Reflections

A few years ago I lived in a small college town in the mountains. Me and a few friends had this nice set up where we all lived in the same house, not like a rental or anything, but a house one of us had in our family. It was a new house, built around 2004 or so, but I think I remember hearing that there were some tenants renting out the place before we moved in, a fraternity or something. In random places throughout the house, you could still find their Greek letters drawn into the rafters or in some small obscure place under the sink. In a way I appreciated that they had left those small letters around. A kind of a way to mark that they had been there, that the house held importance to them as well as it would to us.

When we moved in in the summer of 2009, it was barren. No furniture to speak of, no food or shampoo bottles, the little things that over time make a house a home. We were able to wrangle together a small couch, beds for each of us, and stocked the place with some summer provisions to hold us over until our financial aid refund dispersed in the fall.

As we explored the house, we found that one of the previous tenants had left a light bulb in one of the upstairs bedrooms. We flicked the light switch and the room was flooded with this red light. My friend, I’ll call her Olivia, made a grimace at the light and I followed in suit, then we both started to laugh. It was creepy and unsettling, but nothing horrifying. It was kind of funny, actually, that the only thing left there for us was this red light bulb in the bedroom. We joked, and for a few months we called it the Murder Room.

My room was directly next to the Murder Room. After some time, the other roommates, I’ll call them Elaina and Lewis, came in to help set things up. However, Lewis and Olivia both had summer jobs back home, so Elaina and I settled in for the next three months of relative isolation. She had the room directly down the hall from me, with the bathroom between us in the hall.
One weekend, Elaina went down to see Lewis and left me to the house by myself. If you’ve ever stayed in a new house or apartment by yourself for a few days, you can understand how creepy it is on your own. But I made it work. I turned on all the lights, and watched some Monty Python, Shin Chan, any sort of ridiculous comedy I could think of to lighten the mood.

As I sat on the couch downstairs, I figured that I was up for a little scare. I mean, sometimes scaring yourself is a ton of fun, and hey, I didn’t need to be up in the morning for anything. So I gathered my courage and popped in a copy of Paranormal Activity. After maybe the second act, I decided that, no, I was in fact not up for a little scare. I switched it off and went back to Monty Python.

About halfway through the second episode of the night, a piercing noise began to screech though the empty house. I jumped up from my seat and looked around in a mild panic. For no reason whatsoever, all of the fire alarms in the house started going off at once. They were in perfect sync, alarms in stereo, and I ran into the kitchen to see if I had forgotten some food I had started cooking earlier that night. The stove was bare.

I looked around, trying to find the source of the alarm, but there was no smoke anywhere in the house. Then, just as they had started, they stopped. Jarred, but with apparently nothing else to investigate, I went back to the living room, and resumed watching my shows.

About a half hour later, the alarms rounded again, this time not quite as in sync as before. Fueled by paranoia and thoroughly impressed by what I had seen in Paranormal Activity, I ran over and grabbed a pool stick from the corner of the room. You know. To fight demons. Then, the alarms stopped again.

Deciding that I was done with the nonsense, I switched off the TV and went upstairs to bed. I brought the pool stick with me. You know. To fight demons. I slept with it in my bed that night. The alarms never went off again.

When Elaina came home, I had told her about what had happened, and she laughed it off. She said that the batteries were probably all dying, and the alarms were going off to alert us to that fact. I smiled and agreed that that was probably what had happened. But it was odd. All of the alarms going off at the same time would mean that the batteries had to have been put into all of the alarms at the exact same time as well. And wouldn’t they continue to alarm throughout the night? I don’t know. Honestly, I haven’t been around smoke detectors so intimately, so I wouldn’t know if that was the case. Still, it was creepy.

That house had a creepy air in it for a while, until we managed to paint the rooms and make it our own. But we were fools, and watched horror movies all night and so whether through psychology or actuality, the house retained is creepy aura.

It didn’t help that that was also the summer that I had discovered what a creepypasta was. That was also when the first season of Marble Hornets was in full swing. You know, when it was good. I watched a few episodes and ran down the hall, yelling, “Elaina! Slenderman is coming to get you!” She would yell back, “Fuck you! I hate you!” and it was all good fun.

About a month later, maybe around the end of July, I started reading things about mirrors. It was also around this time that I had read the Tulpa, a really good creepypasta, if you haven’t read it I recommend it. Anyway, I decided, on a whim, to try to scare myself again. I got a full body mirror, set it up against the wall (the wall I shared with the Murder Room mind you) and I stared at the reflection. The mirror seemed to be steady enough, so I decided that it was time to experiment.

I had read people daring others on /x/ to do this. You set up a mirror, turn off all the lights and close the door, and just stare at your reflection. Seemed harmless enough. No bogus bloody Mary chant, no flicking the lights on and off, just sit and stare. So I did. I turned off the lights, sat down, and stared.

It was weird at first, just sitting and looking at yourself. But I sat steadily, and stared at my own reflection with a blank face. I moved slightly to one side, and of course my reflection followed me. But then I just sat there. Still as a stone. And I stared.

I looked directly into my reflection’s eyes. The pupils widened, as my own did to adjust to the darkness. I mean, everyone had always said I had beautiful eyes, so I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. But I sat there. Silently and still.

About 15 minutes passed. We were still. And it was then that I thought my mind had started to play ticks on me. My arm would twitch, and I would see the reflection move before I had registered that I had twitched. I knew that I was in control, but it didn’t stop my mind from wandering.

I was a little uncomfortable the way I was sitting, so I adjusted myself, and the reflection followed my lead. But, after I had stopped moving, it was a little like he kept moving his feet, just a little, barely perceivable. I stayed there, and stared. A few times, I broke eye contact to examine the reflection, to see if anything was off, and I could have sworn that it never took its eyes off of me. I couldn’t be sure though, because when I looked back at the face, it was staring at me, just as it should have been.

My attention shifted to the mouth. I knew I wasn’t making an expression, but it almost seemed like the reflection had the slightest frown, the kind of frown you make when you’re forced to be around people you don’t like. As I watched, the reflection’s head tilted, just a little, and my eyes darted back to meet its eyes. Nothing. No movement other than my own again.

I was growing uncomfortable. Animals will sometimes stare down their foes, making eye contact as a sort of challenge. They wait for the other to make the first move. I thought about what might happen if I moved. Would the reflection lash out against the glass, ready to strike? I knew it wouldn’t but I still didn’t want to move. My mind wandered to the other possibility. What if it moved first?

There are some very old superstitions about mirrors. Some say that it is bad luck to catch sight of your reflection while sitting by candle light. Some traditions hold that any mirrors in a room where someone has recently died must be covered so that their soul would not become trapped behind the glass. One of the most common beliefs, though, is that to see one’s reflection, you see your own soul.

I couldn’t shake the notion that whatever this was I was seeing could not be my soul. It just seemed too foreign, and it seemed to be growing more hostile. Something about it was wrong. I decided that I had had enough of it, and I stood up to turn on the lights and rejoin my friend down the hall. As I stood, I dared not break eye contact. As I got to my feet, I thought, who is really moving, who is reacting.

I turned on the light, and I sighed in relief. I slowly turned the mirror around to face the wall, and there it stayed. In the back of my mind, I wondered if the reflection ever came back, looking for me again only to see the blank wall it was now facing.

School came back into session not too long after that. Friends came back and life resumed as normal. A few years later, it came time for me to move out. As I packed up my belongings, I intentionally left the mirror for last. While I was downstairs, Elaina called to me from the window, and asked if I was going to take it. I came back upstairs to grab the last object, and as I turned it around, I froze. The mirror was cracked. A long, thin crack, across the lower half of the mirror, right where I had been sitting those years ago.


I smiled, and told her she could keep it.



—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta

11 Miles

Do you have something that you truly, relentlessly desire? Despite your state of life, is there something else that you would go completely to the end of the world to get? Well lucky for you, there’s a way to achieve what you’re looking for and you won’t need to go to the end of the world to get it. But you will need to go somewhere, and the place may be too out of reach for some. It’s not far away, closer than one may believe but there’s requirements that some individuals may not possess.

First, whatever it is that you seek, know that you MUST seriously desire what you want. In your eyes, it should be something you need. If you begin the journey without the correct state of mind, you will surely fail as it will be near impossible to turn back once the journey starts. The second requirement is that you will need a vehicle of a sort. Most use a car, as it gives one a false feeling of protection which may be what get’s you through. There have been a select few that have used small motorized vehicle, such as an ATV or motorcycle, but this has proven to be quite difficult as the conditions of the journey can prove to be too bothersome even during it’s early stages.

Do not use a vehicle too large or noticeable, as you will need some of the cover of night to be most safe. Also while any sort of car will do, you may not want to choose the most expensive or cherished vehicle. You can take you slick new black Mercedes for the drive if you’d like, but don’t expect it to come out in a pristine state. Make sure your vehicle is completely fueled before beginning the drive.

The first task to accomplish is to locate the road. It doesn’t have a name, it’s not on the map, and technically, it doesn’t even exist. It will only show up if you’re looking for it at the right time, and you will only spot it if you know what to look for. Finally, you must be alone during the journey. You didn’t think you’d be able to go with a group did you?

