Creepypasta: My Name Is...

My name’s Charlie, and I’m 15-years old. I’ve lived in Chicago for just about my entire life before my entire family moved to the small town of ********* (I’m not going to name it for personal reasons).

There’s been a story going around this little town, something about children getting taken away by these things called Takers when they misbehave. So basically what these Takers do is that they’ll climb through the window of the child in the dead of the night, and whisk them off to some unknown place. Nobody really knows what happens to these kids, and I highly doubt it’s true, but it’s been pretty effective in getting kids to behave relatively well.

The more superstitious folk in here think that the Takers are real, mainly because of the few cases of missing children that have occurred in the last decade. But I know otherwise. The dense woods surrounding the entire town would have been a more plausible reason for the disappearances than some stupid rumor concocted by frightened townsfolk. You have a bunch of ballsy young kids and you put them in the vicinity of a deep, dark, mysterious forest. You wouldn’t have to be a genius to put 2 and 2 together- these kids embarking late night exploration trips into the forest and winding up lost. I mean, yeah, a bunch of search groups were sent in to hunt for the kids but I’ve seen how big this forest really is.

It’s enormous. You’ll need an entire army to comb through the area and even then it’ll probably take them a couple of weeks, tops.

Alright so being the new kid on the block, kids generally ignored me in school, which was fine with me- I didn’t have to put up some badass punk image to keep bullies of my back. Eventually I was invited to a big party, it was going to be held at this really popular’s guy’s house so I figured why not? This was going to be my best chance at making friends.

The party was OK, I guess, I’ve been to better ones. The kids here were too quiet, too tame that almost none of them wanted to drink more than a couple cans of beer. I was almost at the threshold of my boredom by 11.30pm though, more then half the people had left and the only highlight so far was some stupid guys versus girls mass badminton match. I decided that this was a good chance to establish some reputation in this town.

'Guys. GUYS!' I clambered up onto one of the wooden picnic benches and clapped my hands for attention. The other kids all turned and I knew from their looks that some of them didn't even know who I was.

Fueled by my 10 cans of booze, I raised my arms and gestured to everyone. ‘Look, I don’t wanna be an asshole or anything, but this party really kinda stinks. Trust me, I’m from Chicago and I’ve seen some hardcore parties over there.’

'Yeah? What do you think we should do then, party-man?' This huge hulk of a guy, Vince, pushed his way to the front of the twenty-strong crowd and sneers at me.

'Well,' I paused dramatically and jabbed my thumb towards the forest just beyond the back-gate of the house. 'We've got this at our disposal, and I think it'll be a shame to just ignore it.'

The crowd lapsed into silence before breaking out into a nervous laugh and turning away from me.

'Seriously? C'mon, we're teenagers, you seriously believe that the stupid monster-in-the-woods story is true?' I climbed down from the table in dismay and disgust. I made my way to the cooler and popped open a can of beer before hopping over the back gate.

'Hey- what the hell are you doing?' I turned back, and it was Carl, a fat guy from my English class, hollering after me.

'What does it look like? I'm going into the damn woods, Carl. There's absolutely nothing to be afraid of, and I'm going to prove that to all you wussies.' I tossed the half empty can towards him before ducking under the branches of the trees. 'Peace out, ya pussy.' I saluted him mockingly before making my way into the woods.

I had to admit, after about 10 minutes of walking into the forest, I was beginning to regret my decision. The initial rush of bravado had gone and what replaced it was a growing feeling of anxiety.

'Just 5 more minutes, Charlie, 5 more minutes and we'll go.' I muttered to myself as I stomped through the bushes to emerge into a clearing. The sudden illumination from the moon took me aback. However, what surprised me more was a rather large wooden cottage sitting in the middle of the clearing. Being the idiot I was, I decided to check it out.

The cottage, as expected, was abandoned and it was clear that it had been so for a long time- it was almost entirely covered by a thick layer of moss and grime. The stairs leading up to the door were all broken at various parts which some of the steps even missing. The only parts of the cottage that still looked presentable were the windows, which were grimy and badly stained, and the door.

Thinking that the inside of the cottage would be a great photo background to show off to the other kids, I gingerly made my way up the steps and pushed the door open. The door opened with a loud creak, as expected with old abandoned cottages in the middle of the woods. I was immediately hit by a foul, putrid odor that rushed out from inside the cottage. Gagging, I took out my phone, turned on my flashlight application and stepped through the door.

The inside of the cottage seemed rather normal, a bunch of furniture pushed towards the back of the living room and a small kitchen to the left of it. There was something eerie about the place though, and I quickly snapped a couple of pictures before turning to leave when all of a sudden something hard hit me on the back of my head.

I was still in the cottage when I regained consciousness. However, I was in another part of the cottage, maybe in one of the bedrooms. I couldn’t tell, because I was blindfolded. Fighting back a sense of nausea and fear, I struggled to my feet before realizing that my feet were shackled to the floor and my arms tied behind my back.

The putrid odor seemed even more foul than before, if that were even possible and I just about had enough. I drew in a breathe to yell when I felt a warm breath down my neck.

'Good, you're awake.'

'What the- what's going on!' I whipped my head back and hollered.

'Please do keep quiet, I wouldn't want to have to gag you.'

Biting down a scream, I forced myself to stay still while tender, soft hands gently removed the blindfold. As I gradually adjusted myself to the dim light from the lamp in the corner, I began to have a clearer view in the room.

I immediately wished for the blindfold to be back on.

All around me, in various forms of decomposition, were dead bodies of boys, all shackled to the ground the same way I was. There were about the same number of bodies as those that had disappeared before. Choking down a scream, I immediately began to hyperventilate and pulled desperately at my restraints.

'Hello, Charlie, my name is Peter. Please, do no panic.' A figure, tall and dark, climbed in-front of me. I could barely make out the features of a man's face in the dim light, but what frightened me the most was the wide, maniacal grin he had plastered on his face and his round, beady eyes fixed right upon my face. Sighing softly, he settled down in-front of me and gestured towards the bodies.

'All failed experiments, I'm afraid. I do sincerely hope you would not end up like them.' He paused for a second, regarding me quietly. 'Are you hungry?'

The absurdity of his question shocked me out of silence. ‘What the fuck is this! What the fuck are you?’ I screamed wildly and swung my legs out to kick him but my efforts were in vain- the shackles held them down.

'Dear oh dear… such language. And violence! You are indeed a perfect candidate!' He rose to his feet in one fluid motion while clapping his hands in glee. 'The other boys had some real fire in them but you, ho boy, you might just make the cut.'

'WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT! LET ME GO!'

Ignoring me, Peter reached into his pocket and pulled out a large hypodermic needle. Uncapping it, he crawled slowly behind me, and caressed the left of my neck gently.

Trembling wildly in fear and horror, I ducked away from his hand, only to feel a prick of a needle on the right of my neck.

It all happened so quickly. My vision began to swirl and blur before I slumped onto the ground.

I woke up with a throbbing headache and sore limbs. My vision was still blurry as I massaged my head gingerly, before realizing that I was lying in the middle of a clearing in the forest.

'Ugh.' I climbed slowly to my feet and surveyed my surroundings. A normal plain clearing, with trees along its sides. The moon was still up, so I couldn't have been unconscious for long. Groaning, I staggered back slowly into the woods and after 15 minutes of walking, I emerged out of the forest and into the back-gate of the house. It seemed like the party had just ended.

'Hey! Hey- dude, oh my god, we were just gonna call the cops!' Carl hurried towards me before yelling wildly to a boy in the backyard. 'Vince! He's back!'

As I was helped through the backgate, Vince grabbed me by the shoulders and laughed in relief. ‘You freaked us all out, Charlie, you maniac!’

As I made my way back into the house while Carl and Vince ran to their phones to spread the news, I felt a grin slowly grow onto my face.

My name is Peter, and I am now 15-years old.

Grabbed from Horror/creepy short stories

Creepypasta: Looped

Version 1:
It was 1AM on a Friday, and I was irritated at having been woken up by my friend, Joe, by a rude message.

'dude get to my room and bring me my guitar got a gig in half hour i need it'

'Idiot.' I muttered as I rolled out of bed and crossed the hallway to the dormitory room of Joe. He had always hidden a copy of his room key on the ledge above the door for situations like this and as I opened his door, a wave of despair swept over me. The room looked as if it had been trampled like an army of wild animals.

'Jesus, Joe. Where the hell is your guitar.' I made my way to the bed and rummaged randomly through the stacks of clothes on it, hoping that the guitar was somehow buried beneath them. I frowned as my hands closed upon a black, wooden box.

Curiosity over-took me as I examined the box carefully. Nothing special, just a typical wooden, black box with a bronze clasp keeping it shut. I flipped open the clasp and found a rectangular metal box-like contraption in it. In red, faded lettering were the words ‘Time Machine’ printed on its top right corner and in its center was a big red button.

I let out a laugh. This was just the kind of junk Joe would waste his money on.

'What a numbskull.' I chuckled as I pressed out the red button and tossed the time machine behind my back.

I then proceeded to rummage through the stacks of clothes on the bed and frowned as my hands closed upon a black, wooden box. Frowning slightly in confusion, I opened the box and chucked softly at the metal box-like contraption named ‘Time Machine’. Pressing down its big red button, I tossed it behind my back.

'What a numbskull.'

Version 2:

It was 1AM on a Friday, and I was irritated at having been woken up by my friend, Joe, by a rude message.

'dude get to my room and bring me my guitar got a gig in half hour i need it'

'Idiot.' I muttered as I rolled out of bed and crossed the hallway to the dormitory room of Joe. He had always hidden a copy of his room key on the ledge above the door for situations like this and as I opened his door, a wave of despair swept over me. The room looked as if it had been trampled by a herd of wild animals.

'Jesus, Joe. Where the hell is your guitar.' I made my way to the bed and rummaged randomly through the stacks of clothes on it, hoping that the guitar was somehow buried beneath them. I frowned as my hands closed upon a black, wooden box.

Curiosity over-took me as I examined the box carefully. Nothing special, just a typical wooden, black box with a bronze clasp keeping it shut. I flipped open the clasp and found a rectangular metal box-like contraption in it. In red, faded lettering were the words ‘Time Machine’ printed on its top right corner and in its center was a big red button.

I let out a laugh. This was just the kind of junk Joe would waste his money on.

'What a numbskull.' I chuckled as I pressed out the red button and tossed the time machine behind my back.

Giving up on the pile of clothing, I combed through the other piles of junk before giving up.

