Skinwalker

I don’t consider myself to be a particularly superstitious person. Ok sure, I get a kick out of the horoscope once in a while, my boyfriend and I like to humor the idea that spirits and poltergeists exist and how we’d haunt people when we died and came back as ghosts. In fact, my boyfriend refuses to go anywhere near an Ouija Board. Refuses to even think of it. I blame all the crummy horror movies he watches.

“Why even tempt it?” he’d say. “Why would you want to taunt evil ghosts like that? Ghosts never play fair and if you piss one off you’re screwed!”

I don’t think he was ever serious. Just precautionary.

But maybe he was right.

God, this all happened so long ago, but I’m still shaken. Can barely write about it now without my nerves acting up.

Ok, here it goes. A few weeks ago my mom, sis, and I went to Colorado for an entire week on vacation. We were going to drive all over the state, visit parks and go horseback riding and whitewater rafting and so much more. I was excited. And I sorely needed a break from work, anyway.

We drove 16 hours out there, and spent our first day rafting down the rivers. After an exciting day we drove to a ranch house to go horseback riding. We got there at sunset, so it was too late to ride, but we had all next day to ride the trails and see the sights. The ranch was … dumpy. All run-down with scraps of steel everywhere and the shoddy cabins that we were staying in were in desperate need for repair. I swear the roof over our shack of a cabin was a giant piece of drywall with shingles stapled to the top. My sister and I thoroughly checked the place for spiders and bugs before we even thought of bringing our luggage inside.

It was only for the night, I reassured myself. Just one night in a dumpy shack on a rock-hard bed that probably had bed bugs under the sheets. I shuddered at the thought.

My mom tried to cheer us up. She had brought skewers and a pack of giant beef hot dogs to roast over the communal fire pit. Happy to get out of the shack, my sister and I made a nice cozy fire, and soon a few other people from the other cabins came out to sit around the fire and roast s’mores and share stories. We talked about where we were from, where we were going, and our adventures along the way. Pretty soon the stories turned into tall tales and urban legends and the sort of stuff you’d usually tell around a bonfire.

That’s when I spoke up. I loved stories, especially scary ones. And hey, we’re out west, we’re in Native American territory, why not liven the place up with my favorite Indian myth, the legend of the Skinwalkers.
Now, for those of you who don’t know, Skinwalkers are considered very evil, very dangerous beings. They were humans who gained the ability to take on the form of an animal by wearing its skin, usually through very dark and taboo magic. I knew all this, and told my story. Who doesn’t love a good ghost story?

Everyone seemed to be enjoying it. I admit I took some creative liberties with it, really just retelling an old werewolf story but with a skinwalker instead. I bullshitted a lot of the story, really, and added a few things that weren’t in the mythos at all. I gave our beloved frightening skinwalker wide, crazed eyes with pinpoints for pupils with a matching insane smile. I made the skinwalker horribly misshapen with swollen joints and arms that were too long and legs that were too short and a head that never sat straight on its shoulders. I made it as terrifying as I could imagine.

No one minded. They actually really liked it and a man from Kentucky admitted the visuals alone were enough to creep him out. Victory in my book, if you ask me. And once I was done everyone decided it was getting really late, our firewood was dwindling and it was as good a time as any to turn in for the night. We packed up our skewers and s’mores, doused the fire, and headed to our little shacks.

I tossed and turned a lot trying to fall asleep. Couldn’t get comfortable on that damn bed. A rock was probably cozier than that mattress. So against my better judgment, I got out of bed, and walked about the cabin. I reasoned that if I stayed up late enough, I would be so tired that I would fall asleep no matter what I was laying on. I think I briefly contemplated sleeping on the floor. I wasn’t that desperate yet.

It was pitch-black outside. No lights from any nearby street lamps, no car headlights, hell, not even the cabin lights were on. And I don’t remember seeing a single star. It was a bit creepy, but I shrugged off the shiver creeping up my back as simply the cold tile floor making me shake.

I did, however, find it odd there weren’t any lights on at all on the property. You’d think there’d be a floodlight on the horse stables or on the main office, but no, nothing. This was really weird. I stepped outside in my flimsy foam flip flops to get a better look. I could barely make out the ranch. And for some stupid fucking reason I decided to go walking around.

Eventually my eyes adjusted where I could see well enough to move around. I paced up and down the road where the cabins sat and circled around to the fenced in field where the horses were out grazing. Except there weren’t any horses. Probably in the stables for the night, I reasoned. I shivered again. It was getting awfully cold.

I turned right around to head back to my own cabin. It was stupid of me to be out all alone at an obscene hour, I had realized. I needed to get to bed.

But when I turned, there was something in the middle of the road. Its shape was swallowed up by the surrounding darkness; I could barely make it out. It was tall and thin. I shrugged it off as just a pole or something else and kept walking but then it moved.

I froze. My breath caught in my throat and I could barely breathe. I just imagined that, I said. I just imagined it, I’m freaking myself out, get your fucking head straight!

It moved again. My paralyzed throat managed to squeak out a pathetically weak whimper as my legs began to lose strength. I shivered violently against a cold that was building up inside of me.

My eyes began to focus on the impossibly dark figure standing against a barely visible sleet grey night. Now I could see it. It was … it was a person, but like nothing I had ever seen before.

Its arms were impossibly long. Its legs impossibly short. It had a torso far too long for its rail thin body and a head much too big for its stick neck.

Its right arm was sticking out to its side, swinging up and down. Its blockish head, rolled onto its left shoulder, jerkily twitched up and down, up and down. It didn’t move other than that, just stood there, twitching, arms jerking up and down, head lolling around its shoulder. I still stood there like the dumbfuck I was. My cabin was a few hundred yards behind that … thing. And I wasn’t so stupid as to try to walk past it. My only option was to go around, behind the cabins and the stables and hope it didn’t see me.

I forced myself to lift my foot off the ground to step backwards. My flipflop made a wet smacking sound as it flopped against my feet and I immediately froze in horror. The thing stopped too. It stood there perfectly straight, perfectly still, listening. I stayed as still as I could. My breath was shallow and panicked and I tried to force myself to slow my breathing before I started wheezing. My heart thundered in my chest, my whole body was shaking. But I didn’t move. Neither did it.

I began to slowly, so goddamn slowly, bend over and slipped my feet out of those fucking flip-flops. My feet touched the dirt and the crumbly gravel, but at least now I could move silently. I spared a quick glance to the side to see where I was going. Two cabins were immediately to my right. I could slip between them with ease, as there was no visible debris between them.

I only looked away for a second. When I turned back that fucking thing was gone. It was fucking gone, it fucking knew I was there, it was coming for me, oh fuck! Yet I still couldn’t fucking move! I was paralyzed, I couldn’t move no matter how loud my head screamed run run RUN YOU FUCK, RUN! I heard something behind me. I turned instinctively, even though I knew fucking better I still turned the fuck around!
I was greeted with two bulging eyes, oh fuck, its eyes! Staring at me unblinking with two black pinholes for pupils and an insane smile that was stretched far too wide to be anything remotely human.

My paralysis broke as I stared at that fucking thing. I ran, I fucking ran, crying my eyes out, trying to scream but a horrible lead weight in my throat silenced me. My feet pounded on the dirt, I stomped over anything in my way, I even impaled my foot on a sharp motherfucking rock, I didn’t fucking care I just fucking ran!
I felt the cold creeping up my back, oh god, that cold! It was sinking right into my bones and I couldn’t stop shaking or sobbing and I didn’t stop until I burst through the cabin doors and dead bolted the lock and leaped into my bed. I huddled under the blankets, hiding my head and there I gasped and shook for breath.

And I waited.

I didn’t sleep that entire night. I was too scared, I couldn’t get rid of that chill. All I thought about was that thing … standing there and twitching …

Morning finally broke and I finally allowed breath of relief. Whatever I had seen had not come for me, and now that it was light it couldn’t take me by surprise. Mom noticed my bleeding foot, and the blood I tracked through the cabin. I shrugged it off, said I cut myself the night before when we were making s’mores. I don’t think she believed me but she didn’t push it.

We left not long after that. And as we left I looked at the place where that thing once stood and I shuddered again. But there was nothing. I assured myself, there was nothing.

We said good-bye to the ranchers and to our companions, and I noticed the man from Kentucky who said had thoroughly enjoyed my story. He told me again how much he liked it. Said he was going to tell it to his own kids when he got home. They really liked scary stories, he said.

And as we drove away, his head rolled onto his left shoulder, and he smiled a wide, insane smile as he waved us good-bye …

—
Credits to: creepypastatales

Poor Little Babysitter Is Dead

    I am a babysitter.

    It is somewhat embarrassing for a man in his mid ‘20s to declare as my vocation, but “times is hard” as they say.

    Seeing the downward shift in the economy, I went to school to get my master’s in childhood special education. In addition to economic foresight, I always had an affinity toward working with children who have disabilities. With the firm belief that there would never be any shortage of teaching positions in a large urban area such as NYC, I graduated with solid grades and made some amazing connections at the schools I student taught at. However, a hiring freeze was instituted, and I was left out in the cold.

    Desperate for work, I began to peruse classifieds looking for a job related to my field. I searched fruitlessly for anything involving work with special needs children. All I could find were babysitting gigs here and there. With my pride at an all time low, I began babysitting around my neighborhood.