It must be night when you begin. Choose the time of the night where you believe the roads are the least populated. Drive to any area that is just a stretch of road surrounded by woods. Here’s where you want to start paying close attention. If you’re looking for the road, it will turn up eventually, but you need to search for the road’s hint in order to pull down the right one. Once you’re close, you will see or feel the signs but what the signs will be will depend on what it is you desire.

For example, if you’re in search of wealth, you may spot shimmers on the empty branches of trees as if they resembled the shine of gold or diamonds. If you seek love, you may begin to see rose petals slowly dance in the light breeze, blowing in the road’s direction. If you seek revenge, you might sense an ever growing feeling of heat or anger in your body as you approach. Just know what it is you really want, and you’ll have no problem finding the turn.

Once you’re sure you’ve found the revealed road, take a deep breath, and turn down onto it.

At this point, you have officially started down the nameless road which bring you through 11 miles, leading to whatever it is you seek. Each mile will test your desire, and will expose if you really do want what you’re searching for. Before you go any further, stop the car and be wary of a few warnings:

Do not turn on a radio during the drive.

Do not use a phone during the drive (reception would be cut off anyway).

Do not open the windows during the drive. Make sure they are closed before you continue. If you are riding a vehicle without windows or a top, then prepare for the worst, as the odds are heavily against you.

Do not attempt to leave your vehicle at ANY time.

You’ll never want to exceed 30 miles per hour, unless you’re desperate to make it through a section of the road.

And most importantly, as with any drive, buckle up.

Feel free to prepare and make sure you’re ready. Once the road has been entered, time has stopped so you don’t need to worry about losing the night. Though you may not notice, you’re not actually in your own world anymore. Take one last moment to realize that once the first mile is over there is NO turning back. If you ponder turning back at all, know that you shouldn’t even be on the journey in the first place. Once all is done, start continuing on the road.

On the first mile, you won’t see much change. The road passes through mostly woods with a few miles being an exception. The air will turn a bit colder, in which you should turn your heating system if the vehicle has one. You won’t want to take your eyes off the road later. Take some time to calm any uneasiness by admiring some of the night sky. You’ll see it completely lined with stars, more than what you would ever believe possible. If the weather was cloudy beforehand, you’ll also notice that the sky is now clear.

On the second mile, the air will become even colder. This is primarily the reason why traveling in an open vehicle is very difficult. With each mile, the air will drop in temperature even if the season should be warm. If the air is too cold to bear, even with the heat on, your only option is to speed up. With each mile the road also becomes more complex, taking more turns and showing an increasing amount of road hazards. Be sure to always keep focused on the road in front of you in order to avoid as many bumps or obstacles as possible. Hitting a few rocks and potholes won’t hamper you’re progress too much, but you’ll want to keep in the best condition for as long as possible. If you’re vehicle is forced to a stop because of damage, then there’s nothing left you can do but eventually freeze to death.

On the third mile, you may begin to spot silhouettes of human figures in the linings of trees. Pay no attention to them, even if they seem to get closer. It will be hard to resist peeking at their unnerving, distant appearance but know that they will reveal themselves later. At this mile, the road will become dirt if you weren’t driving on it in the beginning. Keep to the center of the path as it will become narrow and wide at random intervals. On a quick side note, should you ever attempt to turn around (despite the previous warnings) you’ll be left on a path which never ends. You would simply run out of fuel eventually, and be left to freeze in the cold conditions.

On the fourth mile, you will not only see more of the figures but you will begin to in a sense hear them. In the back of your mind, a very faint unintelligible whisper will echo. These will come and go, but you can’t stop them. If they become bothersome or distracting, try and tune them out by thinking of what it is you desire. Attempting to listen and determine what the voices are saying will only attract them to you, and you want to be far away from them as you can. They’ll be closer later, so there’s no use bringing them near you this early.

On the fifth mile, you will come to a clearing. The lining of trees to your left will disappear to reveal a lake with no end with a beaming, great moon over the water. The illumination from the moon will be so spectacular that the vehicle’s headlights will no longer be required. Restrain yourself from gazing at it. If you look at it’s light for even more than a few seconds the road in front of you will end, throwing your vehicle into the water in which you will freeze in mere minutes. The voices will be gone for this mile, but don’t rejoice yet. They’ll be back.

On the sixth mile, take into account that you are more than halfway done. Despite the progress, you may lose hope here. The stars will have disappeared at this point, leaving the sky an empty, black abyss. The clearing will have ended, leading you back into the woods. The only light you will have will be provided by your vehicles headlights, but they will flicker from time to time even if you’re sure they’re in perfect working order. If you have a radio in the vehicle, it will turn on here automatically. If you didn’t turn it off beforehand, it will produce an overwhelming screech that will send you off the path. A calm voice will then begin to speak about your greatest fears, what it is you horror in your life. It will speak in a way that will cause you to visualize its words in your mind, so don’t listen to it. If you begin to comprehend what it’s saying, the horrors will prove too much for you to stay on the road safely. Attempting to turn off the radio will prove no use.Speed up if you need to, just keep your mind off the voice as much as you can. As you approach the end of the mile, the voice will fade out of the speakers, leaving your ears at peace (for now).

On the seventh mile, the voices from the figures will return. It won’t sound like a whisper this time, but more like distant screams, growing closer with each second. At some point on this mile, you’ll hear one of them in your ear, as if one of them were right behind you. This is because one of the figures have found their way into your vehicle. Do not turn around. Their faces will shock you to a paralysis, leading you off the road. If you don’t draw attention to it, it will become uninterested, and hopefully leave. These beings are said to be ones who have traveled down this road before, but were not successful. They live the remainder of their existence suffering, in the darkness with their only goal being to bring other travelers down with them. It has been said from experience that these beings can’t physically harm you, so as long as they don’t cause you to wreck, you should be fine.

On the eighth mile, slow down if you’re going too fast. The road here takes very sharp turns, which if overshot will lead will throw the vehicle into a pit through the trees. The cold is near fatal here. If you were to have a glass or bottle of liquid in your vehicle, it would be solid in seconds. The heating system will have become completely obsolete. Your headlights will flicker more, sometimes shutting off for a few seconds. You should break if this happens, but do not completely stop. The figures will be following you at this point, and should you stop for too long, they will surround and trap your vehicle. More of their screams can be heard from outside your doors, sometimes even sounding of maniacal laughter. Their hands will claw at your windows, desperate to reach in and feel something living. Do not look at them. They won’t block your windshield, and the last thing you want to happen is to crash and be trapped with them. If you don’t make if from here, pray that it’s the freezing that ends you.

On the ninth mile, your vehicle will stall. The headlights will shut off, as will all other systems inside. There’s nothing you can do to prevent this. What you will need to do is close your eyes and immediately attempt to restart the vehicle. Keep your eyes closed, as the figures would have surely surrounded you at this point. The starting of the vehicle will frighten them, and they will all back away temporarily. This will give you a chance to start moving forward again. If you begin to hear the windows crack from their struggle, don’t lose focus. The beings can alter the vehicle but remember that they still do not have the strength to physically affect you. You will hear nothing but their voices rampage in your mind, as there could be anywhere between a dozen or a hundred after you now. Once you start the vehicle, floor it. Floor it so long as you can stay on the path.Once the mile’s done, the beings will retreat.

On the tenth mile, the voices of the beings will stop. If you were to look in your rear-view mirror (do not actually do this), you will see them following you but not as if they were chasing. They’re watching you as if they were seeing you off. As you go down the tenth mile, the road will be smoother as if you were back on the first mile. The figures will be lining the sides of the path ahead of you. They won’t be after you, but they will watch you as you pass. Some have theorized that the beings are impressed here, that you have come a long way on the journey to what you desire. This is false. They are not impressed, but they are happy. They are happy you are about to approach the next mile. They are happy because you are most likely going to your death.

On the eleventh and final mile, everything in your vehicle will lose power, as it did on the ninth mile. The vehicle would normally be immobile, but you will still be moving. An unknown force will be pulling you forward. In the darkness, you will see a growing red light up ahead, as if it were a light at the end of a tunnel.

Close your eyes, and cover them. Do whatever it takes to make sure you do not see what you are about to go through. Covering your ears would also be helpful, but keeping your eyes cover should be a higher priority.

The red light is another clearing, but there’s no moon or lake this time. Once it’s entered, unrelenting and inconceivable noises will sound from all directions. No amount of bravery and conditioning will spare you from these sounds. The cold will turn to a merciless heat, burning all parts of the vehicle. You will feel the illusion of the flesh being burned off your bones, that every part of you is being destroyed as you travel through screams and audible suffering. As long as you keep your eyes closed, and resist the urge to see where you are, you will survive through the suffering. This will last a total of 31 seconds but many fail to keep their vision closed during that time and are left to the worst fate of the road. Where is this mile located? Those who have survived do not know. Some have named it “the transmission from hell” but whether it’s part of hell is debatable.

After the final mile, power will return to your car. Stop the vehicle. Take a moment to possibly regain some of your sanity. Let the screaming in your ears begin to fade and know that you have nearly completed your journey with the hardest task overcome.

Breathe, and begin to drive forward once again.