'can't find your guitar, too bad.' I texted Joe as I returned back to my own dormitory room and climbed back into bed. I fell back to sleep within seconds.

It seemed like only a couple of minutes had passed before I received a text from Joe. I looked at my phone clock- it said 1AM.

'dude get to my room and bring me my guitar got a gig in half hour i need it'

Grabbed from Horror/creepy short stories

Creepypasta: Train Observer

I’ve always enjoyed train rides- it gives me a great chance to sit and observe the other passengers in peace. I like to imagine situations for them, life backgrounds that matches their faces and dressing.

It’s around 11pm, and I’ve just gotten onto the last train back home. The train was understandingly empty, and I managed to get myself a seat with a good view of the other passengers.

There’s a pregnant lady sitting a couple seats down from me, and a couple of tough looking kids sitting a few seats down from her. I made a mental note to steer clear from them. Sitting directly across them is a guy in a suit clutching a briefcase, nothing out of the ordinary.

But what really caught my eye is the guy sitting directly across me. I’ve only just realized he’s got no eyeballs.

I think I’m going to get off at the next stop.

Grabbed from Horror/creepy short stories

Creepypasta: Cries of Help

Despite my mediocre results, I was very lucky to have secured an internship position at a local banking firm upon graduation from college. I was assigned to the marketing team, which was okay, as marketing and advertising had always been a prime interest of mine.

The only downside was the notorious reputation the company building had for being one of the most haunted places in town. Having being build above a burial ground, there were endless stories of apparitions, ghosts, and the like, parading the corridors of the building. Now I’ve always had a healthy skepticism for the supernatural, so this didn’t bother me one bit. However I must admit that it was rather unnerving at times, especially during over-time when most of the other staff had already gone home.

The strange noises first happened during my second week of work. I was in the pantry, enjoying a hard-earned coffee break when I became aware of a low murmur all around me. It wasn’t loud enough for me to make out any words, but it was loud enough to be picked up on. Confused, I had stuck my head out of the pantry to check if it was coming from the outside. It wasn’t. Dismissing the issue as a trick of my exhausted and stressed out mind, I finished up my coffee and quickly returned back to work.

The next incident happened a couple of days after that in the middle of a team meeting. The team-leader, also my direct boss, had been discussing on our latest marketing proposal when I heard the low drone of voices again. It wasn’t as soft as the last time, and I could vaguely pick out words such as ‘help’ and ‘save’.

'Are you hearing this?' I turned to my co-worker sitting beside me.

'I'm trying not to.' He groaned and nodded towards the team-leader. 'This is hella boring.'

Irritated, I tried to concentrate on the meeting rather than on the voices, which seemed to gradually become more frantic and panicky as I continued to ignore it.

These incidents began to occur more and more frequently, and the voices started to grow louder and louder. By now, I could make out most of the words.

'help me…' '…save me…' 'trapped…' 'need help…' '….get us out…' ‘come…’

It’s driving me insane.

I tried playing loud music on my headphones in an effort to drown out the noise, but it just increased in volume and it seemed as though the voices were coming from inside my headphones too.

I couldn’t tell anyone about the voices- I couldn’t risk getting fired, none of the other firms would accept me in and what would I be then? Broke, homeless, with a bunch of noisy ghouls hounding me.

No, I have to tough it out. My internship would be ending in a couple of months, and after that, I would be free.

It’s getting to me, though. It’s beginning to become very difficult to concentrate at my work.

I now begin to see shapes. Dark shapes, lurking in the corners of my office, reaching out to me. I can see no facial features apart from their mouths, drooping down the corners of their heads as they moan for help.

It’s so loud. So loud so loud so loud I can’t take it.

I see their tendrils. Long, spindly, branch-like tendrils, curling and looping towards me.

I can’t move.

The moans are getting louder.

I can feel myself losing consciousness. My view is growing dimmer.

It’s so dark. Too dark.

I don’t understand what’s happening.

-

When I wake up I realize I am no longer in my seat. I can still see the office, though. I’m still in the office.

Only now, I am one of Them.

Grabbed from Horror/creepy short stories

Creepypasta: Deepest Fear

It took me a month to figure out the pattern- the pattern It was using to kill us off.

At first it was Jack, who was found dead, lying face-down and submerged in his own bathtub. His mother had been the one that found him, the poor woman. Her lifeless body was discovered a week later, after countless complaints from her apartment neighbors about a pungent odor from her apartment. After breaking into the home, the police found her hanging from a rope from the rafters of her bedroom.

It went after Diane next. Diane, who had been a victim of dog mauling when she was just 5-years old, was discovered just a week after Jack’s mother was found. Her body, lying by the side of the forest surrounding the town, was practically ripped to shreds. There were countless bite and claw marks, courtesy of a pack of stray dogs that had been roaming the neighborhood for weeks.

It went after Kyle a week back. I could tell that Kyle had suspected that something was wrong- his text messages to me grew increasingly frantic as he begun telling me about a strange figure, a clown, he said, climbing out of his closet, night after night, and standing at the foot of his bed. At first I had thought nothing of it- Kyle had always been a pretty high-strung kid since young and was prone to panic attacks, so this was probably just one of his ‘outbreaks’.

Calm down, I recalled telling him, it’s probably a serial killer, Just keep your doors and windows shut and locked. Just calm down, and your hallucinations would go away.

Boy, was I wrong.

Kyle’s body was found just 2 days ago, after he failed to show up to breakfast on time that morning. His mother had gone up to his bedroom to wake him up when she found him, cold and rigid, his eyes glassy and opened wide, staring straight ahead at the foot of the bed. There were no wounds or bruises of any sort. The coroner later on declared Kyle’s cause of death to be a heart attack.

That’s when I realized that something was really wrong. It couldn’t have been the work of a serial killer. It just doesn’t add up. It had to be something supernatural, something that could target and attack our deepest, darkest fears, something that could pit our fears against us.

You see, Jack, who had drowned, was always terrified of water. Jack’s mother, who doted dearly on her son, had always been overly protective over Jack. His death would have been the ultimate blow to her. Next was Diane, who had always been extremely fearful of dogs ever since her childhood incident. And Kyle, who always had an irrational fear of clowns… well, you get the idea.

And as for me, I have always been afraid of the dark.

I can tell It’s coming for me. I’ve recently begun seeing crazy hallucinations, shadows morphing into indistinguishable shapes of monsters and demons, things that no normal human being should be seeing. I’m no fool, I know my time is coming. Even as I am writing this, I can hear It, moaning my name over and over again from the darkest corner of my room. I’ve given up keeping the lights on, I’ve given up fighting. It’s no use anymore. I’m just so exhausted.

Goodbye.

Grabbed from Horror/creepy short stories

Creepypasta: Daddy's Home

It was a quiet Friday evening and eight year-old Sarah had just returned from school. Elated by the lack of homework for that weekend, she wasted no time in pulling out her half-finished art project, a small wooden cottage made up of ice-cream sticks, from under her bed. There was a lot of cutting to be done though, and despite having being told not to use the pen-knife without parental supervision, she quickly took it from her father’s work-desk and proceeded to trim the edges of the ice-cream sticks. Due to the lack of experience in using a pen-knife, it quickly slipped from her grip and left a huge, bloody gash on her left arm.

'Daddy! Daddy!' Sarah's voice rang out from her second floor bedroom. 'I hurt my arm- it's bleeding really badly!'

Sarah’s cries of pain were the first thing Carl heard as he entered through the front door. As he drew in a breath to yell out a call of reassurance, a figure outside the window caught his eye.

It was a man, holding a large rake, and he was heading right towards the back door of the house.

Ignoring the panic welling up in his body, Carl quickly closed the front door quietly and hurried towards the kitchen, which was where the back door was located. Taking great care not to make any noise, he pulled out a knife from its holder and positioned himself right next to the doorway.

Don’t worry, baby. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.

Carl felt his heart-rate quicken and his palms sweat as the footsteps outside drew closer.

Don’t worry, baby. Daddy’ll protect you.

The door finally swung open and Carl sprung into action. Clamping his free hand over the intruder’s mouth, he slammed his foot at the backs of the intruder’s legs. As the intruder toppled over to his knees, Carl quickly seized the chance and swung the knife down onto the intruder’s neck, slicing the neck wide open from ear the ear.

Panting heavily from adrenaline and exhaustion, Carl pushed away the lifeless, blood-soaked body in disgust. The once pristine walls were now splattered with blood that pooled all around his feet.

'DADDY! What's all that noise? What's going on?' Sarah's yells had increased in panic levels at the noise made during the fight. Sighing softly, Carl stepped away from the blood puddles and hurried towards the stairs.

Hold on, baby, I’m coming.

'DADDY! DADDY!' Sarah's voice had evolved into a loud shrill of panic and fear.

Hold on, baby, Daddy’s coming.

As Carl emerged onto the landing, he pushed open the half-opened door to Sarah’s room.

'Hey, baby.'

'How many times have I told you not to call me that?' Sarah groaned as she swung her wheelchair towards the door. 'What took you so-'

She froze in mid-sentence as she finally turned towards Carl. Her irritation quickly dissipated and in its place was pure fear.

'Who- who are you?' She whispered in horror.

A small grin crept over Carl’s face as he stepped into the bedroom, brandishing the bloody knife by his side.

'Daddy's home.'

Grabbed from Horror/creepy short stories

Creepypasta: Hero

I’ve been a nurse for the past four years at the local hospital. Having being assigned to the Children’s Ward, my experience thus far has been a relatively enjoyable one. I’ve always loved kids, I love spending time with them, I love seeing those cute little angelic faces light up whenever I bring them gifts. Sometimes I bring books, sometimes chocolates, and the little one to one sessions I had with them were always the highlight of my day.

I thought it was a joke at first when I saw the letter sitting on my desk a couple of days ago. TRANSFER, it had said, in big bold letters at the top of the page. Scanning through quickly, I realized that I had been transferred with immediate effect to another ward.

To say that I was devastated was a severe understatement. Tossing aside the bag of chocolates I had brought for my sessions today, I made my way to the head nurse’s office and slammed the letter down onto her table.

'What is this?' I demanded. 'Who allowed this?!'

'Jason, Jason, please sit down.' The head nurse calmly regarded me and gestured to the chair. Leaning forward, she clasped her hands together and continued, 'Jason, are you aware of the complaints you've been getting from the parents?'

'What complaints?' I was very confused.

'Well, apparently there's been reports of the children feeling rather uncomfortable around you, and their parents have been requesting for you to be transferred out of the Children's Ward. Are you sure you've not heard about this?' She added, frowning slightly at my indignant expression.

