some time. It was mostly likely a fake, I imagined, and even if it weren't I was never wholly convinced of smile.jpg's peculiar powers. Mary E.'s account had shaken me, yes, but she was probably mentally unbalanced anyway. After all, how could a simple image do what smile.jpg was said to accomplish? What sort of creature was it that could break one's mind with only the power of the eye?
And if such things were patently absurd, then why did the legend exist at all?
If I downloaded the image, if I looked at it, and if Mary turned out to be correct, if Smile.dog came to me in my dreams demanding I spread the word, what would I do? Would I live my life as Mary had, fighting against the urge to give in until I died? Or would I simply spread the word, eager to be put to rest? And if I chose the latter route, how could I do it? Whom would I burden in turn?
If I went through with my earlier intention to write a short article about smile.jpg, I decided, I could attach it as evidence. And anyone who read the article, anyone who took interest, would be affected. And even assuming the smile.jpg attached to the email was genuine, would I be capricious enough to save myself in that manner?
The Grifter is an alleged video that was first mentioned somewhere on 4chan's /x/ imageboard. Watching it is said to be a soul-rending experience, far more horrible than anything one could imagine.
The image on the right is said to contain screenshots of some of the scenes in the video.
The few that have watched it are said to have been killed in their own homes, with only one thing in common, a strange doll, hidden somewhere in their homes...
There is a message by the end of the video in the constructed international auxiliary language Esperanto, and says:
"This child (now a young man) is still alive and lives in a local shelter whose name was not given. He never spoke, and still is katatonie [sic]."
Mereana Mordegard Glesgorv
There is a video on YouTube named Mereana Mordegard Glesgorv. If you search this, you will find nothing. The few times you find something, all you will see is a 20 second video of a man staring intently at you, expressionless, then grinning for the last 2 seconds. The background is undefined. This is only part of the actual video.
The full video lasts 2 minutes, and was removed by YouTube after 153 people who viewed the video gouged out their eyes and mailed them to YouTube’s main office in San Bruno. Said people had also committed suicide in various ways. It is not yet known how they managed to mail their eyes after gouging them out. The cryptic inscription they carve on their forearms has not yet been deciphered.
YouTube will periodically put up the first 20 seconds of the video to quell suspicions, so that people will not go look for the real thing and upload it. The video itself was only viewed by one YouTube staff member, who started screaming after 45 seconds. This man is now under constant sedation and is apparently unable to recall what he saw. The other people who were in the same room as him while he viewed it and turned off the video for him say that all they heard at the time was a high pitched drilling sound. None of them dared look at the screen.
The person who uploaded the video was never found, the IP address being non-existant. And the man in the video has never been identified.
There are several versions of the Mereana Mordegard Glesgorv video circulating the web. Some people claim to still feel strange after watching it, but nothing bad comes of it.
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Buggernaut on September 02, 2014, 02:29:39 am
m8, u need help. http://wiki.simplemachines.org/smf/Alphabetical_list_of_all_bulletin_board_codes
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:29:59 am
Tall, Thin, Faceless
Walls.
White walls.
White padded walls.
Day in.
Day out.
White padded walls.
Let me tell you why I see these white padded walls day in and day out.
I am, or at least according to several doctors, certifiably insane. Hallucinations, paranoia, schizophrenia, multiple-personality disorders, the list goes on and on. I was a normal, working class man, living the American dream. I had a wife and two children. My income was high and my debt was low. I had it all. Then things started to go wrong. They started to go in a direction I couldn’t even fathom.
My wife and I had always wanted to go to the British Isles, but for the longest time, the money wasn’t there. It took seven years and two promotions before we could even begin to think realistically. Anyway, after months of careful planning and preparation, we were on a plane flying over the Atlantic Ocean. Just me and her. No kids. No job. Nothing but beautiful scenery and relaxation for twenty-four straight days.
Fast forward a week. Having taken in many of the big city sites, we decided to see some of the smaller places, out in the countryside. We packed a small bag of essential and took a cab into the rural side of England. This is where things started to go wrong. Not ‘the whole world is coming to an end’ wrong, even though it sure felt like it, just wrong. We came across an old tailor in a moderately decorated cabin. He said he had been making suits for over sixty-five years. My interest was piqued. I decided to splurge a little bit and buy one. Nothing beats the craftsmanship of a home-tailored suit. After paying for it and calling for a cab, a picture on a wall caught my eye. It was old. Black and white. Mid 50s. It was a very tall and very slim suited man standing on a grassy plain. His face appeared to be smudged out. It was old. I didn’t think much of it. Even so, something about this picture was unnerving. It gave an odd vibe. It felt almost ... menacing. I inquired about the photo but the old man refused to talk about it. That just added fuel to my mental fire.
Days upon days had passed. My wife and I took in every sight, every castle, every grassy knoll we possibly could but, alas, eventually we had to go home. Part of us wanted to stay, but we were exhausted. There was no way we could spend any longer there. Our flight back home was vague as we were both asleep most of the tome; the drive back home was hazy. We just wanted to relax. As I pulled into the driveway, something was off. Something didn’t feel right. I got the same feeling I has when I saw the picture inside the tailor’s home. It was a feeling of dread and curiosity. I didn’t want to continue but my mind forced me to. I stepped out of my car and when I stood onto the concrete, my legs suddenly gave out. I fell to the ground onto my right hand and found myself unable to force myself up. I must be more tired than I thought. My wife helped me up and supported me up to the bedroom. I was going to be asleep for a very long time.
Or so I thought...
That night, I was plagued by nightmares of the suited man on the grassy plain. It wasn’t really a bad dream as much as it was his presence haunting me in my subconscious. Just standing there, unnaturally tall, unnaturally thin. Standing there without a face, without an identity and no matter how hard I tried, his face never focused. It was as though the picture had come alive in my thoughts but remained unchanged. This went on until I had been abruptly woken up by the sound of the smashing of a lamp.
I raced down two flights of stairs leading from the bedroom to the living room. Armed only with the brick we used as a doorstop, I slowly crept to where the only lamp in our house used to be. I knelt down to pick up a piece to examine when I felt a slight blow of wind from behind me, like a person running past. I shot up faster than a startled cat. I spun around to see what or who it was. My eyes had still not adjusted so surrounding me was nothing but darkness. My next thought was to listen. Nothing. Not a single thing. Not even the sound of a house settling. Maybe it was my nightmare, or fatigue playing tricks on me. Maybe we had a slight tremor that caused the lamp to inch off of the table. Regardless, I was tired and I sorely wanted to get some nightmare-free sleep.
It didn’t happen.
Throughout the rest of the night, the “slender” man was everywhere within my dreams. He was a bit curious though. He only ever seemed to cautiously hide behind trees. Only in the original photo was he completely exposed. Even subconsciously I wished I hadn’t moved next to a forest knowing he could be lurking. Watching me. Analyzing me.
It didn’t take long to force myself awake. 10:46 A.M. I looked to my left. I looked to my right. My wife was calmly sleeping. Lucky her. I dragged myself out of bed and slowly made my way downstairs. I half expected the TV to be blaring with my kids’ eye glued to the screen but then I realized that they were at their Grandma’s house. They were due back that day. I was going to miss the quiet. It was alright – I missed my kids even more. I continued down the stairs, hoping to get a game of Solitaire in on the computer, when something made me feel very weak and hollow. The lamp wasn’t broken but it wasn’t brand new, either. Someone took the pieces and shoddily glued them back together. And the glue wasn’t glue. It was black and rubbery, like tar. I would have tasted it for origin, but that’s never a good idea. My wife needed to wake up. Soon. I was starting to panic.
I explained what happened the night before, about the lamp and the nightmares and such. She just rolled her eyes and told me I was on something. Wives. Sometimes I think they do it on purpose. Still feeling uneasy from this morning, I managed to force myself to look out into the forest behind our house. It was very calm. Nothing out of the ordinary. It wasn’t completely dark so it didn’t look nearly as ominous as it usually did at night. I was badly lamenting this night, in particular. Suddenly, I saw a light out of the corner of my eye that caused me to nearly jump out of my skin. It was just the kids getting dropped off. I swear I was thinking too much into this. I couldn’t keep my nerves steady half the time.
Hours passed. We played with the children. We put them to bed. We relaxed on the couch. My wife was asleep on my chest. I was nodding off. I slowly closed my eyes. It wasn’t long before the quiet was broken and my wife and I were woken up. A window broke upstairs. In a panicked flurry, we ran up the stairs as fast as we could. Our eldest son, scared out of his mind, said it came from his brother’s room. Without even thinking, I kicked the door in. Only the nightlight in the far corner brought light into the pitch black room. And there he was. The man from my dreams. The slender man. Hovering over my son’s bed.
Having seen him, I acted without even knowing what was going on. Punches were thrown. Long black tendrils whipped all around. The last thing I remember was being held tightly above the ground and thrown against a wall. That’s when I blacked out. When I came to, my wife was in tears. I had three cracked ribs. My son was gone. The slender man had my son and there was nothing I could do. But I knew he was going to come back, and that was when I would get him.
The rest of the day was full of emotion. My wife could hardly stop crying. My other son was in a constant state of shock. I could barely think straight. I did, however, manage to call the police. I told them my son had been abducted by a man in a long black suit. I kept the details of the tendrils to myself in fear they wouldn’t believe me. But that was the least of my worries. I needed to figure out when he would return.
The police showed up and took each of our statements. They examined my son’s room. They did a quick scour of the forest outside. It seemed not a single piece of evidence was found. They had begun to leave when something hanging from a very high up branch caught their eye. It was a piece of material. Black. Pinstriped. Much like the suit I bought while I was on vacation. I pointed this out to the police and they inquired to see my suit. I gladly showed them the way. When the opened the closet door, what they found was beyond belief. Wrapped in my now tattered suit was my son. Completely drenched in blood. He didn’t look conscious. Both myself and the police were shocked and disgusted. That’s when I blacked out.
When I came to, I was in an unfamiliar place. Grey painted walls. Small windows on one of them. One exceptionally bland table. Great, I was in an interrogation room. I sat there, alone for the good part of an hour before actual human life entered the room with me. Now, my memory is a bit hazy at this point so I’ll try and sum up the conversation as best as possible. The Officer had said "Your son didn’t survive. Deepest sympathies to you and your family. You've not been proven guilty but evidence leans towards it. A further investigation must be held. You will be brought back home but you will be under constant supervision..." and so on and so forth.
I was driven home in the back of a police cruiser. Last time I was there was in high school when vandalism was the cool thing to do. I was welcomed with open arms from my still sobbing wife and my emotionless son. Going back wasn’t easy. Thankfully, we didn’t have to stay long. The police explained that we were going to stay at a hotel for a few days. We gathered our things when a picture from our fridge caught my eye. It was a picture my late son drew. When I saw it, my heart nearly stopped. In the cutest crayon drawing you can imagine was my son standing next to a tall faceless man in a black suit. I made sure no one was around to see me stuff the picture into my pocket.
The hotel was what you would normally expect. Simple wallpaper. Two twin beds. One TV. Cheap flowery design on everything else. It would have to do since we were stuck there. We settled in, placing out our stuff and lying down. I, on the other hand, went to the bathroom; the only place I knew was private. I locked the door and took the picture out of my pocket. I scoured the page for clues but to no avail. All that was there was the crude drawing and his name scribbled into the bottom corner. The thing that unnerved me the most was the fact that the slender man had no face. No identity. Not a single outstanding feature. It rattled me to the core. But I had enough stress from today. I needed sleep. Badly.
The night was rough but I still managed to. Not a single dream with the slender man either. Then a banging came from the door. Being half asleep the whole time, it scared the shit out of me. I turned to my right. 5:14AM. Heads were going to roll. I dragged myself out of bed and very slowly opened the door. It was the police officer that drove us here. He had a look of panic on his face. He said my son was missing. Nothing clicked. It took me a minute to wake up and grasp reality again. My son’s body was missing. Snatched right from the hospital. But this time, I knew where he was.
I had to get back to the forest. I had to find the remains of my suit. It was the only way to stop the slender man. But I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. I had asked the police officer if he could drive me back to my house as I had forgotten something. He pondered a moment and obliged. This time, I had been allowed to sit in the passenger seat. The ride there was quiet. I tried to get some sleep. He didn’t start any conversation. When we got there, I was careful to make sure no one else saw me. I entered the house through the front door and quickly escaped out the back and headed for the forest.
It was still very dark out so traversing the heavily wooded area was not easy. The only light that came through was that of the moon. So I walked, almost blind, hoping to find some scrap of my suit. It seemed to be impossible until amidst the darkness, I saw a scrap of paper. The white of it stood out like a sore thumb. I leaned down to pick it up and when I turned it around, what I saw completely horrified me. It was another drawing by my son, with both him and the slender man. But this one was different. There were three other people. A boy the same height as him, an older looking girl, and another boy as big as the girl. Then it dawned on me. It was us. My family. My son drew us in with the slender man. Then I saw a beam of light. It was the police officer. I ran up to him and showed him the picture. I explained that my family was in great danger. All he told me was that there was nothing he could do. He said we should go back to the car and we would go back to the hotel.
