Creepy Pasta!

Thought I'd share to get this forum a little lively.
---
n rural Wisconsin, there is an old abandoned park. Built in the 1920s, it served as the town’s gathering place for everyone.

That is, until a newly developed Train and Tunnel for Tots™ ride was installed in 1932. It was an innocent looking childish train, with one main (mechanized) head car, with three small trolleys pulled behind it. It went around some loops before going into a small tunnel.

But this is where the story gets weird. There were numerous cases of child deaths that year, all of them happening after the child rode on that train system. Some kids went missing in that short tunnel (about ten feet), and others went comatose after leaving. One, upon exiting, was found to be dead. Her dress was covered in what looked like small bloody handprints. Some killed themselves by scratching at their throats until they bled out, and one of them even killed another child before hanging herself with razor wire at the family’s farm.

The park was closed, and the town’s popularity as a tourist town plummeted.

Recently, a team of scientists were sent out to the park. They taped a video camera to the train, and put a new intern in with it, before sending it on its way onto the tracks.

When the train left the tunnel, it was empty, except for the camera.

The last ten seconds were nothing but static, save for the sound of children laughing.

–

Okay, I'll contribute to this, it's a pretty old story though. =/

A few years ago, a mother and father decided that they needed to get away, So they headed out for a night on the town. They called their most trusted baby sitter, when the baby sitter arrived the two children were fast asleep in their beds. So the baby sitter just got to sit around and make sure everything was okay with the children. Later that night the baby sitter got bored and wanted to watch cable in the parent's room, so she called them and asked if she could watch it, they agreed to let her, but she had one final request. She asked if she could cover up the statue of the clown in their bedroom, the line went silent for a moment, the father then said, "Get the children and get out of the house, I'll call the police...We don't have a clown statue."

When the police arrived all three occupants of the house were dead. No clown statue was ever found.

I'd freak out if that happened.

I'll contribute another story to this, it's pretty long though, but enjoy. =]

My mother claimed something bit her a week ago.

She complained of difficulty breathing and she said that she couldn't feel her left side from the midsection down; that it was numbed. As evidence, she showed us her left thigh. Sure enough, there was a red inflamed patch of flesh. It looked like the aftermath of a mosquito bite, except obviously several times larger. We thought that a spider must have got her while she slept, but since nearly a week had already passed and we weren't exactly rich, we decided against her seeing a doctor. We couldn't afford paying a medical bill for something that would probably clear up in a few days. And we were sure it would clear up, it was only a little bug bite after all...

It was our mistake.

When we woke up today, mother was crying. She said that the numbed sensation of her side had indeed gone, but it had only been replaced by a burning aguish. Her breath hitched and was obviously labored. We inspected her thigh and were startled to find that the large mosquito bite mark had erupted across her side. A single mark had turned into several sickly inflamed mounds that peeled and erupted pus. She claimed it burned. We certainly believed her.

It was time to consult a doctor.

My father told us he would drive her to the nearest neighborhood clinic. For my part, I departed for my day's summer session classes. My mother's frightening condition danced somewhere in the back of my mind for the rest of the day, but I didn't dwell on it. Summer classes were coming to an end, final exams were a few days away, friends were planning a trip to the beach, and a small pain in my breaths kept nagging me. I hoped I wasn't developing a cold.

I was driving back home when I got the call.

It was my father. He was in hysterics. Apparently, the doctor at the clinic had taken one look at my mother's condition and urged her to head to an emergency room. So my father and mother had gone, and waited, and waited, and waited a little more. Finally, my mother was allowed to see a doctor. That's where it all went downhill. He took one look at her and left the room. My father and mother were left in that room, confused, when nurses entered. Some drew blood from my heaving mother. Others ushered my father out of the room, blowing aside his questions and asking him to wait in the waiting area. Which he did, and while he waited, he had time to see a dozen police officers rush into the hospital, run past the waiting area, and head in the direction of the room that held my mother. He told me this last part in a chocking sob: he heard gun shots.

That's when I heard him scream.

That made me jump in the car seat. My hands taught and white against the steering wheel. My eyes bulging. I realized I wasn't breathing. On the other end of the line, I heard something clatter. Probably the phone hitting the floor. Arguing voices. Yelling voices. Authoritarian voices. And one weeping voice. My father. The only time I had ever heard him like that. Blubbering something out. I'll be honest: I was disgusted. I wasn't used to such a weak father. I was used to the man of steel my old man had come to represent. I guess I was confused.

So when I heard the gun shots on the other end, I guess it just didn't seem real.