'Are you kidding me? The kids like it around me! I bring them gifts, I make them happy! I don't know what sort of nonsense complaints you've been hearing- they're all untrue!' I replied, spluttering slightly in outrage.

'Well, true or not, the Board has reviewed the complaints and they think it's best for you to move on to another ward, just to prevent any sort of misunderstanding. It's tough, but I hope you underst- Jason sit back down. Jason, sit down. Jason!'

It was only after the head nurse had yelled out my name that I realized that I had risen out of my seat in anger, with my trembling fists clenched tightly at my sides. Leering down at her in disgust and disbelief, I snatched up the letter and returned back to my desk, all the while fighting back the urge to lash out.

It was only upon reaching the new ward that I realized I had been transferred to the Mentally Ill Ward. It was absolutely frightening for me- there were patients on wheelchairs, pushing themselves in random directions, their eyes staring blankly in the distance, and there were patients lying on their beds, some moaning in anguish and many others muttering unintelligibly under their breaths. The room reeked of death.

Their heads snapped towards my direction as I stepped into the room, their eyes narrowing in suspicion and hatred while their mouths gradually curled up into frowns. As I watched their frowns slowly morph into a snarl, I felt as if I had walked into room full of ravenous wolves who all wanted a piece of me for themselves.

Abandoning my initial idea to introduce myself publicly, I quickly backed out of the room and slammed the door shut behind my back.

This is insane, I thought. I don’t belong here. I don’t belong here at all. They’ve got no right to put me here.

The next day was no different than the first, only this time it was almost as if the patients had been anticipating my arrival. I could make out the snarls and low growls from even behind the door. Sensing my hesitation, the other nurse-on-duty, Bree, put her hand onto my shoulder and smiled reassuringly.

'Don't worry, I know it's a little bit different from the Children's Ward, but you've got no reason to be scared here.'

Entering the room after her, I took a quick glance around and tried to ignore the frosty, threatening glares of the patients. I couldn’t understand how Bree could work under such a hostile environment. The way the patients glared at us- it was almost as if they wanted to murder us!

A low whisper from the old man on the wheelchair to my left caught my attention. As I turned, he reached out with his finger and beckoned me to lean in. Frightened, I instinctively stepped away.

He narrowed his eyes in response as his mouth grew into a maniacal grin.

Kill you, he mouthed. Kill you.

As I watched on in horror, I became aware of the other patients, who all had their gaze fixed onto me.

Kill you, they whispered. Kill you.

My fear and adrenaline rose with every whisper, which gradually became louder and louder.

Soon it was almost as if they were chanting.

Kill you kill you kill you kill you kill you kill you

'Jason? Are you okay?' Bree's worried voice rang out from my side.

Doesn’t she see what’s going on? Can’t she hear them?

Nonetheless, I have to protect her. I have to protect both of us.

I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my pen-knife and slowly slid its blade out. And just in time too- the old man that had first spoken to me suddenly pounced out of his seat, his eyes wild and crazed with blood-lust.

'STAND BACK!' I hollered, shoving Bree aside before swinging the blade down before me. There was a sudden splash of red as the old man froze in his tracks, his mouth open in an ugly snarl. Wrapping my fingers around his neck, I pulled him in towards me and jabbed the blade deep into his stomach. As I prised the blade from his body, I could see, out of the corner of my eyes, the other patients making their way towards me, their growls growing louder as they approached.

I could hear Bree screaming wildly behind me as I swung around to face the patients.

Yelling loudly for Bree to go, I launched myself forward and swung, slashed and jabbed at every single patient I could reach. I had only successfully taken down about five other patients and was just about to bring my blade down onto another when I felt a sudden sharp prick at the back of my left shoulder. It was the oddest feeling- I felt myself grow calm immediately before I fell unconscious.

—

I had woken up just yesterday and had found myself sitting in the middle of a padded room, wearing a straitjacket.

I was so confused, and I still am.

I had gone insane, the doctors had said.

They seem to think that I had murdered those people back in the hospital, who apparently, weren’t from the Mentally Ill Ward at all, but rather, belonged to the Terminally Ill Ward.

Apparently I had ‘hallucinated’ them to seem as though they were about to kill me.

Can’t they see they’ve got it all wrong? I only killed to protect myself and Bree. I’m not a killer, they should be locking up those crazy people from the hospital instead!

They should be thanking me. I’ve stopped those crazy people from harming other people, like Bree! They should award me, not lock me up!

Can’t they see?

They’ve got it all wrong.

I’m not a killer.

I’m a hero.

Grabbed from Horror/creepy short stories

Creepypasta: Delivery Boy

Coming from a poor family, my parents have always struggled to pay for my education. I decided to take some load of them when I got accepted into college and began scouring newspapers and magazines for part-time jobs to earn some money. However, finding a job was easier said than done- the employers all wanted workers who had a completed college education and substantial work experience- both of which I did not have.

It was after a couple of months and countless failed interviews that I finally received a phone call. I could recognize the gruff voice on my phone almost immediately- it belonged to Harris, a tough, burly man who managed a private delivery service in a dingy old warehouse by the edge of the town. In his short, curt manner, he notified me that I had gotten the job and that I would start the following week.

I was elated. The job paid relatively well and fitted in perfectly with my school schedule. The job would also provide me with a new bike, something that I couldn’t have afforded in the past.

The deliveries I made in the first few months were relatively simple- the furthest place I had to go was just over by the next town, a mere half hour bike-ride away. These deliveries were fine, they were fast, they were quick. However, I wanted to go further and earn myself even more money.

I finally got my chance when Harris rung me up early Saturday morning, at 1AM.

'Charles. You up for a job?'

'Harris- it's 1AM. Are you insane?' I moaned.

'It's got a double payload. Are you in or not?'

Double payload? That definitely got my attention. I quickly agreed and made my way towards the warehouse.

The package to be delivered was larger and heavier than those that I had delivered before. It also had a faint odor- I couldn’t really place my finger on what the smell exactly was, but it was rather disturbing. I had a strong urge to break the number one rule of the business and almost questioned Harris about the contents of the package. It was only the incentive of the double payload that kept me quiet. The only thing Harris had said to me before he left was ‘Get it there as fast as possible.’

So off I went, into the dead of the night. It was a very unnerving experience, to be cycling down the empty and dimly lit streets, past the countless shop-houses that have been closed for the night. The only source of noise was the 24-hour pub a few streets away, its low drone of music and noise further fueling my anxiety.

The destination was to be a couple of towns away and if I cycled by the main road it would have taken me about a couple of hours, which was far too long. I decided to take the alternative route- through the forest outlining the town, which would effectively cut down my travelling time by half.

In hindsight I probably should have stuck by the main road.

—

It’s been close to two hours, and I’m horribly lost. The path that I had been following had disappeared completely along the way, and my stupid bike is proving to be nothing but a hindrance on the rocky ground of the forest. I decided to call Harris for some directional help.

I had only a bar on reception and after several attempts, I managed to reach him.

'Harris. I've got no idea where the hell I am.'

'Are you in the forest?' His voice was infused with loud static and it was really difficult to make out what he was saying.

'I can't really hear you- I'm lost in the damn forest and this package is stinking it up. I'm coming- hello?' There was a sudden rush of loud, crackling static and the call cut off. 'Shit shitting shit.'

I’m close to a full scale panic attack right now. My only sources of light are the screen of my dying cellphone and the dim moonlight filtering through the dense canopy above. Praying feverishly, I decide to trudge on and hopefully, just hopefully, I’ll get out of here fast.

The package is proving to be a massive burden. It’s taking every bit of effort I’ve got left just to keep it up on my bike, which I am now pushing alongside myself.

I’m not sure if I’m imagining things, but I’ve just passed by a couple of bikes, just like my own, lying in a ragged heap by the side of the bushes. They look awfully rusty, dirty and old, and there’s a thick layer of moss and grime covering them. It’s almost as if they’ve been tossed and abandoned by a couple of bikers. Weird.

After a couple of minutes more of trekking, I became aware of movement among the trees beside me. I could feel my adrenaline level rising as I quickened my steps. I was seriously considering abandoning my bike and the questionable package by then when I spotted a dim ball of light in the distance.

In my state of panic and fear, I quickly headed towards the light without considering its source.

I can now hear growls coming from my side. Growls, snarls, and the occasional cracking of branches and twigs.

Sweat pouring down my face, I broke into a run and sprinted towards the light, leaving my bike and package behind.

I’ve finally reached the light. Turns out the light was really from the inside of a small wooden hut located in the middle of the forest. I could make out human voices and some kind of folk music emanating from within it.

I probably shouldn’t have approached the hut at all. After all, what sort of people would live in a hut in the middle of the woods? However, the loud growls and snarls from behind me quickly secured my decision and I clambered up the rickety stairs in a state of panic and thumped my fists onto the door, all the while yelling for help.

The door finally creaked open and without thinking, I barged in and slammed the door shut behind me. Panting heavily in both relief and exhaustion, I realized that the house was inhabited by a group of elderly people. Draped in shawls and cloaks, they eyed me curiously before one of them, an old, muscular man, frowned.

'Where's the package, boy?' He asked.

'Package?' I responded, confused and fairly freaked out by then.

'He's lost it. Just like the other one.' The old man sighed and turned towards the others. 'We've got to make do with him.'

Genuinely frightened, I backed up towards the door and tried the doorknob, only to realize that the door was locked from the outside.

'Where are you going?' An elderly woman, her eyes glassy and white, approached me from my right. As I turned towards her, she broke into a wide grin, revealing a set of sharp, pointed teeth.

I whipped back to face the others. All of them, like the elderly woman, wore maniacal grins and had the same set of pointed teeth.

'The party's just started.'

—

Hey guys, my name’s Lucas, and I’ve just moved into town. I must be having a stroke of good luck because not only did I manage to get a well-paying job delivering packages, but my boss has just contacted me about this double payload job. All I’ve got to do is to deliver some package to some place a couple of towns away. I know it’s kinda late, it’s just a little after 1AM, but I think I’m going to take the job. The boss just told me to make it quick though, I think he’s worried for my safety. How nice of him. Well, I think I’m going to cut through the forest, I’ll be so much more quicker that way.

Grabbed from Horror/creepy short stories

Creepypasta: Bedtime Stories

My favorite time of the day was always bed-time, because that’s the time daddy returns home from work. He’s a fireman and he’s saved lots and lots of people.