A million thoughts ran through my head. Should I concede? Should I resist? What I did next is peanuts compared to what was about to unfold but I didn’t know and looking back, I didn’t want to. I gave into the police officer’s request and began to head back to the car. While he had his back towards me, I picked up a fair six stone and brought it down upon his head. He staggered a bit and fell to the ground. I took the car keys off of him and ran towards the car. It was still dark. I needed to get back to the hotel.
I screeched to an immediate halt in the hotel parking lot and ran towards the door where we were staying. I swung open the door to behold the one thing I was trying to prevent. Amidst all the blood that painted the room were three bodies making a circle around the slender man. He turned and looked at me. His hollow, non-existent eyes stared deep into me. Emotions I had never felt before, emotions without names filled my brain and body. It was like he was making me feel everything he ever had. And with an outstretched hand, he said only one thing. One thing that would be burned into the back of my mind forever.
“Help me ...”
Sirens came from behind me. I turned around to see the police cruisers pull into the parking lot and watched them get out. Using car doors as shields with their guns aimed at me, I raised my hands above my head. I slowly looked behind myself to see the slender man fade to nothing, leaving only a tattered suit in a heap on the floor. He killed my family. My life would never be the same. And yet, something told me I was never going to see him again. I would never be able to exact revenge, even if I figured out how to.
Everything up until the white padded walls isn’t exactly clear to me. I’ve been told that after they saw me at the hotel with my DNA on the suit, I was made the primary culprit. After they arrested me and subjected me to frivolous testing to which they got nothing more than unintelligible noises, I was submitted to this place. The white padded walls. The same white padded walls I see all day, every day...
No one will know what happened to me and my family. The emotions that were broadcasted to me caused me to lose my ability of speech. Now all I can do is write and draw. I write out the emotions that the slender man felt. I draw the things he has seen. They are what keep me here. I am a victim of another man’s emotion. Sometimes I feel like I have become him. Like we were the same being. That day, I learned something.
We were.
We were slender...
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:31:38 am
Laughing Jack
It was a nice summer day, my 5-year-old son James was playing outside in the backyard of our suburban home. James has always been a quiet boy, he plays by himself mostly, he never had many friends, but he has always had a wild imagination. I was in the kitchen feeding our dog Fido, when I heard what sounded like James talking to someone in the backyard. I’m not sure who it was he could be talking to, could he have finally made a friend? Being a single mom it’s hard for me to always keep an eye on my son, so I decided to go outside and check on him. When I went into the backyard I was a bit confused, because James was the only person back there. Was he talking to himself? I could have sworn I heard another voice. “James! It’s time to come inside.” I called out to him. He came inside and sat down at the kitchen table, it was about lunchtime so I decided to make him a turkey sandwich. “James. Who were you talking to out there?” I asked. James looked up for a moment, “I was playing with my new friend,” he said smiling. I poured him some milk and continued to pry, as any good mother would. “Does your friend have a name? Why didn’t you ask him to have lunch with us?” I asked. James stared at me for a moment before replying, “His name is Laughing Jack.” I was a bit taken back by what he had said. “Oh? That’s a strange name. What does your friend look like?” I asked a bit confused. “He’s a clown. He has long hair and a big swirly cone nose. He’s got long arms and baggy pants, with stripy socks, and he always smiles.” I realized my son was talking about an imaginary friend. I suppose it is normal for kids his age to have imaginary friends, especially when he has no real kids to play with. It’s probably just a phase.
The rest of the day went by as per usual, and it was starting to get late so I put James to bed. I tucked him in, gave him a kiss, and made sure to turn on his nightlight before I closed the door. I was pretty tired myself so I decided to go to bed not long after. I had an awful nightmare…
It was dark. I was in some kind of rundown amusement park. I was scared, running through an endless field of empty tents, broken down rides, and abandoned game huts. The whole place had a horrible look to it. Everything was black and white, the prize stuffed animals all hung from nooses in the game huts, all with sick grins stitched on their faces. It felt like the whole park was looking at me, even though there wasn’t another living thing in sight. Then suddenly, I began to hear music play. The sounds of Pop Goes the Weasel being played on a squeezebox echoed through the park, it was hypnotizing. I followed its tune to the circus tent almost in a trance, unable to stop my legs from moving forward. It was pitch black, the only light came from a single spotlight shining on the center of the big top. As I walked toward the light the music slowed down, I found myself singing along unable to stop.
“All around the mulberry bush
The monkey chased the weasel
The monkey though twas all in fun…”
The music stopped right before its climax, and suddenly the lights shot on. The intensity of the lights was practically blinding, all I could see was a small dark silhouette shuffle towards me. Then another one appeared, and another, and another. There were dozens of them, all coming toward me. I couldn’t move, my legs were frozen, all I could do was watch as the haunting figures drew nearer. As they got closer I could see… THEY WERE CHILDREN! As I looked at each one I noticed they were all horribly disfigured and mutilated. Some had cuts all over their body, others were severely burnt, and others were missing limbs, even eyes! The children enveloped me, clawing at my flesh, dragging me to the ground, and tearing inside me. As the children tore me apart and I faded away, all I could hear was laughter, horrible, awful, evil, laughter.
I woke up the next morning in a cold sweat. After taking a few deep breaths I looked over and saw that a few of James’ action figures were positioned facing me on top of my nightstand. I sighed, James had probably woken up early and put these here. I gathered up the toys and made my way to James’ room, however when I opened the door James was sound asleep. I just shrugged and placed the toys back into his toy box, and headed out to the living room. A little while later James woke up and I made him his breakfast. He was quiet and seemed a bit groggy, perhaps he didn’t sleep well either. I decided to ask him about the toys, “James honey, did you put the toys in mommy’s room this morning?” His eyes shot up at me for a moment then quickly glanced back down at his cereal. “Laughing Jack did it.” I rolled my eyes and responded, “Well you tell ‘Laughing Jack’ to keep the toys in your room.” James nodded and finished up his breakfast, then decided to go play out in the back yard.
I went to relax in the living room and I must have dozed off, because I woke up a couple hours later. “Shit! I need to check on James.” I was a bit worried, it had been over 2 hours and I haven’t checked on him. I went stepped out into the backyard, but James wasn’t there anymore. I was getting nervous so I called out to him, “JAMES! JAMES WHERE ARE YOU?!” Just then I heard a giggle come from the front yard. I rushed through the gate around to the front of the house. James was sitting on the sidewalk. I breathed a sigh of relief and walked over to him, “James how many times have I told you to stay in the backya… James, what are you eating?” James looked up at me then reached into his pocket and pulled out a hand full of hard candies in all colors. This made me very nervous, “James, who gave you that candy?” James just stared at me not speaking. “JAMES! Please, tell mommy where you got that candy.” James hung his head down and said “Laughing Jack gave it to me.” My heart sunk, I kneeled down to look him in the eye, “James I’ve had had enough of this damn Laughing Jack thing, HE IS NOT REAL! Now this is a very serious situation and I need to know who gave you the candy!” I could see my son’s eyes tear up, “But mama, Laughing Jack DID give me the candy.” I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, James has never lied to me but what he’s telling me is impossible. I make him spit out the candy and I throw the rest away, James appears to be fine. Maybe I’m just overreacting after all he could have gotten it from Tom and Linda from next door, or Mr. Walker down the street. Either way I’m going to have to keep a closer eye on James. That night I put James to bed as usual, and decided to go to bed early myself.
Suddenly I was woken up by a loud bang coming from the kitchen. I sprung out of bed and hurried down the stairs. When I got to the kitchen I was horrified. Every thing on the counters had been thrown on the floor, and our dog Fido hung dead from the light fixture. His stomach was cut open and stuffed with candy, the same type that James was eating earlier that day. My shock was quickly broken by a sharp scream coming from James’ room followed by loud crashes. I quickly grabbed a knife from the drawer and moved up the stairs with the speed that only a mother whose child is in danger could have. I burst through the door and flicked on the lights. Everything in the room was knocked over and tossed on the floor, my poor son in his bed crying and shaking with fear, a pool of urine staining the sheets. I scooped my child up and ran out of the house and went next door to Tom and Linda’s house, Luckily they were still awake. They let me use their phone and I called the police. It didn’t take them long to arrive, and I explained what had happened, they looked at me as if I were crazy. They searched the house, but all they found was a dead dog and 2 trashed rooms. The officer told me that someone had probably gotten into the house and done this right before making a quick escape when they heard me coming up the stairs. I knew it wasn’t true. All the doors were locked and none of the windows were open, whatever was in my house didn’t come from outside.
The next day James stayed inside, I didn’t want him to leave my sight. I went into the garage and found his old baby monitor and set it up in his room, if anything comes into his room tonight, I was going to be able to hear it. I went to the kitchen and grabbed the largest knife from the drawer and put it on my nightstand. Imaginary friend or not, I’m not letting anything hurt my little boy.
Soon enough night came. I put James to bed, he was afraid, but I promised him that I wasn’t going to let anything happen to him. I tucked him in, gave him a kiss, and turned on the nightlight. Before closing the door I whispered to him “Goodnight James, I love you.”
I tried to stay up as long as I could, but after a few hours I felt myself drifting off. My baby would be safe for the night and I needed to sleep. Just as I lay my head on the pillow I heard a soft noise come form the baby monitor I had put on my nightstand. At first it sounded like interference, like the kind a radio would make. Then it turned into a soft moan. Was James asleep? Then I heard it, the laugh from my nightmare, that horrible laugh. I sprung up from bed and grabbed the knife from under my pillow. I rushed over to James’ room and creaked the door open. I tried the light switch but it wouldn’t come on. I took a step in and I could feel the warm thick liquid on my feet. Suddenly James’ nightlight came on and I could see the absolute horror laid out in front of me.
James’ body was nailed up on the wall, the nails piercing through his hands and feet. His chest was cut wide open and his organs hung down to the floor. His eyes and tongue had been removed along with most of his teeth. I was disgusted, I could hardly believe this was my baby boy. Then I heard it again, the soft desperate moan. JAMES WAS STILL ALIVE! My baby, my poor baby, in so much pain barely clinging to life. I ran across the room and vomited on the floor, but my sickness was interrupted by a horrible cackle coming from behind me. I spun around while still wiping bile from my mouth, then out of the shadows emerged the fiend responsible for all this horror, Laughing Jack. His ghost white skin and matted black hair hung down to his shoulders. He had piercing white eyes surrounded by dark black rings. His twisted smile revealed a row of sharp jagged teeth, and his skin didn’t look like skin at all, it almost looked like rubber or plastic. He wore a patchy, black and white clown outfit with striped sleeved and socks. His body itself was grotesque, his long arms hanging down past his waist and the way he was poised made him look almost boneless, like a ragdoll. He let out a sickening laugh as if to let me know he was pleased with my reaction to his ‘work’. He then turned around slowly in front of James and began to laugh even more at the horrific sight he has laid out. That was enough to shake me from my terror, I snapped, “GET AWAY FROM HIM YOU BASTARD!” I rushed at the monster raising the knife above my head, and stabbed down at him, but as soon as the knife touched him he disappeared in a cloud of black smoke. The knife passed right through and pierced James’ still beating heart, splashing the warm blood on my face….
"No… what have I done? My baby, I killed my baby!", I immediately fell to my knees, and I could hear sirens in the distance growing louder… "My boy, my sweet baby boy… I promised mommy would protect you… But I failed… I’m sorry James… I’m so sorry…"
Police soon arrived to find me in front of my son, still wielding the knife covered in my baby’s blood. The trial was short, insanity. I was placed in the Phiropoulos House for the Criminally Insane, where I have been for the past 2 months. It's not so bad here, the only reason I’m awake now is because someone is playing Pop Goes the Weasel outside my window… I'll talk to the orderlies about it in the morning…
Some people might recall some momentary buzz caused a couple of years ago by a particularly odd Morrowind mod. The file name was jvk1166z.esp. It was never posted on any of the larger Elder Scrolls communities, usually just smaller boards and role-playing groups. I know in a few cases rather than being posted, it was sent via PM or email to a 'chosen few.' It was only up for a few days, to the best of my knowledge. It caused a buzz because it was a virus, or seemed to be. If you tried to load the game with the mod active, it would hang at the initial load screen for a full hour and then crash to the desktop. If you let it get that far, your install of Morrowind, along with any save files you had, would become completely corrupted. Nobody could figure out what the mod was trying to do, since it couldn't be opened in the Construction Set. Eventually, warnings were distributed not to use it if you found it, and things died down.
About a year later, in a mod board I used to frequent, someone popped up with the mod again. He said he was PMed by a lurker who deleted his account immediately after sending. He also said that the person advised him to try playing the mod through DOSbox. For some reason, this worked... sort of. The game was a bit laggy, and you couldn't get into Options, Load Game, the console, or really anything else, other than the game itself. The QuickSave and QuickLoad hotbuttons worked, but that was it. And the QuickSave file seemed to be just part of the game file, so you couldn't get at it anymore. Some speculated that the changed game used an older graphics renderer, making DOSbox necessary, but it didn't LOOK any different.
This part I can speak about from personal experience. When you start a new game in JVK (as the board came to call it), once you left the starting bit in the Census Office and came into the game proper, the first thing you notice is that the 'prophecy has been severed' box pops up. This is because every single NPC having to do with the main quest is dead, with the sole exception of Yagrum Bagarn, the last of the Dwemer. Their corpses never despawn, so you can go check on all of them. In effect, you begin in a world that is doomed to start with.