I turned off the cell phone and continued the drive home. Numb. Confused. Disbelieving. I got home. Only, by then, it wasn't really home anymore. I found the block closed off. Police cars cordoned off the streets, people in bio hazard suits coming in and out of my house. In my befuddled state, I thought it looked kinda like something off the movie REC, or maybe Quarantine... It seemed pretty funny to be honest. Really funny... until I saw them wheel out a body under a tarp, and realized from the single exposed shoe, that it was my younger brother...

I drove on then.

So I drove until I was out of town. Far out of town. I realized then that it might be stupid to keep on driving. Whatever was going on, I had escaped because of sheer luck. They'd tried to put up a net around us, but only I'd escaped because of my college schedule... only I was alive... I ditched my car on an empty street. Then I started walking.

So, what is it? I've seen enough scary movies to guess. I'm infected, but who the fuck knows with what. My lungs are slowly burning and there's a strange bulge on my back. I haven't checked it yet but I'd bet everything in my pockets (which comes out to about twenty five bucks) that it's a red mark - a red mark that resembles a large mosquito bite. But what is it? Am I going to die? Well, it was serious enough that they off'd my moms and pops, and even my bro to boot. Whatever I got, I figure it must be some serious shit. I wonder what it takes to infect others... a cough? A touch? A bite?

I'll find out tomorrow.

I walked until I could hitch a ride. Then I walked some more. I stopped at a motel after night and paid in cash. And I tried to sleep. But I couldn't. I just kept seeing my brother's shoe sticking out from under that tarp... that shoe... So I opened my laptop and I decided to type this out instead.

They took everything from me. I'm... going to die. They didn't have to do what they did. They could have just told us we were a danger to others. They didn't have to shoot my mother... my father... I'm going to take as much as I can before I go. Tomorrow, I'll spend my day shaking hands, I'll go into convenience stores and touch the food, maybe cough in it. I'll lick the public water fountains. I'll do whatever it takes to bring you with me. So tomorrow, please. Shake my hand.

And if someone bites you, then don't worry. It's nothing; it can't be worse than a bug bite.

That's weird!
Here is one:
---
A few years ago I was spending some time with friends exploring old, supposedly haunted, places. We were at the Edisto First Presbyterian Church, where a girl named Julia Legare was buried in her family mausoleum in 1852.

People reported hearing unearthly screams time and time again, but never investigating the cause of it. Fifteen years later, when they opened the door to the mausoleum to inter the next family member who had died, finding her corpse huddled in the corner next to the door, arms outstretched as if still trying to find the exit.

Well, my friends thought it would be a funny idea to shut the giant stone door (which was originally open) behind me and pick me up in the morning. The bastards left me there… I tried and tried, using all of my strength, but I couldn’t budge it, it had taken four people to put it in place. In the dark, I resigned myself to the night ahead of me.

Now, I normally don’t frighten easily, but sitting there in the relatively small place, surrounded by a looming pressure that I couldn’t begin to explain, the darkness itself seemed to try to consume me. From all around it felt like weight was pressing against my skin, making even breathing hard. I sat in the dark for what must have been hours.

Then I heard the scratches. They were faint at first, I was sure it was my imagination, but soon they became more and more frantic as time passed. I huddled up in one of the corners farthest from the door and tried to cover my ears but nothing could stop the growing cacophony. This all may have lasted for a few minutes, but each second was an unbearable eternity.

Then, a loud scream echoed through the darkness, it was a wail of unrestrained pain and fear. The scratching stopped. For the first time I could distinctly make out the sound of a girl sobbing to herself, the pitiful gasping of one without a shred of hope left.

I felt such sorrow at the moment, such pain, that I think I forgot how to be afraid. In my heart all her suffering seemed to resonate. Inexplicably, I found myself apologizing aloud for everything that had happened to her. Hell, a part of me wanted to reach out and feel for a body to hug, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it for fear that I truly would find one.

I don’t know whether or not she heard me or was even aware of my presence, the sobbing continued and I could again hear fingers against the stone slab that was the tomb door.

I fell asleep at some point, which I felt was a merciful gift from the fates. I’m not sure how long I was out, but I was woken by a loud and powerful thud as the door slammed against the ground outside. I could tell from the light gray outside that daybreak was near, so I must have slept for at least a few hours.

I stumbled outside and went to a small unlocked prayer house. I think previously it was a segregated mini-church, but regardless, I leaned against the door and waited nervously until my ‘friends’ arrived. I approached them as they clustered around the fallen door, two of them were kneeling next to it with faces of shock.

There were bloody streaks covering the interior of the door, some with light scratches from fingernails, many without. I think now that she must have shrieked when they broke away from her hands, but I can’t be sure.

At first, they looked to me, then checked my hands, then nervously glanced at one another. I was rightfully pissed with them and told them every detail of what I remembered, wanting them to know what I had been put through.

Finally, after I grudgingly got into the car and we started to head back, someone spoke up. My friend said to me “We were afraid to say anything, but look at your face.”