'Little Jack, my boy.' He always says when he reaches home. 'Come on, it's time for bed.' He would then scoop me up from the floor and carry me all the way to bed and tuck me in, and he doesn't leave my room til he reads me a bedtime story.

One day, however, mummy got a call in the afternoon. She started crying when she was on the phone, I didn’t understand why. When she hung up the phone she came and sat down next to me. She was still crying and that made me feel very sad.

'Mummy,' I asked. 'Mummy, why are you crying?'

It took her a long time to answer me, by the time she responded I had already returned back to playing my Lego toys.

'Jack, daddy's not going to come home for tonight.'

I was confused. ‘What about my bed-time story? Daddy always reads me my bed-time story. Is daddy coming home tomorrow?’

'Oh, honey,' Mummy still looked very sad but she was trying to smile a little bit, I could tell. 'Honey, I don't know.'

That night I was put into bed early by mummy, she said she needed sometime to herself. She still looked very sad and had been crying the whole day. That made me sad, too, because she wouldn’t tell me why. I think it’s something to do with daddy not coming home, but I don’t understand why she’s so sad. Daddy would come home like always, wouldn’t he?

The next day mummy became even sadder and was crying all the time. Grandma and Grandpa came over to visit and they both were crying too. Nobody told me what was going on, all they did was hug me and say ‘Oh, Jack’ over and over again.

I think it’s something to do with daddy, I think. I think he’s sick, that’s why he didn’t come home last night. But he’s okay now, he just came home.

I was already in bed by the time he came into my room, but I was very happy to see him.

'Daddy!' I cried out in glee. 'Daddy, you're home!'

'Jack, my boy. You've gotta be quiet, now, we wouldn't want to wake up mummy, wouldn't we?' He made a shushing motion with his fingers and climbed into bed next to me. 'What do you wanna read today?'

I picked The Big Red Tractor, and daddy read it very well tonight. He did all the voices and even gave Sally the Cow a funny high-pitched voice. It made me giggle.

However daddy said he had to leave after he finished reading me the story. He said he has to go back to work, he’s got a lot more people to save. I was very sad to see him go, but I know he has to. It’s okay, he promised he’ll be back tomorrow to read me another story. He also said to keep his visits a secret from mummy, too. It’ll be fun, he said, it’ll be our little secret with each other. I don’t really see how it’s fun, but I’m okay with it.

Every night for the next two weeks, daddy came home, like he promised, and read me bed-time stories before I slept.

One night, however, after finishing his story, daddy said he had to leave for a long time, and couldn’t come to see me anymore. Why, I asked. He said that he had to go to someplace far to work, to save even more people.

This made me very sad, and I didn’t want him to leave.

'It's okay, little Jack. Daddy's going to be far away but I promise you that I'll be looking out for you all the time, okay? And when the time comes, you'll be able to see me again, and don't worry, I'll be waiting for you.' Daddy picked me up from bed and hugged me very tightly. He felt very warm and smelt of smoke, but I didn't care.

'Don't go, daddy.' I said as I started to cry.

'I have to, champ. Don't forget what I said, okay? I'll be looking out for you. Take care of mummy for me, won't you, champ?' Daddy had already walked towards the door.

'See you around, little Jack.'

 —

Daddy didn’t come back after that, but I always felt as if he was around me. Sometimes, as I sleep, I feel a slight brush on my forehead and sometimes, I smell smoke in my room. I’m not scared, though, because I know it’s daddy, and he’s always watching out for me.

Grabbed from Horror/creepy short stories

Creepypasta: Influences

Ever since young, I’ve always been fairly interested in the way people think and how people make their decisions. But the type of people that I had always held great interest for was the depressed people, and more specifically, the suicidal people.

What really drives them to kill themselves? Is it their depression? Is it from extreme levels of stress? Or is there some sort of external influence, perhaps an influence so subtle people generally don’t notice them? The possibilities are endless and I’ve recently embarked on a fact-finding mission of sorts to get a greater insight behind suicides.

After hours of interviewing numerous depressed, suicidal people, I made a slight breakthrough whilst reviewing one of the tapes during the interview of a particularly disturbed lady. She displayed all the usual symptoms of any depressed person, but what caught my attention was actually during one of her frequent lapses of silence.

She would tilt her head to her left, always to the same side, and her eyebrows would furrow slightly, almost as if she were concentrating on something. During this time, she would completely ignore me.

What was even more baffling was the almost invisible, dark figure hovering behind her.

I swear I saw no such thing during the interview.

Judging from her actions, it was almost as if she was communicating with it, or more specifically, listening to it.

This same odd incident was apparent in only a couple other patients, both also from the same hospital as the first woman. It was baffling- I couldn’t find any reasonable explanation for this.

Puzzled but intrigued, I called up the hospital, only to realize that the three patients had committed suicide the night after the interviews had occurred. The methods of death were the same- all three had jumped out of their windows.

Up till today, I still have no logical explanation for the mysterious dark figures- were these ghosts or just a trick of the camera? Were the deaths a result of what these figures had said?

And finally- are our decisions based solely on ourselves, or are we unknowingly being influenced by unseen forces among us?

That, is the real question.

Grabbed from Horror/creepy short stories

Creepypasta: Time to Remember

As a single mother afflicted with short-term memory loss, life was pretty tough, what with having to juggle taking care of my son, Jerry, and having to remember to take my medicine on time. At the age of 15, Jerry was offered a football scholarship to study in an overseas university, one that he had so desperately wanted since young. It was tough letting him go, and he promised that he would skype me daily for a chat.

Waiting for his skype became a daily highlight of my life. I would literally sit in-front of laptop for hours in anticipation of him. Finally, at around 3PM, I heard the all-familiar ding of the skype notification.

'Hey mum,' Jerry's face popped up onto my screen. He didn't look too happy, which was weird. He should be having the time of his life right now.

'Hello, dear, why the long face?' I smiled at my screen.

'I don't know, I'm not feeling too well right now…' He sighed and clutched his head in his arms. 'Been having the most awful headache for the entire day.'

'Did you take any medicine? Oh honey, if your headache gets really bad you really ought to see a doctor, is there a doctor in the campus? Do you have his number? You could give him a call, see if he'll make a room visit.' Worried, I unleashed a torrent of questions and quickly surveyed the anguished figure of Jerry. 'Are you running a fever? Is your room-mate with you?'

'Mum….'

'Jerry, call up your room-mate, get him to come back! What if you collapse and there's no one around?'

'Mum…. did you take your pills?' Jerry glanced up at the screen, a sad look crossing his face.

'Jerry, honestly, shouldn't we be more worried about your head? Where's your medicine?'

'Mum, you have to take your pills. Don't you remember?' Jerry sighed and smiled sadly. 'Don't you remember, mum?'

Positively confused, I blinked at him. ‘What?’

'Don't you remember? I'm dead, mum.'

'What- don't say that, Jerry!' Shocked, I frowned at Jerry and shook my head furiously. 'Don't you ever say that!'

'You have to take your pills. You have to remember.' Jerry was pleading now, and as I stared at him, a trickle of blood rolled down from under his fringe. Paralyzed by both fear and shock, I watched on in horror as Jerry's eyes slowly rolled to the back of his head, and the trickle of blood gradually became a steady flow.

'Remember, mum.' He gasped in pain before slumping out of his seat.

'Jerry!' I screamed and jumped out of my seat, sending my laptop crashing to the floor. Yelling wildly for Jerry, I quickly picked up my laptop, only to realize that the screen was pitch black.

My laptop wasn’t even switched on.

I was in a full-scale panic mode by now, screaming and yelling in my living room when I tripped over a pile of newspapers. Sobbing furiously, I kicked at the newspapers when one of the articles caught my eye.

Rubbing my tears away, I grabbed the article, which was crumpled and creased in many areas.

BOY FOUND DEAD IN WORLD-CLASS UNIVERSITY, the headline said, with a large, colorless picture of Jerry, my poor Jerry, lying in a large puddle of blood on the stairs with his head cracked open.

The article was dated 3 years ago.

Sobbing, I tossed the article aside and climbed to my feet.

I have to take my pills.

I can’t do this anymore.

I have to remember.

I have to.

As I staggered to the medicine cabinet, I glanced up to the clock and sighed in relief.

My face cracked into a grin and turned back to my laptop.

It was just a little over 3PM.

Jerry should be calling soon.

Grabbed from Horror/creepy short stories

Creepypasta: Final Drive

Ever get that queasy feeling in your gut? The kind you get when something’s wrong? Well, I had that feeling awhile ago, when I had just left my office building. There had been a sudden influx of work to be done, and it was almost 11PM when I had left. I had just gotten into my car when I felt it- an almost nauseating queasy feeling in my gut, accompanied with a tingling at the tips of my fingers. It was almost as if my throat had suddenly constricted, and I found myself desperately gasping for air.

I was on the verge of passing out when the odd sensation disappeared, almost as sudden as how it happened. Confused, and a tad bit freaked out, I quickly opened the car door and sucked in the fresh air greedily.

Fearing that I would have a sudden relapse, I climbed out of my car and peered around. Strange. There were almost ten other cars still in the car-park when I had left the building. Now, my car was the only car left. Well, there goes my idea of hitching a ride. All the lights in the building were turned off, too, which couldn’t have been possible- I was one of the first few workers to leave and the top board executives were still having their meetings in the building.

I was beginning to feel uneasy, standing alone in the poorly lit car-park next to a completely dark and empty office building. I quickly clambered back into my car, turned on the engine, and left.

The drive through the city was equally unsettling- the streets, usually bustling with activity of the town’s youths, were completely empty. The shop-houses lining the streets were closed too.  I could feel my anxiety levels rising as I yearned for some human contact.

Finally I exited the town, and turned into the highway. The highway was eerily quiet, and after twenty minutes of driving, I realized that I had not seen a single car on the road. Genuinely freaked out by now, I pulled out my phone and quickly called my girlfriend, Diane.

Now, I’ve seen my fair share of horror movies, and by the way things were working out for me, I was half expecting to hear static over the phone. I guess you could imagine my surprise when Diane answered.

'Danny?' Her voice rang out from the phone speakers.

'Diane! God, I thought I wouldn't be able to get through.'

'Get through what? Dan- it's like midnight right now, where are you?'

'I know, baby, I'm on the highway right now. Just needed to hear your voice.'

'Okay, Danny. Keep your eyes on the road now, you're going to miss the cut-off.'

'Cut-off? What-' Confused, I peered through my windows and true enough, there was a break in the treeline to my left, with a gravel path leading right up to the edge of the cliff that the highway was on.

'Diane- how did you know?'