The second thing you notice is that you're losing health. It's only a bit, but it keeps happening, a little bit at a time. The longer you stay in one place, the quicker it seems to occur. If you let this health loss kill you, you'll find the cause: a figure we came to call the Assassin, because he seems to wear a retextured version of the Dark Brotherhood armor from Tribunal, even though the expansions don't work in JVK. It's all black, completely untextured, like he's just a hole in space. The way he moves... he gave me quite a start, the first time I saw him scuttling around my dead body. He crawls inhumanly on his hands and feet, his arms and legs splayed out like a spider. You'd usually only see him after death, crawling around and over your body just before the reload box popped up. Occasionally, you could catch a glimpse of him darting around a corner or crawling on a wall or ceiling. It made the game very difficult to play at night!
Other than that, the only noticeable difference is that at night, at random intervals, every NPC in the game will go outside for a few minutes. During this time, the only thing they will say when hailed is, "Watch the sky." Once they return to their normal behavior they act like normal, though.
After a while, a player on the board discovered a new NPC named Tieras, a male Dunmer in the temple at Ghostgate. Two things are notable about this NPC: first is his robe, a unique article of clothing that was lovingly rendered with twinkling stars all across it, looking like a torn-off chunk of the night sky. The second is that all of his dialogue, in addition to showing up in the dialogue box, is voiced. You can skip it if you wish, but it all sounds like it's in the default male Dunmer voice. Some people said that they thought the voice was "slightly" different, but it was a very, very good imitation. I won't go into the details, but the questline he sends you on has to do with a dungeon referred to simply as 'The Citadel.' Up until this point, the quests were all of a fairly generic 'discover the secrets of the ancients' bent. The entrance to this dungeon is on a small island far to the west of Morrowind proper. I eventually discovered that if you used a Scroll of Icarian Flight at the westernmost point on the main landmass and jump directly west, you'd end up almost exactly at the island.
Even though the dungeon is called The Citadel, it goes straight down. It dwarfs any other dungeon, both in size and difficulty. From a natural cave area you'll proceed down into an ancestral tomb looking area, then a Daedric ruin area, and then a Dwemer ruin area. I made it down to the Dwemer Ruins before I quit. The creatures here were strong enough that a level 20 character would have to take care, and since you can't use the console in JVK, level 20 took a while to get to. Since QuickSave and QuickLoad are your only options, it's all too easy to get yourself into an impossible situation too. I did, and I just didn't have the energy to start over.
Now what I'm telling you is based on what those few who went further reported. Past the Dwemer Ruins you find yourself in a level like the Dwemer Ruins, but darker. Rather than the usual bronze, all the surfaces, including those of the creatures, are black. The sounds of machinery are loud here, and grow louder still, randomly. There's also steam or fog everywhere, limiting your vision to about ten in-game feet or so. If you can make it through all this, you will reach a hall that those who found it called it the Portrait Room.
Like the fire in torches or other effects from early 3D games, this room has picture frames that always face directly at you, no matter how you look at them. The images in the frames were always randomly chosen images from your My Pictures folder. On the board, the ones who got there had some fun posting screenshots of the Portrait Room with various pictures in the frames (Usually porn, of course).
At the end of the hall was a locked door. After admitting defeat and returning to Tieras, everyone just found him saying, "Watch the sky," in his gravelly voice. What's more, nobody else in the game would say ANYTHING. There was just a completely blank dialogue box with no options at all. They wouldn't even rattle off the usual canned audible greetings. The only exception was at night; whenever they'd go out for a few minutes, they'd still repeat it. "Watch the sky." At this point, one of the players - a friend of mine from the board - noticed (and the few others who got this far agreed) that the night sky was no longer the usual night sky of Tamriel; it had changed to a depiction of a real night sky. And it moved. From this point on, everything is based on what this one person reported. Eventually, he got himself kicked from the board, but I kept in contact with him for as long as he responded. According to him, based on the constellations and planets, the sky started around February 2005. If you died, loaded, or went back into the Citadel, it would start over. When the usual day sky graphics took over, the movement would be suspended until the stars appeared again. In the space of a single night, everything would move about two months worth. Since the timescale of JVK was more or less that of the standard game, that meant that a bit less than an hour was equal to a 24-hour period.
He became convinced that the door would open based on some kind of celestial event. Of course, waiting for that meant leaving the game running. Of course, THAT meant that the game couldn't be left unattended, thanks to our old friend, the Assassin. My friend decided he'd hang out for a whole day, just to see if anything happened. That would be about a year's worth of movement. Here's the post he made at the end of this experiment:
"I loaded in Seyda neen, where it all starts. It wasn't too bad, just had to check in now and then to move around and heal to make sure I wasn't dying. But check it out! 24 hours exactly in, and the Assassin learned a new trick! HE SCREAMS!!!! I was reading and all of a sudden, this crazy loud shriek just about makes me crap myself. It's like something out of a horror movie! I look up, and there he is, just crouched down right in front of me. Of course, the second I moved my character, he ran off. When I went back down to the Portrait Room, the door was still locked. Damn it, damn it, damn it!"
A bit later, he came to the decision that he needed to wait three days - three years. The PM advising us to try DOSbox showed up in February of 2008 was his reasoning, anyway.
"After the first shriek, the Assassin stops hitting you out of nowhere. Now he'll shriek, and if you don't move for a few seconds after that he hits you. I think whoever made the mod was trying to help. At night, I've got my headphones on and I was just kind of dozing off...when he wakes me up with a shriek; I jiggle the mouse, and I'm good!"
That post was two days in, from his laptop. Once it was over...
"FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK! FUUUUUUUUUCK! So FUCKING done. So, I wait, the three days, right, and right after the FUCKING Assassin made me jiggle the mouse, he shrieks again. So, I look, and everyone in town is outside. They're all saying, "Watch the sky." I don't see anything, though. But then the game starts getting dark... like REALLY dark. I turn up the brightness all the way on my monitor, and I can still barely see. I can see other people in the game, little figures running around in the distance, just running back and forth. If I try to get close, they run off. Now, I was trying to sleep, so the lights are off, and this is kind of creepy.
I don't want to get up to turn on my light because I don't want to miss anything, but NOTHING fucking happens. Eventually I go back to The Citadel... it's still dark, and I gotta swim, and the whole time I can see all these guys swimming all around me, just barely there. I make it to the Citadel, and its normal light inside, and I get worried. Sure enough, the Portrait Door is STILL FUCKING CLOSED. I go outside and it's ALL STARTING OVER. So that's it. I'm fucking going to bed, and I'm fucking done. The end."
After that, two things happen. First, another of the people who got to the Portrait Room claimed that the Assassin was showing up in his regular Morrowind game. (Quick explanation. If you reinstalled Morrowind to a different folder, you could have a normal Morrowind install along with JVK.) He himself chalked it up to an overactive imagination at first, but he reported a couple of really big scares with the black figure crawling right at him, or seeing it waiting for him just around a corner before scuttling off. Another of those who reached the Portrait Room started a regular Morrowind game, but never saw him for sure; it was just a couple of 'maybes', late at night, and always at a distance.
The second is that my friend started getting really abusive and short-tempered on the board, though he stopped talking about JVK entirely. It got so bad that he was soon kicked off. I didn't hear anything from him for a couple of weeks after that, so I sent him an email. This was part of his reply:
"I know I shouldn't, but with classes out I've got some time, so I started JVK up again. It's almost 2011... and I think I've got the sleep madness! But stuff is happening! It's still dark... once it gets dark, it never gets any lighter. It stays like that. The people moved a few months ago... everyone in Seyda neen just went to that little bandit cave and moved in. They killed the bandits inside, and now they're just standing around inside. They don't say anything anymore; they don't do anything when you click on them. I quicksaved and killed one, and he just stood there until he died without fighting back!
And it's like that everywhere. You have to walk, since the quick travel people are all in caves now, too, but all the cities and towns are just deserted; all the people are in caves and tombs. Everyone in Vivec is down in the sewers. I'm going to Ghostgate next... I want to see if Tieras is still there. I'll tell you what he says when I get there!"
I replied and said I wanted to see what he said too, and waited a day. When I didn't get a reply, I mailed him again, and a couple of hours later he sent back:
"Sorry, I totally forgot. So it's 2014 now... since it's always night, the stars are always moving. The whole screen is dark, but you can still see the brightest stars moving around. Tieras was gone... everyone in Ghostgate was gone. I don't know where they went. They're not in any of the nearby caves. But there's new stuff... people still don't say anything, but their eyes are bleeding. it's so dark that even with a light spell you have to get right up against them to see, but there they are, little dark streaks coming down from their eyes. I think I gotta be getting close. I know this is stupid, and there's no way the pay off is going to be worth it, but I just want to be able to say I stuck it out!"
I got that one during the day. Later that night, I got a follow-up email:
"Some of the planets aren't moving right. It's pissing me off... if this keeps up, I won't be able to keep track anymore. It's almost 2015 now, I think. Fuck. You know, I just now noticed that there aren't any monsters anymore, either. I'm completely alone outside now. The main quest people's' bodies are still lying around, though. I went to check on them.
I don't need headphones anymore, so I just leave them off. When he shrieks, it's like he's screaming right into my ear. I think I even kind of anticipate it. He's around a lot more now, a lot closer. He's different from the other people who started showing up, remember? They keep running around, just where I can barely see them. I have to admit, it's kind of creepy at night. Sometimes, when I go to the bathroom or whatever, I swear I can see something out of the corner of my eye. I'm keeping all the lights on now."
I sent him a letter, jokingly telling him to get some real sleep, and left it at that. Two mornings later, I found this in my email. It was the last thing I got from him. After this, he stopped responding completely:
"I just got up from a fucked up dream, I think. The Assassin shrieked at me, and when I opened my eyes, he was right there, crouching over me. His arms and legs were longer, more like a spider's. I tried to push him away, but when I touched him my hands just went inside and I couldn't get them loose again, like he was made of tar or something.
Then I woke up, I thought. he was gone, but when I looked at the monitor I wasn't where I was. I was in the Corprusarium, with Yagrum. For once, the light was okay, and I could see him all bloated on those mechanical spider legs. I sat down at the computer and he started talking to me. Not in a box, but really talking to me, in Tieras' voice. He knew things about me. He told me things that I never told anyone, some things I totally forgot about. He told me that almost nobody had made it this far, and that the door would open up soon. I just had to hang on a little while longer. He said I'd know when it was time. He said I might be the first one to see what was inside.
And then I woke up for real, but I was at the computer. I still wasn't where I was. I'm swimming out to The Citadel Island. And I can hear this tapping. It's at my window. It's over on the left, so I'm sending you this, because I left my laptop by my bed, to the right. Just a little *taptaptaptap*... like he's knocking his finger against the glass. I might still be dreaming now."
So, I guess that's the end of the story. I know there's a few other stories floating around about the mod, but this is the only I know as true, as far as it goes. I deleted my JVK copy of the game pretty much right after I gave up, but I'd like to get the mod again, if anyone still has a copy of the file. I'd like to see some of this for myself.
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:32:13 am
The Thing That Stalks The Fields
It was a few weeks ago that the hay bales started creeping slowly away from the house. Every morning when I woke up, each had moved a few hundred feet from where it was before. I assumed it was pranksters with nothing better to do, so I ignored it. Within a few days, though, the bales began to approach the boundaries of the farm. I was tired of the whole game by then, and decided to move them back. It took a tedious hour to bring them all from where they were to over near the house again, and by the time I was done I was ready to snap the neck of whatever little pissant was deciding to screw with me.
The next morning, I found each and every one of my horses messily decapitated. The smell was what woke me up. Each one was slumped over against the side of its stall. There were no signs of the heads. I spent the rest of the day cleaning up the mess and burying the remains. It was only when I was done that I noticed the bales of hay had all returned to their positions from the day before, scattered far out into the fields. This time I left them where they were.
That night I sat on my porch with my shotgun in hand and a pot of coffee on the table beside me. I sat for hours, straining my eyes into the fields to catch a glimpse of who was moving my hay bales. Finally, I was beginning to nod off. I would have, but just as my eyes began to close I heard a clamor and a rustling of trees from the nearby woods. I leaned forward, my heart racing with excitement; I was going to catch the bastard. I fumbled with my gun and fidgeted in my seat, waiting anxiously for whoever it was to get close enough to ambush. It was only when the thing got close enough for me to make out its silhouette in the dark that I was frozen still. The thing that crept into my fields from the nearby woods didn’t seem to notice me sitting there.
It stalked, hunched and deliberate, through the field with the posture of a tiptoeing thief. If not for the fact that it must have towered to over ten feet tall even in its crouched position, it might have seemed almost frail. The thinness of its arms and legs and the emaciated, caved-in quality of its chest reminded me of a starving animal. Still, this thing was undeniably strong, and I watched it hoist each bale up into its arms with ease, and set it down carefully a while away, taking only a few strides to cover the distance. I watched it work, moving each bale thoughtfully. Every once in a while it would straighten up to look around at the other bales’ positions in the field, before adjusting the one it was working on ever so slightly.