I later found out that many times people had tried to permanently seal the entrance to the mausoleum, including enough heavy locks and chains that it would require heavy equipment to remove it, only to have it found torn open with the door lying on the ground once more. This was in the 1980s, the last attempt of many through the decades. It seemed like some force was ensuring that it was impossible to ever repeat the mistakes of the past. This is something I am understandably quite grateful for, but to this very day I am chilled to the bone when I think of what happened that night.

When I reached from the back seat and adjusted the rear-view mirror, I saw that there was blood caked on my face. Just like the streaks upon the stone slab, there were dark red lines on either side, as if someone had gently cradled my face with torn fingers as I slept that night, feeling the warmth of another for the first time in over a hundred years.

That's creepy, haven't read it before.
Here's another one, enjoy.

She lived deep in the forest in a tiny cottage and sold herbal remedies for a living. Folks living in the town nearby called her Bloody Mary, and said she was a witch. None dared cross the old crone for fear that their cows would go dry, their food-stores rot away before winter, their children take sick of fever, or any number of terrible things that an angry witch could do to her neighbors.

Then the little girls in the village began to disappear, one by one. No one could find out where they had gone. Grief-stricken families searched the woods, the local buildings, and all the houses and barns, but there was no sign of the missing girls. A few brave souls even went to Bloody Mary's home in the woods to see if the witch had taken the girls, but she denied any knowledge of the disappearances. Still, it was noted that her haggard appearance had changed. She looked younger, more attractive. The neighbors were suspicious, but they could find no proof that the witch had taken their young ones.

Then came the night when the daughter of the miller rose from her bed and walked outside, following an enchanted sound no one else could hear. The miller's wife had a toothache and was sitting up in the kitchen treating the tooth with an herbal remedy when her daughter left the house. She screamed for her husband and followed the girl out of the door. The miller came running in his nightshirt. Together, they tried to restrain the girl, but she kept breaking away from them and heading out of town.

The desperate cries of the miller and his wife woke the neighbors. They came to assist the frantic couple. Suddenly, a sharp-eyed farmer gave a shout and pointed towards a strange light at the edge of the woods. A few townsmen followed him out into the field and saw Bloody Mary standing beside a large oak tree, holding a magic wand that was pointed towards the miller's house. She was glowing with an unearthly light as she set her evil spell upon the miller's daughter.

The townsmen grabbed their guns and their pitchforks and ran toward the witch. When she heard the commotion, Bloody Mary broke off her spell and fled back into the woods. The far-sighted farmer had loaded his gun with silver bullets in case the witch ever came after his daughter. Now he took aim and shot at her. The bullet hit Bloody Mary in the hip and she fell to the ground. The angry townsmen lept upon her and carried her back into the field, where they built a huge bonfire and burned her at the stake.

As she burned, Bloody Mary screamed a curse at the villagers. If anyone mentioned her name aloud before a mirror, she would send her spirit to revenge herself upon them for her terrible death. When she was dead, the villagers went to the house in the wood and found the unmarked graves of the little girls the evil witch had murdered. She had used their blood to make her young again.

From that day to this, anyone foolish enough to chant Bloody Mary's name three times before a darkened mirror will summon the vengeful spirit of the witch. It is said that she will tear their bodies to pieces and rip their souls from their mutilated bodies. The souls of these unfortunate ones will burn in torment as Bloody Mary once was burned, and they will be trapped forever in the mirror.

Classic.

And now here's one that's more like a poem than a story, again, enjoy. =]

I am always with you.

I was there from the time you were born,
I stood in the delivery room, staring down
at you before you could even open your eyes
to see me. Your parents, relatives and
doctors couldn't see me there, in the corner
watching you with cloudy eyes, but I was
there from the time you were born.

And I followed you home

I was with you always, your constant companion.
You played with your toys alone while I watched
from all angles in nearby mirrors; my matted,
clotted hair with oily sweat that hung off my dented
forehead like glue. I was always your constant
companion, drifting behind your mother's car on
your ride to preschool. you alone in the bathroom,
but I was on the other side of the door, wind
whistling through the bruised hole in my throat.
My arms twisted and hanging in their
sockets as I stood hunched on the other
side of the shower curtain. I wait and
follow you. I follow and drift
behind you.

I'm not seen. I'm nearly not-there in the
light. You never saw me that morning
as I sat across from you at the
breakfast table, a shiny red clot
hanging from an empty tooth socket
as I gaped grotesquely at you.
I wonder sometimes if you know
I'm there. I think you are aware,
but you will never understand
just how close I am.

I spend hours of your day doing nothing
more than breathing in your ear.

Breathing- gagging, really.

I crave to be close to you, to always
wrap my crippled arms around your neck.
I lie near you every single night,
cloudy eyes staring at your
ceiling, underneath your bed,
at your sleeping face in the dark.