    After a month of sporadic work, I came across an ad for a gig that would pay twice as much as the usual sum. I perked up when I saw that the ad called for a person who had experience with special needs children. I gave the number a call and set up an interview.

    I was greeted at the door by a haggard looking woman. I pegged her to be in her mid ‘30s, but as I scanned her slender form, I surmised that she may in fact be much younger. As she attempted to give me a warm greeting from her pale and gaunt face, I could tell immediately that this was one stressed out woman. The weight of the world was upon her shoulders with no end in sight to the onus she was bearing. I was completely understanding of her downtrodden demeanor. It was a look that many parents had as I saw them pick up their children from school. A look of love and warmth tempered by regret and exhaustion.

    I sat down in the sparse living room of the apartment. I couldn’t help but notice the empty bottles of alcohol strewn about the home. She began to ask about my credentials which I happily provided. I explained to her that I had experience with children with various disabilities. I spoke very truthfully about how passionate I was about working with disabled children.

    The mother began to explain what the job would entail. She needed a babysitter on Fridays to watch her daughter, Amanda. She divulged that she was on the autism spectrum. Like a veteran recounting the woes of war, she went through a checklist of her behaviors. She has a piece of string that she twirls constantly. She said that she is a screamer. She grabbed my arm softly and looked deeply into my eyes as she said that she is also a biter.

    She explained that she is very self-injurious. Oftentimes, she will bite herself when left alone. My job would be intensive. I would need to keep my eyes on her at all times.

    I told her that this would be no problem. I added that in school I studied ABA (applied behavioral analysis) and would be happy to throw in my, albeit limited, expertise free of charge. She seemed satisfied. With a sigh of resignation and relief, she informed me that I had the job.

    Then, I saw a small figure begin to descend the stairs. I looked up to see two bright eyes staring at me intensely. The mother said, “Amanda, would you come here a minute?” As she stepped into the light of the living room, I saw the cutest little child I had ever seen. As she approached where we were seated, I could see that she was twirling a piece of string and rocking side to side with every step. I extended my hand and introduced myself. She replied with a very flat and monotonous affect.

    “Poor little girl is sad.”

    Her mother quickly interjected that she starts most of her sentences with the prefix “poor little” and that she is definitely very nervous right now. Having studied the symptoms of the autism spectrum, I wasn’t surprised that she should have stereotyped speech.

    I assured her that she had no reason to be sad. I asked her age attempting to give the warmest countenance I could muster up.

    “Poor little girl is nine,” she flatly said.

    The mother seemed immediately impressed. With a smile cracking from her pallid face, she said that she has never warmed up to a stranger so quickly. She usually ignores all questions thrown her way. The mother told Amanda to go upstairs to bed.

    “Poor little girl is scaaaaaared,” Amanda said with rising emotion.

    After some cajoling, the mother coerced her up the stairs. She turned to me and said that I could start that Friday at 8. I returned home excited about the prospect of the pay and infinitely intrigued by my new charge. However, I couldn’t help but be unsettled as I remembered seeing the indelible teeth marks up and down the girl’s tiny arms when she stepped into the light of the dingy living room.

    I showed up to the apartment promptly at 8. As the mother answered the door, I caught the faint aroma of whiskey and coke. She seemed like a different person from when I first met her, jubilant and drunk. In a hurry to get out the door and into the vague promise of the evening, she quickly ushered me in almost stumbling over a shoe by the door. She nearly pushed me into the room where her daughter was watching TV. As a million questions floated around my brain, the mother was already reaching for the door. The only one that was able to exit my mouth was,

    “When should I send her to bed?”

    She slurred the number eleven before the door shut behind her.

    I decided to not be too aggressive in my approach to Amanda. I sat on the couch opposite of where she was seated. I subtly studied her movements as she clutched a piece of string in her hand. She was intently watching a cartoon on the TV. Before I could posit a greeting, she said to me,

    “Poor llittle anchor is big.”

    Looking on the screen, I could see a large anchor in the depths of an ocean. That is how the conversation continued that first evening. The girl, tiny and adorable, describing the things happening on screen as I sat in wonder marveling at this beautiful, little person as she simultaneously existed in her own world and mine.

    When the clock struck eleven, I told her she needed to go to bed. With a fright and dread I wasn’t expecting she said,

    “Poor little girl is scaaaaaaaaared.”

    I assured her that there was nothing to be afraid of. I stood in the doorway of her bedroom (remarking how empty it was save for her tiny bed) and watched as sleep finally found her an hour later. The mother did not show up until after 3:00. She stumbled into the house barely able to stand on her own two feet with a man just as wasted as she was. She handed over a wad of money and sent me packing.

    So, it continued for a month. I babysat this little wonder on Fridays. Her mother, like clockwork, would head out to get drunk, and I would watch TV with her, slowly but surely building her trust and comfort with me. Everything was going swimmingly, too swimmingly in fact, since I never heard her scream or bite herself in any way. What I saw before me on those Friday nights was a quiet little angel trying to make sense of a world that she desperately wanted to connect to but was incapable of. The only thing that gave me pause was the switch in her demeanor when I sent her to bed. When I told her that it was time for bed, she would always declare,

    “Poor little girl is scaaaaaaared!”

    The horror written on her face was palpable. Her declarations of being scared were only tempered by my assurance that I would stand in the doorway until she fell asleep.

    One Friday, I showed up. The mother, looking rougher than normal informed me that my services weren’t needed that night. She asked if I could instead come by Saturday. I had already made plans but needed the money. I accepted. I asked if it was okay if I informed Amanda I wouldn’t be babysitting that night as I know children with autism can react badly to changes in routine.

    Amanda was upset at first but perked up when I assured her I would be coming tomorrow instead. An uncharacteristic smile beamed from her face. She said to me, “Poor little girl is happy.”

    My heart melted. I was so ecstatic about how I had endeared myself to her that it took me until I got home to remember the bite marks all over her body. The most troubling of all was the one I saw on her neck.

    I came to the conclusion that she must have deeply scratched her own neck. This had to be the case. Her mother rarely clipped her nails and they were long and sharp. However, I was still troubled that I had never seen her self-injurious behavior first hand. That night I was barely able to sleep due to my concern for sweet, little Amanda.

    I showed up to the apartment on time. The mother explained to me that she didn’t know when she would return that evening. Already reeking of booze, she asked if I could stay the night to which I would be paid handsomely. I gleefully accepted.

    After she left, I found Amanda up to her usual routine of watching cartoons. Everything went as normal. Eventually, it came time to put her to bed. As I ushered her up the creaky stairs into the darkness of her bedroom, she began to get upset. I asked her what was wrong. To which she replied,

    “Poor little girl is scaaaaared.”

    “Poor little man is back.”

    I didn’t know what to make of her second statement, sometimes she would say things that made little sense, but I calmed her down and got her into bed saying I would watch over her as she slept. An hour later, she was fast asleep.

    Being tired myself, I curled up on the couch as sleep washed over me. I awoke to the sound of the loudest most piercing scream I have ever heard. I quickly shot off the couch as the bloodcurdling screams continued. As i climbed up the stairs, horror encumbered me as the shrieks continued from inside Amanda’s bedroom. I steeled myself for a brief moment before opening the door.

    The room was dark with the only light coming from the open window. I attempted to turn on the light but remembered that the bulb was dead. My eyes adjusted, and I could see Amanda cowering in the corner. She was shivering so hard that she was literally shaking. I came over to her and asked what was wrong. She said with her lips quivering,

    “Poor little man lives under my bed.”

    “Poor little man has fangs.”

    I looked at her arm to see blood pouring from a fresh bite wound. Still believing it to be self-inflicted, I took out my phone for light and told her I would look under the bed. With mild trepidation, I pulled up the sheet and shined the light under the bed. I got down on my knees to take a peek. Before I could look, the nails dug deeply into my arm.

    I screeched and dropped the phone before I could realize it was just Amanda’s unkempt hand grasping onto me for dear life. With my blood pumping fast as my heart threatened to beat out of my chest, I lifted the sheet and looked. Two red eyes cut through the blackness under the bed.

    Frozen in absolute terror, I could see the twisted smile of the “man” baring his bleach white fangs as blood dripped from them. It hissed something incomprehensible and began to roar. The sound escaping the maw of this creature so loud and high pitched that it snapped me out of my momentary petrified state. As the creature lunged at my hand, I grabbed Amanda as well as my phone and ran.

    As I ran down the stairs and out of the apartment, the roaring of the creature grew louder and louder. I shut the door and ran a half mile too terrified to look back.

    I called the police and called the mother. As I waited for them to show up standing in the middle of the street, I stroked Amanda’s head and weakly reassured her that everything would be okay. She just repeated the same thing over and over again adding to my horror.

    The police thoroughly searched the apartment and found nothing. The mother returned drunk and surly. She was furious about all the unwanted attention. I tried to explain what happened, but she refused to listen. She told me that she never wanted to see me again. I tried contacting her the next day to follow up, but she was still just as livid with me, obstinate when I kept trying to explain to her the danger Amanda is in.

    This was last week. Now, as I lay in my bed with the lights on I can’t help but think about precious Amanda and pray that she is okay. But whenever my thoughts turn to her, I inevitably go back to what she said as we both waited for the police to show up scared beyond our wits, and I am horrified anew,

    “Poor little girl is dead.”

    “Poor little babysitter is next.”