Before it left, it looked towards the house. I felt its eyes sweep over me in the dark, but whether it saw me or not I couldn’t tell. Then, it turned silently and crept back the way it came, disappearing into the dark of the woods. It took me an hour before I had the courage to move at all. I went inside after a while, but didn’t sleep that night. It was only when the sun rose that I dared step off my porch into the fields. The hay bales were where it left them. Strangely, it didn’t move them as far as it had in the previous days.
They were approaching something invisible in the fields, and as I looked at them I realized that they seemed to be marking some line. Indeed, as I walked around the house, I saw the distinct circle that they formed with me at the center. At first I thought the bales were just being haphazardly moved away from the house, but now I could see that they were instead being moved towards some boundary. The thing was sending me a message. I slept uneasily that night, and only because I was exhausted.
The next morning the bales hadn’t moved at all. They didn’t move at all for the rest of that week, in fact. They were finally where the thing wanted them. I made myself sick trying to interpret them. Why would this thing expend so much energy moving my hay bales, and threaten me with such violence should I try to interfere? Killing my horses was just that - a threat. An intelligent threat, at that. It knew what would scare me, and it knew that I would understand the implications.
The sound of an automobile working its way along the road to my farm one morning gave me a little rush of excitement. I’d been planning to abandon the farm since I saw the thing, but I couldn’t hope to leave on foot without risking it treating me like it treated my horses. But, if I could get in the car with whoever was coming my way, I might be able to escape before it could stop me. I didn’t know or care who it was. I decided that the moment they stopped the car, I would jump in the passenger’s seat and tell them to get the hell out of here. I didn’t get the chance.
The car worked its way slowly along the road, trundling across the uneven ground. I urged it silently to hurry. It was when it passed between the two bales placed on either side of the road that I began to hear a booming clatter from the woods. The thing burst suddenly from between the trees, sprinting on all four of its terrible, gangly limbs towards the car. Within a few seconds it was there, pouncing on the automobile like a predatory cat. Within moments it was picking and peeling the vehicle’s steel frame apart, working to get at the driver.
The man, whoever he was, screamed all the while and I could hear him even over the crunching of metal and the shattering of glass. It was only when the thing crushed him carelessly in its hand that the screaming stopped. It tossed him away, and straightened up to look at me once again. In the sunlight, I could see the inhumanity of it. It was composed entirely of something awful and alive which was lashed together in a messy semblance of a human form. Whatever it was made of looked so polished and hard, that if it weren’t for the minute writhing of the stuff, I’d think it was made of granite.
The thing retreated back into the woods, and I was left to my shock. My eyes wandered to where the car sat, the engine still sputtering, between two of the hay bales. Suddenly, I understood. The message was clear. I am this thing’s captive, and I am not allowed visitors. Nothing may cross the borders it has set. I’m trapped here, by the thing that stalks the fields, and it demands nothing except that I never leave.
Still, I don’t know if I can handle being that thing’s canary. I’ve been thinking hard for the last few days since I saw it crush that man’s chest, and silence him before he could finish his scream. If I crossed the hay bale border, it’d probably do the same. It’d smash my skull before I could put my hands up to protect myself. It’d go and find a new pet, and probably keep looking until it found someone who could stand knowing that it was waiting just outside, watching it at all hours with its shiny, insect eyes.
I’ve been thinking hard for the last few days, and I might just make a run for it.
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:33:56 am
This one actually gave me chills..
Pale Luna
In the last decade and a half it's become infinitely easier to obtain exactly what you're looking for, by way of a couple of keystrokes. The Internet has made it all too simple to use a computer to change reality. An abundance of information is merely a search engine away, to the point where it's hard to imagine life as any different. Yet, a generation ago, when the words 'streaming' and 'torrent' were meaningless save for conversations about water, people met face-to-face to conduct software swap parties, trading games and applications on Sharpie-labeled five-and-a-quarter inch floppies.
Of course, most of the time the meets were a way for frugal, community-minded individuals to trade popular games like King's Quest and Maniac Mansion amongst themselves. However, a few early programming talents designed their own computer games to share amongst their circle of acquaintances, who in turn would pass it on, until, if fun and well-designed enough, an independently-developed game had its place in the collection of aficionados across the country. Think of it as the 80's equivalent of a viral video.
Pale Luna, on the other hand, was never circulated outside of the San Francisco Bay Area. All known copies have been long disposed of, all computers that have ever run the game now detritus buried under layers of filth and polystyrene. This fact is attributed to a number of rather abstruse design choices made by its programmer.
Pale Luna was a text adventure in the vein of Zork and The Lurking Horror, at a time when said genre was swiftly going out of fashion. Upon booting the program, the player was presented with a screen almost completely blank, except for the text:
-You are in a dark room. Moonlight shines through the window.
-There is GOLD in the corner, along with a SHOVEL and a ROPE.
-There is a DOOR to the EAST.
-Command?
So began the game that one writer for a long-out-of-print fanzine decried as "enigmatic, nonsensical, and completely unplayable". As the only commands that the game would accept were PICK UP GOLD, PICK UP SHOVEL, PICK UP ROPE, OPEN DOOR, and GO EAST, the player was soon presented with the following:
-Reap your reward.
-PALE LUNA SMILES AT YOU.
-You are in a forest.There are paths to the NORTH, WEST, and EAST.
-Command?
What quickly infuriated the few who've played the game was the confusing and buggy nature of the second screen onward — only one of the directional decisions would be the correct one. For example, on this occasion, a command to go in a direction other than NORTH would lead to the system freezing, requiring the operator to hard reboot the entire computer.
Further, any subsequent screens seemed to merely repeat the above text, with the difference being only the directions available. Worse still, the standard text adventure commands appeared to be useless: The only accepted non-movement-related prompts were USE GOLD, which caused the game to display the message:
-Not here.
USE SHOVEL, which brought up:
-Not now.
And USE ROPE, which prompted the text:
-You've already used this.
Most who played the game progressed a couple of screens into it before becoming fed-up by having to constantly reboot and tossing the disk in disgust, writing off the experience as a shoddily programmed farce. However, there is one thing about the world of computers that remains true, no matter the era: some people who use them have way too much time on their hands.
A young man by the name of Michael Nevins decided to see if there was more to Pale Luna than what met the eye. Five hours and thirty-three screens worth of trial-and-error and unplugged computer cords later, he finally managed to make the game display different text. The text in this new area read:
-PALE LUNA SMILES WIDE
-There are no paths
-PALE LUNA SMILES WIDE
-The ground is soft
-PALE LUNA SMILES WIDE
-Here
-Command?
It was another hour still before Nevins stumbled upon the proper combination of phrases to make the game progress any further; DIG HOLE, DROP GOLD, then FILL HOLE. This caused the screen to display:
-Congratulations
—— 40.24248 ——
—— -121.4434 ——
Upon which the game ceased to accept commands, requiring the user to reboot one last time.
After some deliberation, Nevins came to the conclusion that the numbers referred to lines of latitude and longitude — the coordinates lead to a point in the sprawling forest that dominated the nearby Lassen Volcanic Park. As he possessed much more free time than sense, Nevins vowed to see Pale Luna through to its ending.
The next day, armed with a map, a compass, and a shovel, he navigated the park's trails, noting with amusement how each turn he made corresponded roughly to those that he took in-game.
Though he initially regretted bringing the cumbersome digging tool on a mere hunch, the path's similarity all but confirmed his suspicions that the journey would end with him face-to-face with an eccentric's buried treasure.
Out of breath after a tricky struggle to the coordinates, he was pleasantly surprised by a literal stumble upon a patch of uneven dirt. Shoveling as excitedly as he was, it would be an understatement to say that he was taken aback when his heavy strokes unearthed the badly-decomposing head of a blonde-haired little girl.
Nevins promptly reported the situation to the authorities. The girl was identified as Karen Paulsen, 11, reported as missing to the San Diego Police Department a year and a half prior.
Efforts were made to track down the programmer of Pale Luna, but the nearly-anonymous legal gray area in which the software swapping community operated inescapably led to many dead ends.
Collectors have been known to offer upwards of six figures for an authentic copy of the game.
The rest of Karen's body was never found.
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:34:19 am
Hanging Man Hill
Gaston, South Carolina is a lonely little place. Sitting just south of Columbia along 321, it’s just a small crumb off of the misshapen piece of pie on the United States plate that we call South Carolina. Its population has almost never gone over two thousand, and it is only 3.4 square miles across in all directions. It feels even lonelier when you come in from a place like Roanoke, Virginia.
After mom lost her job, we moved to the only place where the rest our family resided—Good ol’ South Cackalacky. I had been moping on the trip the whole time on the way down here. The way I saw it, the only friends I was going to be making here were fire ants and that inferno of a sun.
Once we got settled in at 304 Dixiana Drive (I always remembered the address because the number in it was carved into the driveway, and it spelled “hoe” if you looked at it upside down), I immediately set out into the neighborhood in search of friends. I didn’t know how to ride a bike at the time and I barely knew how to ride a skateboard, so I petered down a long stretch of road directly across from the front of the house on my cheap little Wal-Mart board until I came to a small cul-de-sac that seemed to go uphill.
Sitting outside on his front porch was a chubby kid with glasses that looked about ten or eleven, about my age at the time. I really had no one else to talk to, so I asked what his name was and he told me that it was Terry. He liked being outside a lot and I didn’t, but we both seemed to like video games. With that, we would get along just fine. There was one thing that he hadn’t told me over the next few weeks that we spent riding around the neighborhood: He was into scary movies.
I was a massive chicken when it came to anything that seemed intent on forcing you to change your underwear every five minutes, so I didn’t really like this aspect of him. Even worse, he had tons of horror movie action figures and loads of VHS tapes of all the creepy movies you could think of stacked in his room. Every time I came to visit, he was almost certain to scare the living bejeezus out of me with one of those creepy Freddy Krueger dolls or force me to watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre with him in the dark.
His room wasn’t really that nice looking to begin with. He had a bunk bed (He was an only child, and only his grandmother lived with him) in which he slept on the bottom and all his slasher flicks and action figures slept on top. There were loads of holes in the walls and everything had a generally grimy feel to it. It made those horrifying moments of watching pure terror in the dark all the more… Icky.
One day, when he realized that I pretty much hated any kind of horror movies he threw at me, he began telling me urban legends. Some of them were about the town as a whole, but more than not, they were about our particular neighborhood. I didn’t really believe any of them.
That is, until he told me about Hanging Man Hill.
It was about a year after we had met each other and we were riding around the neighborhood (By this time, Terry had told me to “man up” and he had eventually taught me how to ride a bike). He stopped when we were riding in front of a house we had simply entitled, “The Crack Shack,” due to its residents being stoned out of their minds on a regular basis. He seemed to be peering out at a small pathway behind the place that went up the farther you went back. He was usually the leader when it came to showing me new places in the neighborhood, so I didn’t question a thing when he beckoned for me to follow him up the trail.
It was a pretty steep climb up the side of the hill, with plenty of sand and rocks to send anyone not being careful straight back down. It felt as though the trees were closing tighter and tighter on us until we reached a large opening at the top. Besides the empty soda bottles and used condoms, the only manmade thing in the area that I could see were long stretches of telephone poles going across a series of sandy, dry hills. If not for the two strips of heavy forest on either side of these hills, it might have gone on forever.
The area didn’t seem to have any particular importance. I had expected him to bring me to some awful cemetery, but in the dying light of the late afternoon sky, those rolling hills looked beautiful. I thought that he might try some desperate last attempt to scare me, but instead, he just turned to me with the most serious and grim face I’d ever seen on him.
“Here we are. Hanging Man Hill,” he whispered.
“Hanging Man Hill? Is this another one of your stories?”
“Sort of. Except, this one’s true.”
I rolled my eyes at the thought. How did he possibly expect me to believe any of his stories? He just kept staring at me with that face, waiting for me to respond.
“How could this even be a ‘Hanging Man Hill’? There’s no hanging man, and there’s at least five dozen hills here!”
“Right down there. Look.”
He pointed his finger toward the nearest telephone pole, sitting between the two closest hills to us. A small creek, no more than five feet across, ran between the two hills and went onward into that never-ending forest. There was no hanging man, but the pole itself seemed more ominous than the rest.
“Roy Terrance,” he whispered.
“Who?”
“It wouldn’t be Hanging Man Hill without a hanging man, would it?”
He bolted down the first hill on that blazing orange bike of his. I tried to keep up, but Wal-Mart and sporting goods don’t seem to mix. There was a faulty chain on my cheap dull red bike. The sticks from the surrounding trees had rooted themselves to the ground and were now snagging onto the dangling chain. With one mighty tug of a huge root on the bike, I was head over handlebars all the way to the bottom. I landed on my knees with a small sploosh sound as my legs hit the water. It couldn’t have been more than a few inches deep.
I almost called for help from Terry when I realized that he had stopped at the bottom just before I had tumbled to the creek alongside him. His head was peering upwards, looking straight at the top of that dark and shadowy looking telephone pole.
“Little help?”, I squeaked.
Terry broke his gaze with the pole just long enough to wrench me from the creek and get me to my feet. After that, his stare continued to be fixed on seemingly nothing at the top of the pole for the longest time.
“What is it-or who is-that you’re looking for again?”, I grumbled in frustration. I was going to be pretty pissed if he had taken me down here and all I had gotten out of the trip was a banged up knee. I hadn’t noticed the pain before because the water in the stream was cool, but now it stung like the dickens.