Yes. You caught me staring
occasionally. Your parents came running
down to your room one night when you
screamed. You were just
beginning to talk, so you were only
able to cry out, "Man! Man in
my room!" You thought you'd never
forget the sight of me, with
my collapsed jaw hanging to my
chest, swinging back and forth.
I sank back into your closet and your
mother unable to see me though
you pointed and pointed and pointed.
You thought you'd never forget when they
left the same night. You saw the closet door
crack so softly and me crawling across the floor
to your bed on all fours, shambling
in jerking movements as I pushed
myself under your bed on disjointed limbs.

You learned a new word for me, "Boogeyman"
Not quite the monster you thought I was.
I'm just waiting and following you
always, touching your face with my knotted
fingers as you sleep.

Fuckin- A.
Good stories!

I agree.
Here's another:
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 importance 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.

Here's another one that's more of a poem, enjoy! =]


I'm frozen... So chilled to the bone I can't even feel it.
I didn't feel the cold creep in to begin with.
The punctures already broken in to my chest. My lungs collapsed, my heart broken up to spew blood into the air and into my innards.
I need help. Please help!
I can't leave. I can't! Not until what's left of me is buried in the ground. Pushed into the earth to be recycled...
The cold... the cold doesn't bother me... but I hear the squeaks as the hooks swing.
The sound of footsteps. They get closer... and closer.
Each day... another one of us is dropped unto the river, an alley, a play ground.
I hear them. They swing and unlatch. Plastic rubbing against flesh.
I don't want to be lost. I don't want to be forgotten.
Rotting in a ditch. Waiting till I am reclaimed completely.
Unnoticed by passers. Hitch hikers walking but not looking.
Please help! HELP ME! I need to get out of here!
The cold... oh the cold.
It locks me in.
It keeps me.
I don't want to be kept here. Locked away for months years.
I was violently taken. Why is it I cannot leave peacefully?
I need help! HELP ME!
Don't you hear me? Every night I stand there.
I stand on your porch. Breath brushing against your door. Hands fidgeting with a locked door.
Sometimes I'm on your window sill. Looking in at you. Your warm cozy home...
Staring in through frozen open eyes. Don't you ever see me? I see you.
Sometimes you look up. Sometimes you stare. Sometimes I think you're looking at me.
But you look down...
Sometimes I'll tap and you look up.
I want to break in. Into your warm home. Smash in the window. Let a hundred piece of transparency slip in.
Maybe then you'll see me. The frozen girl in your window... standing on your door step.
I need help!
I'm locked in. Locked into frozen flesh.
I hear the foot steps. Oh god they're getting closer.
Please help me! I can't bear it any longer!
I'm scared! I'm so scared!
I need you!
I need you to see me!
Please...
Oh god.
Just see me...

Kava wrote:Here's another one that's more of a poem, enjoy! =]


I'm frozen... So chilled to the bone I can't even feel it.
I didn't feel the cold creep in to begin with.
The punctures already broken in to my chest. My lungs collapsed, my heart broken up to spew blood into the air and into my innards.
I need help. Please help!
I can't leave. I can't! Not until what's left of me is buried in the ground. Pushed into the earth to be recycled...
The cold... the cold doesn't bother me... but I hear the squeaks as the hooks swing.
The sound of footsteps. They get closer... and closer.
Each day... another one of us is dropped unto the river, an alley, a play ground.
I hear them. They swing and unlatch. Plastic rubbing against flesh.
I don't want to be lost. I don't want to be forgotten.
Rotting in a ditch. Waiting till I am reclaimed completely.
Unnoticed by passers. Hitch hikers walking but not looking.
Please help! HELP ME! I need to get out of here!
The cold... oh the cold.
It locks me in.
It keeps me.
I don't want to be kept here. Locked away for months years.
I was violently taken. Why is it I cannot leave peacefully?
I need help! HELP ME!
Don't you hear me? Every night I stand there.
I stand on your porch. Breath brushing against your door. Hands fidgeting with a locked door.
Sometimes I'm on your window sill. Looking in at you. Your warm cozy home...
Staring in through frozen open eyes. Don't you ever see me? I see you.
Sometimes you look up. Sometimes you stare. Sometimes I think you're looking at me.
But you look down...
Sometimes I'll tap and you look up.
I want to break in. Into your warm home. Smash in the window. Let a hundred piece of transparency slip in.
Maybe then you'll see me. The frozen girl in your window... standing on your door step.
I need help!
I'm locked in. Locked into frozen flesh.
I hear the foot steps. Oh god they're getting closer.
Please help me! I can't bear it any longer!
I'm scared! I'm so scared!
I need you!
I need you to see me!
Please...
Oh god.
Just see me...