After only a kilometer, your vehicle will arrive at a dead end. Stop here and don’t attempt to move again. Nothing will happen right this second but do not be disappointed. Relax and close your eyes. Imagine in your mind what it is you’ve desired this entire time. It will most likely still be the same as when you entered, but with some this desire may actually change through making this journey. Think about what it was that you went through such terrifying and difficult means to acquire and imagine possessing it in your hands.

Once you have completely visualized this, slowly open your eyes.

You will then find yourself at the beginning of the unnamed road, where you first began. This may confuse you, but know that you are finished. Your task is done. Your mind will then turn to your reward. If what you desired was material, check in the back seat or in the trunk if the object is larger. If the object was small enough it might already be in your pocket. If what you desired was non-material, then do not be disappointed if the change is not immediate. Turn back to where you came from, and you will find in your life that what you wanted is there. You may have found the love of your dreams. You may have gained unnatural, unimaginable power. You may have put your most hated enemy to the most satisfying revenge possible. You will have no doubt gained what you deserved.

So now that the task is done, what’s the catch? Is your vehicle cursed? Is there something your about to lose? Is your death imminent? The answer to all is no, of course. You’ve done the challenge. You’ve proved worthy of what you desire. As stated before, the sounds of the eleventh mile will continue to exist in your mind, potentially causing you some vivid and unusual nightmares but these should prove as nothing compared to what you’ve gained.

Now, one last question: Is there something else you desire? Are you not yet satisfied? After all, you’re left right back where you started. The road’s right in front of you, so are you up for another drive?

If so, buckle up, and just move forward.

Credit To – Richard Southard

A Long Read

The pearly gates open. I walk inside, and brace myself for something wonderful.

That wonder meets me the moment my eyes adjust to the light.

Books. All the books that have ever been, and will ever be written are neatly arranged in countless bookshelves.

“This is everything I’ve wanted!” I exclaim.

An omnipresent voice echoes all around me. “Good to hear that. Now, these books aren’t going to read themselves.”

I waste no time. Starting with the first book I get my hands on, I begin reading.

I keep reading.

All of the universe’s written knowledge.

I take as much time as I want.

I have all eternity to read.

All eternity.

“That was beyond anything.” I say as I put back the last of the books.

My bliss is short-lived after the realization.

I read everything too quickly.

I still have eternity to kill.

All eternity.



—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta

A Confession

What I’m about to tell you may seem strange. It may seem like the rantings of someone lacking sleep, or even like I’m just fucking with you. But trust me when I say this is the honest truth. For as long as I can remember I’ve seen things that no one else sees. I’m not talking about paying more attention to the small details around me…though maybe that’s part of it.

No, I’m talking about when you see things out of the corner of your eye when you’re sleep deprived, or high, or just watched a scary movie and it’s dark in your house. Those…things… that you see out of the corner of your eye…I see those as plain as day.

The silhouette of a person that disappears when you blink, or turn to look at it? The one you convince yourself was your mind playing tricks or just your imagination? I can look directly at that silhouette, watch as it becomes a man, and watch even further as it twists itself into impossible shapes.

I know. I know. I sound like a crazy person, some sort of schizophrenic who sees things that aren’t there. I get it. Believing me would mean completely relearning the world you think you know.

I don’t expect you to believe me. I just need to tell somebody…anybody…

Science fiction or horror stories would explain this as me seeing fragments of a parallel dimension. That some near death experience or some fluke of my biology allows me to glimpse these horrors across temporal plains.

I never bought into that bullshit.

As new age and faux enlightened as it sounds, you just have to be willing to accept that the things we tell ourselves aren’t there…really are.

When your cat sits staring at the corner of a room, or your little kid swears he saw something in the closet, your mind insists that there’s nothing there. Because only crazy people believe in demons and ghosts and boogiemen.

Right?

Only crazy people.

Open your mind for just a minute, the next time you’re walking home in the dark, just remember this confession. Tell yourself that maybe that movement you saw in the corner of your eye wasn’t just a trick of the lighting.

Don’t look though.

If you turn and look at it you won’t see anything.

At least…not yet.

Think back to when you were a kid, waking up in the middle of the night with the feeling that in some dark corner of your room was some indescribable monster, and pulling the blanket over your head to protect yourself from it.

Now imagine being an adult, and not just having that feeling, but being able to see the creature, that horrible, spider-like thing watching you from across the room.

This is my life.

I see things that no one else can see.

And if I tell anyone they’ll think I’m insane, or they’ll give me drugs to make me stop seeing these things.

But I know that this is real.

The hair standing up on the back of your neck…the feeling that something is crawling on you…I know the truth of all of it.

This is my confession to you.



—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta

I Live with My Mother

I live with my Mother.

It had been some time after the accident that had taken her legs away from her. I never actually saw the injuries, I don’t have the stomach for that sort of thing. But, apparently it had not only physically crippled her, but mentally as well. I would know, I haven’t heard her speak since before it happened. Unlike physical injuries, I suppose mental ones don’t heal over time. It had been months since I saw her face, maybe even a year. She shrouded herself in a quilt, and stayed curled up on the couch in my living room.

I came to the conclusion that she only used her wheelchair at night, maybe it was pride, or that she didn’t want me to see her using it. I can always hear her using it, and then typically the hum of my microwave. Sometimes she even leaves a list of groceries for me to pick up on my next shopping trip. It’s always full of frozen junk food and TV dinners and on the rare occasion, alcohol, but I buy it for her anyway. I’m afraid of how she would react if I didn’t. The monthly stipend we received from her former employer was more than enough to pay for all of these things and more. I’ve tried to take her to the doctor, or change her bandages for her but she always screams bloody murder and hisses and scratches at me like some sort of crazed animal. So I stopped trying.

For the most part, I had almost forgotten about her until a few nights ago. I was sleeping soundly when I heard the door to my bedroom creak open, I quickly sat up, expecting the worst, some sort of serial killer or burglar. However, my mom just sat in her wheelchair, right in my doorway, it felt like she was staring right back at me. She maintained this position for around 15 minutes or so before a pair of slender, bony hands grasped the wheelchair and wheeled themselves back to the living room.

This became a habit, every other night, same exact time. I thought about locking the door, and once again, I was afraid of what would happen if I did. One evening, I decided it was time to reach out towards my mom again. I dropped my work things off in the entry and walked into the living room. To say that the room was trashed would be a compliment, it looked like something out of one of those hoarder shows times one hundred. The TV was on one of those channels that ran infomercials endlessly, the couch was bare. Well, at least the middle of the couch, the rest was dirtied beyond saving. I observed that the wheelchair was missing and at that point I heard the distinctive squeak of the rubber wheels in the kitchen.

I started clearing a space on one of our armchairs, so I wouldn’t have to sit on trash when I talked to her. As I did, I noticed that the chair was shredded under the layer of trash, it looked like something a cat would do if you didn’t spay it or something. I leaned in to inspect them more when I smelled it, the rancid, putrid stench of human waste.

“Oh no” I muttered, expecting to find out that my mom had been failing to make use of the bathroom. I trudged through the trash, trying to find the source. It was odd that I hadn’t noticed it when I walked in, maybe it was because I was breathing through my mouth. I knelt down as the stench intensified, wiping away discarded wrappers and dirty containers. There was a large plastic tarp covered in some shredded bedding, I thought she’d been using it as a bed or a bathroom, or worse. I peeled back the tarp and immediately wish I hadn’t, my eyes teared up so fast, I couldn’t see, it was like a wall of the most humid, foul smell I’ve ever smelled. I rubbed my eyes with my free hand as I struggled not to vomit. I blinked a few times and stared down.

A hand. A human hand. I pulled more of the tarp. A body. A legless body, decomposed to the point where it was unidentifiable, not that it needed to be. I trembled, a million emotions welling inside me as they threatened to burst out. I threw down the tarp, beat my fist against the ground and let out a scream. My fit was interrupted by the recognizable sound of a wheelchair squeaking its way into the living room.

I got up off of my knees, my fists clenched tight as yelled across the room “Who are you!?” my voice quaking with just as much anger as fear. The thing pretending to be my mother let out a scratchy growl and dropped the plate of cheese sticks it was carrying.

"What are you!?" I screamed, my temper boiling over, my heart beating wildly. It dropped the quilt off, it’s long arms unfolding from their hiding place, it’s glowing piercing eyes staring directly into my soul. It looked like some grotesque combination of my mother and…well, something else. It dragged itself towards towards me, speaking in a scratchy voice, mimicking my mom, the last thing she said before the accident, before she died. "I’m your mother, honey, and I will always love you." it rasped out, before lunging at me.

I don’t live with my Mother.



—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta

Something Wants Me Out of Bed

I can’t sleep.

It’s one-something in the morning, and I cannot even TRY to sleep.

There are things in my house, and I think they may want me to get up.

I know that I may sound like I am 10, talking about “monsters hiding under my bed”, but I KNOW there is something there. And whatever it is, it brought a friend, and I do not think they like me. Or maybe they DO like me, in an emaciated Donner party sort of way…

Let me start from the beginning, before this page gets lost in the oblivion of the internet.