“Roy Terrance. Owner of that small shed just beyond the trees over there.” I hadn’t noticed the shed before. It sat just behind a large oak. It couldn’t have been bigger than five outhouses put together.
"After his wife and kid left him, he hung himself on the wires just above us. Cops didn't find much, just a charred husk of what used to be a man. Legend says that whoever is out here at his exact time of death gets strung up on the wires with him."
“Oh, and do tell, when would that be?”
For once, he broke his serious tone to give me a goofy “I dunno!” shrug, and then he was back to that grim attitude.
“And you’re suggesting that we stay here and wait for him? Despite the many excuses I have to dispute this, I think I’m going to go with ‘It’s late and mom is making dinner, so I have to go home.'"
“Fine. Tell your mom that you’re sleeping over at my house tomorrow night, and I’ll do vice versa with my gramma. Meet me here at seven.”
Against my better judgment, I decided that I might as well come. What harm did it do? Obviously, he was lying and, if nothing else, it would set my mind at ease to see that he was. While none of his stories actually seemed to be true up until this point, his sudden change of tone had made it slightly more believable. When he had told his other stories, he was giggling so hard that one might think that he had snorted at least a pound of Happy Crack.
When we were headed home, just as the last tint of orange had left the sky, I asked him:
“Why did you get so serious back there? You’re always such a total goofball.”
“I lost my grandpa to Roy Terrance. My gramma was with him when it happened. Haven’t you ever wondered why she’s so grumpy all the time?”
His grandmother was, in fact, very crotchety. I had never bothered to ask why she was that way. If this was all some elaborate hoax by Terry, I was going to slap him into next Thursday when this was done.
That night, I had a horrible nightmare. Like most people, I couldn’t remember much about it, but it had Roy Terrance written all over it. Even though it was roasting on that hot South Carolina night, I had woken up with the chills.
By the time 6 PM had rolled around, I had already packed my old school backpack with basic equipment like a flashlight and a few bags of Chex Mix in case we got hungry. By 6:30, I had rolled out into the neighborhood as fast as an overweight 11 year old could. I had to admit, I was actually pretty excited. Finally, at around 6:55, I arrived at the small creek where Terry had already set up a small fire and was roasting marshmallows. If I hadn’t decided to show up, I would have disappointed him like hell.
“How is this exactly going to work out? Are we just going to camp out here all night? We don’t know when he’s supposed to show up,” I said.
“Er’ll wert erl nert hurr erf er herft ter.” He had stuffed his face with a marshmallow.
“What?”
He crammed the marshmallow down his throat. “I said, ‘I’ll wait all night here if I have to.’”
“Whatever,” I retorted as I plopped down next to his fire (he had thrown 3 lighters in to keep it lit) and began to pull out my snacks.
After about three hours, the first of the crickets had begun to sing their endless chirping song as the last streak of sun had reached its end. I had begun to grow irritated, and a little bit tired. Terry was wide awake, his hand glued to the bag of marshmallows. He had begun his eternal gaze on the top of the pole again.
“Terry..? Man, I’m tired. If I don’t see a crispy dead dude in the next hour, I’m out.”
“Mmmfkay.” His cheek stuck out like a squirrel’s with another marshmallow.
I snuggled up to the fire and began to doze off. Just as I was about to slip into unconsciousness, a loud, crusty, brittle peeling sound echoed through the hills and out into the forest. I immediately sat up. My vision was pretty blurred from having almost dozed off, but I could make out Terry’s shape. He was gaping, wide eyed, at the top of the pole. If there had been a bit of moonlight, I might have seen what I was sure to have seen up there, but the crescent moon sat just beyond the trees, like the shed.
In an instant, Terry was on his bike and flying up the hill, bag of marshmallows in hand. I managed to pull myself up and get to my bike. I began peddling like a madman when I realized that my chain had popped off. Stupid damn bike. With my eyes adjusting to the dark, I peered back at the top of the pole one more time before I bolted to the top of the hill.
Roy Terrance was not so much of a person as he was a sagging shape. His flesh, dark as the night, was clinging to his bones for dear life. His facial features, though not entirely evident, seemed to be in a constant state of both agony and ecstatic joy. And that eye… That one eye he had left, deep in its socket, gazed upon me with absolute hatred and insatiable want. Just when it seemed that he was ready to climb off of the wire and come for me, the weak spine that had been holding his head to that molten pile of flesh and bones snapped, sending what was left of his skull tumbling into the fire Morgan had started. It gave me one glowing, burning satisfied grin before disintegrating into a wisp of ash.
I had been halfway up the hill before I had realized I was moving. I followed the bike tracks Terry had left, which led further into the hills instead of off to the side, where the trail led back to the neighborhood. Just as I clawed my way to the top of the hill, I saw a thin shape, dangling from above.
“Oh no,” I croaked.
Terry’s bike, that blazing orange bike that he loved so much, was left wrecked at the base of a telephone pole. Above, Terry’s body hung limply. Although, it didn’t look much like Terry anymore.
Terry hadn’t been on the wires as long as Roy, which made it even worse. He was charred, but not entirely. His eyes bulged from his head in constant shock. What was left of his hair stood out on end, still smoking. The seemingly endless wires above entangled Terry’s neck like a boa constrictor. Dangling from his scrawny, burnt little arm was a bag of marshmallows, melted to his hand from the heat.
The police investigation hadn’t dug up much. They had scoured all throughout the area and had not found any evidence that anyone was ever there. I begged them to search the telephone wires, but they continued to state that there was no evidence that anybody had even touched the wires. The search continued for 3 weeks. After police had finally given up, Terry’s grandmother passed away. For those last few days, she hadn’t said anything to anyone at all. She only sat and stared at the picture of her and her husband for the remainder of her life.
After the house had been cleared out, the contents of Terry’s room were offered to me. His entire collection of horror movies, action figures and all else was donated to Goodwill. My request.
I went back a few years later. We had gone to Gaston to visit with our family for a while, and I had requested that we stop by the neighborhood. Any evidence that we had ever been there those few fateful years ago had been swept away by police or the weather. Now, like before, there was only useless garbage and telephone poles. Just as I was getting ready to walk away, I caught a glimpse of something in the corner of my eye. I only saw a tiny bit of it before it fluttered away.
It was a melted marshmallow bag.
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:35:59 am
Violets
Growing up, I’d been a fan of being told stories when I went to sleep at night. My mother would tuck me in, making sure I was as comfortable as I could be under my blue-and-green covers before diving into another anecdote of her own choice. Her stories were always pleasant, and in the event that I found one a bit scary, she’d tone it down a bit for me. They ranged from all origins: some had been passed down through her family, some she’d memorized from books and fairy tales. Some were her own creations, and some were true stories, but typically I liked each and every one of them. A select few had appealed to me greatly, and I’d memorized them, able to retell them by heart whenever I desired. The year of my ninth birthday, my mother fell ill. She would have various spasms throughout the day, vomiting all that she consumed. Some days were worse than others, and she would vomit blood instead. Her arms developed new scars on their own, and we never knew where they came from. Some were shallow and barely left a mark, while others were deep enough to spurt blood and beg for stitches. She’d cry in pain throughout the night, weeping out “it hurts, it hurts” all night long. I began to fear the night, began to tear up every time I saw the moon rise and tell me that my mother’s pain was about to begin anew, that the cycle was about to repeat yet again.
Even through her pain and suffering, my mother still always summed up the strength to limp into my room, ease herself onto the edge of my bed and comfort me with a story.
In her last few days, her stories would become shorter and shorter, as though she were trying to adjust to the thought of a night without telling me a story, or at least trying to get me to. A night which she would sleep and not awaken. A night which was foreshadowed by her condition. She tended to stay to telling me true stories in those last days of hers, weaving tales of her childhood and the memories of her graduation from college to pass the fleeting hours by. The shorter her stories became, the more anguished I was at the thought of losing my mother.
One night, the night she passed away, to be precise, she told me a story I’d never heard before, in a tone I’d never heard her use. It wasn’t evil or dark, per-say. It struck me more as a soft, motherly tone, but with a hidden inlay of sadness and depression, and just a hint of malevolence locked into the words. She’d been looking particularly sad and tormented by her pain that night. She’d cried and cried all day, gashes having opened in her legs overnight. I was considering offering to let her skip her story tonight, although she hadn’t missed a single story since I was a baby. It was like a tradition, a ritual. However, my less child-like instincts had told me, in a dark cloud in the back of my mind, that this may be the last story my mother ever tells me. It had been telling me this for weeks, but I believed the voice now more than ever.
She’d sat down on the foot of my bed again tonight, as she always had. She looked weary, exhausted, crippled, ready to finally submit to death’s embrace after her battle. She held my hand this night: she typically only held my hand while telling me a story if it was a stormy night, or if I’d felt scared for one reason or another. Tonight, I only felt sadness at her composure, at the way she was presented. I found myself more disturbed that she was doing this to me tonight, since there wasn’t a cloud to be found in the sky. She took a deep breath and began, her voice as weary as the rest of her.
“Flowers are a delicate thing, my son. Always remember that. They have just as much voice and volume as the rest of us, and yet they choose to stay rooted in the ground, portraying messages to one another silently. Over the centuries, we’ve begun to understand these messages. Think of how flowers are used today, what signs they convey. We pass roses onto our lovers. White carnations are an aspect of weddings, often. Sunflowers may be the sort of thing we grow with our loved ones, to remember and cherish them by. Every flower has a meaning, and we have long yet to understand them all. As you live your life, examine each and every flower you see, for it may be trying to tell you something important.”
Sleeping that night was rough, as I was tossing and turning, trying to ignore my mother’s cries of pain. They were more jagged tonight, more agonized, more foreboding of her passing than ever. Around 11:00, they ceased for good. I sobbed quietly into my pillow, reciting my mother’s stories to myself in the depths of my mind, trying to keep her next to me as long as I possibly could.
Her funeral was arranged, and I was stone-faced as I gazed at the spectacle of my mother’s burying on that day. My father was crying, my aunts and uncles were crying, my grandparents were crying, and yet, standing there, dressed in a mourning shade of black, I felt not a drop of sadness. Her agony was gone, and she was in a better place now. I still had her stories, and every time I heard one I felt warmer.
With the exception of the her final story, that is.
No matter how many times I’d recited it to myself, having stored it deep in my memory, I never felt a single drop of warmth from it. It sounded too depressed and laced with surrender to enjoy. It didn’t feel like a story, more like a passage you might see in a textbook, or something similar. Over the years, I’d finally forgotten the entire story, save the general idea of it, the explanation of the messages of the flowers. Unable to follow in my mother’s footsteps, I never saw anything special about the flowers as she did, or might have.
Nine years after her death, as my eighteenth birthday drew near, I went to visit my mother’s grave. Our soil was quite fertile where I had grown up, and naturally, flowers had sprung up around her gravestone, which, in itself, was faded and riddled with vines and leaves. I was no expert on flowers, but I recognized the plants themselves to be violets. One, I noticed, was tenderly pushing at the topsoil, trying to bathe itself in the warmth of the sun and evolve into the beauty of those around it. Although it had been so long since I’d heard her story or visited her grave, I felt drawn, attached, almost, to this tiny bud beneath the soil. I felt as though there was a secret tangled in its roots, and I shook my head at the thought that a plant, of all things, could be hiding something from me.
Nevertheless, that night, I vomited for no reason. I called in sick to work, and my girlfriend, who’d been staying with me for several months, called up a doctor to make a house call and examine me. I was feverish, and felt flu-like symptoms, but there was nothing the doctor saw that was out of the ordinary. Albeit our confusion at the causeless symptoms, he ordered me to be put on bedrest for several days, and gave me medicine for the nausea.
The next morning, I went to visit my mother’s grave again, almost drawn there by an invisible force. Something compelled me to visit, and I wasn’t sure what it was, exactly. I prayed to her, as I always did, and told her about my day. As I was just about to leave, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the violet seedling had germinated a bit more, just beginning to develop its first leaves.
The next day, I awoke with slashes on my arms that burned, swelling and oozing as though they were infected. My girlfriend, who was trained in First Aid, immediately wrapped them in tight bandages after coating them in a thick layer of disinfectant. There were four total, all of varying depths and severities. The pain became more intense at night, and the moment the moon climbed to the top of the night sky, I shouted in agony at the stars, my wounds ablaze in unseen pain, as though someone was tearing away at my skin just beneath them. Even through this pain, I awoke at the crack of dawn to visit my mother’s grave once more. The baby violet was growing at a steady pace, its leaf halfway grown, and four small buds protruding from the stem.
The following hours of the day, I was weary, my pain having dulled during the day from my gashes, and spent most of the day lying in bed as my girlfriend checked on me occasionally, leaving a fresh wet cloth on my forehead, or sitting and spooning hot soup into my mouth. I was lethargic and desired sleep more than anything on this planet, but found my body wracked with insomnia. My exhaustion tormented me to the point where I was seeing things. Shadows moving out of the corners of my eyes. Objects moving ever so slightly, as though they were being pushed or pulled. Everything seemed to fuel my paranoia. Nevertheless, I was drawn to my mother’s grave by a magnetic force yet again, my eyes heavy and blurry from the lack of rest. Although the view blurred and swam before my eyes, I could clearly see the slowly blossoming buds on the stem of the growing violet.