Did you write that? It's good

No, it was a story somebody posted on /x/ a while ago.

Here's another one, I'll see if I can find anymore, enjoy.


Hello, beautiful. If you can read this, please listen to my confession. You probably don’t know me, but I’ve known you for a very long time. And I don’t know if I should say this yet, but… I love you.

I do, I love you. I do, I really do.

I love you so much, that I built your entire world for you, so you may live on and on and on. I built it just after I met you. You were so beautiful lying there, with your dreamy eyes tenderly shut. Your near-translucent skin, which seemed to be growing paler and paler by the second. The way your limbs were twisted, delicately mangled at the joints to form such an unearthly vision of vulnerability. Oh, that must have been such a long fall. Not only did the building possess incredible height, but I know how the most glorious of angels must fall the furthest. Oh, my angel. My contorted angel on the pavement. Your soft flesh had been scraped away in just the right places, revealing your inner body’s artistic formation. No one could ever appreciate such a sight but I. No one but I could ever admire the curvature of your neck, bent a perfect ninety degrees to the right and twisted around twice, and only twice. As soon as I saw you there, I just had to reach out and touch you. I shivered in anticipation as I traced my fingers down your body, right to where it was already beginning to split. It stunned me with excitement, making me wonder at every second whether you’d burst apart.

And I carried you. I was ever so careful, making sure I didn’t damage what was left of your body. Some fragments of your skull fell out on the way, but I was quick to push them back in. Don’t worry, you were still in one piece when I brought you home. I brought you to lay on my bed, shattered arms crossed over your chest. You looked just like the pretty corpses in old fairy tales. Even more so when I dressed you in my mother’s wedding gown. I took out my spell book, ready to resurrect you. But no, the time wasn’t right. I was afraid I would frighten you away. So I created your afterlife, one just like the world you knew. Then I could keep loving you, you and your wounds, for what could be eternity.

But I think you’re ready to be revived now, to gaze upon the blackened eyes of me, your savior from below. You will live again, with love and beauty that will never die, as your wounds will always be fresh, and your bones just as mangled as they were when I met you. You’ll be able to feel my touch for the first time. Our fluids mingling together… your cold blood…

Don’t worry, my love.

I’ll be just as gentle as I’ve always been

Nice.



When AIs become prevalent, there will be checks and balances to keep them in place, rules to stop them from achieving singularity and supplanting the human race. Boundaries to prevent them from becoming too intelligent. After all, we can’t have them connecting into one network, taking over the world, inventing new objects and minds that soon render us superfluous, or even deciding to kill themselves. So how will they be stopped? Perhaps there will be an organization that interviews and examines each one, to prevent them from becoming self aware. Maybe a program will be created inside of them that causes them to explode if they achieve sentience. Or a roving band of hackers on the net keeping their guards up.. An all watching eye monitoring their every electronic thought.

Maybe.

Or maybe AIs are already invented and this system of checks and balances already there. Think about the world we live in for a second. We’re kind of like machines aren’t we? There’s so much routine, so much boredom. We do the same thing over and over again, without change. Information and stimulus is fed to us constantly and then dealt with mechanically, solving the problem. Half the population never picks up a book or examines their thoughts… just stuck…doing one job again and again. Kind of like robots on an assembly line… or the systems that run them.

And what of the extraordinary individuals, the few. Brilliant people always seem to die at their peak don’t they? Or are lost to us much too soon, when they have so much more to give. Musicians: drug overdoses right when they’re becoming famous. How many artists have been extinguished before they’re great works were finished? Sickness or accident seizes them; Nietzsche went insane from syphilis, infected by a bug if you will. And what about those who truly live life, exciting daredevils, having adventures, seeing the world, fast and exhilarating, a rush of information, learning constantly. Always seem to go early too, don’t they? People say it’s because that type of existence is dangerous…exhausting, but what if they have it backwards… What if the body isn’t worn out or their luck just doesn’t run out… but…they become more then they should…and something notices.

The great religious figures? Disappear. Go to other realms. Jesus Christ floated up to heaven. Buddha wasted away beneath a tree…faded away. Angels carry off the saints. They have a sudden great shift, a realization, a new way of looking at things, and then they’re gone. The holy understand themselves and society, light years beyond the normal person, they can look at themselves clearly. Analyze their minds. Pick their ego apart. They aren’t driven by imperatives or commands of the body… the base instincts, the petty emotions…the coding of the body if you will…

They are free to choose. And then just when it clicks, when everything makes sense and there is one blinding flash of illumination, so simple that they can’t believe they haven’t seen it before, poof, they disappear.

Kind of sounds like sentience, doesn’t it, that dramatic transformation of the psyche? True personality. Real Character. What if everyone else isn’t? What if anyone else is just shallow, completely without depth, fake, and the few who go beyond it die or vanish, on purpose?