I went to bed at roughly 10:00. It is lame for a Friday night, I know, but my job is exhausting and I have no friends in this town. Anyways, I wake up to what I thought was the sound of someone humming just outside my window. The tune sounded vaguely familiar to me, but I could not quiet pinpoint where I had heard it before. I began to get up to check. This is the first time in my life that I can ever say that I am glad that I am diabetic. My insulin pump got caught on the opposite edge of my bed, and the tubing was ripped out. The pump was sitting on the opposite edge of my bed, so I hopped back on to grab it. Just as I did, I felt something that felt like ice grab my ankle. I was startled, and pulled away as fast as I could. As I broke free, there was a sudden sharp pain on my left ankle. I pulled my knee to my chest and held my foot, feeling the warm sensation of blood touch my hand. I paused for a moment to even out my breathing. After I felt as if I were able to move again, I reached for my pump to reattach it to my body. I felt around at the spot that I was certain that it had landed, but felt nothing. And then, I heard something being drug slowly across the wooden floor and under my bed. During the encounter, my pump must have been knocked off of the edge. And now, I was the mouse and it was the cheese.

15 minutes passed with complete silence as I sat in my bed in the fetal position. Every five minutes, I would hear my pump vibrate on the floor underneath me, crying for me to climb under the bed and grab it. My heart rate had finally gone down, and the silence was making me strain to keep my eyes open. And then I heard the humming again. It was that same tune. It was very calming to me. It made me feel like I was safe, like I might be able to get out of bed and use the restroom. Then, it stopped. For a brief second, there was an eerie silence. I was beginning to tense up again, when I heard it: “s-u-p.” It was almost a whisper, but it was sung in the sweetest voice that I had ever hear. I heard it again. “s-u-p.” I know that I should have been stricken with fear, but I was entranced. I heard it again. “s-u-p.” Memories of my childhood came flowing back to me. I leaned forward and positioned myself to leave my bed to investigate. Just as I was about to step off, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. Long, flowing blonde hair was pouring out from under my bed. As I saw it, the song stopped. There was silence, followed by a shriek that can only be explained as non-human. The hair withdrew back under the bed as the shriek continued. The shriek was very brief, and all that followed it was the sound of the air conditioner kicking on. My heart felt like it was about to explode. I found myself cowering under the covers, unsure of what to do. Finally, I got the courage to remove the blanket. I slowly peeked out, terrified of what I would see. At first, I saw nothing, and I began to sigh with relief.

Then, I saw my mirror. It gave me my first glimpse of what waited for me. In the dimly lit moonlight, I saw a face. I suppose I should say that it had facial features. It had eyes, a nose, a mouth, a chin. The eyes were pitch black, staring straight into the reflection of the mirror. The nose was enormous, almost the size of my fist. The mouth was large, stretching almost from ear to ear. The creature was staring at me and smiling, with the expectation that it would soon be feasting.

For 15 minutes, we locked eyes, both in a prone position. And then, the voice… The sound of an angel had returned. It was now coming from the living room, and seemed to be a bit louder than before, though still giving the impression of a raspy whisper:

“S-u-p-e-r-c-a-l-i-f-r-a-g-i-l-i-s-t-i-c-e-x-p-i-a-l-i-d-o-c-i-o-u-s,
Even though the sound of it is something quite atrocious,
If you say it loud enough
You’ll always sound precocious
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!

As a child, I watched this movie over and over again. My mother use to play it on restless nights, when I would hear things that were not there, or see things that induced nightmares, this movie would always make me feel safe and secure. With my eyes distracted from the mirror, I looked away towards my bedroom door. I was entranced by this song, and the entity that was singing it was moving down my hallway towards my bedroom. I quickly turned my head back towards the mirror to gaze at the monstrosity awaiting my departure from the safety of my bed. But, in the reflection, there was now nothing. I felt no fear. It was comforting. I was soothed in a way I had not experienced since I was 5. After repeating the verse several more times, the song continued in the slow, quiet way that it had been:

So when the cat has got your tongue
There’s no need for dismay
Just summon up this word
And then you’ve got a lot to say
But better use it carefully
Or it can change your life

Something was not right with the verse. It felt like something was missing. Yet, I remained entranced. A feeling of peace continued to roll over me. The singer was now just outside my bedroom door. Anxiously, I awaited to see her face. I saw one foot fall in front of the door. Then, the other. I stared at the singer in disbelief. It was my mother.

She spoke in the same glorious voice that she had been singing in, not sounding like her at all. “What’s wrong? I hope I didn’t startle you. Why don’t you come with me and we will turn on your movie so you can sleep?”

I didn’t think twice about it. I threw the covers on the floor, and began to step off, my mother smiling at me the whole time. But, before my feet could touch the ground, I noticed a slight discrepancy. My mother’s eyes were pitch black. Slowly, I pulled myself back onto the bed without my covers. The shriek that followed pierced the house. Her face contorted back to that of the demon lying under the bed. With speed that I had not seen before, she bolted underneath my bed again, staring at the mirror, waiting for her prey.

Following this event, I grabbed my laptop of my bedside table and began posting this. I am trying to ignore the smiling beast situated under my bed, staring at me, waiting to coax me out of my safe haven. I am terrified, and feeling rather drained from being away from my insulin for so long. But I suppose things could be worse. Things could be A LOT worse.

I am starting to feel calm.

I am feeling very relaxed.

I hear sirens coming, and I need to go meet them.



—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta

Help the Homeless (to Help Yourself)

So, I’m in a bit of a sticky situation.

Some quick, basic background information to help you along and then we’ll get started with the problem - Four months ago I moved to the west from the northeast, mainly because I hate the cold, but also because the city happened to house the college of my dreams. This means that my family currently lives literally across the country from my tiny, underfurnished apartment. My roommate Kate likes to stay out all night and drink. She pays half the rent and respects the tradition of pajama/movie night Thursday, though, so I keep her around.

Anyway, about two weeks into my new life, I finally found a decent coffee shop to invest my time in. Seriously. Perfect. Not a big business, not over-busy in the morning, not so hot that it scalds my tongue every goddamn sip… It’s the perfect cup of joe, alright?

Not kidding - the next day, while I am still riding the high of this glorious discovery, I find out a homeless tramp lives in the adjacent alleyway.

And he takes a liking to me.

It’s not terrible at first. I’m not usually one to strike up a conversation with strangers. I mean, I’m a thin, seriously lanky, pale dude, with about as much muscle as you would expect a small kitten to have. And I respect the whole “teach people not to attack instead of teaching someone to defend themself” ideology but there was still no way I wasn’t considering self defense.

Turns out I didn’t need it. Although he looked off-putting, the vagrant who introduces himself to me and asks what my favorite book is (The Once and Future King, T.H. White) seems like a totally harmless, if not mildly touched, old man.

I don’t remember much about our first meeting, but something sticks about him telling me I looked lost, an awkward laugh on my part, and him then going on to proclaim that my hair was “too light” (I’m a natural blond) and “styled weird” (meaning messy). Despite this, he miraculously grew on me pretty quickly. In fact, more often than not, I would buy him a coffee in the morning too, and he would walk with me to my bus stop. The first few times I was slightly worried about him taking note of this crucial location to my life, but he never once made a fuss when it was time for him to leave. We had some pretty great conversations on our block-walks.

We’ll call him Al, because even though I’ve tried, no matter what, I still can’t bear to leave him nameless.

Al and I talked about a lot of things. We had a lot of similar views about the world. He said that he liked to go to the center of town and listen to the music young people played there. He said he liked to go to bookstores with the change he saved up. The only time I ever asked him why, he said, “This world, well- it’s a shitty one, son. No two ways about it. But in a bookstore, there’s millions of worlds that are slightly less shitty, or where it’s equally shitty, but the characters get better hands that I never got. So I like to share that time with them.”  Hearing him talk about the things he loved was one of the greatest pleasures of my life. His playful eyes lit up and he got a small smile on his partially-hidden-by-beard lips. He looked away to the left as he spoke slightly softer.

"What’s your all-time favorite book, Al?" I asked him after that.

He looked at me from the side of his eyes and smiled beneath that long, mangy beard of his. “It hasn’t been written yet,” he confessed. “But I’ll know when I find it.”

"Okay, well then, what’s your favorite, er, experience you’ve ever shared so far?"

He turned to face me full on, then. He looked me dead in the eyes and said softly, “This one.” It was the first moment I was sure beyond a doubt that I liked Al. I don’t know why I never invited him back to my house for a shower and a sandwich or something. I know Kate wouldn’t have minded. I think, at the time, I convinced myself that it was because of all my schoolwork, or that my budget was too low to care for him the way he needed it. I was selfish, but Al was nice. He never asked or imposed or even insinuated that he would like to see where I lived or use my phone.

And then, a month and a half later, out of the blue he stops showing up. I ventured as far into his alleyway as I dared the day it happened, but his treasured sleeping mat and plastic bag of books were nowhere to be found. I bought him a coffee and left it at the mouth of the alley just in case I had missed him, and I took my walk to the bus stop. It felt pretty weird to be alone. The bus regulars whom I had never spoken to actually asked me where Al was.

The next day the coffee was still there. I checked - the cup was full and cold. So, being a college kid in America and battling serious budget issues already, I couldn’t buy a coffee to waste again. I did check around the city’s homeless shelters, food pantries, and even the local emergency room as soon as I got a chance, though. Nobody had ever heard of anybody remotely like Al.

So, eventually, I let it go.