That morning, I began to see the first symptoms of my vision fading. I couldn’t tell certain objects apart anymore, and obviously I was unable to read. My skin was becoming pale, my best features leaving me one by one. Even with glasses I was barely unable to tell my girlfriend apart from a man walking down the street, or a child playing tag with his friends outside. As the day progressed, my vision blurred and darkened, so that by night, there wasn’t much difference between what I saw when I closed my eyes and what I saw when I opened them. My wounds burned again as usual, and I knew my time was coming soon. Even so, I found myself begging my girlfriend to drive me to my mother’s grave the next morning, and she watched helplessly as I limped to my mother’s grave, giving her a brief prayer before gazing down at the plant. It was too large to call a seedling now, as it was nearing complete maturity, its buds slowly opening and nearing full bloom before my dimming eyes.
The fifth day of my nightmarish sickness, there were no new symptoms, and everything seemed to dull, as though my pain was nearing its end at last, but with its passing would follow my whole life, my being, my existence. That day, my girlfriend sobbed as I told her that I was nearing the end. I jotted down a detailed will as I awaited the doctor’s arrival as we called him once more. He told me solemnly that there was nothing he could do, and yet I felt no remorse that I would finally be relieved of my illness. After all the preparations were made, including my girlfriend calling up a funeral home tearfully in advance, I asked for one last drive to my mother’s grave.
My girlfriend helped me limp towards the symbolic stone, yet again, and I felt my strength fading the closer I drew to it. Just as I reached down to touch the stone one last time before I passed on, the ground came out from under me, meeting the side of my face head on. My girlfriend shrieked, picking up the phone and pounding the keys for 911 to do what they could for me. As blood trickled from both my skull and my mouth, I saw, just as my eyes began to close for the final time, that the violet was in full bloom, a deep indigo, as though all this time it had leeched off of my spirit.
Who would be next to fertilize the violets, as my mother and I had?
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:39:15 am
A Difchil is a parasite. A microscopic abomination that enters your body usually through your tear ducts or debris from your eyelashes. It'll work its way around your eyeball to your retina and latch on. Using its tendrils, it siphons infromation from your brain; it recognizes the different impulses buzzing within your consciousness. It will know everything you wish to be, everything you hate and everything you are afraid of.
First, it blocks out the positive impulses; making you seem more disillusioned than usual, you may feel a little tired and drained, but you'd probbly just dismiss it. Maybe take a few painkillers; you've had that headache for a while now.
You start having thoughts; thoughts you never thought you'd have. You'd never think you'd ever want to see your own father strung from his intestines from a doorframe. Sure, you've had your differences, but you never wanted to hurt him. But you've just thought about it, you saw it on your mind.
And you.... well, you... liked it.
The parasite amplifies your fears and projects them into everyday life.
Say you hated the sight of spiders, you wake up one morning to find one on your pillow, in you're favorite coffee mug, crawling along your girlfriends face as you move to kiss her. Yet when you swipe to get it off, it's like it never was there. You smack your girlfriend in the face to get it off and it felt good to get rid of it. Because you hate spiders, right?
Soon, the parasite will manipulate you to destroy things and people you most love, because it knows it can make you without you even knowing it's controlling you. The others; you've become cruel, bitter and twisted. Alone. A murderer? Since when?
There's a reason why people tell you not to rub your eyes, you know.
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:39:34 am
Last night, I was derailed from seeing a movie by a pal of mine ‘J,’ who needed a ride to a barbeque, with an invite as barter. Damn right I could see the movie another time!
We arrive at Lindsey’s house, where her roommates were all running about, organizing the contents of 11 empty grocery bags; meat here, condiments there, booze here, etc…
I’d noted to Lindsey that I liked her new home, it’s much bigger, roomier, and safer than her previous one, to which she looked a little puzzled.
“You… you must be referring to the house on ‘Nashville St,’ because you never saw…” “…the other one,” Lindsey’s roommate Emily finished.
“So… you don’t know the story of the place in between the place you knew us to live in and this one, right?” Lindsey asked.
I just stood there, curious of all of the wide-eyed, uneasy looks, making myself wordlessly obvious that I’d not a clue. They called in the third roommate, Brianne, followed by J.
They took turns adding in their ‘two-cents,’ confirming little details, adding others, to which they all agreed upon as the story progressed. Rather than make this a back-and-forth story of four people interjecting, I’ll tell it to you third-person.
On Carrollton Avenue in New Orleans, Lindsey had parted with her previous roommate, and got together with two girls from school she didn’t know so well, Brianne and Emily, and got a decent place. The place in question was rather roomy, in a good location, and, above all, a hell of a bargain. This house, like most in the neighborhood, is nearly one hundred years old.
When Emily and Lindsey arrived to move their belongings in, they saw a note on the door of the furthest room from the front door, there was a note by Brianne, saying that she’d already claimed it, which annoyed the other two girls.
A blessing in disguise.
Within the first week or two, Brianne and the girls were all in the house together, Lindsey and Emily supposedly asleep, and Brianne up all night, determined to finish the book she was reading. At somewhere between 2-4am, she reached the last page of her text, closing the book, and settling into bed to see if she was tired enough to sleep, just yet. Note that the book was NOT a mystery/horror book, and that she had an elated feeling about what she’d just read.
She was replacing the book back on the shelf, and general before-bed tidying up, when the light above her started flickering, then went out. Brianne then turned off all of the lamps around the room, leaving the one near her desk on.
She soon found out she couldn’t sleep, so she sat up again, and turned on the television, putting in a cartoon DVD, in the hope it’d tire her out before the sun came up.
She heard a rapping on the wall, and stood, not knowing if it came from her door or her wall. Brianne lowered the volume on the TV, fearing it woke up a roommate, and approached the corner of the room where the noise was coming from. It wasn’t the door, it wasn’t the wall, it was coming from the closet.
What Brianne didn’t know at the time was that her deep closet shared a wall with Emily’s equally deep closet, not Emily’s wall.
Brianne assumed it was Emily who was knocking, and crept back to bed, in silence. Again, the rapping coursed through the room, so Brianne got up, exited the room, only to find Emily fast asleep in her own room, her body splayed nowhere near the wall in question. She checked on Lindsey, who was also fully asunder, her room too far for her to have knocked on the wall, to do so loud enough to gain Brianne’s attention would have woken up the whole house!
Confused, and a little weirded-out, Brianne returned to her room, closed the door, and turned off the TV and remaining lamps, and reached for the desk lamp, which turned off before she could hit the switch. She retreated her hand in surprise, and the light flickered on; she then reached forward again, and she successfully managed to turn it off, the desk lamp having given up on a life of its own.
Suddenly, light flooded the room, the overhead light blasted into life; perhaps it wasn’t the bulb that broke, but simply a loose socket?
Brianne, in the few seconds it took for her to turn around, and head towards the light switch, became uneasy. Sure, it was scary, and the visual impact of the overhead light flickering like crazy was intimidating enough, but it wasn’t without the realm of reason that this old house had loose bulbs, sockets, even wiring, to which she’d have a chat with the landlord about investigating before a inner-wall fire could occur.
Brianne consoled herself with such thoughts, as she approached the light switch in the strobed room, to finally turn it off, and put an end to this ordeal for the night. However, she began to believe the strobing effect of the light flickering on and off maniacally was making her see things… or not, for once she got to the light switch…
The light switch was been frantically flipping up and down on its own.
She jumped back in panic, as the strobing continued for a full few seconds, then suddenly stopped. Following a few moments later, in the darkness, was the knocking making a re-appearance, but much, much louder than before.
Brianne grabbed what she could, and got the fuck out of there around 5am, not only not looking back, but too scared to even inform the other girls of what went on.
It took a long time for Brianne to be coaxed back into the house, since no strange events had occurred since, yet Brianne wasn’t going anywhere NEAR that room, so, she slept elsewhere in the house. It was suggested that Brianne sleep on the second floor, since the weather was good, and the only reason it wasn’t used was that the landlord had yet to repair the AC/Heating units up there. Brianne refused. As tall-tale hauntings go, Brianne reasoned, she was going to stay away from an attic as far as possible, despite the fact that all of the happenings occurred in the back bedroom that she once claimed.
Weeks passed, and Emily had some visitors come over on one occasion, and Lindsey had some of her own on another; neither group of visitors slept more than one night in that house, citing that they had ‘strange dreams’ that they refused to discuss, and they had an unnatural apprehension from going down the hall past Emily’s room.
Lindsey decided to investigate a bit, and entered Brianne’s room during the day, finding nothing out of order. However, upon inspecting the closet where Brianne heard pounding noises, she discovered that not only did the back of the closet share a wall with the back of Emily’s closet, there was a sizable hole cut out of it, enough for a child to pass back and forth. Upon even closer inspection, the wall was shared, yes, but was hollowed, there was three feet or more difference between the two panels in the back of the two closets. Lindsey shined a light on the little space, and found a large spool of ‘industrial’ wire. She turned the light upward, toward the ceiling, and discovered this little ‘hollow’ went straight through the second floor, and into the attic, she could see a large beam stretching across, far above.
Lindsey kept this discovery to herself for a few days.
A night or two later, Emily was looking rather haggard, and explained that it was due to lack of sleep, since recurring nightmares kept jolting her out of slumber. The other two girls pressed on the contents of the dreams, the reslut of which much to their shock.
All three girls (and one overnight guest) had the same dream, as did the two previous guests, when contacted and insisted upon the details:
A very old, bald man was suspended above them, from wires somehow attached to his back, reaching up into the blackness; his arms were slung down, locked at the elbow, as to reach as far down as he possibly could; his arms began as skin, muscle, and sinew, but gradually terminated into a cluster of wires. The Wireman dangled above the dreamer, waving/scissoring his arms back and forth at locked length, as if trying to wipe past the faces of the startled dreamer. Finally, the man would buckle, as if a few inches of slack was granted from above, and the Wireman would immediately and eagerly grasp the sleeper’s throats with its wire-hands, and choke them vigrously. They could hear him smiling. The dreamer would suffer and die in the dreams, before awaking.
The vast majority of these factors were shared with the dreamers, without deviance.
The profusely apologetic Landlord didn’t question the girls’ fright (obviously there’s something he knew they didn’t,) and offered to send in an exorcist. Apparently, Exorcists are few and far between, so the girls popped down to some of the (very few) reputable psychics that were marvelously expensive; she got three to come on half-pay, half-favor. Remember, this is New Orleans, even I know of 1000 ‘Psychics,’ but I only believe 3 or 4 of them.
It should be noted that Lindsey was smart about this, she didn’t mention anything about the room, dreams, or actual location of the house, and should the psychics wish to investigate before they come to the site. Lindsey convinced them to accept the job with as very little info as possible, and all of the girls were there when the Psychics showed up, offering them nothing, but listening to everything.
The Psychics entered the house and all of its rooms, feeling nothing, until they got to the last room of the hall, where all three of them looked at each other in discomfort. One began crying. They backed out of the room. Lindsey took them into Emily’s room, and showed them the ‘little room’ between the closets (obviously from the ‘safe’ side,) and directed their attention upward. Soon after, the band of explorers would find themselves in the dreaded attic, and had found the crossbeam in question.
It had a deeply-etched groove of wear from a once-taut wire, and was indeed centered directly above that little hole.
The Psychics soon joined the girls in the living room, and discussed what they felt.
Apparently, a long time ago, a woman had run off from her husband, and little boy. The husband refused to let the child go outside, thinking that he’d run off, and the only way the mother would return was if the child was there, she’d surely not come back if it were just the father.
One day, tired of the wait, the father locked his son in his bedroom, and hung himself (with wire, we’re not 100% certain, in the little room? Not 100% certain) until, of course, he died, assuming that the mother would soon come for the son. She didn’t. The little boy died of dehydration in his room.
While this didn’t explain a good half of what went on, the Psychic went on to say…
“Well, there was some sort of torture… perhaps self-torture, but I don’t know if the preceded the man and his boy, or if it involved the man and his boy… we threw down many tarot cards, and, despite the meaning of ‘The Hanged Man’ that we all accept, it came up every damn hand… we use 108 cards, it came up EVERY three cards after a thorough re-shuffle. I think it’s demanding a new meaning, perhaps an obvious one? We don’t know, we don’t normally do this, but certain impressions are undeniable.”
The Landlord offered a second property, bigger, better, and cheaper, to which the girls took, and presently live.
The girls, when they think of it, did a little investigating, and here’s what they came up with:
(1) Neighbors had seen six sets of tennants come and go in the last two years alone.
(2) Their pal, Brian, who had several nervous breakdowns (including crying in class, and walking around bug-eyed,) in the year previous turned out having lived in that very house, in that very room for six months. Brian was mortified when the girls admitted they stayed there. He even recalled the ‘Wireman’ dream with eerie clarity and description. Apparently his state has improved in the time he’s been out of that house.
(3) The house is currently unoccupied.
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:40:11 am
(contributed by Vizier)
The Gift Of Mercy
!MESSAGE BEGINS We made a mistake. That is the simple, undeniable truth of the matter, however painful it might be. The flaw was not in our Observatories, for those machines were as perfect as we could make, and they showed us only the unfiltered light of truth. The flaw was not in the Predictor, for it is a device of pure, infallible logic, turning raw data into meaningful information without the taint of emotion or bias. No, the flaw was within us, the Orchestrators of this disaster, the sentients who thought themselves beyond such failings. We are responsible.