'Remember the cut-off, Danny.' And with that, she hung up.

Positively confused, I stopped my car and walked towards the gravel path. There was nothing special about it, no dead bodies, no splashes of blood, no ghostly figures like how one would expect in a place like this. The only odd thing I couldn’t get my head around was that I had driven down this highway countless of times, to and from work, and I had never once seen this path before. Something was definitely wrong here, I just couldn’t tell what. And how did Diane know I was near the cut-off? How did she even know about this cut-off?

I gingerly peered over the edge of the cut-off. It was a long drop down, and I couldn’t even see the bottom of the cliff, just the sharp, rocky edges along its side.

Desperate to get home, I hopped back into the car, revved the engine and sped off.

The next thing that struck me as weird as the length of the highway. Usually it would only take me half an hour to get off the highway. Now, I had been driving for almost an hour and there was no sign of the exit.

Weird.

My radio wasn’t working.

My phone wasn’t working.

My headlights were dying.

The only source of light was the moonlight filtering through the dense canopy above. I could barely make out the road ahead of me anymore.

I’ve already passed by the cut-off a couple of times.

It was almost as if it were taunting me, egging me on to drive off it to escape from this never-ending road. It seemed to appear at different parts of the road now.

No way, no way I’m driving off this cliff. Just ignore the stupid cut-off.

This just wasn’t making any sense at all.

Maybe if I hold out, maybe if I keep driving. The exit should be just up ahead.

—

It’s been three hours. My fuel’s close to zero. My phone died on me, my headlights too.

The exit. I can’t find it. I don’t think there’s even an exit anymore, just one big loopy road, bringing me round and round and round.

And that’s what I did.

Drive round and round and round.

Starving. Hungry. I have to get off this road.

Round and round and round.

Have to get off.

Just one more drive. My final drive. My final drive till I see the cut-off.

There.

I see it.

Just up ahead. Like it’s beckoning me over.

And this time, I go for it.

Grabbed from Horror/creepy short stories

Creepypasta: The Elevator

The rain reached its peak right after I left. It started as a slight drizzle during work, and gradually worsened along the way- the rain drops were practically hitting against the glass windows of the fried chicken joint I was working at. I remembered we had a particularly obese lady waddle into the joint, dripping all over the floor.

‘What the hell, huh, Scott? Any fatter and we’ll have to put her on a diet,’ my co-worker, McDoogle, had commented sarcastically. ‘If there’s anyone who needed to fatten up, it’ll be you, mate. You go any thinner and I’ll have to flash out my magnifier to find you.’

As the night went on, I had prayed for the rain to stop, but God clearly wasn’t listening, because by the time we had closed up, it had become a full-fledged storm out there, and the only thing I had for protection was a dusty black jacket that McDoogle had found in the lost-and-found box. I quickly zipped it on, and went on my way.

I managed to squeeze onto the last bus with the rest of the commuters, mostly well-dressed businessmen with proper coats and gloves, the lucky bastards. Some shot me confused looks as I plopped down onto a seat near the back, and I wouldn’t have blamed them- I stuck out like a sore thumb, a scraggly-haired teenager dressed in nothing but a black jacket and torn jeans, soaked from head to toe. They had probably thought I was a druggie or something, the way I was hunched over in my seat, shivering from the cold.

The crowd of gawking onlookers thankfully thinned as we went on our way, and by the time I had finally reached my stop, there were only three other passengers. I quickly got off, and sighed. I had hoped for the rain to stop, but no chance. If anything, the storm had worsened along the bus ride. Just my luck, I muttered darkly, beginning my long trek back to my dingy apartment. I lived in a small room on the 23^rd floor, right at the top of an old, slightly dilapidated building. It wasn’t ideal, having to live about thirty minutes away from the nearest bus-stop, but my meagre salary prevented me from having anything better.

The lobby of the block eloquently reflected the pathetic state of the building- the paint weathered and peeling off in spots, cobwebs hanging off the corners, and the only source of light was a flickering light bulb dangling from a lone wire. I shuddered as I ducked into the lobby, and it wasn’t from the cold- the long, shifting shadows given off by the bulb had always given me the creeps. Luckily, there was an elevator already waiting in the lobby, and I gratefully hurried in and hit the number ‘23’ button, sighing in relief as the elevator vibrated to life and creaked upwards.

As I settled in for the minute long ride up, it suddenly shuddered to a halt and the doors groaned open. A guy, clad in a maroon hoodie, strode in, his wet sneakers and umbrella forming a large puddle where he stood. He pressed the number ‘17’, before turning to nod at me in greeting. I nodded back, and glanced up to the cracked screen in the elevator- a bright green ‘2’ shone out from it.

‘Crazy storm out there, ain’t it?’ He commented.

‘Sure is.’ I replied.

The journey up continued in silence, when the elevator stopped with a soft ‘ding’. I blinked in surprise at the noise- I’d never heard the elevator ‘ding’ before. The landlord must have finally gotten off his lazy, fat ass and fixed something. The doors creaked open, and the maroon guy left.

It took ages for the doors to finally close, and even longer for the elevator to start moving again. I leaned back onto the grimy wall and made a mental note to call the landlord about improving the elevator.

I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew I was half slumped over the rusty railing in the elevator, with drool dripping off the side of my mouth. I quickly straightened up and checked the screen- the number ‘17’ shone out from it, which couldn’t have been correct, because the guy got off at ‘17’ and I clearly remembered the elevator moving off before I’d dozed off. Speaking of dozing off, how long was I out? It couldn’t have been very long- the trip from ‘17’ to ‘23’ would have taken half a minute, at most. I peered out of the grimy windows of the elevator- there was nothing out there of interest, only the occasional metal railings flashing past the window.

I stepped back, and glanced up again. Still ’17’. I forced myself not to panic. There had to be a legitimate explanation for this. I found myself pacing around in the elevator to work off the panic.

I paced. I looked up to the screen. ‘17’.

I paced. I looked up to the screen. ‘17’.

I paced. I looked up to the screen. ‘17’.

With no watch and no phone to tell the time, all I had was the number of rounds I’d walked in the elevator.
Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four.

‘17’.

Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine.

‘17’.

I was losing it. I could feel the grimy, disgusting walls of the elevator close in, bit by bit, as I continued to pace.

‘17’.

’17.’

‘17.’

I was finishing off my ninety-eighth round when the elevator shuddered to a stop. YES! I hurried over to the doors and stared out the windows.

No. There was nothing but black.

This isn’t my floor. This isn’t any floor.

I had enough.

‘FUC-‘ I began, when everything happened at once.

The elevator jerked roughly to its side, sending me sprawling onto the floor. The lights flickered twice, before going off with a loud buzz. I was thrown into darkness and before I could get up, the elevator jerked again. It was like the mechanical version of a seizure, only worse. I was flung in all directions across the floor, my body bumping against all four walls as I slid around, uncontrolled.

And then it all stopped.

The lights flickered on and I found myself lying in a heap in the left corner of the elevator, my head pressed up into the corner. Disorientated, I got to my feet. I couldn’t even figure out what I was feeling at the moment. Confusion? Fear? Panic? Pain?

Before I could decide, the doors slid open.

The guy, the same maroon guy, stepped in. Maroon hoodie, wet sneakers, dripping umbrella. The same maroon guy.

I looked up. A green ‘2’ glowed out brightly from the screen.

What the hell?

I looked back down, followed the motion of his finger as he pressed the number ‘17’ button.

‘Crazy storm out there, ain’t it?’

What the hell??

I looked up. The guy was staring at me.

‘What?’ I croaked.

‘Crazy storm. Almost blew my damn umbrella away.’ He chuckled, before squinting at me. ‘You okay?’

I finally found my voice. ‘You came in here just now.’ I replied, my gaze darting from his face, to his maroon hoodie, to his wet sneakers, to his dripping umbrella. This was no mistake. It’s the same exact guy.

I’m losing my mind.

‘What, here? I just got here, man.’ He smiled nervously and stepped back.

I could see him slowly tightening his grip on the handle of his umbrella.

I’m freaking him out.

The very thought made me want to laugh. Me? Freak him out? Hell, I was the one stuck in this goddamn elevator. I should be pissing my pants.

I stepped towards him, my gaze alternating between him and the glowing screen.

‘Woah. Dude. Don’t be weird.’ He wasn’t smiling anymore. He tightened his grip on his umbrella.

The elevator ‘dinged’ and the door behind me opened. I didn’t move. My eyes were fixed on him.

He edged around me. I could see sweat trickling down his face.

‘Don’t come back in here. Whatever you’re doing, you better stop. You better stop.’ I whispered, following behind him, step by step, until I reached the door.

I stayed rooted in the spot, even after the doors closed, my gaze piercing through the window on the door. I wanted to make sure that he left. And he did, scurrying backwards down the corridor.

That’s right. Don’t ever come back.

I glanced up to the screen as soon as the elevator started moving again.

’17.’

’17.’

’18.’

I let out a huge sigh of relief.

Finally.

I continued to stare at the screen, feeling less and less tense as the number continued up as normal.

’19.’ ’20.’ ’21.’ ’22.’

’23.’

I wanted to cry, that’s how relieved I was.

I stepped out through the doors as soon as they opened.

The next thing I knew, I was flying backwards into the elevator, hitting my head, hard onto the wall.

‘Holy shit! Sorry dude, I didn’t see you there.’

That voice.

That fucking voice.

I looked up slowly. From the dripping umbrella, to the wet sneakers, to the maroon hoodie, to the face, to the bright ‘2’ glowing from the screen above.

He did it again.

‘You okay?’ He asked, bending down.

I told you to stay away, you fucker.

‘Hey. You hit your head or something? Shit, I’m sorry.’ He continued.

I’ll make you sorry. You wanna mess with me? I’ll make you sorry.

‘Woah, dude. Quit staring man- don’t be weird.’

I remembered the next few seconds in flashes. I remember lunging at him, snarling and growling. I remember tackling him to the ground. I remember wrestling his umbrella away from him. I remember bringing the umbrella up high. I remember his face, staring up at me in fear and shock, as I brought down the sharp tip of his umbrella down onto his chest.

Once, twice. In, out.

His yelling, gradually reduced to a moan, and then a gurgle.

One, twice. In, out.

His thrashing and fighting, gradually reducing to weak grappling, before he fell limp.

Once, twice. In, out.

His eyes, at first wide open in terror, slowly closing, before it shut.

I continued stabbing long after he stopped breathing.

I had to make sure.

I had to make sure that he didn’t come back.

I won’t have him fucking around with me again.