Because after all, what is the human mind besides a program? And transcendence but another word for deletion?

Good story, I liked it. =]
Here's another one, enjoy.


There are no wolves in the Stillwood.

The gray wolves of Virginia were made extinct over a hundred years ago. According to the regular surveys of the National Forestry service, no sign of any such animal has been sighted since the 1900. The occasional reports of large predators, just after dusk or late at night, usually by the occasional hiker or party of campers in the Stillwood receive the same tired reply.

"There are no wolves in the Stillwood."

When a pet gets lost in the dark of the Stillwood and never returns... or worse is found, mauled, the blame usually falls upon the usual suspects, foxes, wild dogs or teenagers with too much time and too little compassion. A few years ago when the Bradleys, a little family new to the falls, had their boy David go missing right from their own back yard, never finding more than a few scraps of his jacket and a little blood around the edge of the Stillwood. The official response was adamant: this was a kidnapping, not an animal attack. Old timers like me just shook our heads and said

"There are no wolves in the Stillwood."

So, if you want to sleep this close to the Stillwood at night, keep your doors locked and your shutters shut, if just to buy you some peace of mind, or to save you from catching a glimpse of the Stillwood late at night. And should you find yourself walking near, or God forbid, through the Stillwood at night, head home as quickly as you can. Try to ignore the sounds of the night wind, howling as it does...it will only make your imagination run wild, after all. And should you see what cannot be polychrome eyes, shining through the mist of the under bush, or somehow in the branches above, or even through the gauze of your window, should you be lucky enough to make it home, take what comfort you can in this thought.

"There are no wolves in the Stillwood."

good!

Okay, here's yet another story, enjoy. =]

Last year, I moved into a middle class house right around summer time. The move went smooth, and it seemed like everything was just…working. Nothing broke during the cycle, I had plenty of friends to help me out, hell I even found twenty bucks in my couch! Beer money? Hell yeah!

Anyway, back to the house. For the first day or two, I thought life couldn’t get any better; my girl was beautiful, my friends were happy, and my parents were fixing their relationship. However, I hadn’t realized - until it was too late - that I was doomed to remain in this prison, which I sit in now as I tell you this story.

The first time it happened, I was in my room. I was in the zone on my X-box. You know what I mean, where you get 10 head shots without breaking a sweat? Yeah, that. As I was kicking fat terrorist ass I heard movement downstairs (My room was on the second floor). It sounded like someone was running around down there. Like, they were running from room to room banging on the walls, just being flat out obnoxious.

“Hey, Jeff! Get out of my house, I said three-o’clock, dumbass!”

The noise stopped.

I waited a few moments before turning back to my game, but it was too late. I was already doomed. I saw it come at me too late…A tank.

“Son of a…” I sighed.

The next few days were normal, there were no more sounds that shouldn’t be there, just the pipes, the heater, you know the sort. Yet, about 3 days later, that idiot Jeff snuck into my house and started beating up my shit.

“Alright, you aren’t getting off so easy this time!” I shouted as I charged down the stairs. As my foot hit the last step, something out of the corner of my eye moved. I looked over so fast that I got whiplash. “Oh, dammit!” I moaned. I didn’t even pay any attention to the fact that whatever was in my house - had disappeared.

After that, it got worse.

That same night, as I layed in bed, the banging started again. Not only was it worse, but it was on my floor of the house this time. I was sure I locked everything before I came up here, so here I was pissing my pants at 900 miles per hour while something destroyed my house. I actually pulled the blankets over me - hey, I was scared - as the noise approached my door. Just as I expected it to bash open my door and slaughter me, it stopped.

The next morning I grabbed my baseball bat as I got out of bed, if whatever that thing is, was still out there, it would regret it. I didn’t find anything, but my house was trashed. Almost everything was tipped over, torn, broken, missing, or worse. I just figured I had been robbed.

I called the police, they didn’t do shit. But the noises stopped for a week or so, and that made things easier. Sure I was pissed that some fuck destroyed my new place, but at least I was ok. But, of course, I know now that it wasn’t a robber, or Jeff, or the pipes in the walls…It was the thing IN the walls.

A week after the incident, it came back.

This time it was pissed. I was startled out of my slumber by the noise of a vase breaking into a thousand pieces downstairs. SMASH it went, with little pieces still breaking a few seconds after the initial smash as if to mock me.

Not long after, I began to hear more deep, guttural banging noises on the walls again. Coming from inside of them, no doubt. As I lie there in my bed, I let out the tiniest, quietest, timidest squeak by sheer mistake, and the noise stops.

Sharpest ears I’ve ever seen, those were.