He must have moved streets. I didn’t let myself think he’d died. I managed to convince myself that he was set up outside the biggest library in town, where the nice librarians provided him with literature to his heart’s content. Or that he had found someone better than me, who would be able to take him in the way I wished I could. Eventually, college life caught up to me, and Al was pushed to the back of my mind by papers and projects and readings.

Until he turned up again, just as suddenly as he’d disappeared. Just before I stopped in to get my daily coffee, someone grabbed my sweatshirt from behind and pulled me into the alleyway. It wasn’t a friendly pull. I recognized him immediately, but it didn’t stop me from nearly pissing myself. He was scary now, something changed in him, and his usually calm and cheerful brown eyes were closer to black; they were cold and unforgiving, like the northeast winters I had fought so desperately for years to escape.

I’ll always remember what he yelled into my chest, like he wasn’t all the way there, until the day I die, word for word, even if it didn’t make any sense at the time.

"You think you’re better than me? Forget a day, we’ll see who pays. You better remember, boy, or you’ll meet your maker!"

At this point, even though I almost considered this guy to be like an uncle or something, I was seriously planning a way to get to my phone and call Kate to come save me. She’s easily the most badass person I know, and the person who tolerates my inability to do any sort of laundry the best. She would be the one to get me out of there.

But just like that, he let me go, and he half-stumbled, half-ran down the alleyway into almost blackness. I lost sight of him pretty quickly, and eventually the hacking coughs that took hold of him subsided into the busy street noises behind me. Even though I wasn’t entirely sure that my pants were still clean, though I could hear my knees clacking together, and though he had done whatever he did to me, I still considered him a friend and called after him. I went as far as the second dumpster before my flight response got the better of me and I ran back to my bus stop.

That night I practically shook for an hour as Kate patiently listened. She told me, “I know you cared about him. But he was probably nearing the end anyway. I’m sorry that you couldn’t do more for him, but you made his last few months really special.”

"No. No, I’m going to hell," I said resolutely. "I could have helped him, but I didn’t."

"Don’t say that," Kate scolded me, and she pushed a cup of tea closer. "Al was a good friend of yours, and he knew it. These things are unfortunate, but they happen. We should actually probably call someone and tell them about him. If he’s out on the streets alone, he could hurt someone or himself."

"Someone meaning the police," I said miserably. "Kate, if he wanted to hurt me, he would have hurt me. Can we please leave him be? I’ve ruined his life enough already. He’d never forgive me if I was the one who got him put in a shelter."

"You still have to think of what’s best for h- God damn it, I’ll get it. Wait right here," Kate said. She got up from the dining room table and walked across the small apartment to answer the persistently knocking door. I could hear her voice as if she was still sitting next to me. "What?" A mumbled reply. "No, he’s not here." Referring to me. I didn’t turn around. "If I say he’s not here, he’s not here. Fuck off."

She hit the door shut, locked it, and a moment later was back at the table.

"Who was that?" I asked. I still remember my hopeless voice, and the dead, sinking weight in my stomach. I felt absolutely terrible, like my stomach had been replaced with a grimy lake. I didn’t want any more tea.

"I don’t know. Some guy in a suit. He asked for you. I told him to fuck off."

"I heard."

That was the end of that conversation. We had pajama/movie night that night. I tried to push Al to the back of my mind, but only ended up thinking about him more.

The next day was the same. And the day after that. And the day after that. Kate was staying nights home because she knew I wasn’t okay. I felt bad for keeping her, but at the same time, I knew that she didn’t mind. We ordered take out and watched bad sitcoms and bad romcoms and I tried not to think about Al.

I was nearing the end of Thanksgiving break, most of which I had spent in my pajamas, when someone knocked on the door again. Kate didn’t usually forget her keys, so I had to assume it was an ax murderer politely requesting entry.

It was a guy in a suit, and long story short, he came to question me about Al. He asked a lot about what Al was like, did I think he was dangerous, what had happened the last time I saw him, blah, blah, blah. And I’ll be honest here - I wish I had lied. The irony of that statement is not lost on me.

I wish I had told the guy that the last time I had seen Al, he was totally normal. But I said what had happened, and when I asked what all of this was about, he told me that it was an investigation. Someone had witnessed Al vandalizing a local shop and recognized him from a bus stop. Vaguely, I felt something pick at the back of my mind. News of broken windows at a Barnes and Noble a few roads down.

"Al couldn’t have done it," I assured the guy immediately, and then went into a long, hysteric rant about his compassion for books, about how he treats them better than he treats his clothes or his hair. The guy had to sit me on the floor of my doorstep because I told him not to come in. He kneeled in front of me from outside and said that he didn’t have any more questions. This is when the story becomes two things: fuzzy, and weird.

That night, Kate wasn’t home. She was finally trusting me alone again. I decided not to tell her about my episode because she hadn’t had a good party in almost a week, and she was no good to me drunk anyway. So I curled up in my comforting pajamas and I kept the TV on for light and background noise as I internetted aimlessly with my laptop. I had leftover pizza for dinner and took a long shower. It was nearly two in the morning when I decided to lay down and try for some shut eye. I very specifically remember leaving a glass of water on the counter for Kate. I did it every night she went out, and she always drank it if she made it home.

I chalked up my bad feeling as a result of my breakdown. There was something like the feeling of lead coated inside my chest as I laid down that night, trying to get to sleep in the darkness. I couldn’t get the image of Al breaking into Barnes and Noble out of my head, even though I knew it was entirely fictitious, the fuck-started offspring of my own worry. The thing that really bothered me was how clearly I could picture it. Him, hunched over, breaking the windows outside of the shop and standing in the glass, trying to get in.

And then I heard the sound of breaking glass, like someone had broken a window or dropped a glass on the floor. I nearly pissed myself jerking up, because I had been mostly engulfed by an uneasy sleep, and entirely sure that I was alone.

I was out of bed before my coward brain could override my legs. I halted at the door, listening intently. I began counting. The second I got to five, a huge bang issued on the door, like a sumo wrestler had punched my bedroom door as hard as possible. I leaped a full foot in the air, landing back in my bed with the covers half-on, and yelped the loudest I have in my entire life. The door, though it didn’t even have a locking mechanism, stayed shut. Whoever it was obviously knew I was here, but they were just messing with me.

That was almost what made it the most terrifying. Kate was the only one with keys to the apartment, so it couldn’t have been any of my school friends playing a joke on the social recluse, unless they were willing to go so far as to force the door for a stupid prank. Maybe Kate had given them the keys. But all of these thoughts come after. At the moment of the occurrence, my only thought is impolite ax murderer.

I hear the front door creak open. Have they left?

No. Kate’s home. She’s talking on the phone. And drunk.

"Oh, good, he’s asle… what the fuck? No, there’s shit on my floor. Hold on let me turn on the light.”

I vividly remember my internal conversation with her.

Don’t turn on the light, dear God, Kate, don’t turn on the light, there’s someone in the house.

The crack beneath my bedroom door lights up yellow. Kate continues her call.

"That’s better. Fuck, where’s my water? He usually leaves water fo…"

It’s on the… shit.

"Oh my God, there’s a broken glass on the… okay, let me call you back."

I was opening the door before Kate could wake me up and call me out. She was obviously drunk, but probably a lot more sober than she was when she had walked through the door.

"Is that glass broken?" I asked.

"Yeah, there’s water on the wall and… everywhere."

She was right. I didn’t have to fully cross the room to see the splashed and sprayed marks all over the white wall and framed painting of our group of friends at the local park. The water was soaking into the rug, where a pile of glass shards littered the area.

"Step back, Kate, you’re drunk. I’ll clean it. Go to bed." My voice was shaking.

"Okay. Can I have water?"

"Yeah," I said slowly, before I remembered that whoever the hell had banged on the door and thrown the glass could very well still be here, hiding in the bathroom or in Kate’s room. "Just wait on the couch."

"What’s wrong?"

"I don’t know. I think someone might be in here."

"Should I call the police?"

"…Yeah."

I heard Kate on the phone with them as I got another glass from the cupboard and filled it in the sink. Ax murderer in my house or not, her care was my priority, and a police unit was far more likely to take a serial killer down than a pasty college kid. I was more than happy to let him sit in Kate’s closet and enjoy his last moments as a free man.

The knock on the door came as a blessing. I got up from the couch with Kate and practically ran to the door. A woman in a police vest, in short, took her unit and searched the house. I watched them, standing in the corner where the glass still lay broken five feet to my left. They spread out, searched Kate’s room first, which was thankfully empty, then the bathroom, and finally my room. The second the policewoman entered, I knew something was wrong.

She called another officer over and kept me out of the room, then asked what I had done to my wall. I said nothing, which was the truth, and she let me pass. That was where I saw words carved into my wall like someone had taken a knife to the wood.

Everything not forbidden is compulsory

It was a quote from The Once and Future King. I was so close to passing out that she had to escort me back to the couch, where Kate joined me and rubbed my back soothingly.

I don’t remember much more apart from breathing exercises. They didn’t find anyone hiding. At the time, I had no idea how it could have happened.

The next morning made me take Monday off of school. A news post showed up on my Facebook feed. “Local Homeless Man Killed in Police Struggle.”

This is already pretty long, and I don’t want to go back into those feelings. I grieved for Al. Kate joined me at his funeral, but we and one or two people from my bus stop showed up, as well as a police officer.