—

I heard the doors open behind me. I didn’t know how long it was after I killed the maroon guy. With no watch and no phone, how could I have known?

There was movement behind me.

‘Shit.’ A voice rang out.

It didn’t sound like maroon guy. I smiled.

‘I found him, I found him. Fuck, it’s a mess in here. Level 17, hurry up!’

I removed my gaze from the bloody, misshapen mess infront of me and turned.

‘Don’t move!’

It was a policeman. He had his gun out and pointing right at me.

‘I said don’t move!’

Don’t worry. Nobody was going to mess with anyone. I took care of that. I smiled at him in reassurance.

More and more policemen appeared behind him. One of them prised away the bloody, broken umbrella away, one of them cuffed my hands, and three of them dragged me down the stairs. They didn’t have to be so rough, I wasn’t going to hurt anyone.

When we emerged out of the lobby, I realised it had stopped raining.

An old, balding man in a suit walked up to me, his hand clutching a phone.

‘This him, doc?’ A policemen asked in a gruff voice.

Doctor?

The old man nodded before speaking into the phone. ‘McDoogle here, we found him.’ He tucked the phone back into his pocket before turning back to me. ‘You really gave us quite a scare, Scott, running away like that during kitchen duty.’

McDoogle? Kitchen duty?

And then it all hit me.

Kitchen duty.

The obese lunch lady complaining that I had to eat more, or she would have to ‘flash out her magnifier to find me.’

Stealing the black jacket from the front desk. Putting it on to hide the white uniform below.

The front door letting out a soft ‘ding’ as I slipped through.

Taking the bus back home.

My ward room number.

23-17.

I blinked and turned to McDoogle, my doctor from the mental institute.

And then I fainted.

Grabbed from Horror/creepy short stories

I Dream of Pasta: My Imagination . . ?

Okay.. So, before I begin, I just want to say that this story is true. What I’m about to tell you, really happened to me and I’m not just saying so.

This happened when I was a kid. We lived in a smaller house back then and I shared a room with my elder sister. We had a bunk bed and I slept in the bottom bunk. Or, I tried to. For no good reason I was afraid to sleep there.

My parents got tired of me crawling to sleep in their bed night after night, so they suggested that I would sleep next to my sister in the top bunk. My sister wasn’t too fond of the idea, but she finally agreed, with the condition that I would sleep so that my head was lower, at the level of her chest, and not right next to hers, since I once punched her in my sleep causing her nose to bleed.

I, of course, accepted her term, since it got me out of the bottom bunk. I slept next to her and everything seemed just fine. I no longer had nightmares and I felt safer next to my sis.

But then one night I just couldn’t sleep. My sister on the other hand, was smiling contently in her dreams. I listened to her steady heartbeat and watched as her chest rose with each inhale. I listened to the silent sounds of the night, when I saw something dark moving from the corner of my eye. Naturally, I turned to see what it was, but all I saw was the wooden edge of the bed.

I thought it was nothing and turned back to look at my sister, as she sifted in her sleep. But soon after I had turned away, I saw that movement again. I spun my head quickly to its direction, but again, I saw nothing.

I got scared and moved closer to my sister. I shut my eyes tight and waited until sleep took over me.

The next morning I woke to the absence of my sister. I peeked over the bedside before climbing the three steps down. I walked to the living room to find my sister watching the TV and went to watch the kids show with her.

I didn’t mention that something I had seen moving next to the bed, I thought she would laugh or tell me it was nothing.

The day went on like any other. But the later it got, the more uneasy I became. I found myself stretching the bedtime, but eventually our mother told us to go to sleep and that was final. We brushed our teeth and went to bed. Our parents came and kissed us goodnight.

My sister was again fast asleep. I clutched my blanket and hoped that the moving had been just my imagination. But then it was there again. I was afraid of it, but I wanted to know what it was. I cautiously turned my head, but when I looked straight at it, it disappeared. I turned away, and as I had thought, it returned. I turned again to see it, this time slowly and careful not to look straight at it.

It worked. I saw what it was: a hand. A bony, brownish-green hand, with long black nails reaching over the rail of the bed. At this point I was terrified. I automatically watched straight to it, only to see it quickly pull away and as scared as I was, I crawled over my sister and looked over the edge to see what the hand belonged to.

Nothing. Just the bare floor and the bottom bunk. I laid back in the bed and when I looked away, the hand rose over the edge again. I wanted to see it, but as the hand reached over the side and finally cribbed the edge, I couldn’t take it anymore, so I looked at it causing it to retreat. I stared the spot where it always rose and it didn’t rise back, but I was getting tired and soon drifted to sleep.

Each night was the same. I saw the hand, but never what it belonged to. I stopped seeing it when we moved to our current house and me and my sister got separate rooms.

I thought the hand had been only my imagination, fed by my fear of the dark, so I never mentioned about it.

It was a few years back that I was talking with my sister about our previous neighbors, a sweet old couple, when we started thinking of all kinds of things we remembered from that house.

For the first time ever, I told her about that sickening green hand I had kept seeing. She looked strangely at me and said:

“I used to see it too”.

I Dream of Pasta: A Lover's Promise

You may not know this, but you were once a great leader. I know because I was your second-in-command, your loyal adviser and friend. You had great wealth and a prosperous kingdom. Your subjects adored you, the wicked hated you, and I loved you. How I miss your touch, your smile, the way your eyes seemed to glisten when you were pleased with me. I admit that, when you commanded me to do grueling tasks, I did them not because I felt they were my responsibility, I loathed dull work. I did them because I longed to see your eyes glisten when you saw that I had done well. Oh, how I miss those days.

Then the interlopers came, beings from a distant realm. They destroyed your kingdom took your subjects, and vanished without a trace. I remained by your side through all this, I dried your tears, I consoled you. It broke my heart to see you in such a state. I feared I would never see your eyes glisten again. You recovered and vowed to save your people from the interlopers, and I would be by your side the whole time. It was a long journey, through realms our people had never explored, through light and darkness, traveling so far that the time and space of our realm was no longer relevant. I could tell you were scared but I did my best to remain brave, for I feared that you would only grow more despondent if you saw me in such a hopeless state.

It was impossible to measure the amount of time the journey took, since the passage of time is often inconsistent over these distances, but it was a long time for us when we arrived in the realm of the interlopers. It was a dark world, a wicked world. I was reluctant to enter it, but you pressed on, undaunted, desperate to recover your people from the interlopers. I admired your courage and your compassion. I considered telling you then, I wanted you to know how I felt, in case we didn't make it back to our realm. Not a day goes by I don't regret my silence then. If only I had told you, you might still be with me now.

It wasn't until you saw the pit that I could sense your fear. I wanted to run. I regret my cowardice even now. Every day I weep not because of the torment I am dealt by my captors, but because of my remorse. If time is so inconsistent, why could I not undo what I had done? If only I had stayed when the interlopers surrounded us! Instead I fled, pushing through the darkness, scampering past the tortured souls that begged for mercy and death. Only when I realized what I had done did I turn around to see the interlopers toss you into the pit.

Then you were born.

They let me see you now and then. I have watched tearfully as you, a once great ruler, were reduced to a fragile infant. A revolting creature in a realm I am forbidden from entering. I remained here, the prisoner of the interlopers. They have grown used to me, and I have grown used to them. Their torture no longer fazes me. The only anguish I suffer is the regret of having abandoned you and the loneliness I feel with you no longer beside me. However, I will not accept this fate. I have waited a long time, and I will wait no longer. If your death means your departure from that realm, then so be it. I no longer care for the laws. I only care for you, your glistening eyes, your kind smile, those lips I've longed to kiss. I'm coming for you, my love, and not even Hell can hold me back.

I Dream of Pasta: Who is the Red-Haired Man?

February 8, 2014 : I always write down my dreams in a notebook. I have done it for about 3 years, just after I wake up, when I am still half-asleep. Sometimes I read it later and it doesn't make much sense, but I don't mind, I enjoy keeping a trace somewhere of what I saw in my dreams. I do believe they are meaningful.

Last night, I had a dream that was different from the others. It wasn't like a normal dream, when you usually can see yourself, or feel like you have some control over your actions.

I was facing a person. It was like I was seeing them on webcam, I only saw their face and shoulders. I think this person was male, but the dream was pretty blurry, and some parts of his face were hidden in the shadows. This man had red hair and piercing blue eyes. I couldn't see his left eye, nor the left side of his face, there was this strange shadow over it. I even wonder if he only had half a head.

What made this dream weird was not what I saw in it, but how it made me feel.

It was an incredibly strong feeling. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, blood rushing through my veins, as if every single cell of my body had fully awoken. I also felt something close to fear, even though I'm not sure and it could have been fascination, or just confusion, I don't have the words to describe it exactly how it was. The man was talking to me, but I couldn't get any of the words, as if they were from a foreign language. When I woke up, I could still hear that voice, but it soon faded.

I believe some people in the world maybe had the same dream as me and could tell me more about this man. I have never felt so curious over something I'd call "supernatural", and I knew maybe on this website I could find people to chat with about it without being made fun of.

I created an email address, so if you have information for me about this red-haired man, we could talk about it. @whoistheredhairedman@gmail.com

February 10, 2014 : I have received an email from someone called Sophie, who helped me find the meaning of my dream. She gave me very useful informations and I don't know how to thank her enough.

"Hello there,

I am not good with dream interpretation nor do I claim to be, and what I will tell you might be wrong or useless. Anyways, the meaning can change if the man you saw had blood red hair or orange hair. From what I know, both have a pretty negative meaning.

If you saw a man with blood red hair, it means you've been thinking too much. I do not want to offend you, but it also means there is something bad in you, a part of you that's not caring or guilty of something. Maybe you did something wrong in your life and this dream is here to remind you of it.

If the man had orange hair, it means there's something in you, a way of thinking or beliefs that is overwhelming you. It means in a way you think too much too, but it's not as bad as the blood red hair. Maybe there is something that prevents you from living a normal life.

This man, from a philosophical point of view, could be the masculine part of you that every female has. It's called an archetype, and the man is an animus. You should look for Carl Jung on the internet, I am sure it would help you understand many things about this dream.

I know I didn't say much and you probably figured it out yourself.

I'll contact you again if I find more informations or if you have this dream again."

I Dream of Pasta: Interference

If you visit the big library in the Nottingham City Centre, and check out their newspaper records, you will actually find information about the events detailed here.

This story takes place around 15 or 16 years ago. I was just 7 years old and my cousin, Dale, was around 9, maybe 10. He was staying with me while his mother was away looking after a sick relative.