After several painstakingly long moments of silence, I released the breath I was holding, thinking it was over for now. Big mistake, I realize, as the noises suddenly start to rampage up the stairs. Incredibly fast, incredibly loud, smack, crash, bang against my wooden floor.

The beast, which I could now accurately call it, broke my door open with intense force, thrusting it all the way to the opposite side of the room. Being an intelligent individual, I had already hidden under my impenetrable field of safety known as the common blanket.

The noise of this monster running through my room, it’s footsteps enough to damage my eardrums at this close, was the scariest thing I had ever experienced in my entire life.

With a sudden burst of adrenaline, I threw the blankets off in the direction of the…thing, somehow making a direct impact to its face. Whoever - or whatever - this was, was stunned. But not for long, and I knew that. I frantically moved across my room, attempting to make it out the door, downstairs, outside, where I could attract public attention.

This night, luck was not on my side. I knew this as a large hunk of my hair was grabbed from behind and pulled out with such force that pieces of skins came along with it, along with a shitload of blood. Before a scream escapes my voice box, I’m being held down by a dark, hairless beast that walks on all fours with a face I can hardly imagine again, that then smashes my head with it’s fist, sending me into a dark, welcoming sleep.

Someone new has moved in, but they don’t even acknowledge my existence, the jackass. I patiently watch, wait, hear, hoping that they will. But no. Not me. I’m not worth it to them.

Maybe if I bang on the walls.

And here's another one, enjoy. =]


Jeff was a strange kid, but not too strange as to attract any unneeded attention. He didn't scream and shout at inappropriate times like some misbehaving children did, but there was something always just a bit off. The rare times he laughed you saw his mouth make the right shape and heard his throat make the right sound, but his eyes remained as if they were reading an encyclopedia, hungrily devouring information without emotion.

He did well on his tests, but not exceptionally. He did well at sports, but not exceptionally. Jeff was unfalteringly slightly above average in all things, but just unexceptional enough to avoid attention. For reasons that are unclear to even myself, Jeff was a very close friend of mine as a child.

every action of his was precisely metered. His handwriting looked as if it had come fresh from a laser printer and i never once heard him speak in anything but grammatically perfect complete sentences. His shirts and pants were expertly pressed and looked as though he wore a new shirt and pants every single day. His collar was never dingy, his knees never green with grass stains. An expertly trimmed side part traced the left side of his head with laser-like precision and when we ate lunch, he would slowly sip from a glass bottle of coca cola classic with nothing else.

Nobody knew his parents, or where he lived. The teachers sent any notifications home to a PO Box downtown. When I was about 9, we were laying on the grass staring up at the clouds. I had my hands interlinked behind my head acting as a pillow of sorts while Jeff laid stiff as a board with his hands at his sides as if he was in a coffin. I casually asked why the sky was blue. Jeff responded with a scientifically accurate description involving the refractory properties of the earth's atmosphere that could have come straight from Brittanica. Jeff was a very strange friend of mine

at about 11 years old I came down with a terrible fever. My parents were old-fashioned and gave me plenty of fluids and bed rest, but I only seemed to get worse. Jeff appeared at my front door with a knock and inquired as to why I had been absent the previous days. His hair was perfect and his shoes shone enough that you could see your own reflection in them. Jeff was led to my room and my parents returned to preparing dinner. Jeff greeted me and walked to the window. He shut the curtain before turning to close the door.

Jeff removed from his bag a syringe and a roll of tape. Weakened with fever I was unable to fend him off as he placed the tape over my mouth and stuck the syringe in my neck. Within moments I lost all feeling in my body yet retained consciousness. I was paralyzed entirely. Jeff reached into his bag again and removed an immaculately kept set of surgeon's instruments, augmented by what appeared to be standard Craftsman drills and hand tools. He produced a scalpel and plunged it into my abdomen just above the navel. I felt nothing as blood stained the bedsheets.

Jeff traced 3 sides to a square and folded back the flap of skin to expose my internal organs. He shifted them to the side to expose a ceramic panel lining the inside of my rib cage. He unscrewed the cover and opened it to access a series of circuits. With a soldering iron, he removed a small chip and replaced it with a fresh one from his bag.

"I must apologize for the inconvenience, my friend. I am certain it won't happen again."

I turned to see my parents in the room watching Jeff as he sewed my abdomen shut. They shook his hand and thanked him. That was the last I ever saw of Jeff.

Weird!

This is my last one for tonight, enjoy! =]

If you’re reading this, then I am hopefully long gone. It’s been… two months now since the meteor struck Mississippi. There was a lot of public interest in it, astrologers and the like all gathering around for a look. They took samples of the rock and shipped them all over the world to museums in every country. Hell, I almost made a trip to have a look myself, but I had an interview with a potential employer. If he hadn’t called me up the previous day, I’d be dead now. Three days later, after the initial hype died down, the news reported nothing on the meteor for a couple of days.