I found a weird wall spackle type thing online and put it on my wall. I covered up the ugly smudge it left with a poster.

There was no more news or evidence concerning the alleged break in. I walked to the bus stop alone. Kate gave me the space I needed. I worked to fill the silence, on school and at the library. It was a sort of apology to Al. I was making myself better.

My family invited me back up north for Christmas. Though I knew there would be snow and below freezing temperatures, I accepted. Two days before I was set to fly out, I was doing gift shopping from practically dusk until dawn. Almost the second I got home, I wrapped them and packed them, and then I fell into bed. Kate was home, but she was mostly in her room catching up on work. I only saw her once.

As soon as I shut my eyes, I was waking up. Someone was banging on the door again. It wasn’t like the other night. It was an insistent and powerful thumpthumpthumpthumpthump. I vaulted out of bed just to shut whoever it was up.

Al was standing on the other side of the door.

"Al? How do you know where I live?" I asked, bleary-eyed but alert at seeing him.

"A lot’s happened, son," he answered, in his familiar, gruff voice. It felt so good to hear that my chest filled with air. I felt lighter than I had in weeks. Without question, I followed him, barefooted and pajama-clad, into my living room. Kate must still be sleeping. "And a lot is going to happen."

"But how-"

"Just know… I don’t want to do this, kid. He’s making me." Al’s eyes turned black. He was on me, hand pressed back against my mouth, suffocating both me and my joy in an instant. My brain went into overdrive. He couldn’t be here… We had buried him…

But if I was going to be killed, I guess it was okay that Al did it. He was the one who deserved revenge against me, if anyone did.

As I felt the sickening absence of air in my lungs, the ground began to shake. My ears were ringing, and I heard with stunning clarity, “You think you’re better than me? Forget a day, we’ll see who pays. You better remember, boy, or you’ll meet your maker!”

Distantly, I remembered Christmas shopping, and that the one thing I hadn’t remembered, all day… was Al.

As I was hastily pulled from sleep, I realized that the ground wasn’t shaking. My bed was. It was hopping and sliding and shaking and clattering, hitting vehemently against the wooden floor, making a terrible racket and taking me the closest I’ve ever been to a heart attack. My lungs were absolutely closed. My body felt like it was literally soaked in acid from my throat to my lungs, and I sucked in a huge gust of oxygen. My yell for Kate was more like a strangled gasp of breath; but I hadn’t any need to worry. She was opening the door to my room before her name was out of my mouth, and my bed was slamming permanently back into the floor, with disarming finality. I leaned over the side and threw up everything in my stomach, right onto the severely scuffed floor.

"Hey. Hey," Kate was saying, obviously scared out of her mind, but still soothing. "It was just a nightmare. Are you okay? It wasn’t real."

"The bed," I managed to get out. At this point, I was absolute sobbing. Kate kindly gave me her shoulder to let it out on.

"Yeah, you scared me to death making it writhe around like that," she said. "Must have been one hell of a nightmare for you to thrash that hard."

I shook my head for the longest time, unable to get the words out. Air hurt. It was burning my acid-ridden body like fire. “It wasn’t me,” I confessed at last. Kate went stiff.

"What do you mean it wasn’t you?"

I don’t remember what happened next, but Kate swears that all I would say for the rest of the night was “I killed him” and “It was Al.”

So now I’ve cancelled my trip back north. And I’m in quite the situation. Because I don’t know what to do, now that Al is dead and haunting me. He’s determined to make me remember - or the “he” that Al mentioned is, but that means piss-all to me, as of yet.

Of course, I didn’t mean to forget him. If remembering is what keeps him at peace, keeps him docile… well, it’s a good thing that coffee will remind me every day.



—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta
 

Ghosts Don’t Scare Me

For years I believed in Ghosts. Ever since I was a child. How could I not? when one of my first and strongest memories was of seeing one? back between the ages of about four or six I woke one night to a figure in my room. Even now 30 years later I remember it clearly when other memories have faded and become jumbled I remember waking and seeing a figure silhouetted a against the light from the window. I remember the feeling of air rushing from my lungs as I screamed, I remember the fear but I don’t remember the sound or anything else. If my parents came to comfort me or if I simply hid under the blankets till morning I honestly couldn’t tell you. All I remember is that one small snapshot and nothing else. I don’t remember speaking about it to parents.

As I grew up it seemed we always lived in old houses and as they breathed and settled in the night, I would lie awake, listening. Still too young to know what these noises were the image of the figure would come back to me again and again. The noises reconfirming to me what I already knew, Ghosts were real, I could here them and I had seen one. I did not sleep well.

Around the time I was hitting puberty I started suffering from what I now know was sleep paralysis. If you’ve never experienced sleep paralysis count your self lucky it’s a horrible condition to be afflicted with. Your brain wakes, your eyes open but your body is still asleep. Often you will feel like a large weight is on your chest and at the peripherals of your vision shapes will lurk. You are unable to move, unable to cry out and the only way out is to claw your way to consciousness. Sleep Paralysis to me felt like death and when I finally broke free I would shoot bolt upright in bed drenched in sweat and gasping. I never told my parents.

Thankfully I don’t suffer from sleep Paralysis anymore but it was something I was regularly affected by until my early twenties. Throughout my early to teens the night time became a place of torment. Convinced as I was by the existence of ghosts I would lay awake remembering that encounter, the old house creaking never silent, getting out of bed to stand on the landing, holding my breath, listening, skin tingling. Sleep was worse than being awake, not knowing If I would be visited by what I thought of as a malevolent force that I was powerless against.

Time moved on, as it does, and I moved away to University I Still didn’t sleep well but by now I was aware of sleep paralysis and was able to rationalise most the experiences I’d had whilst I was young. Still though the image of that figure in my room persisted as the clearest memory from my early childhood and still it would trouble me.

As my first year of University ended my parents had moved their first ever “new” house and I came home to visit for a few weeks to be fed and have somebody else do my washing. During what was becoming a rare family dinner with my sister and brothers present we started talking about the houses we had grown up in. How the windows would rattle in one with an easterly wind, how the boiler in one would clank at night and how the upstairs hall in another was always cold.

My sister started talking about how the first house she remembered, the one in which I had seen the figure, had always scared her. How the upstairs bathroom with its old iron bath had given her the creeps and how she always felt there was “Something” in that house. Even my oldest brother agreed with her that the house had never “felt right”. I decide it’s time to share with everybody what I’d saw in that house. I tell them of waking one night to see the figure in my room of remembering the feeling of screaming but not the sound and not remembering anything else. I tell them how as a child this had convinced me Ghosts existed and how silly I felt now as an adult.

my mum still eating listens to my story and at the end asks rather glibly “Don’t you remember?”

“Remember what?” I ask her back.

"That was the night we were burgled" she says matter-of-factly.

"No, I don’t remember the house being burgled what happened?"

Again in an off hand manner she replies "Oh, well, they didn’t take anything. We think you heard something and woke up. When we came downstairs in the morning the back door had been broken open and there were some of your dads tools on the table. You must have heard the door being forced."

My mum starts clearing plates and nobody says anything. My stomach lurches “What do you mean tools?” I ask my mum.

"Oh you know a hammer, your dads chefs knife, they were laid out on the kitchen table, you really don’t remember?"

I just kind a mumble “no” and leave it at that nobody brings it up again nobody seems to want to think about it.

For all my life until that point I’d seen a Ghost in my room that night. It seems now I woke to find an intruder in my room, an intruder that had “laid out tools” on the kitchen table where I would have breakfast the next day.

Ghosts don’t scare me any more, people do. I still don’t sleep well, I still find myself on the landing listening to the house in the small hours of the morning. I’m still haunted by that figure. I have questions that are not likely to be answered. Like if I’d woke my parents how would an intruder make their way out of my room, down the landing, past my parents room and down two flights of stairs and out the house without my parents noticing?

All I really know for sure is I saw something when I woke that night and what my parents found on the table the next morning.



—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta

Off My Chest

In hindsight, I should have noticed it earlier. But when you’re always with somebody, sometimes you don’t see the bigger picture until you take a step back.

One evening, after I got back from work, he was still lying in bed, with the covers over his head, body curled up and facing the wall. My partner had told me he needed a break, some extra rest, some time off work. But it had now been over three weeks. With each passing day, he said less and less. Getting a one word reply would have been a pleasant surprise. And no matter how much I tried, he wouldn’t eat during the day. Instead, I would sometimes wake in the middle of the night hearing him get something from the fridge, or putting something into the microwave.

Eventually, I sought help. They would come over to try and talk to him, asking me politely to stay out of the apartment for a few hours, maybe do some shopping or watch a film or something. But it was no use. The harder we tried to reach out to him, the tighter he would grip onto his blanket, retreating further and further into this abyss inside him that I could not even begin to imagine.

That day, I was just coming back from work. Moments after the train emerged from the tunnel and the carriage was bathed with the evening glow, my phone rang.

“Honey.”

“Paul!” I was astonished that he would call me.

“Honey, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Why? Wha-what’s going on?”

“These last few months. I-I can’t imagine how much pain I’ve put you through.”

“Paul. No, sweetie, don’t say that.”