It began a short while ago, as these things are measured, less than 66 Deeli ago, though I suspect our systems of measure will mean very little by the time anyone receives this transmission. We detected faint radio signals from a blossoming intelligence 214 Deelis outward from the Galactic Core, as photons travel. At first crude and unstructured, these leaking broadcasts quickly grew in complexity and strength, as did the messages they carried. Through our Observatories we watched a world of strife and violence, populated by a barbaric race of short-lived, fast breeding vermin. They were brutal and uncultured things which stabbed and shot and burned each other with no regard for life or purpose. Even their concepts of Art spoke of conflict and pain. They divided themselves according to some bizarre cultural patterns and set their every industry to cause of death.
They terrified us, but we were older and wiser and so very far away, so we did not fret. Then we watched them split the atom and breach the heavens within the breadth of one of their single, short generations, and we began to worry. When they began actively transmitting messages and greetings into space, we felt fear and horror. Their transmissions promised peace and camaraderie to any who were listening, but we had watched them for too long to buy into such transparent deceptions. They knew we were out here, and they were coming for us.
The Orchestrators consulted the Predictor, and the output was dire. They would multiply and grow and flood out of their home system like some uncountable tide of Devourer worms, consuming all that lay in their path. It might take 68 Deelis, but they would destroy us if left unchecked. With aching carapaces we decided to act, and sealed our fate.
The Gift of Mercy was 84 strides long with a mouth 2/4 that in diameter, filled with many 44 weights of machinery, fuel, and ballast. It would push itself up to 2/8th of light speed with its onboard fuel, and then begin to consume interstellar Primary Element 2/2 to feed its unlimited acceleration. It would be traveling at nearly light speed when it hit. They would never see it coming. Its launch was a day of mourning, celebration, and reflection. The horror of the act we had committed weighted heavily upon us all; the necessity of our crime did little to comfort us.
The Gift had barely cleared the outer cometary halo when the mistake was realized, but it was too late. The Gift could not be caught, could not be recalled or diverted from its path. The architects and work crews, horrified at the awful power of the thing upon which they labored, had quietly self-terminated in droves, walking unshielded into radiation zones, neglecting proper null pressure safety or simply ceasing their nutrient consumption until their metabolic functions stopped. The appalling cost in lives had forced the Orchestrators to streamline the Gift’s design and construction. There had been no time for the design or implementation of anything beyond the simple, massive engines and the stabilizing systems. We could only watch in shame and horror as the light of genocide faded into infrared against the distant void.
They grew, and they changed, in a handful of lifetimes they abolished war, abandoned their violent tendencies and turned themselves to the grand purposes of life and Art. We watched them remake first themselves, and then their world. Their frail, soft bodies gave way to gleaming metals and plastics, they unified their people through an omnipresent communications grid and produced Art of such power and emotion, the likes of which the Galaxy has never seen before. Or again, because of us.
They converted their home world into a paradise (by their standards) and many 106s of them poured out into the surrounding system with a rapidity and vigor that we could only envy. With bodies built to survive every environment from the day lit surface of their innermost world, to the atmosphere of their largest gas giant and the cold void in-between, they set out to sculpt their system into something beautiful. At first we thought them simple miners, stripping the rocky planets and moons for vital resources, but then we began to see the purpose to their constructions, the artworks carved into every surface, and traced across the system in glittering lights and dancing fusion trails. And still, our terrible Gift approached.
They had less than 22 Deeli to see it, following so closely on the tail of its own light. In that time, oh so brief even by their fleeting lives, more than 1010 sentients prepared for death. Lovers exchanged last words, separated by worlds and the tyranny of light speed. Their planetside engineers worked frantically to build sufficient transmission infrastructure to upload the countless masses with the necessary neural modifications, while those above dumped lifetimes of music and literature from their databanks to make room for passengers. Those lacking the required hardware or the time to acquire it consigned themselves to death, lashed out in fear and pain, or simply went about their lives as best they could under the circumstances.
The Gift arrived suddenly, the light of its impact visible in our skies, shining bright and cruel even to the unaugmented ocular receptor. We watched and we wept for our victims, dead so many Deelis before the light of their doom had even reached us. Many 64s of those who had been directly or even tangentially involved in the creation of the Gift sealed their spiracles with paste as a final penance for the small roles they had played in this atrocity. The light dimmed, the dust cleared, and our Observatories refocused upon the place where their shining blue world had once hung in the void, and found only dust and the pale gleam of an orphaned moon, wrapped in a thin, burning wisp of atmosphere that had once belonged to its parent.
Radiation and relativistic shrapnel had wiped out much of the inner system, and continent sized chunks of molten rock carried screaming ghosts outward at interstellar escape velocities, damned to wander the great void for an eternity. The damage was apocalyptic, but not complete, from the shadows of the outer worlds, tiny points of light emerged, thousands of fusion trails of single ships and world ships and everything in between, many 106s of survivors in flesh and steel and memory banks, ready to rebuild. For a few moments we felt relief, even joy, and we were filled with the hope that their culture and Art would survive the terrible blow we had dealt them. Then came the message, tightly focused at our star, transmitted simultaneously by hundreds of their ships. “We know you are out there, and we are coming for you.” !MESSAGE ENDS
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:40:30 am
During one summer in the 1950s, a group of friends found an old abandoned house in the woods. They entered to see what they could find. Inside the house, a water hole was dug in the center of the room. Three of the boys decided to swim, while the other stayed dry and took pictures of the house with his camera. Thirty some years later, in 1982, a man was hiking and found an old camera. He took it to the local police station to try and find out who it belonged to. The police got the film developed. Most of the photos had been destroyed, save for a few.
This picture is the last picture that was taken. It is unknown what happened to the boys’ faces or why the series of pictures abruptly ended. The kids have never been identified and their bodies were never found. What is happening in this image still remains a mystery.
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:40:55 am
Taken from NoSleep
My dead girlfriend keeps messaging me on Facebook. I’ve got the screenshots. I don’t know what to do.
Tonight’s kind of a catalyst for this post. I just received another message, and it’s worse than any of the others.
My girlfriend died on the 7th of August, 2012. She was involved in a three car collision driving home from work when someone ran a red light. She passed away within minutes on the scene.
We had been dating for five years at that point. She wasn’t big on the idea of marriage (it felt archaic, she said, gave her a weird vibe), but if she had been, I would have married her within three months of our relationship. She was vibrant; the kind of girl that would choose dare every time. She was happiest when camping, but a total technophile too. She always smelled like cinnamon.
That being said, she wasn’t perfect. She always said something along the lines of, “If I kark it first, don’t just say good things about me. I’ve never liked that. If you don’t pay me out, you’re doing me a disservice. I’ve got so many flaws, and that’s just part of me.” So, this is for Em: the music she said she liked and the music she actually liked were very different. Her idea of affection was a side-hug. She had really long toes, like a chimpanzee.
I know that’s tangential, but I don’t feel right discussing her without you having an idea of what she was like.
Onto the meat. Em had been dead for approaching thirteen months when she first messaged me.
September 4, 2013. (http://i.imgur.com/UMh0nZl.png) This is when it began. I had left Emily’s Facebook account activated so I could send her the occasional message, post on her wall, go through her albums. It felt too final (and too un-Emily) to memorialise it. I ‘share’ access with her mother (Susan) - meaning, her mother has her login and password and has spent a total of approximately three minutes on the website (or on a computer, total). After a little confusion, I assumed it was her.
November 16th, 2013. (http://i.imgur.com/y0yzVaj.png) I had received confirmation from Susan that she hadn’t logged in to Em’s Facebook since the week of her death. Em knew a lot of people, so I instantly assumed this was one of her more tech savvy ‘friends’ fucking with me in the worst possible way.
I noticed pretty much immediately that whoever was chatting with me was recycling old messages from Em and my's shared chat history. (http://i.imgur.com/fw80ZJG.png)
The ‘the wheels on the bus' comment was from when we were discussing songs to play on a road trip that never eventuated. ‘hello’ happened a million times.
Around February 2014, Emily started tagging herself in my photos. I would get notifications for them, but the tag would generally always be removed by the time I got to it. The first time I actually caught one, it felt like someone had punched me in the gut. ‘She’ would tag herself in spaces where it was plausible for her to be, or where she would usually hang out. I’ve got screenshots of two (from April and June; these are the only ones I’ve caught, so they’re a little out of the timeline I’m trying to write out):
Around this period of time, I stopped being able to sleep. I was too angry to sleep.
She would tag herself in random photos every couple of weeks. The friends who noticed and said something thought it was a fucked up bug; I found out recently that there have been friends who have noticed and didn’t say anything. Some of them have removed me from their Facebook friends list.
At this point, some of you may be wondering why I didn’t just kill my Facebook profile. I wish I had. I did for a little while. On days when I can’t get out there, though, it’s nice having my friends available to chat. It’s nice visiting Em’s page when the little green circle isn’t next to her name. I was already socially reclusive when Em was alive; her death turned me into something pretty close to a hermit, and Facebook and MMOs were (are) my only real social outlets.
On March 15, (http://i.imgur.com/KIL2Mx5.png) I sent what I assumed was Em's hacker a message.
On March 25, I received an 'answer'. (http://i.imgur.com/j3HwZzv.png)
It wasn’t until I was going over these logs a few months later that I noticed she was recycling my own words as well.
My response seems kind of lacklustre here. I was intentionally providing him/her with emotional ‘bait’ (‘This is actually devastating’) to keep them interested in their game; I was working off the assumption that the kind of person to do this would be the kind of person that would thrive on the distress of others. I was posting in tech forums, looking for ways to track this person, contacting Facebook. I needed to keep them around so I could gather ‘evidence’.
Before anyone asks, yes, I had changed the password and all security info countless times.
16th of April. I receive this. (http://i.imgur.com/uvadlGa.png)
This seems like word salad. Like all our conversations so far, it’s recycled from previous messages she’s sent.
29th of April. (http://i.imgur.com/FGmhuUQ.png)
I hadn’t discovered any leads. Facebook had told me the locations her page had been accessed from, but since her death, they’re all places I can account for (my home, my work, her mum’s house, etc). My response here wasn’t bait. ‘yo ask Nathan’ was an in-joke too lame worth explaining, but seeing ‘her’ say it again just absolutely fucking crippled me. My reaction in real life was much less prettier. I’m not expecting my bond back.
Her last few messages had started to scare me, but I wouldn’t admit it at this point.
8th of May. I don’t really have the words for this. (http://i.imgur.com/GNL8TcO.png)
‘FRE EZIN G’ is the first original word she’s (?) made. This has given me nightmares that have only started to kick in recently. I keep dreaming that she’s in an ice cold car, frozen blue and grey, and I’m standing outside in the warmth screaming at her to open the door. She doesn’t even realise I’m there. Sometimes her legs are outside with me.
24th of May. (http://i.imgur.com/z295fHw.png)
I wasn’t actually drunk. She wasn’t an affectionate girl, and it always embarrassed her to exchange ‘I love you’s, cuddle, talk about how much we meant to each other. She was more comfortable with it when I was boozed up. I got fake-drunk a lot.
Her reply is what prompted me to finally memorialise her page, thinking it might help curb this behaviour. It might seem innocuous compared to her previous message - it’s pasted from an old conversation where I was trying to convince her to let me drive her home from a friend’s.
In the collision, the dashboard had crushed her. She was severed in a diagonal line from her right hip to midway down her left thigh. One of her legs was found tucked under the backseat.
Going back in time. 7th of August, 2012. (http://i.imgur.com/ujUNJQm.png)
These are logs from the day she died. She was usually home from work by 4.30. This, alongside a couple of voicemail messages, is the last time I talked to her under the assumption that she was alive. You’ll see why I’m showing you these soon.
Yesterday, 1st of July. (http://i.imgur.com/W6qzAZI.png)
I memorialised her page a couple of days after I received the message about walking. Until today, she’d been quiet; she wasn’t even tagging herself in my photos.
I don’t know what to do anymore. Do I kill her memorial page? What if it is her? I want to puke. I don’t know what’s happening. I just heard a Facebook alert. I'm too afraid to swap windows and check it.
UPDATE
I checked the alert. I heard it as I was compiling and editing the post. This was the message.
That's my door. That's my computer. It's taken from outside. I got the message three hours ago but didn't check it until now.
I'm on my tablet in my garage. Zen for now. Going to drive to friend's. Forgot to open the garage door in my panic so building up the nerve to get out to do that now.
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on September 02, 2014, 02:41:12 am
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.
Title: Re: Sanctuary's Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: 47 47 47 on September 10, 2014, 07:30:00 pm
There was one of these I read about a lake in Australia and some tall creature eating a kid that had a line I will never forget, about the "knees" of the creature cracking and popping as it walked past. Always makes me feel a little sick
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Tungsten.Chromium on September 22, 2014, 02:57:10 am
Here is a very long, but very good creepypasta that's been haunting me for a while now. It's just so goddamn good. A real classic. I would post it here, but that would take me way too long.
http://www.dionaea-house.com/
And no worries, there is no screamer on the website. Nothing about the design of the website is spooky/creepy, just the story. Hope you enjoy!
This one is spooking the shit out of me, especially since I probably live within an hour of "the house" in Katy.