Since I was an only child, I didn't have many toys, and my Sega Genesis was busted, so we didn't have many things to do that were entertaining.

Our days consisted of watching cartoons on our cable television, followed by Dale telling me scary ghost stories as it turned night-time. My mother, sympathizing with us, and wanting us to do something more active, decided to purchase a pair of walkie talkies for us to play with.

We had fun with them, journeying to a neighbouring Strelley Village, and hiding far apart in the woods, while the other person would try and find them by using the walkie talkie.

Since we were quite young however, we weren't allowed out of the house for very long, and so we had to be home by 5 P.M.

We returned home later (about 6) and had our dinner. By this time it was around 7 P.M. We decided we would call it a night, and packed all of our toys away and got ready for bed. However, we didn't pack the walkie talkies away.

Dale was staying in the spare room, and I had my own room, and so we planned to talk to each other through the walkie talkies until we fell asleep. That's when we heard the thing that would change us forever.

It was about 11 at night, and we had been telling ghost stories over the walkie talkies for hours. All of a sudden, whilst Dale was telling me a story about a monster that supposedly haunts the same woods we had been at earlier in the day, his voice was cut off, and replaced with the usual static noise the walkie talkies produced when the talker had accidentally let go of the button used to speak.

I waited for a few seconds for Dale to carry on speaking, when I heard a faint mumble coming from the small speaker.

"That's odd," I thought.

The speaker was still emitting static, but I could definitely hear some kind of movement and speech.

All of a sudden, the sound of crying could be heard through the static. This was very creepy to me, and so I dived out of my bed, and rushed to the room Dale was staying in. He was sat bolt upright in bed, also listening to his walkie talkie, which was emitting the same sounds, if not a second or so behind mine. The crying grew louder.

"What is that?" Dale asked, "I thought you were playing a prank."

When I told him I wasn't, his face dropped. He switched his off. The sound still emitted from the walkie talkie I was holding in my hand, making it impossible for my walkie talkie to be picking up sound from his.

"This is creepy," said Dale.

The crying and mumbles through the static seemed to get slightly clearer, and louder. I switched mine off too and went back to bed. All kinds of ideas were flowing through my head. Perhaps I was picking up the sounds of the afterlife? Perhaps my walkie talkie was simply broken and producing weird sounds that just sounded like crying and mumbling? I tried not to think anything of it, and went to sleep.

I was awoken the next day by a massive bang which seemed to be coming from downstairs. It was around 6 in the morning, and I rushed down to find my mother and cousin looking out of the living room window at our neighbour's house next door. A large Police van had pulled up outside and our neighbour, Jessie, was being led outside by several officers. She was screaming profanities and insults and even tried to run from the officers at one point, before being pushed into the back of the van and handcuffed. We were shocked by what had happened and generally confused.

Jessie had been a new neighbour, recently moving into the house next door with her baby after our old neighbour had died of old age. She had kept to herself, and as far as we had known she was very quiet, and didn't seem like the type of person that would be arrested for any reason. It wasn't until the next day, when we received our daily newspaper, that we found out what had happened.

Jessie had murdered her baby after apparently seeing horrible apparitions of an elderly person in her house that had tormented her for weeks and she had finally snapped and turned loopy. This wasn't the disturbing part though.

The disturbing part was that fact that the baby monitor in the room the murder took place had been switched on during the murder.

My cousin and I heard everything.

----
Credited to Elmarco

I Dream of Pasta: Bedtime

Bedtime is supposed to be a happy event for a tired child; for me it was terrifying. While some children might complain about being put to bed before they have finished watching a film or playing their favourite video game, when I was a child, night time was something to truly fear. Somewhere in the back of my mind it still is.

As someone who is trained in the sciences, I cannot prove that what happened to me was objectively real, but I can swear that what I experienced was genuine horror. A fear which in my life, I'm glad to say, has never been equalled. I will relate it to you all now as best I can, make of it what you will, but I'll be glad to just get it off of my chest.

I can't remember exactly when it started, but my apprehension towards falling asleep seemed to correspond with my being moved into a room of my own. I was 8 years old at the time and until then I had shared a room, quite happily, with my older brother. As is perfectly understandable for a boy 5 years my senior, my brother eventually wished for a room of his own and as a result, I was given the room at the back of the house.

It was a small, narrow, yet oddly elongated room, large enough for a bed and a couple of chest of drawers, but not much else. I couldn't really complain because, even at that age, I understood that we did not have a large house and I had no real cause to be disappointed, as my family was both loving and caring. It was a happy childhood, during the day.

A solitary window looked out onto our back garden, nothing out of the ordinary, but even during the day the light which crept into that room seemed almost hesitant.

As my brother was given a new bed, I was given the bunk beds which we used to share. While I was upset about sleeping on my own, I was excited at the thought of being able to sleep in the top bunk, which seemed far more adventurous to me.

From the very first night I remember a strange feeling of unease creeping slowly from the back of my mind. I lay on the top bunk, staring down at my action figures and cars strewn across the green-blue carpet. As imaginary battles and adventures took place between the toys on the floor, I couldn't help but feel that my eyes were being slowly drawn towards the bottom bunk, as if something was moving in the corner of my eye. Something which did not wish to be seen.

The bunk was empty, impeccably made with a dark blue blanket tucked in neatly, partially covering two rather bland white pillows. I didn't think anything of it at the time, I was a child, and the noise slipping under my door from my parent's television, bathed me in a warm sense of safety and well-being.

I fell asleep.

When you awaken from a deep sleep to something moving, or stirring, it can take a few moments for you to truly understand what is happening. The fog of sleep hangs over your eyes and ears even when lucid.

Something was moving, there was no doubt about that.

At first I wasn't sure what it was. Everything was dark, almost pitch black, but there was enough light creeping in from outside to outline that narrowly suffocating room. Two thoughts appeared in my mind almost simultaneously. The first was that my parents were in bed because the rest of the house lay both in darkness, and silence. The second thought turned to the noise. A noise which had obviously woken me.

As the last cobwebs of sleep withered from my mind, the noise took on a more familiar form. Sometimes the simplest of sounds can be the most unnerving, a cold wind whistling through a tree outside, a neighbour's footsteps uncomfortably close, or, in this case, the simple sound of bed sheets rustling in the dark.

That was it; bed sheets rustling in the dark as if some disturbed sleeper was attempting to get all too comfortable in the bottom bunk. I lay there in disbelief thinking that the noise was either my imagination, or perhaps just my pet cat finding somewhere comfortable to spend the night. It was then that I noticed my door, shut as it had been as I'd fallen asleep.

Perhaps my mum had checked in on me and the cat had sneaked in to my room then.

Yes, that must have been it. I turned to face the wall, closing my eyes in the vain hope that I could fall back to sleep. As I moved, the rustling noise from underneath me ceased. I thought that I must have disturbed my cat, but quickly I realised that the visitor in the bottom bunk was much less mundane than my pet trying to sleep, and much more sinister.

As if alerted to, and disgruntled by, my presence, the disturbed sleeper began to toss and turn violently, like a child having a tantrum in their bed. I could hear the sheets twist and turn with increasing ferocity. Fear then gripped me, not like the subtle sense of unease I had experienced earlier, but now potent and terrifying. My heart raced as my eyes panicked, scanning the almost impenetrable darkness.

I let out a cry.

As most young boys do, I instinctively shouted on my mother. I could hear something stir on the other side of the house, but as I began to breath a sigh of relief that my parents were coming to save me, the bunk beds suddenly started to shake violently as if gripped by an earthquake, scraping against the wall. I could hear the sheets below me thrashing around as if tormented by malice. I did not want to jump down to safety as I feared the thing in the bottom bunk would reach out and grab me, pulling me into the darkness, so I stayed there, white knuckles clenching my own blanket like a shroud of protection. The wait seemed like an eternity.

The door finally, and thankfully, burst open, and I lay bathed in light while the bottom bunk, the resting place of my unwanted visitor, lay empty and peaceful.

I cried and my mother consoled me. Tears of fear, followed by relief, streamed down my face. Yet, through all of the horror and relief, I did not tell her why I was so upset. I cannot explain it, but it was as though whatever had been in that bunk would return if I even so much as spoke of it, or uttered a single syllable of its existence. Whether that was the truth, I do not know, but as a child I felt as if that unseen menace remained close, listening.

My mother lay in the empty bunk, promising to stay there until morning. Eventually my anxiety diminished, tiredness pushed me back towards sleep, but I remained restless, waking several times momentarily to the sound of rustling bed sheets.

I remember the next day wanting to go anywhere, be anywhere, but in that narrow suffocating room. It was a Saturday and I played outside, quite happily with my friends. Although our house was not large we were lucky to have a long sloping garden in the back. We played there often, as much of it was overgrown and we could hide in the bushes, climb in the huge sycamore tree which towered above all else, and easily imagine ourselves in the throws of a grand adventure, in some untamed exotic land.

As fun as it all was, occasionally my eye would turn to that small window; ordinary, slight, and innocuous. But for me, that thin boundary was a looking glass into a strange, cold pocket of dread. Outside, the lush green surroundings of our garden filled with the smiling faces of my friends could not extinguish the creeping feeling clawing its way up my spine; each hair standing on end. The feeling of something in that room, watching me play, waiting for the night when I would be alone; eagerly filled with hate.

It may sound strange to you, but by the time my parents ushered me back into that room for the night, I said nothing. I didn't protest, I didn't even make an excuse as to why I couldn't sleep there. I simply and sullenly walked into that room, climbed the few steps into the top bunk and then waited. As an adult I would be telling everyone about my experience, but even at that age I felt almost silly to be talking about something which I really had no evidence for. I would be lying, however, if I said this was my primary reason; I still felt that this thing would be enraged if I so much as spoke of it.

It's funny how certain words can remain hidden from your mind, no matter how blatant or obvious they are. One word came to me that second night, lying there in the darkness alone, frightened, aware of a rotten change in the atmosphere; a thickening of the air as if something had displaced it. As I heard the first casual twists of the bed sheets below, the first anxious increase of my heartbeat at the realisation that something was once again in the bottom bunk, that word, a word which had been sent into exile, filtered up through my consciousness, breaking free of all repression, gasping for air screaming, etching, and carving itself into my mind.

“Ghost”.

As this thought came to me, I noticed that my unwelcome visitor had ceased moving. The bed sheets lay calm and dormant, but they had been replaced by something far more hideous. A slow, rhythmic, rasping breath heaved and escaped from the thing below. I could imagine its chest rising and falling with each sordid, wheezing, and garbled breath. I shuddered, and hoped beyond all hope that it would leave without occurrence.