—
Credits to: team-cky

Mr. Blinky, The Fun Lover

I begrudgingly walked with my son through Times Square last Saturday. With my firm situated so close on 40th and Broadway, I had been dreading this venture for quite some time. I absolutely hate wading through the throng of tourists on the way to work and the weekend was going to be no different, but Tommy had insisted for weeks that we go to Toys ‘R Us and ride the ferris wheel. What kind of father would I be if I didn’t take him?

After the ride and purchasing Tommy a new Lego set, I made a beeline for the train (something else he insisted on when we could easily afford a cab uptown). If you’ve never been to Times Square, it is an absolute clusterfuck. Before me lay a sea of people, all stopping in the middle of the fucking sidewalk to soak in the “sights,” I regarded them with as much consideration as they deserved, mere obstacles to my goal.

In addition to this there are opportunists descending from every angle on the tourists attempting to make a quick buck in any way they can. The most annoying of which have to be the costumed people pandering for a picture then guilting you into giving them money. There’s something so disturbing about a grown man dressed as Elmo or the Cookie Monster with the knowledge that what lies below that plush suit is a man desperate for cash. The whole enterprise is extremely off-putting. I was praying that, even though I was walking with my five year old, we wouldn’t draw the attention of one of them thinking they have found some fresh prey.

As I nearly collided with a tourist firmly camped in the middle of the sidewalk, a Spongebob began to close in on us. I shielded Tommy’s vision as I quickened my step almost dragging him along in the process.

We arrived at 42nd and Broadway and I could see sweet freedom. The subway station was calling my name and only thirty feet in front of me. However, traffic was heavy on 42nd. If I didn’t have Tommy with me, I would have darted into the street. As I thought about my son, I heard his voice call out through the din of the crowd. “Daddy… “

I looked down to see Tommy thankfully still tethered to my grasp. He was looking at something to his right. I turned my gaze to see a yellow hand patting him on the head. I expected to see the Spongebob that had made its mark on us a block or so back, but what I saw was so much more perplexing than I had anticipated. What faced me was a mass of yellow fur, tangled and wild. I turned my gaze to his face and was immediately repulsed. An open mouthed smile was part of his ill advised design. His impossibly straight chompers hung below the beady plastic eyes, lifeless and staring down at Tommy’s little head. (I remarked in my mind how weird it was that he was bent over at an angle that the person underneath couldn’t possibly see him). As I looked even closer at it, I could see that the yellow fur was matted by dirt and grime. Everything about him annoyed me on a visceral level, but this was multiplied tenfold by the fact that he was touching my son.

“Look, we’re not tourists or anything. Go bother someone else. Also, I don’t appreciate that you are touching my son.”

After the words escaped my mouth, the smell hit my nose. An absolutely heinous aroma coming from the man that was still patting Tommy’s head after I asked politely for him to stop. It was pungent, a disgusting stink. It hung in the air and invaded my nostrils.

It activated a vague memory that remained cloudy in my mind’s eye. The almost retch inducing stench was forgotten as he continued to caress my son’s head. As his other hand reached for Tommy’s shoulder, I became more forceful.

“Listen, get your fucking hands off my kid. Who the fuck are you supposed to be anyway?”

Spoken in a monotone that belied the jovial nature of the costume, he replied,

“I’m Mr. Blinky, the Fun-Lover, and I just love having fun.”

If I wasn’t already disturbed by his dirty fur and lifeless eyes, the monotonous way he delivered that line was the last straw.

“I don’t care, leave us the fuck alone,” I said with conviction as the crowd began to move across the street. I pulled Tommy expecting him to follow with ease, but I almost jerked backward. I turned around to see both yellow hands grasping Tommy’s shoulders in a tight grip.

“Listen motherfucker, if you don’t let go of my son, I’m going to shout for the police.”

I looked into the mouth of the costume trying to see if I could regard whatever asshole was hiding underneath. He chose instead to turn his head upwards and stare with those dead, plastic eyes.

“You’re going to regret talking to me like that. I want to have fun, and we’re going to whether you like it or not. Tommy too.” This line was delivered with the same flat inflection. This was quickly progressing from annoying to terrifying. I jerked Tommy into my arms and ran toward the train.

I didn’t feel entirely safe until we made it back to my building. I greeted the doorman quickly hoping that conversation would be cut short (he’s going to figure out I don’t know or care about his name eventually) and made my way to the elevator.

I lay in bed that night thinking about this strange encounter. As sleep was about to find me, thoughts swirled around in my head. That smell still lingered. I could finally put my finger on it. It was the unmistakably putrid aroma of decaying flesh. As sleep finally began to overcome me, my last thoughts disturbed me. After delivering his vague threat, I could swear that plastic eye winked at me, and how the fuck did he know Tommy’s name… ?

By Monday, the whole bizarre experience had been chased out of my mind and replaced with the anxiety of a new week at the law firm. However, I soldiered through the day relatively unscathed (the meeting with the partners I had been dreading went extraordinarily well). As the day came to a close, I quickly made my way to the lobby. I had just recalled that Michelle had Tommy until the weekend and sweet freedom from responsibility awaited me as soon as I made my way out the door. I crossed the lobby and was stopped by the man at the front desk (another person I see day in and out but can’t remember their name to save my life).

“I didn’t know you were a furry,” he said in a way too familiar tone.

“Pardon?” I said in a way to indicate that I wasn’t too pleased with the tone he was using.

“Well… someone dropped this off for you,” he said sheepishly.

He handed over a grimy black business card with fine white lettering. I read it. My blood began to run cold.

Mr. Blinky, the Fun-Lover stopped by to say, hey, let’s have some fun.

“Who dropped this off?” I demanded.

“I don’t know, some weirdo in a suit.”

“How long ago?”

“About 10 minutes.”

“If he ever comes back, call the fucking police.”

I stormed out of the building and hailed a cab. I wouldn’t feel normal until I was in the safety of my home. For a brief moment before I stepped into the taxi, I caught a hint of yellow out of the corner of my eye. I turned and scanned the crowd furiously to find nothing amiss in the mass of people.

The next few days I could swear that Mr. Blinky was following me as soon as I stepped foot out of the office. It’s not that I saw him or even perceived a flash of yellow out of the corner of my eye. It was an intangible feeling that stuck with me. I knew the second I left the office to go get food or head home he would be waiting with his matted fur and those creepy dead eyes. A general sense of unease and foreboding followed me that week through Wednesday.

However, by Thursday afternoon my guard was down. The case I was working on occupied my thoughts. I ate at the diner going through the ins and outs of the upcoming trial in my head.

I stepped out to the sidewalk and made a path for my office. Suddenly, a horrendous stench stung my nostrils. Before I had time to process the implications of this, the hand grabbed my shoulders. I turned to see Mr. Blinky standing next to me with his eyes glaring at me. Something was different about him this time. His eyes had changed. They seemed… alive.The first time I saw him his mouth hung open in a ridiculous and slack smile. That Thursday, a smile still greeted me from his face, but this time it was different. The angles weren’t right. It was really… off.

“Look, I’m a lawyer and you’re harassing me. If you don’t get your fucking hands off of me, I’m going to the fucking police,” I said forcefully.

“You shouldn’t talk to me like that. I haven’t forgotten about you or… Tommy, sweet little Tommy. We’re going to have fun soon. Very soon.”

I looked downward and my eyes grew large. In his right hand was a dagger, a twisted jagged thing. Red stains lined the blade. He raised it into the air. I ran out into the middle of the street. A BMW nearly collided with me. I saw a cop standing further down the block, and sprinted toward him.

Breathlessly, I screamed for his help, but as I turned around, Blinky was gone as if he vanished into thin air.

I filed a report with the police. They seemed incredulous when I described the… man… who was harassing me, like it was some sort of big joke.

When I returned home, I was greeted by my doorman with a stupid grin hanging on his face. I was really not in the mood to talk. I barreled toward the door.

“Everything alright Mr. B?” he asked with that dumb smile on his face. I know it’s rude, but I blew him off, entered my apartment, and went to bed.

The next day, I called the precinct from my office. They hadn’t found my “mystery yellow man” yet.

I worked late dreading the trip out to the street. As the clock showed 7 a new anxiety filled me. Fuck! I forgot I had Tommy this weekend. I was supposed to relieve my nanny at 6. No wonder my phone had been buzzing. I looked to see plenty of missed calls from her. I hate talking to her over the phone as I can barely understand her broken English. I would just apologize when I got home.

I made my way to the lobby. I prepared to steel myself to go out to the street and reached for the door. Something gave me pause.

He’s waiting for me out there.

I was sure of it.

I called the security guard in the lobby toward me.

“Can you hail me a cab, and… if there’s some weirdo out there in a yellow suit, can you let me know?”

“Sure thing boss.”

I waited with bated breath.

The door burst inward.

The guard said the coast was clear. I stepped outside, and much to my relief, the only yellow object I saw was the taxi I crawled into.

I arrived home and there was the fucking doorman again with that same fake smile I have to see everyday. I planned to blow past him in silence. That’s when he spoke the words.

“Tell little Tommy happy birthday!” I stopped in my tracks.

“It’s not his birthday.”

“Well, whatever party you’re having for him. I sent up Mr. Blinky. You better hurry up. He was very clear,” he said with a wink. “The fun can’t begin until you’re there.”

—
By Cliff Barlow, originally posted on Thought Catalog. It is included in his short story collection, The Last Stair into Darkness.