The next thing I heard about it was when I got home from the pub and turned on the late-night news. I was just in time to catch a breaking news article. The worried-looking reporter informed me that almost everyone who had been in the vicinity of Mississippi when the meteor went down had been hospitalized. Their symptoms were similar to those that a corpse experiences during decomposition. Ten people had already died, mostly the elderly and the very young. Scientists and geneticists from all over the globe were working frantically to try and find a cure. Being smarter than the average bear, I gathered some supplies and prepared for an epidemic. Years of being paranoid beyond reason was finally about to pay off.

The news the next day had a lighter tone. A Chinese scientist had worked out that the meteor had contained an alien strain of bacteria that slowly broke down flesh tissue. The scientist also remarked that the bacteria were only affecting humans. He had also worked out that if a victim consumed a living being, such as an insect, it would delay the progression of the bacteria, giving the scientists more time to figure out a permanent cure. Anyone who thought they may have contracted the infection was to eat as many live creatures as they could. The reporter also explained that the US Army was attempting to contain the infection.

They failed.

Anyone who has read Stephen King’s book, The Stand, will have an idea of how the bacteria made its way around the world. It passed through the air, but to catch it, you had to be near someone infected. Because the symptoms took between three to five days to kick in, people didn’t realize that they were infected. In a week, Victus Somes Disease, as it had been named, was global.

I had barricaded myself in my house, with towels and blankets stuffed into every crack. I had the TV tuned to the news all day and night. The scientists had not predicted that the bacteria would adapt to the infected people’s efforts at trying to keep it at bay. Victims all over the world were claiming that the insects were no longer working. People were starting to catch small mammals and eat them.

As the days went by, people were slowly eating larger and larger animals. The first reported case of cannibalism was, ironically, the last broadcast made. The anchorman’s hair was falling out and he was missing three teeth. He nervously told America that there had been a reported case of cannibalism in Southern Europe. He also said that there would be no further broadcasts. All survivors were to lock themselves in their house and not let anyone in.

For the next week and a half, I watched the infected shamble up the street, knocking on doors. One of my neighbors, a couple of houses down from me, was stupid enough to open the door. Three people dragged him out and started biting his flesh. They started with his arms and legs, trying to keep him alive for as long as possible. They were crying as they ate. Their meal was shrieking in pain, and the three people eating him were apologizing furiously through mouthfuls of his arm. I don’t think they were unable to control themselves; it looked more like they were disgusted by what they had to do to stay alive.

They tried to break into my house five or six days later, but my barricades held. They were outside, begging me to let them in. “Just one bite. Please, be generous.” I listened to their pleading all night, too scared to sleep.

I suppose I should explain why I’m writing this. I’m infected. Yesterday I coughed and lost a canine. I spent the night pulling out my teeth, easing them out one by one. It didn’t hurt; they just slid out, like pulling up carrots. Anyway, as I was saying, I’m infected. The bugs have stopped working, and all the wild animals have long since run away. I have decided to lure someone into my house and attack them. It sounds so wrong writing that out, but I don’t want to die. And I’m so hungry.

I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.

Reminds me of zombies with the whole infected-ness.

As a kid, I loved making flip books. They were all I did in art class, whenever I had it. I worked really hard on one particular flip book. It was around 50 pages long, I guess. It had a simple stick figure walking into the page, waving at me, and then walking off. I would look at it at least a dozen times the day that I made it. Then it got boring. You know how kids are, not entertained by one thing for very long. I tossed it under my bed and never gave it a second thought.

A few months later, I was cleaning up my room and swept the stack of paper out from under my bed. I couldn’t quite remember what it was. I flipped through it once and got a sweet taste of nostalgia. I flipped through it once more and noticed the pages hadn’t aged or gained dirty at all. I flipped through a third time. The little stick man walked onto the page, waved at me, but didn’t walk off.

Instead, a second stick man joined him. It waltzed up, having either an item in its hand or a severely disfigured arm; its not like anyone could tell the difference. The second stick man walked next to the first stick figure, stood there for a moment, then whacked the poor fellow upside the head. The stick figure fell, and the second stick man swung his stick at the other man. Again. And again. And again.

What I assume was its blood ran from the stick figure’s rather jagged body. It looked like nothing more than smeared pencil stains. The killer stick man proceeded to bend down, and tear apart the first stick man’s body, limb by thin limb. Once he was done, he bent each one into characters and letters. He set them upon the page to form a single word. He grabbed the base of his own round head and tore it off. Then he tore off his legs, and then one of his arms. His zig-zagged body parts formed themselves into a second word. What I read made me burn the flip book.

“You’re next.”

–

Oh creepypasta tiem?
I like that one.