I am very temped to investigate this, but since that seems to be exactly what not to do, I think I'll just regard it has a creepy story.
Title: Re: Sanctuary's Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on October 06, 2014, 10:01:27 pm
There was one of these I read about a lake in Australia and some tall creature eating a kid that had a line I will never forget, about the "knees" of the creature cracking and popping as it walked past. Always makes me feel a little sick
Really? Weird, I haven't read that one yet... I thought you meant The Rake at first but no. If you ever remember the name, let me know and I can post it. Or you can do it yourself.
Here is a very long, but very good creepypasta that's been haunting me for a while now. It's just so goddamn good. A real classic. I would post it here, but that would take me way too long.
http://www.dionaea-house.com/
And no worries, there is no screamer on the website. Nothing about the design of the website is spooky/creepy, just the story. Hope you enjoy!
This one is spooking the shit out of me, especially since I probably live within an hour of "the house" in Katy.
I am very temped to investigate this, but since that seems to be exactly what not to do, I think I'll just regard it has a creepy story.
Sounds like you could explore it. Would be cool if you did, but if you're scared I don't want to encourage you to go.
Title: Re: Sanctuary's Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on October 06, 2014, 10:03:43 pm
Taken from NoSleep
A Story To Scare My Son
“Son, we need to have a chat about Internet Safety.” I slowly crumpled down onto the floor next to him. His laptop was open and he was playing Minecraft on a public server. His eyes were locked into the action. Comments scrolled down the side of the screen in a chat box. “Son, can you stop your game for a minute?”
He exited the world, closed the laptop, and looked up at me. "Dad, is this going to be another cheesy scary story?"
"Whhaaaat?" I faked hurt feelings for a second, and then grinned at him, "I thought you liked my cautionary tales?" He grew up listening to my stories about children who encountered witches, ghosts, werewolves, and trolls. Like many generations of parents, I used scary stories to reinforce morals and teach lessons about safety. Single dads like me should use all the parenting tools at their disposal. He scrunched his face a little, "They were fine when I was six. But now that I'm getting older, they don't scare me anymore. They seem kinda silly. If you are going to tell a story about the Internet, can you make it really, really scary!?” I squinted at him incredulously. He folded his arms, “Dad. I’m ten and I can handle it." "hmm… okay... I’ll try."
I began, “Once upon a time, there was a boy named Colby….” His expression indicated that he wasn't impressed with the terror of the introduction. He sighed deeply and settled in for one of Dad’s cheesy stories. I continued...
Colby went online and joined several children's websites. After a while, he started talking to other kids in-game and on the message boards. He made friends with another ten year old boy named Helper23. They liked the same video games and shows. They laughed at each other's jokes. They explored new games together. After several months of friendship, Colby gave Helper23 six diamonds in a game they were playing. This was a very generous gift. Colby's birthday was coming up and Helper23 wanted to send him a cool present in real life. Colby figured it wouldn't hurt to give Helper23 his home address - as long as he promised not to tell it to any strangers or grownups. Helper23 swore he wouldn't tell anyone else, not even his own parents, and set about mailing the package.
I paused the story and asked my son, "Do you think that was a good idea?” “No!" he said shaking his head vigorously. In spite of himself, he was getting into the story.
Well neither did Colby. Colby felt guilty about giving away his home address - and his guilt began to grow. And grow. By the time he put on his pajamas the next night, his guilt and fear were larger than anything else in his life. He resolved to admit the truth to his parents. The punishment would be steep, but it was worth it to have a clear conscience. He squirmed in his bed as he waited for his parents to tuck him in. My son knew the scary part was coming up. In spite of his tough talk, he leaned forward wide-eyed. I spoke quietly and deliberately.
He heard all the noises of the house. The washing machine bounced around in the laundry room. Branches scraped against the brick outside his room. His baby brother cooed in the nursery. And there were some other noises he couldn't... quite... pinpoint. Finally, his dad’s footsteps echoed down the hall. “Hey Dad?” He called out nervously. “I have something to tell you.” His dad stuck his head in the doorway at a weird angle. In the darkness, his mouth didn't seem to move and the eyes were all wrong. "Yes, son" The voice was way off, too. "Are you okay, Dad?" The boy asked. "Uh-huh" sung the father in his strangely affected voice. Colby pulled his covers up defensively. "Ummm... Is Mom around?" "Here I am!" Mom's head popped into the doorway below Dad's. Her voice was an unnatural falsetto. "Were you about to tell us that you gave our home address to Helper23? You shouldn't have done that! We TOLD you never to give out personal information on the Internet!"
She continued, "He wasn't really a kid! He just pretended to be one. Do you know what he did? He came to our house, broke in, and murdered both of us! Just so he could spend some time with you!" A fat man in a wet jacket emerged in the child's doorway holding the two severed heads. Colby shrieked and gasped as the man dropped the heads on the ground, unsheathed his knife, and moved into the room to work on the boy.
My son screamed too. He twisted his hands defensively over his face. But we were just getting started with the story.
After several hours, the boy was almost dead and his screams had become whimpers. The killer noticed the wailing of a baby in another room and removed his knife from Colby. This was a special treat. He had never murdered a baby before and was excited about the prospect. Helper23 left Colby to die and followed the cries through the house like a homing beacon. In the nursery, he walked to the crib, picked the baby up, and held it in his arms. He moved towards the changing table to get a better look. But as he held the baby, the crying died down. The baby looked up and smiled. Helper23 had never held a baby, but he gently bounced it in his arms like a pro. He wiped his bloody hands on the blanket so he could stroke the baby's cheek, "Hey there, sweet little guy." The beautiful rage of sadism melted into something warmer and softer.
He walked out of the nursery, took the baby home, named him William, and raised him as his very own.
After I finished the story, my son was visibly shaken. Between ragged staccato breaths, he stammered, "But Dad, MY name's William." I gave him a classic dad-wink and tousled his hair. "Of course it is, son." William ran up the stairs to his bedroom in a fury of sobs.
But deep down... I think he liked the story.
Title: Re: Sanctuary's Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: 47 47 47 on October 17, 2014, 06:36:44 pm
FOUND IT! ITS CREEPYPASTA AND YOU SAID NO CREEPYPASTA BUT IM POSTING IT ANYWAYS :)
Joondalup
In the nineteen seventies, the city of Perth, Western Australia experienced an urban sprawl that made its suburbs clamber up and down the coast of the Indian Ocean. These suburbs, tenuously connected by fragile railways, like a spiderweb, was where I lived as a child. These novel infrastructure developments meant that I was isolated to only my hometown, unable to find a reliable way to roam.
For that reason, my friends and I would often spend a lot of time at the namesake of our suburb, Lake Joondalup. Our group was a bit of a motley, connected by our own tenuous thread – we all loved to explore the bush, which at that point had yet to be swept aside by the development. Now despite a wide circle of friends with similar interests, I only really felt close to a young boy called Tristan. He was a large child with a kind manner, and a jagged row of white teeth that contrasted sharply with his dark skin and soft features.
We both loved the night. We loved the late evenings where a new world opened up to us around the lake; we would continue to explore the tree-lined banks after most kids went home for dinner.
This day, we had been skipping stones across the lake, while discussing the short assignment our teacher had set. Tristan, being aboriginal, had been given the assignment of finding out the meaning of many of the words we had in our day to day life that came from the first Australians.
“So,” I said, tossing another rock into the lake. “What does ‘Joondalup’ mean?”
“I actually know that one,” Tristan had picked up a larger rock than usual, and he weighed it in his hand as he thought about the best way to articulate his answer. “It means ‘place of shining’ or ‘place of white’.”
“No way, that’s so lame,” I said with all the seriousness a fifth grader could muster.
“You’re lame!” Tristan ditched the rock at the water beside me, and some of it splashed on my new white socks.I charged at him, trying to avenge myself for the inevitable wrath of my mother. He turned and legged it, with surprising swiftness for such a large boy. We both ran through the bush, our chase taking us right along the edge of the lake.
The next thing I knew, Tristan, maybe three or four paces in front of me, tripped. I saw him stumble, his ankle twisting in an odd fashion, before he keeled over and plunged straight into the dark water of the lake. The banks were a sharp, two foot drop into water, that was deep enough to submerge him entirely.
He surfaced “Christ!” He squealed, as I kneeled on the bank to try to help him out. “It’s so cold.” I didn’t respond. Behind him, was a white shape, blurry in the dark water but rapidly sharpening like an inverse silhouette.
“Yeah let’s go.” I reached out to help him when suddenly, the shape seemed to unfurl, wrapping itself around Tristan and dragging him downwards. My heart began to jackhammer against my ribs, causing the blood to pound in my head. Tristan surfaced, and flailed. I didn’t hesitate, grabbing the back of his shirt collar and pulling him upwards, as a pair of milk white arms, each finger tipped with gleaming claws, snatched at him from the lake.
He was hurt bad, his ankle was swelling and already mottled with bruising. I tried to drag him, carry him, but he was far too heavy. We stumbled along the rocky path, my legs nearly buckling as Tristan leaned on me. It wasn’t far to the break in the trees and the road beyond, but we barely got twenty feet from the lake before I looked back.
Darkened against the reflected moonlight, I saw the creature standing on the banks. Its form is etched like a carving on the inside of my skull. It had a human body, with broad, masculine shoulders and a long neck, like that of a deer, except it stopped abruptly, like it had its head severed at the base of the skull.
That was not the worst part of it though. The best way I can describe its legs were how one would expect a child to stack Lego blocks. They were many jointed, from the ankle upwards they stacked on top of one another, but not quite matching up, giving the impression of a jagged zigzag. I began to whimper and Tristan stopped to look behind him. I felt his grip on me slacken, and he also made a soft noise, I knew the noise, it was when your body was seizing up from the inside out, the nerves firing rapidly as your body began to employ its emergency response to fly.
“Let’s go let’s go,” our pace quickened. Behind us, I could hear the rustling of undergrowth and the light step of a pursuant. We fumbled faster. Tristan’s face was red and puffy, and the roaring in my ears had reached a deafening crescendo. We dared not to look back, our eyes fixed ahead, on the murky light of the streetlights.
Tristan jerked, and was lifted out of my grip. I tried to hold on to him, but I found myself shaken off, like a dog shaking its prey. I flew through the air, crashing into a tree and slumping into the undergrowth. My vision filled with stars, turning into flashes and eventual darkness as Tristan’s terrified screams faded away into unconsciousness.
When I came to, it was silent. I sat up, my breath ragged. It was well into the night, and a chill had descended onto the bush, meaning it was in the early AMs. I tried to stand up, but the world lurched, and turned on its side as a flash of pain threw me onto the ground again. I struggled to get up but, through it I began to feel unsettled.
I could hear footsteps. Seconds apart, like something was taking a step and waiting. I lay down again, peering through the leaves. It was itchy, and sticky down there, but I felt deep in my stomach that what was out there did not have any good intentions toward me. It took a few minutes to appear on the path, but there it was. That thing again. It turned out, that it was not waiting, but its legs were lengthening, allowing it to take huge strides. Now I realised, it was stepping backwards. Yes, I could make out its shoulder blades and the jagged line of its spine as it walked up the path. Its neck was swaying, as if it was looking around behind it.
As it drew level, I had to bite down on my tongue to stop me from crying out. It was carrying Tristan’s limp body in its arms, his dead weight barely seemed to register as the creature cradled him like a baby. It drew level as I was processing the sight of my friend, and I saw that at the end of that neck, where I had not identified a head, was a face. A flat. Human. Face.
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the creature to go away. It walked up and down the path, and even through the bush. It passed within feet of me. I could hear the sound of its joints popping as it moved. Its shadow blotted out the moonlight periodically, but it never found me.
They found me just after sunup. I was still curled at the base of an ancient white gum, sobbing silently. They nearly missed me, as I was obscured by a thicket of some spiny shrub, but there I was, clutching my knees to my chest and whimpering softly. They did not find Tristan, but they found clumps of his hair, and scraps of clothing on the undergrowth, at about an adult’s shoulder height, like he had been carried.
I gave a statement to the police, and was given therapy. About a week later, a strange whitish scum floated to the surface of the lake, collecting at the banks and coating the water in a horrible film. This scum was found to be human fat, that proved a DNA match to the kidnapping victim, Tristan Cole.
The memory faded from my mind. The disappearance was chalked up to a suspected homicide. The vibrant memory became a distant shape, backlit by the moon and reflection off water. Sometimes my fear would rear its ugly head when I drove past the solid wall of trees that made up the edge of the lake reserve, but it was nothing more than a traumatic event folded away into a corner of my mind.
That was, until last week, when the thought of the creature was refreshed, given a new coat of fear-induced detail. Running in the local paper, the Weekender, was an article on new findings in the etymology of the word “Joondalup”. New research suggested that Joondalup meant “place of the creature that can only walk backwards.”
Title: Re: Sanctuary's Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: Michael Myers on October 18, 2014, 12:28:01 am
I read that at 3:27am. Good read, gave me goosebumps for whatever reasons (it wasn't THAT creepy). Thanks for sharing! Oh and if you don't mind, could you center the title, bold it and color it red? Thanks!
Title: Re: Official Creepypasta Thread
Post by: BallsDeep69 on October 18, 2014, 04:27:05 am
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.