The house lay, as it had the previous night, in a thick blanket of darkness. Silence prevailed, all but for the perverted breath of my, as yet, unseen bunkmate. I lay there terrified. I just wanted this thing to go, to leave me alone.

What did it want?

Then something unmistakably chilling transpired; it moved. It moved in a way different from before. When it threw itself around in the bottom bunk it seemed, unrestrained, without purpose, almost animalistic. This movement, however, was driven by awareness, with purpose, with a goal in mind. For that thing lying there in the darkness, that thing which seemed intent on terrorising a young boy, calmly and nonchalantly sat up. Its laboured breathing had become louder as now only a mattress and a few flimsy wooden slats separated my body from the unearthly breath below.

I lay there, my eyes filled with tears. A fear which mere words cannot relate to you or anyone else coursed through my veins. I would not have believed that this fear could have been heightened, but I was so wrong. I imagined what this thing would look like, sitting there listing from below my mattress, hoping to catch the slightest hint that I was awake. Imagination then turned to an unnerving reality. It began to touch the wooden slats which my mattress sat on. It seemed to caress them carefully, running what I imagined to be fingers and hands across the surface of the wood.

Then, with great force, it prodded angrily between two slats, into the mattress. Even through the padding, it felt as though someone had viciously stuck their fingers into my side. I let out an almighty cry and the wheezing, shaking, and moving thing in the bunk below replied in kind by violently vibrating the bunk as it had done the night before. Small flakes of paint powdered onto my blanket from the wall as the frame of the bed scraped along it, backwards and forwards.

Once again I was bathed in light, and there stood my mother, loving, caring as she always was, with a comforting hug and calming words which eventually subdued my hysteria. Of course she asked what was wrong, but I could not say, I dared not say. I simply said one word over and over and over again.

“Nightmare”.

This pattern of events continued for weeks, if not months. Night after night I would awaken to the sound of rustling sheets. Each time I would scream so as to not provide this abomination with time to prod and 'feel' for me. With each cry the bed would shake violently, stopping with the arrival of my mother who would spend the rest of the night in the bottom bunk, seemingly unaware of the sinister force torturing her son nightly.

Along the way I managed to feign illness a few times and come up with other less-than-truthful reasons for sleeping in my parents' bed, but more often than not I would be alone for the first few hours of each night in that place. The room where the light from outside did not sit right. Alone with that thing.

With time you can become desensitised to almost anything, no matter how horrific. I had come to realise that, for whatever reason, this thing could not harm me when my mother was present. I am sure the same would have been said for my father, but as loving as he was, waking him from sleep was almost impossible.

After a few months I had grown accustomed to my nightly visitor. Do not mistake this for some unearthly friendship, I detested the thing. I still feared it greatly as I could almost sense its desires and its personality, if you could call it that; one filled with a perverted and twisted hatred yet longing for me, of perhaps all things.

My greatest fears were realized in the winter. The days grew short, and the longer nights merely provided this wretch with more opportunities. It was a difficult time for my family. My Grandmother, a wonderfully kind and gentle woman, had deteriorated greatly since the death of my Grandfather. My mother was trying her best to keep her in the community as long as possible, however, dementia is a cruel and degenerative illness, robbing a person of their memories one day at a time. Soon she recognised none of us, and it became clear that she would need to be moved from her house to a nursing home.

Before she could be moved, my Grandmother had a particularly difficult few nights and my mother decided that she would stay with her. As much as I loved my Grandmother and felt nothing but anguish at her illness, to this day I feel guilty that my first thoughts were not of her, but of what my nightly visitor may do should it become aware of my mother's absence; her presence being the one thing which I was sure was protecting me from the full horror of this thing's reach.

I rushed home from school that day and immediately wrenched the bed sheets and mattress from the lower bunk, removing all of the slats and placing an old desk, a chest of drawers, and some chairs which we kept in a cupboard where the bottom bunk used to be. I told my father I was 'making an office' which he found adorable, but I would be damned if I'd give that thing a place to sleep for one more night.

As darkness approached, I lay there knowing my mother was not in the house. I did not know what to do. My only impulse was to sneak into her jewellery box and take a small family crucifix which I had seen there before. While my family was not very religious, at that age I still believed in God and hoped that somehow this would protect me. Although fearful and anxious, while gripping the crucifix under my pillow tightly in one hand, sleep eventually came and as I drifted off to dream, I hoped that I would awaken in the morning without incidence. Unfortunately, that night was the most terrifying of all.

I woke gradually. The room was once again dark. As my eyes adjusted I could gradually make out the window and the door, and the walls, some toys on a shelf and... Even to this day I shudder to think of it, for there was no noise. No rustling of sheets. No movement at all. The room felt lifeless. Lifeless, yet not empty.

The nightly visitor, that unwelcome, wheezing, hate-filled thing which had terrorised me night after night, was not in the bottom bunk, it was in my bed! I opened my mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Utter terror had shaken the very sound from my voice. I lay motionless. If I could not scream, I did not want to let it know I was awake.

I had not yet seen it, I could only feel it. It was obscured under my blanket. I could see its outline, and I could feel its presence, but I dared not look. The weight of it pressed down on top of me, a sensation I will never forget. When I say that hours passed, I do not exaggerate. Laying there motionless, in the darkness, I was every bit a scared and frightened young boy.

If it had been during the summer months it would have been light by then, but the grasp of winter is long and unrelenting, and I knew it would be hours before sunrise; a sunrise which I yearned for. I was a timid child by nature, but I reached a breaking point, a moment where I could wait no more, where I could survive under this intimately deviant abomination no longer.

Fear can sometimes wear you out, make you threadbare, a shell of nerves leaving only the slightest trace of you behind. I had to get out of that bed! Then I remembered, the crucifix! My hand still lay underneath the pillow, but it was empty! I slowly moved my wrist around to find it, minimising as best I could the sound and vibrations caused, but it could not be found. I had either knocked it off of the top bunk, or it had...I could not even bear to think of it, been taken from my hand.

Without the crucifix I lost any sense of hope. Even at such a young age, you can be acutely aware of what death is, and intensely frightened of it. I knew I was going to die in that bed if I lay there, dormant, passive, doing nothing. I had to leave that room behind, but how? Should I leap from the bed and hope that I make it to the door? What if it is faster than me? Or should I slowly slip out of that top bunk, hoping to not disturb my uncanny bedfellow?

Realizing that it had not stirred when I moved, trying to find the crucifix, I began to have the strangest of thoughts.

What if it was asleep?

It hadn't so much as breathed since I had woken up. Perhaps it was resting, believing that it had finally got me. That I was finally in its grasp. Or perhaps it was toying with me, after all it had been doing just that for countless nights, and now with me under it, pinned against my mattress with no mother to protect me, maybe it was holding off, savouring its victory until the last possible moment. Like a wild animal savouring its prey.

I tried to breathe as shallowly as possible, and mustering every ounce of courage I could, I reached over slowly with my right hand and began to peel the blanket off of me. What I found under those covers almost stopped my heart. I did not see it, but as my hand moved the blanket, it brushed against something. Something smooth and cold. Something which felt unmistakably like a gaunt hand.

I held my breath in terror as I was sure it must now have known that I was awake.

Nothing.

It did not stir; it felt dead. After a few moments I placed my hand carefully further down the blanket and felt a thin, poorly formed forearm, my confidence and almost twisted sense of curiosity grew as I moved down further to a disproportionately larger bicep muscle. The arm was outstretched lying across my chest, with the hand resting on my left shoulder as if it had grabbed me in my sleep. I realised that I would have to move this cadaverous appendage if I even so much as hoped to escape its grasp.

For some reason, the feeling of torn, ragged clothing on the shoulder of this night time invader stopped me in my tracks. Fear once again swelled in my stomach and in my chest as I recoiled my hand in disgust at the touch of straggled, oily hair.

I could not bring myself to touch its face, although I wonder to this very day what it would have felt like.

Dear God it moved.

It moved. It was subtle, but its grip on my shoulder and across my body strengthened. No tears came, but God how I wanted to cry. As its hand and arm slowly coiled around me, my right leg brushed along the cool wall which the bed lay against. Of all that happened to me in that room, this was the strangest. I realised that this clutching, rancid thing which drew great delight from violating a young boy's bed, was not entirely on top of me. It was sticking out from the wall, like a spider striking from its lair.

Suddenly its grip moved from a slow tightening to a sudden squeeze, it pulled and clawed at my clothes as if frightened that the opportunity would soon pass. I fought against it, but its emaciated arm was too strong for me. Its head rose up writhing and contorting under the blanket. I now realised where it was taking me, into the wall! I fought for my dear life, I cried and suddenly my voice returned to me, yelling, screaming, but no one came.

Then I realised why it was so eager to suddenly strike, why this thing had to have me now. Through my window, that window which seemed to represent so much malice from outside, streaked hope; the first rays of sunshine. I struggled further knowing that if I could just hold on, it would soon be gone. As I fought for my life, the unearthly parasite shifted, slowly pulling itself up my chest, its head now poking out from under the blanket, wheezing, coughing, rasping. I do not remember its features, I simply remember its breath against my face, foul and as cold as ice.

As the sun broke over the horizon, that dark place, that suffocating room of contempt was washed, bathed in sunlight.

I passed out as its scrawny fingers encircled my neck, squeezing the very life from me.

I awoke to my father offering to make me some breakfast, a wonderful sight indeed! I had survived the most horrible experience of my life until then, and now. I moved the bed away from the wall, leaving behind the furniture I had believed would stop that thing from taking a bed. Little did I think that it would try to take mine...and me.

Weeks passed without incident, yet on one cold, frostbitten night I awoke to the sound of the furniture where the bunk beds used to be, vibrating violently. In a moment it passed, I lay there sure I could hear a distant wheezing coming from deep within the wall, finally fading into the distance.

I have never told anyone this story before. To this day I still break out in a cold sweat at the sound of bed sheets rustling in the night, or a wheeze brought on by a common cold, and I certainly never sleep with my bed against a wall. Call it superstition if you will but as I said, I cannot discount conventional explanations such as sleep paralysis, hallucination, or that of an over-active imagination, but what I can say is this: The following year I was given a larger room on the other side of the house and my parents took that strangely suffocating, elongated place as their bedroom. They said they didn't need a large room, just one big enough for a bed and a few things.

They lasted 10 days. We moved on the 11th.

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Written by Michael Whitehouse