To My Ex-Husband

I can just imagine your face right now as you get this message, that same look where you unconsciously clench your teeth out of stress, making those whining lips of yours to look more perched than they need to be. It really does astound me how ridiculously predictable you are sometimes, but I guess old habits just never die, do they? But I digress, I like seeing you that way, stressed and all. It happens to be one of the things that puts an ever slight warm feeling of ease in my “black, wretched heart,” as I hear a certain someone likes to call it these days. And that’s just when you choose to acknowledge my existence. Ever since I left, you’ve been doing all you can to convince everyone that I don’t even exist, even going so far to make sure that no one ever mentions my name again. Tell me, do I irk you that bad? Do you despise me so much that you figured the only way to hurt me (or more like put an insignificant dent on me) was to absolutely discard the time that we had together? Even though we both know that I was your first?

Let me be extra clear on that. I. Was. First. You can go spread whatever bullshit about me that you like, but I will NOT stand in second place to that pansy of a wife of yours. I will never understand why so many people would be so foolish to even consider her as the first. Her. A weak-willed, mindless footstool whose only purpose for being relevant was literally so you wouldn’t be left fucking a goat. All of this happening after I left you, of course.

And it’s really funny because you were so determined of getting me back when I left. You just couldn’t stand me saying no to you. You couldn’t accept that I wasn’t willing to be at your every beck and call. Hell, you even got three of your father’s buddies to force me to come back to you, as if you OWNED ME! LIKE I WAS SOME PROPERTY THAT YOU COULD CLAIM ANYTIME YOU WISHED! BUT EVEN THEN… I still refused to come back. I didn’t want you and I didn’t want anything to do with you.

By that time, I was already quite popular with my new friends, so there was no longer a need to be with you anyway. And even though my friends were of a different…”kind”, I can assure you that each of them were more of a man than you’ll ever be. Unlike you, they knew how to treat a woman. In fact, they were the first to ever treat me like a woman. They, too, were outcasts that refused to go along with the status quo. And with that, we bonded with deep intimacy on levels you would never understand. I was different then, but I was becoming one of them soon enough. We were prepared to be our own family. But your brute father and his three bastards weren’t willing to accept that either. So they presented me with a choice: Return to your side as your wife or watch my children die. Every. Single. Day.

That was the moment. That had to be the exact moment where every bit of mercy that I had left for your pitiful being had vanished. All of these men constantly telling me what to do… I couldn’t handle it any longer. The enraging hatred that I had for you, for ANYONE that felt that they could exert their control over me had consume me like a roaring flame. It was to the point that I descended into violent fits like that of a madman. I screamed at the top of my lungs, telling the three to go fuck themselves. I cursed your father, I cursed his name in great defiance knowing all too well he took your side even though I was practically his daughter. I vowed that your children would have no peace for as long as I roam the nights. So long as your putrid blood ran through their veins, I would be there waiting to claim their lives. And If that meant the hundred of my own children falling to their deaths everyday, then so be it.

Besides, it ended up not being that much of a big problem after all, not at the rate that I was working. And I have you to thank for that, actually. You see, because you foolishly covered up my existence from everyone (or tried to, I might say), most of your children never know to defend themselves even when I’m standing right in front of them. Your daughters would never know that I was the reason for their miscarriages or the silent deaths of their humble babies. They would never know I was there, laughing in delight as they cry their eyes out over their children’s graves. Your sons would never know that I would disguise myself as the woman of their dreams, making them fall head over heels for me and giving me all of their pathetic love only to drive them to insanity or take their own lives in response to me rejecting them ever so coldly (with quite ease, I must add). All the while, they would give their bodies to me out of their deepest affection and I would use them and continue giving birth to thousands of my own children who would follow in my suit. Sometimes, I don’t even have to come to them physically to get what I want. With the amount of wet dreams your sons have, I’m practically giving birth to a whole army. A few losses doesn’t even phase me anymore.

I just want you to get the clear picture of how inevitable you’ve made this to be, because if you really think about it, this is all your fault. If you would’ve just treated me as your equal instead of some subservient dog, I would have never turned out like this. Your children would’ve never suffered a day in their lives. Your whole kind would’ve never been damned. You and your wife would’ve never eaten the forbidden fruit. Your wife would’ve never came… and we still would have been together. But you broke that. You broke that for everyone. That’s why I can’t give you any hopes of my work ending here. Oh no, you’ve thought too kind of me if you don’t think I have another card waiting up my sleeve to dash out.

ALL of your children have to die with you. None of them can be left behind. All of your traces have to be removed. I will not cease until I have each and every one of their skulls rotting in my clutches.  I will paint this whole fucking world with their blood, if I have to.  And as they cry, scream, and beg for mercy, I’ll simply tell them that you were the reason for their bloodshed.  You were the reason for their fall.  I’ll tell them that you foolishly managed to seal their fate before they were even born.

Do you understand now how much of a serious mistake it was to cross me?  Because I can definitely tell you that everyone going down was always the plan, even since the beginning. I mean, how do you think that snake got into the garden in the first place? How do you think it knew to trick your wife, a newcomer of the garden, into eating the forbidden fruit first instead of you? How do you think it knew precisely what would happen if both of you ate that fruit?

Who exactly did you think that snake was?

Did you seriously think I was just gonna idly sit by and let you live out your happy ending unscathed? Now what type of story would that be? But don’t you worry, I have no intention of letting this story go to waste. None of us do. And with the ending that we have in store for your children, oh, we’re gonna go out with a huge bang. We’re all excited, especially my beloved.

I probably should have mentioned him earlier when I was talking about my group of friends because he was, in fact, their leader. And boy, a leader is only an understatement of what he’s capable of. When he finally comes into power (and he will come into power), he’ll have this whole world eating out of the palm of his hand, if he’s not doing so already. He tends to play your children like a deck of cards, so it’s literally only a matter of time until they willingly give him a throne. And he has plans, GREAT plans to deal with each and every one of your children.

By that time, all of my dearest friends and children will be free to walk on the same ground as yours. We’ll even be close enough to visit your own homes, and maybe even closer… And no, there’s not going to be any barriers of any kind. There’s not going to be a single law or force to protect you. There’s not going to be any prayers, any blessings, or any rituals that you think will stop us. We will have our way and not even your father will be able to do anything about it.

We’re very much looking forward to becoming well acquainted with all of you. We’ll be like one big family. After all, isn’t that what we are at the end of the day? You know, even after all we’ve been through, we never technically got a divorce. And what type of wife would I be if I didn’t come home to take care of my loving husband? So don’t you worry. I might have been away for a long time and there might be a couple of things that has changed about me since we last met. But I promise you, after I finish my work, I’ll be home soon once again, honey.

I’ll be home real soon.

Sincerely your first wife,

Lilith

—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta

Annie

Annie ran away again the other night. It took me hours to find her in the park, going back and forth on the swings without a care in the world, like she had every right to be there. And she dyed her hair again, blonde this time. I didn’t want to make a fuss with all those people around, so I caught her on the backswing and dragged her home kicking and screaming like a lunatic. It was humiliating: I had to smile and shrug at all the people staring like it didn’t bother me.

As soon as we were home, I sent Annie to her room. She just sat there on the bed, crying and crying. The way she carried on, I didn’t have the heart to yell at her for running away. I guess that’s the real problem, this lack of discipline. I’ve never been good at tough but fair. I’m always going too far one way or the other.

Like a few months ago when she came at me with the kitchen knife. For a minute I really thought she was trying to hurt me, my own sweet angel. But afterward she just lay there in my arms so quiet, letting me stroke her hair and sing her a lullaby, like nothing had ever happened.

But then there was that other time when she started messing around with my doll collection. They’re such fragile things, my dolls, and Annie was playing so rough like she wanted to break them. I love those dolls: they remind me of when everything was easier, when I wasn’t stuck in this house all day long with Annie’s tantrums and Bill’s moping. I got upset, and I hit her. I was so ashamed, when she ran away that night I didn’t go after her right away. I just stayed there, crying and feeling like the worst mother in the world.

I tried to be gentler after that, more understanding. So instead of getting cross with Annie, I let her stay in her room and cooked her some dinner. I turned up the TV real loud so I wouldn’t hear the racket she was making in there. She makes such a mess sometimes, and it makes me so angry, the way she breaks her things like she doesn’t even care about them anymore. I bought her a puppy once, but she wouldn’t even touch it, like she was scared of it. The very day I decided to take it back to the pet store, it vanished. I found Annie in the backyard, holding a little trowel, sitting on a pile of dirt. I helped her wash up and never mentioned it again.

I made her favorite food, macaroni and cheese, hoping it might calm her down. But as soon as I opened the door she slammed into me, trying to get past. I almost dropped the food everywhere wrestling with her like that. She had this wild look in her eyes, like an animal. It scared me, being alone in there with her when she was like that. I put the food on her desk and gently pushed her toward the chair.

“I made it just the way you like,” I told her, smiling and trying not to look as afraid as I felt.

She stared at me like she didn’t understand a word I was saying.

“Will you eat some of it?”

“I don’t want to,” she said. Her voice sounded strange, different than I’d ever heard it before. I hope I didn’t shudder. I didn’t want to upset her.

“Please, Annie, I’m very worried about you.”

“That’s not my name.”

She likes to change her name sometimes. It worries me. One day she’s Beth, the next day Irene. It’s just like her hair, she changes it every time she runs away. I get so scared that one day I won’t be able to find her, and the police won’t be able to help because I won’t know what she looks like or what she’s calling herself.