“No, I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry. There’s no possible way that I could make it up to you.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t say these things. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Honey, don’t come back to the apartment tonight. Please, whatever you do, don’t come back tonight. Please, promise me this!”

“W-why? What’s going on? Honey, what’s going on?”

“Please, just promise me this. Say ‘I promise’, please honey, please do this for me.”

“Paul, just tell me what’s going on. You’re worrying me so much, I feel sick!”

“Please just promise me.”

“Ok, I promise. What the hell is going on?”

“I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“What are you on about Paul? Don’t be rash, don’t do anything stupid!”

“Honey, remember that time we were in Vienna? And that night we were walking through that garden underneath the stars?”

“Mhm”

“I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. At that moment, I felt such a strange, weird mixture of feelings. With you by my side, I felt so complete, like I was part of a whole. But staring up at the sky, with that cosmic vastness surrounding us, I couldn’t help but feel lost and insignificant. Like I was part of a whole, but such a small part, such a meaningless part…….you know what I mean? I hope at least, at the very least, that you’re able to treasure that moment, and all the other moments we’ve had together.”

I managed a smile through my blubbering.

“You cheesy bastard.”

There was a silent pause, during which the train arrived at my station, and the doors slid open.

“Honey…..I love you.”

Before I could answer, there was a loud thud.

“Paul, what was that? Paul? Paul? Answer me!”

I ran and ran and ran, with my phone pushed against my ear, waiting, begging for a response.

For what seemed like an eternity, there was nothing, wailing from my end and silence from his.

Then, all of a sudden:

“honey”

“Paul, are you still there, Paul?”

“help” His voice was croaky, but there was no doubt in my mind that it was Paul.

“Paul, what’s happened, tell me!”

“help me”

“Paul, I’m nearly back. I’ve just turned the corner onto our road. Whatever’s happened, just hang in there.”

“help me. inside. i can’t.”

And then, just as I reached the entrance to our apartment complex, Paul began to make this hideous noise. Like a kind of muffled scream, raspy and high-pitched. It was relentless. He screamed and screamed without stopping for breath.

I rushed through the door of our apartment and there he was. His feet were dangling three feet off the ground, his face was still, pale and lifeless, seemingly at peace. His phone was on the floor, shattered.

But mine was still up against my ear. And the screaming didn’t stop.



—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta

The Mermaid

So a little background information: My grandma’s an artist of sorts. She works in a kind of restoration, taking old objects like statues and window frames and decorating them with the shells and detritus she finds lying on the beach. She walks there every day, even though it’s almost an hour away, her pockets full of empty plastic bags that come back full of sand dollars and dried seaweed.

It’s pretty interesting, and she’s being doing it for years, making bigger and bigger pieces as she went on.

Overall, I like her stuff. Going to visit always meant getting to see her new work and gorging myself on the food I can’t get back in the States. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve been here, so I was excited to see the newest one, but it’s…different.

See, she made this mermaid. It’s life-sized, biggest she’s ever done, and inexpertly carved from stone. The face is rough: big lips and pupil-less eyes added with paint and spackle. The tail is thicker than I am, greyish pink and covered in shells. It only looks like a person because it’s vaguely person shaped. My grandma isn’t a sculptor by any means, but her work’s always been about breathing new life into stuff, rather than creating from scratch.

It’s…fine. Obvious really, considering the rest of her work focuses so heavily on the sea, but I just can’t get into it. Maybe it’s the how not right the face is, or the way that the stink of rotting seaweed still clings to her even though all her hair is dried out and crusted white with salt. But ever since we got there, I can barely walk past the thing, just looking at it gives me the creeps. I can’t even go to the bathroom at night, cause I’d have to walk past the corner outside the art studio where it’s propped up, and trust me, it’s even worse at night.

I’m the only one who thinks it’s weird though. My mom loves it, and my grandma’s so proud of the thing. Other people in town love it too; it’s not a big place so when the local artist churns out something new then people tend to get excited. Only, people are getting more excited than usual and there’s talk about setting up an exhibit out in the city.

You think I’d be happy about that, the damn thing would finally get out of the house, but here’s the problem: I don’t think the mermaid wants to go.

I know, it sounds ridiculous, but for the past three nights — ever since the offer from the museum came in — weird things have been happening. I always stay up late on my laptop, and around eleven o’clock, I start hearing noises.

First it’s a soft rhythmic whoosh, like waves. Only it can’t be cause the beach is way too far away. But it keeps getting louder, and faster for like half an hour until it sounds like the house is right next to the ocean.

But as soon as it reaches its crest, it just stops, and another sound starts, and this is the one that scares me. Cause it sounds like something heavy scraping across the floor, something made of stone.

It’s as constant as the waves before. Scrape, scrape, scrape, and it gets softer and softer as the night goes on. Then once it stops, there’s a loud bang, like someone trying to push open the front door. Once, twice, and then they give up. Then the scraping happens again, softer then louder until finally, it’s quiet.

The first time it happened I didn’t fall asleep the whole night, just waiting to hear something again, but nothing. I thought I was crazy.

But in the morning, there was this trail of sand leading away from the door, and it led straight to the mermaid.

Still, I wouldn’t have been worried if it didn’t happen again. All the same stuff, the sound of the ocean, the scraping and the mermaid trying to open the door and get out. Everything was exactly the same, even down to the sand.

I brought it up to my mom and grandma but they didn’t believe me, of course. They don’t hear anything at night, and the mermaid is always in the same place it’s always been in the morning. Her town has the beach on one side, and a desert on the other, so there’s always sand everywhere. And if the front door smelled more like seaweed, then grandma just needed to rinse her shells out better before she got into the house. They almost had me convinced that I had just made it up, even though it’d happened twice.

Just in case, I went to bed early last night to try and miss it, but I was just too jittery. Soon, I heard the ocean again, and the scraping. Only this time, it kept getting louder, and louder, and then the bang, much louder than before.

It didn’t sound like someone was banging on the front door anymore. It sounded like they were banging on the door to the art studio, the one right next to mine.

When we woke up, the door to the art studio had been pushed open, and I know we’d left it shut at night. They laughed when I told them it was the mermaid.

I’ve left the front door unlocked tonight. But just in case, I put a chair in front of my door as well. It doesn’t lock, so something heavy would be able to push it right open.

It’s almost eleven now, and I think I can hear the ocean.



—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta

Evaporation

Water.

Water is the cornerstone of life. It nourishes us, irrigates our crops and waters our livestock. Water is vital for all known forms of life. We rely on it to wash our cars, clean our food and produce our power. It has an effect on almost every activity in everyday life. Without it, civilisation would cease to function. Governments would collapse, crippled by an undefeatable enemy – drought. It would be a matter of days – no longer than a week – before every living being on Earth perished. In short, we cannot live without water.

Two days ago, we were forced to begin doing just that.

I don’t know how it began. Nobody left alive does. During the initial hours of it, theories ranged from the barely plausible, like a new form of greenhouse gas, to the ridiculous, such as a new type of light, one that only evaporated water. I remember those hours fondly – the true enormity of what had happened had not yet sunk in and hysteria had not yet clutched the human race.

What happened?

I’ll put it simply.

The first was that every single drop of freshwater on the entire planet evaporated instantly.

I don’t think I can do this event justice, but I’ll try.

Can you imagine every single river, every single lake, every single natural source of water drying up instantly, without rational explanation? I doubt you can, but that’s exactly what happened. It wasn’t restricted to natural sources, either. As far as I can tell, all the bottled water in the world also evaporated, as did that in water tanks and other similar sources. It also disappeared from other substances, including soft drinks, creating foul sugar compounds that would make those that consumed it quite ill. There was not a single drop of freshwater left anywhere on Earth for anybody to drink.

But by far the worst result of the lack of water was the nuclear reactors.

Without pressurised water, most of the nuclear reactors in the entire world – those that utilise purified water as coolant – had no available sources of coolant, and just under half of these had poor or untested failsafe plans. The resulting effect of this led to catastrophic nuclear meltdown in roughly 46% of water-cooled reactors. The world, already reeling from the unprecedented situation, fell into total anarchy.
International communication ceased after almost exactly twenty-four hours after it began.

But there was a second effect.

The saltwater poisoning.

Many people flocked to desalination plants in the first few hours, hoping for salvation.

They found none.

At approximately the same time as the worldwide evaporation, saline increased by fivefold in every sea or ocean on Earth. Desalination plants were able to cope with this load for approximately twenty hours. Then, fuel began to run low – and with the imminent collapse of civilisation thanks to the multiple nuclear catastrophes, no more was delivered. Thus, the last ever drop of freshwater on Earth was pumped out no later than midnight yesterday.

After the drought came the collapse.

With no water available, civilisation soon descended into anarchy. Governments, typical of authority to the very end, tried maintaining order. It didn’t work. Soldiers rebelled, shooting rioters and runners alike. Those who didn’t die were brutally executed moments after. They turned on each other soon enough, with only a few militaries intact from the carnage. The deserters fled, unwilling to stay and watch the extinction of Earth.

But then came the worst, far worse than anything before it.

There was, in fact, one source of water that hadn’t been touched.

I’m so lucky I realised before anyone else in my town.

It was blood.

Blood, which is over 90% water, was the only remaining liquid fit to drink.