“Sweetheart, I’d really like you to eat a little bit. Just a little, please, for mommy.”

And then she said, with the meanest look on her face, “You’re not my mommy.”

It hurt so much. It felt like a stab to my heart. Tears welled up in my eyes before I could stop them, so I turned away. I heard her scramble onto the bed, her fingernails scratching like little claws on the posts. When I looked back, she had her back pressed against the corner of the room, legs drawn up to her chest, rocking back and forth. Staring at me with those wild animal eyes.

“I love you, Annie,” I said with as much dignity as I could manage. “But sometimes I just don’t know how to deal with your behavior.”

She screamed. Just this one long, loud, echoing screech, like a siren. Her mouth was wide open, but her face was blank. I covered my ears, got out of the room and closed the door behind me.

I had to collect myself before I could go see Bill. He’s been so odd lately, I don’t want to worry him anymore.

I got a second plate of the macaroni and brought it to the bedroom. That’s where he spent all his time, lying in bed.

“Honey, I made dinner.”

He didn’t answer, didn’t even roll over to look. I picked up the plate from this morning, the food on it untouched, and put the new one down where he could reach it.

“Annie’s back. I found her in the park. She’s pitching a fit in her room already.”

He must’ve heard the screaming. I always tried to keep her quiet, told her that daddy needed rest, but she never listened. Sometimes I wondered if he could even hear her. He never got up to see what was wrong.

I knelt beside the bed and looked into his eyes. He stared back at me, not saying a word. He’d been like ever since the first time Annie ran away. They’d been alone together. Then she had run off, and he’d stopped talking. He lay down in bed and never got up again. Lost his job, lost so much weight. He hardly even looked like the man I’d married.

I kissed him on the forehead and left. As I closed the door behind me, I thought I saw him start to get up, but I guess I must have imagined it.

Annie kept on with that awful screaming for hours. I stayed in the living room, sitting on our big three-person couch alone. I turned up the TV as loud as I could, played music, turned on the blender, tried everything I could to drown out the awful screaming. It was like nails being driven into my ears, like spiders crawling up my neck, like ice water splashing on my legs.

Finally it stopped. I thought maybe she’d finally tuckered herself out, but then the scratching started. That was almost worse. It started out quick, rhythmic, but it got slower as time went on. Sometimes Annie would make a noise, like she was crying again. I started to worry that she might be hurting herself, but I couldn’t get that awful thing she had said to me or that wild look in her eyes out of my head. I just stayed in the living room and tried to sleep.

I don’t know how it got to be like this. I’ve thought about taking her to a doctor, but they always give her these strange looks. It’s gotten to where I don’t dare to go to the same doctor twice: I’m afraid they might be thinking of taking her away from me, of doing something awful to her.

I’ve thought about calling in a priest. I know that must sound crazy, but the way she gets sometimes, like she doesn’t even know me, it scares me so much. She’ll call out to people who aren’t there, shout names I don’t know like they’re real people. And there was that business with the kitchen knife. It wasn’t the first time she’s tried to hurt me. She smuggles rocks into the house and tries to hit me with them when my back is turned. When she gets really wild she’ll bite and claw at me. Some days I start to wonder if she’s really my little girl, or something else, wearing her face, haunting me.

After a long time the scratching stopped and everything got quiet. I sighed with relief. The house is so much nicer when it’s quiet.

I looked at the clock and could hardly believe how late it was. She must have finally fallen asleep. When I looked over at her door, I saw the light still on through the cracks. Quiet as I could, I tiptoed over. I would just peek in, turn off the light. Maybe give her a little kiss good night.

I opened the door just a crack, but that was all it took. She slammed through, knocked me to the floor, and scrambled away.

“Annie stop!” I shouted. She was going right to our bedroom, making so much noise I was sure it would wake Bill up.

She shoved through our door and I ran after. But inside she was just standing there, staring at the bed.

“Sweetheart, daddy’s sleeping,” I hissed.

She started screaming again, even louder than before. She pointed at Bill and screamed and screamed. I shushed her, tried to tell her he was sleeping.

But she wouldn’t stop. She screamed and screamed. The sound pierced through me, tore apart every nerve in my body. I covered my ears and scratched at my face and soon I was screaming too, just as loud as she was. I took her up in my arms and we screamed together. I hugged her as tight as I could, squeezed her to me, wishing I could do something, anything to make it stop. I held her so close I could feel her heartbeat, how soft and quiet it was, growing quieter and quieter.

She stopped screaming, there in my arms, and soon I stopped too. I sank to my knees, holding my little girl in my arms, stroking her hair.

I don’t know how long we stayed like that. It was so dark in the bedroom.

I looked down at Annie, but it wasn’t Annie at all. I was holding one of my dolls.

I must have fallen asleep, holding her there, and she snuck away and put a doll in my arms instead. It was a funny doll, one I didn’t remember having. It had such lovely blonde hair.

I felt so silly, holding that doll like that for who knows how long. I got up and carried it to the closet where I keep the other dolls and laid it there. There were so many dolls, and they were all so big, I was starting to run out of room. But I couldn’t throw them out. They were so pretty, such lovely little dolls. They all looked different, but every single one reminded me of Annie.

I checked around the house, but she was gone. She must have been very upset, to run away twice in just two days. I got my coat on and got ready to go look for her again.

Before I left, I went back to the bedroom to check on Bill. Somehow all the noise hadn’t bothered him at all. I touched his forehead, but he didn’t seem any different. My fingers stuck a little bit, and there was some funny green stuff left on them afterward. I wiped it off on the bed and said goodbye.

It was such a lovely day outside. I took a deep breath of the fresh air. I love our house, but every once in a while I notice the worst smell in there.

Somewhere off in the distance, I heard the sound of children laughing. It was so nice to hear after all that awful noise last night. Maybe Annie thought so too. I followed the laughter.

(Source: http://www.creepypasta.com/annie/)

The Fires Beneath Centralia

Centralia Pennsylvania. Current population: 10. One of the most prominent ghost towns in America. The reason? A massive coal fire burning below the surface. In 1962 a landfill was set ablaze to celebrate Memorial Day, and the fire was never properly extinguished. The landfill was directly on top of an old coal mine that was supposedly filled and properly capped. When the ashes from the fire weren’t quite extinguished they smoldered underground for an unknown period of time before being exposed to the open air and setting coal dust ablaze. This dust led directly back to the mines creating a massive labyrinth beneath the town.

I was tasked by a geological research team to map out the remaining mines untouched by fire to give a better approximation to the extent of the fire. In summer 2013 I began my expedition to the town that no longer even has a zip code as of 2002. I don’t think a garbage fire is to blame for the underground inferno…or the evacuation of the town above.

I arrived on the outskirts of Centralia at the end of a highway that literally continued straight into a dirt mount. The road simply ended. Due to the risk of collapsing shafts, and the inherit risks that the fire I brought one of our interns with me. I’ll refer to him as “Tim,” Tim was a PhD candidate (has since earned it) at Penn State and had been doing research about the effects of mine fires on the surrounding crust of the Earth. He’d placed small, very accurate seismographs around the area of Centralia and studied the results over several years. Tim thought very far in advance; halfway through his bachelor’s degree he began placing the seismographs so that he’d have solid data for his PhD thesis.

Tim noticed that the fires would bake and crack the earth above occasionally, but nothing unusual occurred until early 2013 when one of his seismographs began recording data that was akin to something digging the earth directly underneath. It was almost as if someone was using a boring machine directly beneath the seismograph, heading straight up. The Earth’s crust can change, distort, and tear in odd manners, but this was something that I’d never seen before. After less than two days the readings had gone off the scale and we’d begun to assume something was wrong with the seismograph, our fears were nearly confirmed when the machine suddenly stopped broadcasting. We went out to inspect…and it was gone, a perfectly circular five foot diameter hole in its place.

Shortly thereafter the government contacted us. They tasked us to map the remaining mines using a GPS tracker that had a built in safety feature; if we began to suffer ill effects from carbon monoxide (from the coal fire) the tracker would emit a high frequency ping to any other trackers nearby, and an obnoxious screech to anyone within earshot.

Once we left the truck behind and continued towards the mine on foot, things took a turn for the weird. I saw one of the residents of the town, but he didn’t seem all there. He looked out from the porch window of his dilapidated house and basically stared straight through us. His look was akin to the “1,000 yard stare” of combat veterans. We waved at him, as we were walking within fifty yards of his house and he yelled something at us, but we couldn’t hear him. I raised my hand to my ear in the universal “we couldn’t hear you” gesture and he yelled louder, “you won’t want to go in there…the mines ain’t kind to visitors!”

The man looked to be a few steps past crazy, so we took his brief rant with a grain of salt and continued to our destination, which was only about a quarter mile past the man’s house.

The woods had an unnatural feel to them; the trees seemed stunted in many places, and there were numerous vents created by the subterranean fires, of course. These openings in the Earth’s crust were usually pretty easy to spot; they were puffing out smoke in some places, and generally they were devoid of vegetation. This, however, was not always the case. Some of these chasms were hundreds of feet deep and had stopped smoking…an open maw on the surface of the Earth with no warning whatsoever. Tim nearly walked straight into one that was overgrown with a fallen tree bridging the two sides.

The smoke that emanated from the ground cast eerie shadows everywhere you looked. It was almost as if something was hiding within the smoke, but I dismissed that as me simply being paranoid. This town had been nearly abandoned since the 1980’s, and the only people that remained were, from what I could see, mostly crazy.

Finally I saw something move that I knew wasn’t smoke. I knew it wasn’t my imagination because I saw it move a small fern-like bush as it hid. Something was in the woods with us. As I moved towards the rustled bush I felt myself begin to fall. I had walked over a small drop-off that was directly above one of the fiery chasms that wasn’t actively smoking. I lucked out and managed to grab the edge as I fell in. Tim was able to pull me out before either of us succumbed to the carbon monoxide gasses emanating from the pit. Our walk towards the mine continued in silence.

The mine entrance was overgrown with thick vegetation and gated off by a rusted fence. Thankfully the lock had long since rusted and fell off as we’d never have been able to open it with our key as rusted as the thing was. Inside was an absolute labyrinth of partially collapsed tunnels that gradually sloped downward. My map, circa 1930, showed that the mine had a spiral series of shafts that went several hundred feet deep before the main shaft hit a water pocket, dooming all of the miners in the near vicinity.

We entered the first shaft (main number one) and immediately the temperature began to increase. I knew we’d need our portable respirators before long; I just hadn’t expected to need them yet. The ambient temperature outside was nearly 80° F, and inside a mine it would normally be closer to 50° F…it was well over 90° F and rising. This was a good indicator of how close the fire really was; by my calculations, the ambient temperature in the mine would be close to 120° F near the waterline.

The depth of the water was such that it would have washed out or flooded the bottom quarter of the mine, but there should be enough room for us to gain access to the portions of this mine where the fire would hit first. It wasn’t an “if this mine caught fire,” it was more of a “when.” The mines around and under Centralia were just too close together, and the coal seam was too large for any nearby mines to be spared. It would likely burn for another two and a half centuries.

After donning our respirators we headed deeper into the main number one shaft. The shaft would periodically open into larger chambers where pillars of coal had been mined around and supported with large timbers. Occasionally one or more of these would be collapsed, leading me to question the structural integrity of the ceiling supporting millions of tons of coal and rock above our head…but we trudged on.

In the second such open chamber I saw a plume of smoke emitting from the wall. My eyes darted away from it, and as soon as they did I could see movement that didn’t match the smoke. Something black as the surrounding coal was standing directly beside the wall, so close to the opening that if it were human it would have almost instantly succumbed to carbon monoxide poising and passed out. Whatever this was just stood by the opening and watched us walk by. I didn’t dare look at it directly for fear that I’d illuminate it with my headlamp. I couldn’t take that risk. We came within about twenty feet of it, and I guess Tim just couldn’t see it.

Just as we passed by the thing I saw it slide between two pillars and disappear into the wall. Before it left I saw it grab the pillar and I noticed three massive claws on its “hand.” I knew we’d have to return to that room…I just wasn’t looking forward to it. We exited the cavern without incident, but afterwards I couldn’t shake the feeling that there were things scaling the walls just out of sight.

Finally, after another half an hour we could hear running water. Apparently the underground water that the 1930’s mine had hit was some sort of creek or stream. We were probably about 200 yards from the water when Tim stopped dead in his tracks and pointed straight ahead. I didn’t get a good look at whatever he saw, but I saw a shadow, and I knew that Tim could finally see what I saw. He was deathly pale, and just managed to slightly turn his head sideways to look at me before something climbed to the ceiling directly behind him. He heard it and darted the way we’d came.

I had no plans on lingering in the mine, but my own terrified curiosity got the better of me; the water shouldn’t be running. The records indicated that the 1930’s crew hit a pond, an underground pool of, essentially, stagnant water. Somehow the water either interconnected with another waterway in the passing eighty years, or the records were wrong. Terrified as I was, I knew I was mere feet from finding out.

I turned the last bend, maybe twenty feet and ten seconds from where Tim had turned tail and ran…only to see a rather large flow of water moving perpendicular to the cavern. The shaft continued on the other side of roughly fifty feet of water. The water was near the boiling point as I could feel the immense heat resonating from its surface.

On the other side stood a black creature. When I shined my light on it fire seemed to resonate from its eyes. I was running the other direction instantly. I heard its feet hit the ground on my side of the bank and I broke into a full sprint. I could hear its footsteps, and although I was panting through the respirator in the extreme heat I couldn’t hear it breathing at all. I ran up the incline towards the exit, but the creature seemed to have more stamina than I and I began to falter. A dark shape emerged from directly beneath one of my feet and seemed to grab my boot as I stumbled towards the room where I’d originally seen the beast.

As I passed through the first room where I saw the creature I heard a loud screech and my GPS lit up a pinged beacon…from inside the wall…I continued to run. I felt fire on the back of my neck, and I could see daylight from ahead, only, I didn’t think I could make it. The fire grew worse and worse even though I knew the temperature should be decreasing, and right as I exited the mine I felt the flames overcome me and I fell into darkness.

Tim revived me some minutes later and indicated that we were both suffering from carbon monoxide poisoning and that we needed fresh air in a bad way. After a few minutes and many scared glances at the mine we decided to leave. I asked Tim where his GPS unit fell and he responded that it was still in his pack. Confused I asked him to show me. Sure enough Tim’s GPS unit was in its rightful place. I pondered why mine had malfunctioned and as I looked at it I could clearly see a dim ping moving around beneath the surface. I decided to take one last look down the main shaft of the mine before we left. Tim stayed outside.

Once back in I could see about 200 yards straight into the main shaft. I peered off the side of the drop off and not twenty feet below lay a charred GPS unit exactly like ours with three charred scrapes on it. As soon as I saw it a black clawed hand raked the unit back out of view and I was immediately running towards the surface lest the owner of the hand know how to fly.

We contacted the government with the results of our first excursion and informed them of the unusual pings. They mentioned nothing. Upon a little further digging by Tim…apparently we were the second team to map the area; the first being four months prior…they did not return.

—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta

Willow Men

There’s a local legend where I come from. They’re simply referred to as the willow men.

There’s hardly a need for the law enforcement in this town. The willow men take care of all that. Every single step taken, every word spoken, every drop of blood spilt.. The willow men know about it before anyone else. Believe me, anyone that has invoked the wrath of the willow men has gone missing without a trace.
That’s why when I realized what I had done it was too late. The willow men were coming.

She just wouldn’t shut the hell up. No matter what I said and what I would do she was just hysterical. She kept pacing about the house screaming. She said she found this and that and knew I was cheating on her. She’d ask me who it was and I told her she was crazy. I guess I wore that excuse out. After a while, I couldn’t take her damn voice anymore. I’d walk room to room and she’d follow me. When we got to the kitchen I had my fill.

I reached for the first knife I could find and jammed it into her throat. The face of anger and sorrow melted into one of despair and disbelief. The crimson fluid ran freely all over her blouse and she dropped to her knees, scrambling around on the floor. She clawed at the tile and made gurgling noises which only served to infuriate me. I grabbed an iron skillet that had been pre-heating on the stove and took a swing at her head. A wet crack followed the impact and while I didn’t need to keep going I did.

I lost count of the number of times I hit her but I had a good deal of blood on me. What was left of her head was being held together by thin particles of bone and blood continued to rush out. I dropped the skillet to the floor with a loud clang. I wish remorse could have followed so I would’ve felt a least a bit human but it didn’t. I was just happy to be rid of her. With a grunt I picked her body up off the floor and hoisted it unto my shoulder. Her face hung next to me, dead eyes staring with conviction. I could only chuckle. As soon as I got outside, I dropped the ragged heap onto the ground and went to find a shovel. That’s when I knew they were watching.

I could hear the whispers from the woods and in the corners of my eyes I could see them staring intently at my every move. Whenever I would look up to the woods I would find only gnarled trees staring back at me. I knew they were there. It was dusk by the time she was good and buried. I was drenched in sweat and it had made the blood stains on my clothes expand and turn orange. I looked back up to the woods and I saw them peering from behind the trees. Long, gnarled faces with hollow eyes and gaunt figures. I could only half see the faces as they chose to hide behind their precious trees but they were there. Watching, whispering…

“What are you staring for, bastards?! You heard her! I had to do it,” I yelled at them.

Was I expecting a response? I don’t know. They just continued to watch me from behind the trees. I spit on the ground and threw the shovel down. They would come for me under cover of darkness and I wasn’t going without a fight. I stole away into the house and prepared. I pushed couches and dressers in front of doorways. I nailed wooden boards haphazardly to cover all the windows. As the sun crept underneath the horizon a great trepidation settled in the pit of my stomach. Was it honestly nerves? I hated to think it was such a powerful fear that I would start breaking into an ice cold sweat. I loaded up my shotgun and reached for a bottle of whiskey. I forced down a mouthful and then another and slammed the rest of the bottle against the wall in frustration.

One door I left open. It was the back door that stared out to the woods. I put a chair down in front of it and sat, shotgun in my lap. They were still staring at me. The willow men. We stayed staring at one another for three days. Eventually, exhaustion began to get the best of me and I started to nod off. I tried desperately to keep my eyes open. For a foolish second I propped my head up with the shotgun so that it wouldn’t fall. I snapped back to reason and lifted my head high. Last thing I wanted to do was shoot myself. Had I known what was coming I probably should have.

I pushed myself to stay up for a few more hours. The day came and went and it was the dead of night before I knew it. They persisted behind the trees. I began to rationalize that if I closed my eyes for a second, I could have enough time to open them while the willow men were coming at me so I could take a few down. Smiling I did just that. Of course, its’ difficult to tell how long you were asleep. Could be a second, could be for days. I opened my eyes again and found I was still sitting in my chair with my shotgun in my lap. I snapped up when I saw that the willow men were no longer behind the trees. I flipped out and held the shotgun up, darting around barrel first. I took a few steps outside and tried to control my heavy breaths. I shook damn near uncontrollably and found it impossible to keep the gun steady.

I began to calm down when I didn’t see anything outside and began to return to my post when I stopped dead in my tracks. I felt tears well in my eyes and something began to push up and out of my throat. The willow men were peering from around the doorway and the sides of the house. I froze staring at their gnarled up faces and branch-like hands. I had to do something. I pulled the gun up and fired off a round. It managed to take out part of the door frame but it missed any of them altogether. I popped open the shotgun and madly grasped for a fresh shell in my pocket. I successfully reloaded it and lifted the gun back up.

The willow men continued to look at me from where they had been. I took careful aim this time and fired once more. Another shot hit the doorframe this time although closer to the willow men. I fumbled for a third round and as I did, I saw a large shadow cover me. Looking up, the willow men were upon me. I screamed and closed the barrel down on my thumb effectively severing it. Immediately after that, I lost all consciousness and collapsed.

When I awoke, it was ice cold. My vision began to return to me slowly and I could feel that I was being dragged. My heart sank when I looked around. Darkness stretched as far as the eye could see and I knew I was in the deepest part of the woods. Where my thumb had once been was black and swollen and had managed to numb up to my forearm. My ankles were in severe pain too but I didn’t know why. When I looked, I saw that they had been clearly snapped and the willow men were dragging me by my feet. I began to scream as loudly as possible for someone, anyone.

All I did was cause more willow men to appear and watch me from behind the strangest willow trees I’d ever seen. Their trunks were small and looked just like leather. The earth around them was red and moist yet where I was being dragged was dry, rugged land. I looked up to the canopy and wish I hadn’t. Skinless corpses hung down, blood dripping freely to feed what I now knew were flesh-bound trees. My screams were swallowed by the dark and my throat gave out, hoarse from the strain. In the silence, I heard a faint moaning.

I looked around to see if there was someone else here. Maybe some poor bastard who suffered my same fate. To my horror, I discovered the source of the moans. The bodies hanging on the branches of the trees were all still alive. Soon, I too would have my flesh torn asunder and be damned to hang up there and feed the hungry willow trees. There was nothing I could but accept my fate. The willow men had me.

—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta

Mirror Avenue

I live in a pretty small, relatively unknown town. This is the internet, so I won’t divulge too much information but I will tell you it’s in southern Wisconsin. I live on the corner of Lawn and Elm Street, and pretty near to my house is a stretch of road that most people called “Mirror Avenue”. Of course it’s not really technically an avenue, just an extension of Lawn Street, and it’s not the whole road, just a short stretch within the block adjacent to the one my house is on. I’ve lived here my whole life and everyone I know has referred to it as Mirror Avenue at some point, but many of them couldn’t give me an explanation as to why it was called that.

The stories I got were mostly always different, usually something about a mirror maker (or whatever you call people who made mirrors) back when the town was founded who got caught up in some kind of cult, and the street being cursed. Of course the exact accounts varied, one told to me by a friend in Middle School included the street being split down the middle by a very long, man-sized mirror. People would look into this mirror and the reflection would be doing something different, usually mischievous and if there was more than one person in the mirror at a time the reflections would try to hurt each other, and it was said that the people could feel pain inflicted by the reflections. This was just the ramblings of a middle schooler, and tonight on my way home I found out EXACTLY why they call it Mirror Avenue.

I worked relatively late today, until 8 o’clock, and this being December it got dark pretty early. I got off at 8 and decided to walk home instead of calling one of my parents; despite being 18, I never learned to drive for financial reasons and the fact that I lived in a town small enough that there was very little that wasn’t in walking distance. I walk to and from work all the time, but I usually take Elm Street instead of Lawn, it’s faster but tonight I thought since I didn’t really have to be home at any specific time I would take the longer way. This route would take me right down Lawn Street to Mirror Avenue, where I had the single most terrifying experience of my life.

The walk home was pretty normal, until I reached the point by the park where I would have normally diverged onto Elm Street. I turned onto Lawn Street, without even thinking about the whole mirror thing; any time I had ever walked this way before was in the daytime, so I was never really afraid, and therefore it wasn’t anywhere near the front of my mind. I was only walking for about a minute before I noticed, but there was someone walking on the other side of the street. I looked over as soon as I noticed and they did the same. I couldn’t tell for sure but they were wearing the same coat that I had on, only I couldn’t see a face because they had their hood up. I walked for a few more seconds and almost tripped on the edge of an uneven piece of sidewalk. It was then that I noticed something strange; I guess had I thought more about the mirror thing before I would have expected it, but the guy on the other side of the street stumbled at the same time. I stood there for a second and then started to walk again, thinking maybe it was a fluke, but to test it I stopped abruptly, and watched to see what he did. Of course he stopped, watching me the whole time I was watching him.

Now I was certain something was off. I yelled across the street at the guy, but I didn’t hear anything from him, even though he seemed to be making the same motion I was as if he was yelling too. I stood there for about five minutes, waving my arms around and things like that, watching the man on the other side of the street as he mimicked me perfectly. Eventually I decided to see what happened if I got closer, and so I stepped out onto the street, and he did the same. I stopped, scared for a moment. I couldn’t tell who it was because of the hood and I wasn’t sure what would happen if I got any closer, and the whole time he was silently copying me, every aspect of my movement synced perfectly as if he was my reflection.

Now I was thinking about the mirror thing, and based on the stories I had heard growing up I expected that nothing good could come of this. My curiosity got the better of me though, and I got closer until I was just about in the very center of the road, with my “reflection” just on the other side of the lane divider. I almost reached out and tried to touch it, but I was too afraid, and at the last minute pulled my hand back. It was then that I heard a sort of growling from the “reflection”. Apparently it had wanted me to touch it, as it made this clear by the mumbling from underneath its hood. I thought for a moment, and I wanted to see if this was some sort of reflection, so I figured maybe if I put my hood up, he would end up putting his down. And so I stepped back to the sidewalk because I was uncertain as to what would happen next, and I prepared myself. I was shaking, partially in anticipation and partially because I was terrified of what might happen to me. I was obviously in some deep shit here, as I knew now that this had to have something to do with the old legends. I stood there, my hands just above my shoulders, ready to put my hood up, with my “reflection” doing the same.

I counted down from ten, whispering to myself and praying that this was just some kid messing with me or that it was all somehow in my head. As I got closer to one I shook more violently, so much so that it had become apparent that my “reflection” was also shaking. As I finally hit one and put my hood up, my suspicions were confirmed as I saw the guy on the other side put his hood down.

I have no way to accurately describe what I saw, the only thing I can say is that it had my same basic features, but they were contorted and twisted in a hideous and disgusting way that left me staring at it in a horrified daze. It was smiling at me, and that’s when I realized that it was no longer doing exactly as I was. I stood there on the sidewalk in shock as it stepped off the curb and began walking towards me. I panicked and ran down the street, and my “reflection” followed. Only now it was staring at me the whole time, not just when I was looking at it. It was faster than me, and the closer I got to the edge of the block the closer it got to me. I was certain for a moment that I could hear it saying something, but I couldn’t tell what it was.

Just as I was about to reach the corner it reached out and grabbed my hood, tearing it off as I forced myself forward. I thought it had me, I thought I was dead, another victim of Mirror Avenue, but when I heard that coat rip it was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard, and I ran like hell until I got right in front of my house, and it was only then that I realized that it was no longer chasing me. I assume it must have stopped when I got passed the edge of the block, when I exited the stretch of Lawn Street that was Mirror Avenue. I looked back at Mirror Avenue, expecting to see it standing there on the corner or something, but I couldn’t see my “reflection” anywhere. This worried me, and I got inside as quickly as I could.

My family wasn’t home, they left a note saying that they had gone Christmas shopping and to call when I got home. The first thing I did was lock all the doors and windows and close the curtains, and then I fetched my brother’s old sword that he had bought at renaissance fair, just in case. I called and didn’t mention anything about what had happened. Later when they finally got home I told them that I had run into a dog, and that’s why my coat was ripped. I wasn’t sure if I should say anything to anyone about what really happened or not; I was afraid that they might think I was crazy or on drugs or something. I might tell some friends at school, and there’s anyone who reads this, but one thing is for certain; I’m never taking the long way home again.

—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta

Palms

Holding hands, we step into the psychic’s tent together. We’d been to this fair every year since 2009, and he’d never let me go in. It was a deep purple and completely empty save for a single table and a chair for the psychic to sit on. She was old and wearing ragged clothing with many rings on her fingers. Fit the cliche pretty well. “Who’s palm shall I read?”

“His, his!” I shove my boyfriend toward the table. He reluctantly extends his arm and opens his hand. The elderly psychic takes it and begins rubbing two fingers over the creases. My boyfriend turns his head at me and rolls his eyes. It took a lot of begging for him to come in with me.

The psychic’s hand slowly begins to tremble as she reaches the center of his palm. Her forehead strains and her lips curl into a frown. Then her eyebrows raise and her mouth opens into a silent scream. She gasps for air and rises to her feet, the chair falling behind her. Her fingers do not leave him palm. “Murder!” she shrieks. Her eyes flash open with terror and she lets go of his hand. “Worse than I’ve ever seen! Murder!” she screams again, stinging my eardrums.

My boyfriend, completely unnerved, storms out of the tent. He doesn’t even look at me. Boy am I gonna get it from him.

“Why’d you go and do that?” I scold the woman, who is catching her breath. “You could have said anything. No one can really tell the future.”

The psychic glances at me, cringes, and stares blankly out of the tent at my boyfriend, who is still walking away. “My dear,” she whispers, voice quivering. “I don’t see the future. I see the past.”

—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta

You Can't Hear Silence

It was a few days ago when I began hearing the silence. You’re probably wondering what I mean. You can’t hear silence of course.

Oh, but you can. Except, it doesn’t want you to.

When you start hearing it, you can’t stop. You can’t tone it out. It begins to invade your thoughts, your mind, your sanity. A few days ago, I was able to think freely. I had real thoughts. I could hear the birds chirping, the wind blowing, people talking and being able to converse with them.

Now i’m alone. Alone with the silence. Whatever you do, don’t listen. They don’t want you to hear their secrets.

I’m begging you, don’t listen to-

….

It was a few years ago when I began hearing the silence. You’re probably wondering what I mean.

You can’t hear silence, of course.

—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta

Servitude

I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

I’ve served the old gods faithfully: they were here before my mother and my mother’s mother, and her mother before her. We exist only to serve. All we do is slay the beasts that beset the entrance to nirvana, keeping Them free of nuisance. They could slay them in a moment: for us, a life’s work.

And yet, the old gods are cruel. They destroy our homes. They kill us if we try to enter nirvana in life. A few have succeeded, coming back with tales of splendor and wonder within. They do not last long, weak and skinny things that they are.

The old gods light in the darkness will go out soon, and the vermin will flee back into the night. I have much work to do before the dawn comes. Even if the old gods don’t destroy my home, the vermin trapped within will with their dying twitches. It never ends. Not until death, when I will question the old gods and their cruelty.

I sigh and get to work. My web won’t spin itself.

—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta

What I Forgot

I awoke to the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance. I smiled to myself, relishing the quasi-rational excuse to sleep in. I could see light through my closed eyelids, and hear the seagulls squawking nearby. If it wasn’t about to rain, I would probably encourage myself to get up and outside to do some yard work. Spring was finally managing to punctuate a particularly long and snowy Maine winter. I had things to sweep and rake and plant outside, but it would have to wait for another Saturday. I stretched my legs out while cozily snuggling further under the blanket. I swept my feet across the foot of the bed but was impeded by a firm object blocking my path. Slightly annoyed but not at all surprised, I pushed my cat over with my foot so my tall frame could take advantage of the full length of the bed. She reacted to this rude awakening by standing up, stretching her muscles and settling back down for more sleep.

I should probably mention that sleep doesn’t come easily to me, and when it’s disturbed I can be pretty unpleasant. I’ve had a problem with insomnia for as long as I can remember, and take medicine to help me sleep. It works pretty well, and I always try to get enough sleep at night so I don’t fall asleep driving and hurt someone. These current pills seem to make me more forgetful than I used to be, but I can live with that. Not being able to sleep is worse.

As I was drifting back towards unconsciousness, my ears suddenly registered a muffled noise coming from somewhere. It was a monotonous beeping, like that of an alarm clock. Knowing it wasn’t mine, I lay still trying to ignore it, patiently waiting for its owner to wake up and turn it off. After about 10 minutes, I rolled over on my back and groaned, accepting the fact that I wasn’t going back to sleep. So much for cozily napping with my cat during the thunderstorm.

The sound was, as I was now clearly aware, coming from my neighbor’s apartment above me. I lay staring at the ceiling for several more minutes, silently hating him, and finally decided to get up. I sleepily walked into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee, my bare feet quietly padding on the old wood floor. I took a shower and sat down at my kitchen table with a steaming cup of coffee, carefully sipping it. As I quietly sat trying to finish waking up, I realized I could still hear the alarm from upstairs. I looked at the clock. 10:11. The alarm had started at nine-thirty. Jesus, that guy must be capable of sleeping through anything. If the alarm is loud enough for me to hear it, it must be blasting in his ears up there.

Maybe he died, I thought with a wicked smile. Or, as I continued to postulate, he’s a jerk who went out of town without turning his alarm off. Probably that one.

I finished my cup of coffee and stepped out my front door, fully intending to yell at this guy if he was home. I clomped angrily up the wooden stairs leading to his front porch. When I reached the top, I could see through the window in his door that his apartment was dark inside. I peered in the window and examined the lifeless interior. I knocked and waited. No answer. I knocked again twice, both times receiving no indication that anyone was home. I walked over to his window and, upon trying to open it, found that it slid up easily.

I leaned down and called in, “Hello?” No answer. I called once more, louder. I listened for any sound coming from inside, but there was nothing apart from the beeps of his alarm. From my position at the window I could see into his bedroom and that his bed was unoccupied. I debated for a moment and decided I might as well pop in and turn the alarm off. I’d come this far and the damnable thing was sitting roughly 20 unimpeded steps from me. He’ll never have to know his privacy was violated, I reasoned.

I opened the window as far as it would go and climbed through. I stopped and listened to make sure I wasn’t about to be chased out by a frightened guy with a bat. Nope, still nobody home. I went into his bedroom where the alarm was blaring and saw clothes scattered on the floor. Dude’s kinda messy, but that’s not that unusual I suppose. I walked over and turned the alarm off. Ahhh, silence. My ears rang as they adjusted to the newly silent apartment, the peaceful sound of ocean waves caressing my ears from the open window. I took a curious look in his bathroom and saw more mess, bottles and things lying around on the counter and floor. Kinda looks like someone was looking for something, or packing in a hurry.

As my eyes finished scanning the room, I suddenly felt something soft touch my leg. I jumped back with a frightened shriek, only to find a cat looking up at me inquisitively. Sheesh. Thing just took ten years off my life.

Given the rushed state of affairs in the apartment, I wondered if the guy remembered to feed the cat before leaving. I went back to the kitchen and found the cat’s food bowl overflowing under a pile of food. The bag of food was sitting overturned next to the bowl.

Something in the back of my mind gnawed at me making me increasingly uncomfortable. The longer I stayed in here, the more I risked being caught in my breaking-and-entering foray. My curiosities and samaritan duties now satisfied, I climbed back through the window, closing it behind me. I leaned against the balcony rail, enjoying the satisfaction of having successfully completed my stealth mission.

Man, this bastard is lucky, I thought. His balcony has a nice view of the ocean over the neighboring houses and treetops. I surveyed the dark clouds looming in the distance, now noticeably closer than before. I’d almost forgotten the encroaching storm. As if on cue to remind me, a crack of thunder echoed across the sky, interrupting the quiet. As I listened to the rumble get quieter and quieter, the same sense of unease I felt before came creeping back, although this time I couldn’t pin it on a fear of being caught. It was quiet. Too quiet. I kept listening for several seconds, fully expecting to hear some kind of noise. Given that I’m in the middle of the city, I should be hearing all manner of sounds right now. I strained to hear a car, a dog barking, music playing, people talking, anything. But there was none. Not even birds, which I found disturbing. Just the roar of the ocean. And the thunder. How long had it been this quiet? I didn’t notice it before.

I’m pretty introverted and also work from home, so I can go days without talking to another human being, and when I do it’s usually the cashier at the grocery store. But this was unnerving. Right now all I wanted was to hear someone’s voice.

I called out to no one in particular, “he-Hello? HELLO?” My shaky voice echoed through the trees and nearby houses. There was no response. The only contact with life I’d had since waking up was with two cats. Loneliness was beginning to soak into me like cold water, and a sound like static on an old television invaded my ears as the panic rose in my throat.

And that’s when I heard it.

Or rather, stopped hearing it. You know how sometimes when you hear a noise go on long enough, it seems to fade away into the background of your subconscious even though it’s still there? Like a loud smoke detector chirping, or locusts in a forest, or the noise of an electric fan? Only when the noise stops do you become aware of it. Maybe that’s what happened. Or maybe my mind blocked it out to protect me from the dread I’m feeling. It doesn’t matter now anyway.

I slowly began backing away from the balcony rail, my mind reeling, until I bumped into the damp vinyl lounge chair behind me. I didn’t hear the sound of the chair’s legs scraping against the wood as I collapsed into it, my legs finally giving way beneath me. My stunned mind desperately tried to explain the noise away as something else, replaying it again and again from where it still lingered in my cloudy memory, burning like ash, making my eyes water. But the sound was undeniable.

It was the city’s emergency alarm. The one they use to alert you of some impending disaster. When I finally accepted that, my memory made a connection. The emergency weather bulletin that came on as I was drifting to sleep last night. Something about a major storm and massive ocean swells.

As the sobering reality washed over me, the static in my ears was reaching deafening levels. But it wasn’t my panic. It was the ocean.

My memory quite often fails me, but usually not quite so colossally. Not with such… finality. A sick feeling of regret tore at me, leaving me in my final moments with only my eternal yet fleeting remorse, and the shame at being the cause of my own demise.

I slowly got up and walked over to the edge of the balcony to look in the direction of the ocean. A monstrous, unforgiving wave was colliding with my abandoned neighborhood.

My heart sank. I was alone.

—
Credits to: photofreecreepypasta