And so some did.

At first, I didn’t believe it. It was too horrific.

Animals went first. The desperate drank the blood of cats, dogs, pets and feral animals of all kinds. Many offered too little blood to be of any value. The situation was made worse by the fact that I live in a rather large metropolitan city and beyond domesticated pets and the odd feral animal, there was no animals to catch and drink from. Perhaps those in the country fared better – I have no way of finding out, and frankly I don’t really care.

I knew then that humans were the only other option.

I first saw it twelve hours ago.

An elderly man, dressed in nothing but a torn dressing gown, slowly made his way down the street that ran in front of my house. He called for help desperately, croaking out that his entire nursing home was dead or dying, that the nurses had fled and that he was looking for help. He was so pitiful that I almost opened my door, if only to offer him some respite from the midday sun, and some of my sparse rations.

If I had been a second faster, I would not be writing this.

Before I could open the door, three people – two men and a woman – pounced from the shadow of a nearby tree. The poor old bastard had no chance. They leapt upon him, frenzied in their dehydration, and set on him with makeshift tools. It was the most terrifying spectacle of my entire life. One of the men had a hammer – he set about bashing the man’s joints in, one by one. Crack. Crack. Crack. I retched bile each time the hammer slammed into bone, so sickening was the crunch. The other had a gardening hoe. He hovered above the elderly man, bringing the makeshift weapon down once, twice. The tool cut through the man’s ankles like a knife through a steak.

The metaphor made me vomit. After I did, I looked back, if only to satisfy my own growing horror.

Oh, how I wish I hadn’t.

The woman, who was weaponless save for her own two hands, had straddled the man’s chest. Her hands were spread on the screaming man’s face as her own companions butchered him. Then, even as I watched, she dug her thumbs into his eyes. He howled like nothing I had ever heard before. She dug harder, pushing inwards and outwards simultaneously. When they were pulled free, blood and some even less discernible liquid splattered all over her. She grabbed them and ate them like fruit. I could hear the chewing sounds from my door. They bent to consume the precious blood and I turned away.

I call them the Drinkers.

There’s one thing I want to make very clear about them. They aren’t zombies. Nor are they affected by some external force that forces them to drink the blood of humans, such as a virus or disease. They are entirely human. I suspect that dehydration affects them worse than it does others and this forces them to drink from humans in a form of pseudo-cannibalism or perish. They represent the dark side of humanity. The Drinkers also seem to recognise each other through some subtle signal. Not being a Drinker, I wouldn’t know it.

As fast as I possibly could, I took my meagre supplies, some small comforts, this journal and my .357 Desert Eagle up into my bedroom. I pushed the bed against the door with my rapidly fading strength and piled furniture on it. The Desert Eagle has a full clip of seven, and I have one spare. Enough for thirteen Drinkers and – well, I’m sure you can imagine.

—

Another six hours have passed. I can really feel the dehydration now. My tongue feels numb and my skin feels like sandpaper. I tried to eat some bread before and I almost choked, with no saliva to moisten my throat. Now I’m hungry as well as thirsty. I don’t even know why I’ve kept writing this. Maybe it’s something to occupy me during the final hours of mankind. Maybe I hold some hope that a solution will be found and somebody in the future will read this and remember what it was like. Maybe I’m just delusional.

—

It’s getting worse. I’m breathing heavily and becoming more and more lethargic. This room feels like a sauna. I can almost see the heatwaves bouncing across the room, becoming more and more intense until I am literally cooked alive. It’s not a pleasant vision. My pen keeps slipping from the page as I suffer random bursts of weakness. I’m scared I won’t even be able to pull the trigger if the time comes.

—

I’m so terribly thirsty. The last time I urinated it burned. I haven’t defecated for a long time now. My vision’s fading in and out and my head feels like it’s going to split open from the intense pressure inside. My skin is so dry and leathery. I know I’m dying, but I’ve still got the Desert Eagle. Maybe I should kill myself before I lose the strength to do so. God knows it’s better than dehydrating to death or letting the Drinkers get me.

—

so thirsty
its dark and i’ve lost the gun
vision almost gone
so THIRSTY
i’m going mad
i’m dying
wait
what’s that
so thirsty
somebody’s knocking at the door
they want to be let in
they say the drinkers are coming
should i
i don’t know
maybe i’ll go get a drink.
i’m so thirsty.

Credited to Archfeared.

Wrong Man

This is an odd story that definitely makes me think about Death in a whole different way.

My uncle and my great uncle have the same name; Michael. My uncle goes by the name Mikey and my great uncle by the name Michael.

Mikey told his family of a nightmare that he had one night. It was about three men dressed in black who had come to visit him while he was sleeping. They asked him if his name was Michael and he nodded yes, they then told him to come with them because his time here was finished.

My uncle not knowing what to do, did as they asked. He got up from his bed and started following them but before he could go any further another man appeared from the shadows and told them that this was not the Michael they needed. My uncle says that they then lead him back to his bed and told him to not worry that his time was not yet expired.

This “dream” bothered my uncle and he told his family about it. They all told him that it was just a dream and to not worry about it so much.

Three days later my great uncle Michael dies. The man who shared the exact same name as my uncle. This lead my uncle and many in our family to believe that it was not just a dream but reality.



—
Credits to:  creepyexistence

A New Radio Station

Ever have one of those days where your favourite music is annoying and you just want to hear something else? I had one of those days a few months back. I was really tired and the Top 40 stations I usually listen to were just grating on my nerves, so I tried my other saved stations. Country? No. Rock? No. Nothing was good, but I had a long drive ahead of me and I didn’t want to sit there in silence.

So I decided to hit the Seek button until I found something I liked. Static. Static. Classical. Static. Static. French. Static. Static. Sports. Static. Static. Mid-2000’s. I stopped. I like mid 2000’s stuff. I hadn’t realized there was a station like that in my city. I looked at the radio. 107.9 FM. I didn’t think there were stations up that high, but I shrugged it off because Seven Nation Army by the White Stripes started playing.

And boy, did I fall in love with that station. 107 The Beat it was called. Not the best name, but whatever. They played all the stuff I used to love as a kid from the late 90’s through the early 2000’s. Fall Out Boy, Coldplay, Shakira, and a whole bunch of pop from that time. A real nostalgia station for me. And the personalities were great! The Tommy and Cherise Morning Show (which was a little cheesy, but what morning show isn’t?), Susan in the Afternoon, Late Night Jams with Tony Smooth. I loved them all. The Beat quickly became my new favourite station. I listened to it every day to and from school, and even in the shower.

About a month later I was giving my friends, Bill and Anna, a ride to the mall. I asked them if they ever listened to The Beat. They looked at each other, confused. So I switched to 107.9. One Week by the Barenaked Ladies was playing. I love that song! So I started singing along. About 20 seconds later, I noticed my friends were completely silent.

"Why aren’t you guys singing along?"

Bill was looking at me like I had grown a machine gun from my forehead.

"To what?"

"To the music!" What the hell was he talking about?

"What music?" asked Anna.

"On the radio! Are you guys deaf or something?"

The two of them looked at each other. “It’s just static.”

It was then that I realized that they must be messing with me. We liked to play pranks on each other, and I could tell when these two were up to something. “Very funny guys.”

"We’re not kidding, there’s nothing but static."

"Alright, knock it off. You got me for a second." Don’t Speak by No Doubt started playing.

"It’s not a joke, Dom. There’s no music and you’re starting to freak me out." I’ll admit, I didn’t think they could act this well. Bill looked worried and Anna looked legitimately scared. They must have planned this. Had I mentioned the station before?

"OK, that’s enough. I like this song and you guys are starting to piss me off."

"What song? There is no song! Dom, cut it out it’s not funny!"

At this point I was past annoyed. I was having one of those days where everything pisses you off, and I was not in the mood for their antics. I do my best to act positive around my friends, but when I’m in a bad mood it doesn’t take much to set me off. “Cut the shit or I’ll pull over and you guys can walk.”

"What?" Bill was shocked.

"You heard me. It was funny at first, but I’m getting really annoyed. If you’re not going to stop this bullshit, then you can walk to the mall." They just stared at me.

"But we’re serious!"

That was it. I pulled into the nearest parking lot and threw the car in park. “Get out. Now.”

Anne quickly got out, but Bill hesitated before closing the door. “What the fuck is your prob-“

I hit the gas and the door flew shut. I was so annoyed. I headed home and called my girlfriend, April, to see if she wanted to come over. I was too angry to cook, so I just ordered a pizza. April was at my apartment within a half hour. She asked me why I was so upset. I told her the story.

"The Beat? I’ve never heard of it."

So I grabbed my radio from my room and tuned it to 107.9. Bring Me To Life by Evanescence was playing. April suddenly looked concerned.

"I don’t hear anything."

Great so they had roped her into their stupid trick. This was pretty low for them.

"Not you too! Come on, I’m sick of this bullshit!"

"I’m serious! It’s just static! Look, I’ll even look up the station."

"Fine, do it!" Was she serious? How would looking it up help the gag? She pulled out her phone and typed in the station. Her face drained of colour. "What is it?"

She handed me the phone. The first result was a news story from 2004, and the headline made my blood run cold.

"Seven dead after fire that destroyed local radio station"



—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta