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 Posting a reply to post #261995
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File: 128080881934.jpg-(427.44KB, 1161x1585, strangefalloutinfo_forwardtokyle_.jpg)
261995 No.261995
Hey, let's start a creepypasta thread.

Expand all images
No.262003
File: 128080949239.gif-(288.22KB, 650x1280, whenyougetit.gif)
262003

No.262006
>>262003
>.gif

NICE TRY

No.262023
>>261995
Weeeaaaak.

>>262003
Oh Jegus grist. That's terrifying. I lol'd, but it's still terrifying.

No.262062
File: 128082231351.jpg-(160.43KB, 933x846, 1265515550547.jpg)
262062
I have folders upon folders of this sort of stuff, I'll post it all when tomorrow though. For now have a couple of pics.

No.262063
File: 128082239290.jpg-(477.52KB, 1164x3700, 1264918738692.jpg)
262063
Deep Sea /x/ is the best /x/.

No.262065
File: 128082256443.jpg-(144.64KB, 1000x1291, 1272409105102.jpg)
262065
Spoilered for loli. Creepy loli, but still loli.

As for actual creepypasta's you can't get much better then Josef K.

http://thejosefkstories.blogspot.com/

True story: My name appears in one of his creepypastas.

No.262067
>>262006
Actually, no, it wasn't one of those.

No.262069
>>262023
I'm not looking.
What is it?

No.262121
>>262069
No, you have to read it yourself. It doesn't work any other way.

No.262154
>>262003
Ha!
And no, it's not a screamer, you big babbys.

No.262158
File: 128084705337.jpg-(342.78KB, 1164x3700, 1278751418507.jpg)
262158
>>262063
Here's a slightly better version.

No.262159
File: 128084742880.jpg-(33.57KB, 500x385, creepy man.jpg)
262159
Pleasant dreams...

No.262163
>>262159
That is huh?
That's not creepy in the slightest. It's not even weird as far as performing arts go.

No.262164
>>262003
..............OOOOHHHHHHH
OOHHH WOW
Okay. Okay. I got it.

No.262168
>>262003
HA-HAAAAAAAAAA!!

No.262174
File: 128084974378.jpg-(34.10KB, 468x580, Rat People.jpg)
262174
>>262163
How about this, then?

No.262175
>>262174
Cute couple.

No.262176
File: 128084983318.png-(256.22KB, 1263x1531, squidward's suicide.png)
262176

No.262177
File: 128085066695.gif-(1.91MB, 834x1031, xcreepypasta.gif)
262177
Old, bit I still love it.

No.262180
>>262003
Oh god. I lol'd.

No.262182
>>262176

That episode would be awesome. I want to see it.

No.262183
File: 128085223055.jpg-(136.25KB, 640x360, Touma-shit-bro-thats-fucked-up.jpg)
262183
>>262176

No.262226
Friend of mine posted this on his Facebook. Thought it merited posting here, it's kinda neat.
http://tinycartridge.com/post/866743831/super-creepy-pokemon-hack

Also, http://theholders.org Classic creepypasta series.

No.262244
File: 128086396239.jpg-(549.12KB, 900x4277, 2008-08-13_creepypasta001_flatweb.jpg)
262244

No.262247
File: 128086476941.jpg-(609.77KB, 1257x2121, smilesmilesmile.jpg)
262247
>>262226
I'm still not sure if I should just write that story off as fiction, especially since the Lavender Town music meme is still going strong. An actual game pak, sure, that's bupkis. But it seems probable enough that someone made a custom romhack.

No.262254
>>261995
This lost all rights to call itself a creepypasta the minute it said 'Britney Spears' and 'Oscar' in the same sentence.

For those worried about screamers:
They usually take a good 30 sec to pop up, so just open the file, click copy, close it, and then open paint and paste. Now you can read with no gif nervousness.

No.262259
And I never slept again.
The end.

No.262272
>>262254
Or just save it to your desktop and open it with something that doesn't automatically play gifs.

No.262290
>>262272

Or do it the hard way, sure.

No.262301
File: 128087146369.png-(5.52KB, 400x400, 127306644614.png)
262301
>>262177

I can't believe I fell for a .gif. God damn it.

No.262302
>>262290
I dunno, that only takes me two clicks or so.

No.262538
The digital clock humming quietly on my nightstand was the only sound that my ears could pick up from my surroundings. The night was dead quiet. I knew he was there. Right on schedule, he would be standing outside my window. He would knock. I, for reasons I wish I could explain, would open the blinds. He would stare at me, and I would stare at him. He would leave soon after, and I would stay awake until the sun began to rise. This was our routine.

My mind was wandering a thousand miles away when he first knocked, though my eyes had stayed lingering on the window. I told myself that I wouldn’t open the blinds. I told myself that tonight he wouldn’t scare me and that I would get the rest I desperately needed. He knocked twice more. I held a pillow over my head and began humming an old song I used to sing in elementary school. He knocked again, and this time, he did it a lot less courteously than he had in the past. It had become a loud thumping noise.

I threw the pillow off of my head and opened the blinds. His pale, wrinkly face leered in at me. His lifeless, black eyes that shone despite their darkness, peered into my own. His stringy hair fluttered a little in the wind. He seemed to be breathing somewhat harshly, and though it was hard to determine his mood as anything other than emotionless, I could sense an amount of animosity I had never felt before.

After what seemed like hours, he turned around and was on his way. I faced the ceiling and wept.

This had been going on for more than a month. I had tried to talk to others about it, but I could never finish my sentences. They’d degrade into quiet mumblings and whimpers. I was so tired, and I had even begun to wonder if I was losing my mind. I had tried sleeping pills but even they couldn’t help me to sleep through the night. The weirdest part is that I always woke up about five minutes before he knocked. I knew, instinctively, that he would be there. I was so tired.

The next night, I told myself that under no circumstances would I look out the window. I didn’t even care if he was on the verge of breaking the glass, I would not give him what he wanted. I would not feed him. He’d have to find someone else to terrify. He’d have to leave me alone.

I woke up, and I instantly knew what was going to happen. It’s funny, I was anticipating his knocks, and yet I still jumped a little when I finally heard him. I laid in my bed quietly, as if I hadn’t heard anything. He knocked again, and I hid under the pillow once more. He knocked again, even louder than he had the night before. I whimpered, but remained under the pillow. He knocked twice more. After that, things got quiet. I no longer had the feeling I was being watched. I pulled my head out from under my pillow, and slowly looked out the window.

Nothing. Just my backyard.

I laughed. I laughed so hard that little tears began to slip out of my eyes. He was somebody else’s problem now. I looked at the clock, noticed I had only been awake for about fifteen minutes, and turned over to go back to sleep.

I had just gotten to that area where dreams mingle with reality when I heard the distant click of a door. My backdoor. Someone had entered into my house from the outside. Something from my backyard. I knew it was him. I listened quietly as his footsteps made their way from my kitchen, to my dining room, to the short hallway outside of my bedroom. He was walking slowly, patiently and was not attempting to hide his presence at all.

He was right outside my bedroom door.

He knocked on my door, and I almost vomited. I wanted to do something, anything. I was paralyzed with fear. He knocked again. Trembling, I pulled the pillow back over my head. All that could be heard was the sound of weeping, knocking, and a digital clock humming quietly to itself.

I was so tired.

No.262539
>>262302
WOW

My glasses were off and I read "clicks" as "dicks"

No.262544
>>262538
See, this is how you do creepypasta. Subtlety.

No.262650
There are stories about a certain kind of hitchhiker - they only ever appear at night on quiet roads, seeming to flicker into existence in the very edge of headlights, never carrying a sign, always with an expression of deep despondency on their faces, swathed in a heavy coat and long pants, usually with gloves. If you stop, they will seem cordial enough, polite, but hardly chatty. They will assure you that the next town or city along your route will be a fine spot to leave them. Normal enough. Unless you try killing them.

They die easily enough. But look underneath their clothes, and you will see that their skin is marred with lines of scars, forming repeating patterns that are unsettling to look at, and even more unsettling in the context of their skin. They have no wallets, no identification. If you slice their belly open, however, they’re different inside. There’s no blood, no muscle, only a hollow cavity containing a single object. The object varies. Examples include a single coin, heavy and golden and engraved with runes nobody could ever decipher. A diamond gem with fractal edges that slice bare flesh to ribbons. A small vase, quite unbreakable, that smells of the ocean and is always damp…

Once you possess a hitchhiker’s object, you’ll find yourself always driving the quiet roads at night. You’ll never mean to, but somehow, you just will. The lure of possessing a second one will hum quietly in your head. You’ll strain to catch sight of a figure appearing in your headlights, try to resist the impulse to stop, and sometimes you might. But sometimes you won’t. You’ll try telling yourself that this is just a normal person on an adventure, someone who ran out of petrol. The logical part of your brain will scream at what you’re doing. You’ll smile and nod and they’ll get into the car and you’ll slowly, casually, reach under the seat or across to the glove box…

No.262651
And I am always with you.

I was there from the time you were born. I stood in the delivery room, staring down at you before you could even open your eyes to see me. Your parents, relatives and doctors couldnt see me there, in the corner, watching you with cloudy eyes, but I was there from the time you were born.

And I followed you home.

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

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

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

Breathing - gagging, really.

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

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

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

You'll see me again soon. Any day now, I'm coming, blunt and brutal. One day you'll walk across the road and - I believe I'll plow into you with loud roar and a screech.

You rolling on the pavement, rolling under wheels, bluntforce metal fenders and my fingers touching your face again and again.

As you stare up from the cold pavement with cloudy eyes; your matted, clotted hair hanging in your face and your jaw unhinged and swinging to your chest.

You'll see me approaching.

No one else will see me. You will stare past them into my eyes and I'll leer down at you. For the first time in our life, something like a smile will come over my face. You'll swear you're looking into a mirror as clotted red bubbles flow from our mouths.

I'll lean down, past the doctors and the oogling people and pick you up in my crooked arms.

Our faces will touch. My wings will unfurl. And then you'll have to follow me.

And I am always with you.

No.262652
In Berlin, after World War II, money was short, supplies were tight, and it seemed like everyone was hungry. At that time, people were telling the tale of a young woman who saw a blind man picking his way through a crowd. The two started to talk. The man asked her for a favor: could she deliver the letter to the address on the envelope? Well, it was on her way home, so she agreed.

She started out to deliver the message, when she turned around to see if there was anything else the blind man needed. But she spotted him hurrying through the crowd without his smoked glasses or white cane. She was, naturally, suspicious, so she went to the police.

When the police paid a visit to the address on the envelope, they made a gruesome discovery, three butchers had been harvesting human flesh and selling it to the starving people.

And what was in the envelope the man gave to the woman? A note, saying simply "This is the last one I am sending you today."

No.262659
File: 128093136213.jpg-(65.77KB, 800x600, underwater.jpg)
262659
I’ve always had a terrible fear of being submerged completely in water. Not that I can’t swim or anything. My dad made me learn; he said I almost drowned when I was really young.

I was afraid of it because, for as long as I can remember, whenever I am under water and look up at the surface, I see a woman reaching down to me with a warm smile, with glowing golden hair and dark blue eyes. Even if it's just in a bathtub. It always happened, it was just normal for me, but I never got used to it.

It was unnerving, but also soothing at the same time. She always made me feel like it was okay. I still avoided it, though, because I was just a kid and it was really freaky.

I never told my dad about it as a kid, but I did ask him about my mom. He never wanted to talk about her. Sometimes he even got mad at me for trying too hard to bring it up.

It was only recently that I described this apparition to him. He nearly drove into a telephone pole; obviously he knew something. I asked him, again, about my mom. He still wouldn't say much, except that she died when I was very young, and that she loved me very much. He also admitted that her hair and eyes were those colors, just like mine.

So I did some research on my own, looking up her name for myself on my birth certificate and trying to find any references I could, any news clips about a boy nearly drowning, anything. I mostly wanted a picture, something I could match to my guardian angel.

Today, buried in our town library, I found it.

WINCHESTER: Marie Withie, 28, drowned to death yesterday evening after climbing a razerwire fence and fleeing to a nearby reservoir. A funeral is scheduled by her family for the 25th. Marie was institutionalized just six months ago, after being found “not guilty” of attempted murder on grounds of insanity. Her husband Daniel Withie had acted quickly enough to rescue their infant child when she was found trying to drown him in a bathtub.

No.262661
>>262652
You forgot to add that the man bribed her with the promise of "steaks" for delivering the letter (adds another gruesome element to the story, IMO), but this is another good classic.

No.263554
>>262661
A delicious classic.

No.263560
>>262661
Heh, I've never seen that version. These are just from my giant pile of .txt files dating back to 2006.

This one is an old favorite, just because I've actually been trapped on a tiny Mediterranean island with a creepy lighthouse in a storm before.

=
There is a small island in the Mediterranean Sea that does not appear on any map. It cannot be seen from any other island, nor can any other land be seen from it. On this island is a lighthouse, rotting from age and sea water, that is never lit. There is nothing inside it, save for a spiraling staircase that leads to the top, and an ancient, dusty bookcase.

The case is filled with unmarked books, bound in ancient leather, save for a single space. If you remove a book from the shelf, it will fling itself open in your hands, and the words inscribed in it shall start screaming to the air. You must wrestle the book closed and shove it back on the shelf, or the immortal evil contained within its pages shall break free, and you will be forced to take its place, with pages, ink and binding crafted from your own flesh and blood.

However, if you bring the correct book to the island, and place it in the empty space, the lighthouse will light. As long as it is lit, the world shall enjoy an unending paradise, for all the evil in the world will be contained in the lighthouse. And while it is lit, nothing can go in or out.

The only problem; you will be trapped for eternity with all the evil ever known or conceived, by man or god. And the only way to escape is to douse the light.

No.263561
>>263560
The answer: Robots.

No.263562
Long one here. By Black Fedora, a writefag from '08.

Gregory A. Julian moved into the mansion on 481 Cayuga Dr. Soon, angry letters from the bank began to pour into his mail slot, threatening foreclosure unless he began to pay off his sizable loan. Three months later, the requisite amount of time had passed and an eviction notice was printed by my boss. And that’s the asshole that sent me, late Friday evening, just before I left for the weekend, to deliver the letter in person to the absent Mr. Julian. I ground my teeth as I wound my way through the suburbs looking for Cayuga Drive. Somehow, this man I had never knew or met had unwittingly conspired with my boss to ruin my evening plans.

481 stood at the end of the block, its windows dark, its flanks shaded by oaks twisting into the reddening sky. I parked the car next to a dusty BMW and walked up the short stone path to his (now the bank’s) front door. It seemed odd that the expensive car would be sitting unprotected outside of his spacious garage, an even layer of pollen coating the outside and a stack of moving boxes piled within. Also, it was bizarre that the heavy front door stood halfway open, a mountain of letters and bills spilling out the doorway and onto the walk. I rapped the brass knocker against the door, “Mr. Gregory Julian?” I called inside, “I’m from the bank; I have some important papers to give to you.” No reply.

I ventured a little further into the hallway and repeated myself louder. Still no reply. But squinting, I saw the soft glow of a light spilling down a staircase at the end of the hallway. A glance at the hour hand on my watch was all it took to send me inside the house in search of my quarry.

The antique mansion was completely paneled in oak and a thick red carpet covered the floor. Mr. Julian was apparently trying to remodel, as several feet of the wall had been pulled off and large patches of carpet had been torn up. His method of removal was in poor taste considering the age of the place; many of the holes appeared to have been simply smashed through, as though with a sledgehammer. Or maybe he was just trying to wreck the house before the bank could get its hands on it.

Continuing down the hall and reaching the top of the stairs I realized that the light was coming from a room on the other side of the second story landing. I picked my way around cardboard boxes piled along the floor, wondering what kind of man buys a mansion, neglects to pay his debt, and never bothers to unpack. The door stood slightly ajar, light shooting out around the edges.

Through the gap I glimpsed bookshelves and sofas; it appeared to be a small study. I knocked on the door, “Mr. Julian, I apologize for the intrusion, but I have papers that I need to hand you in person.” No reply.

I grabbed the doorknob and strode in.

The desiccated corpse of Mr. Julian lay flat on the carpet.

In one hand he clasped a pen; on the wrist of the other ran a jagged gash. I gagged – it didn’t take a doctor to determine that he had been dead for weeks. Well, that explained why his bills went unpaid.

A harsh lamp gleamed from the corner, coloring the room in sharp contrasts. A thin object, sitting on a desk in front of the late Mr. Julian, glimmered in the light. Curiosity got the best of me and I carefully skirted around the body, a dried pool of blood crunching into the carpet underneath.

A dagger lay on the table surrounded by a spatter of thick droplets. Its edge was encrusted in a thin red film; having been plunged into the flesh of its owner. Next to it sat a torn piece of paper with a scribble of black ink scrawled across. I grabbed it and held it up to the lamp, squinting to make out the barely legible writing;

“Dear Kate and Daniel and everybody else, There is no escape. This is the only way out. I’m so sorry. Destroy the house.

Greg J.”

A chill shot down my spine. With a shock it hit me that I was standing in a pool of blood next to a corpse in a dark house at night. I raced out of the room and down the stairs with a cold sweat breaking out on my face. I ran towards the front door, a wind blowing into the house and down the hall, whipping letters through the air, slamming the door shut. I grab the doorknob and pull. A bolt crunches against its lock. Confused, I run my hands across the handle searching for the latch.

There’s no latch – there’s not even a keyhole.

As my heart pounds, an image flashes across my scattered mind: the back door.

I sprint down the hallway, opening doors and racing through dark rooms, working my way across the house. Finally, I stumble across a moonlit alcove, where the light streams from a tiny window set into a metal door. I grab the immense handle, but again the door is bolted shut; no way to unlock it. I pound my fists against its heavy steel, but the frame doesn’t even budge. Stepping back, I realize that it resembles a bank vault; thick metal panels secured by hinges thicker than my hand, the safety glass inches thick, repelling all of my efforts to crack it.

A small piece of paper is taped onto it. I tear it off and hold it up to the window. Scratched in pencil it reads;

“There is no escape”

Something falls against the window, blotting out the light.

My feet fly back down through the house, back to the front door. The doors I had opened have all closed; I bash my way through them, their bolts bursting from the rotten walls as I charge towards the exit, lowering my shoulder, gritting my teeth.

As I round the last turn at top speed, the front door comes into view. Thick boards, pounded haphazardly into the wall, stretch across the doorway. Nails and broken glass embedded into the wood, the jagged tips jutting into the air. Barbed wire, strung like a net across the entrance, bits of flesh hanging off the rusty points.

Words burnt deep into the wood,

“There is no escape”

…shit…

I can’t stop myself fast enough; the barbed wire pierces into my guts and slashes across my face, but it also saves me, knocking me backwards onto the floor before I impale myself on the door. In pain, bleeding, I stumble away from the entrance, knocking my way through another door and stumbling into the dark. Suddenly, a step; the floor disappears and I fly head first onto hard ground, fireworks bursting before my eyes.

As the pain begins to fade I grope in the darkness for the walls. A chain falls into my hand. Instinctively, I pull it, and the garage lights up. I turn around just as the door behind me slams shut again. Whatever has me trapped in this house is closing in.

But next to the shut door a wire trails down the wall, ending in a familiar button. I slap the garage door switch.

It opens slowly, the wooden planks clanking upwards to reveal not the driveway but a dark onyx barrier - a wall of solid obsidian, glinting with malevolence. Etched into its surface that same awful epitaph;

“There is no escape”

My hope drains out of me like the red stain across my chest. I stagger backwards, collapsing across the tool shelves. Trapped…

Trapped. There is no escape. I realize I’m doomed; forever trapped inside the house until I grab the knife upstairs and plunge it into my veins. I slide down the wall, pulling the shelves down with me until I lie in a heap, surrounded by rusted tools.

As visions of suicide drift past my eyes, something cuts across the back of my hand. My imprisoned mind is captivated by the sight of what lies next to me.

It sits on the ground shiny and oiled, short blades glinting maliciously. A chainsaw. A goddamn chainsaw. Despite myself, I can’t stop laughing at the thought of revving it up and plunging it into my stomach, a red spray painting the walls of this fucking house, bone and guts grinding into a paste that splatters into the carpet. Crying with mirth I imagine the poor soul who’ll wander across my body weeks from now, recoiling in horror before making a futile dash for the closing door.

The door.

A new thought bubbles into consciousness, slowly pushing away my morbid thoughts.

The door.

My ears begin to pulse, my face feels hot. A new sensation wells up deep within me - the primal fury of a cornered animal. A fountain of energy flows through my veins and I stand up, rage slowly throbbing above the hopelessness. I grab the chainsaw with both hands. Flipping the choke, I rip the starting cord. put. put. VROOOOOWWMMMMM. The engine kicks into life and I swing it off the ground, revving the chains into a deafening harmony.

A grimace, a grin, almost, spreads across my face.

Back at the door. . The barbed wire hums with malice, but my fear is long gone. I swing the chainsaw high over my head, bringing it growling down onto the metal wires. With a shriek they split under the churning blades, snapping and twisting through the air like serpents. Ignoring the slashing wires I press forward, dicing the steel web into bits, the ends retreating before my crushing blows. I reach the door and with seething bloodlust plunge the chainsaw deep into the gap in the frame. I wrench downwards, the saw howling as it tears the wood apart, spitting shrapnel across the hallway. I hit the first hinge and gun the engine. A river of sparks flows from the disintegrating metal, landing on the broken planks of wood and catching them on fire. The chainsaw claws the frame to pieces as I press it downwards, another flurry of cinders spraying from the second hinge.

As fire crawls across the door and eats at the walls I wrench the saw out. With a roar I stab the deadbolt, smoke and flames spitting from the tip of the chainsaw. A shrieking cry shakes the mansion as the bolt shears. I plant my foot into the middle of the door and kick it out into the night, a shower of embers trailing behind it.

Wreathed in smoke I stumble out of the house. I drive home first. I need to see it, someplace familiar and safe, before being hauled off to the emergency room or the police station. Back in my living room, I pick up the phone and call the cops and the fire department, telling them to rush over to 481 Cayuga Drive. Then, looking in the bathroom mirror at my shredded face, I call an ambulance.

I stand over the sink, running water over the gouges and burns along my arms; the sweat and blood mixing with shredded fibers of wood that run down the drain. Grabbing some bandages, I patch myself up good enough to stop my bleeding to death. Closing my eyes I sit on the bathroom counter and rest my head in my hands. A gentle trickle of blood flows down my scalp. Blinking, I grab a towel off the rack and wipe the blood out. I open my eyes. And freeze. Beneath where the towel had hung, written in dripping, scarlet letters:

“There is no escape”

The door slams shut.

No.263597
>>263562
Brilliant.

No.263650
He awoke with a start, asked for a match, and one was put in his hand.

No.263657
>>263561
Black Fedora was GOD TIER writefag. I miss him. /x/ was so fucking awesome when he was around.

...oh my god i've been on 4chan for two fucking years...

No.263658
>>263650
Quidmore handed it to him.

No.263659
>>263657
I've been coming to 4chan for almost five years. Five years!

No.263667
>>263659
>>263657
I've been there for four years, and I'm freaking seventeen. It's crazy. If you want more Black Fedora, all his stories are here - http://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/the-works-of-black-fedora. I don't know if he's writing any elsewhere, I know Josef K submits to the /lit/ magazine but all the rest of the old writefags are gone ):

here's another old one I like:

GET HELP.

You start noticing those words when you're going about your day-to-day business - just flipping through the classifieds, or posted on telephones near bridges. Normal places. Just words that seem to be catching your eye.

Then they start appearing more randomly: the first seven tiles you pick in Scrabble, the first spoonful of alphabet soup, even those stupid spams sent by strangers. You even check a few of them, but they all end up being for the same old pills and promises.

Now it's getting so everything you read has those words crop up - close-captioned TV shows, book titles, CDs, bus schedules, menus, everywhere. It's distracting, very very distracting, it's so very hard to concentrate when words squiggle out of the corner of your eye, when the keyboard's no longer qwerty but gethelpgethelpgethelp.

The delusion's taking its toll. Who needs help? Who's sending you this message? Why you? How can you help someone who you don't even know?

You're trying to type an email to a friend. It's very hard to do. The letters keep swimming and you add an apology in the email, just in case your writing's garbled. You finally hit send.

Later, you wake up.

You're in the hospital. Your friend is sitting beside you. I was so worried, he says. When you sent that email. GET HELP GET HELP GET HELP, over and over. I came over and found you on the floor. They had to do surgery. Do you know what they found? A second brain. Tiny but fully formed, growing in your head. It was blocking an artery. You're lucky to be alive.

But you aren't really listening to your friend any more. You're staring at a fire escape diagram near your bed. It doesn't say anything about fire safety at all.

FINALLY, it says. IT WAS GETTING CROWDED IN THERE.

No.263669
Once, there was a boy who loved to read. He read everything he could get his hands on, and loved going to his favorite book store. One day, the boy realized he had read everything the store had to offer. He confronted the owner, and asked him if he had anything the boy had never checked out. The owner said why, yes, I do, and pulled out a book called “Death”. He gladly sold it to the boy at a discounted price of 50$.

However, he warned the boy, never to read the front page. Well, the boy returned to his house and read the book, and he was content. However, he always wondered, what could be on that front page, it was always in the back of his mind. One day, the temptation was too much for the boy, and he flipped to the very front of the book, and dropped the book in HORROR.

There, in bold print, was MSRP 7.99$

No.263670
File: 128115516612.png-(322.66KB, 575x415, angry_post-its.png)
263670
>>263667
>I've been there for four years, and I'm freaking seventeen.
AWW, YOU ARE STILL BABBY.

That creepypasta sort of reminds me of "The Dark Half", and this.

All this shit started when I found that little note.

On a square piece of paper I found at the bottom of a box I was moving out of my basement, it read, “HELLO? PLEASE RESPOND”. I had no idea how long the paper had been there, those boxes had sat in my basement since I moved in. I ignored it until the next morning, when I opened my coffee maker to throw out the grounds, and inside was a sopping wet piece of paper that read “PLEASE RESPOND! PLEASE HELP”. I figured it must have been put inside my coffee maker by whoever was pulling this pointless prank, because it wasn’t there when I put my coffee grounds in.

I found more notes, under my mousepad, inside my computer tower while I was putting in some new RAM, between the layers of tissue of my toilet paper roll, under my DVD player’s disc tray. Places that no one would ever look, places you’d never think of putting a note, places you knew no one would ever look and it would be foolish to put a note, because who knew when they would see it?

But it kept happening, and they all said the same thing every time, begging me to respond and help them. Being the retard I am, one day I just got fed up when I found one inside a cup in my dishwasher (right after I had run it - the paper was dry) I wrote on the back of it “HELLO. I’M RESPONDING. PLEASE EXPLAIN YOUR SITUATION!” and slid it under a crack in my bath-fitted tub.

No sooner had I left my bathroom did I find another piece of paper, floating on the surface tension on the surface of my glass of sprite I had in the living room.

I carefully picked it out of my drink, it read “THANK YOU.” and in larger letters, “I’M TRAPPED”.

I waved it around to dry it off a bit, and wrote on the back of it again, “Where are you trapped? How are you sending me notes?” and, not creative enough to think of where to put it, I just threw it behind my couch. I waited and looked, but I didn’t see any other notes for the rest of that day.

The next day I checked my mail, inside of some spam letter was the next note, “IN THE SECOND DIMENSION. BELOW YOU”. I wasted no time in responding “Whoever you are, this prank is retarded. Give it a rest.” and threw it outside, the wind blew it away.

The next note I got was still in obnoxious capital letters, though it was much longer than before and the last sentence seemed to have been squeezed into the remaining space. I think it was a passage from some encyclopedia or textbook. “The first dimension is a defined point in space. The second dimension (this was underlined) is anything that exists with height and width, while the third adds on length. The fourth includes time, the and the fifth is the past: time that has already occurred and is solidified in timespace.” Everything beyond that was too squished in to read. I rolled my eyes and responded again, “How can you read this if you’re in the second dimension? How can you even exist??” I slipped this note into the space in my toaster between the element and the metal casing.

My reply came when I brushed it out of my hair the next morning before I took a shower. “WRITING IS 2D. VISION IS 2D- TWO 2D IMAGES SUPERIMPOSED.”

That didn’t really get to the point of how I was supposed to “rescue” this person, which I defined in my next note that I flushed down my toilet.

“MAKE ME 3D” was all that was on the new slip of paper I found inside of a chocolate bar I unwrapped, later on. How the idiot was putting these inside sealed products was beyond me but at this point I decided to play along, maybe it was some kind of TV show thing.

“How?” was all I wrote for my reply. I remember exactly where I put it, because it was the last thing I wrote for a long time. I put it in a crack between my length mirror, and it’s wooden backing. As soon as I let go it slid out of sight and I didn’t see any papers again for a year and a half.

Getting dressed one morning for work, I went into my room and adjusted my tie and shirt in my mirror, the same one, only it was now on the opposite side of my room. Looking into it, I noticed a square behind me on the wall. Turning around, there was none. In the instant before I turned around again I thought it must have fallen off, but in the mirror it was still there, still suck to the wall. I touched my mirror thinking maybe it was some sort of warping or optical illusion, but it wasn’t.

I lifted my heavy mirror up from the ground and slowly walked backwards with it, nearing myself to the opposite wall on which the paper was stuck. The closer I got, the clearer the message on it became, until I stopped, sandwiched between the heavy mirror and the wall, looking at the paper immediately over my shoulder: “MAKE YOU 2D” it said.

I moved the fuck out of that house as soon as I could. After bunking at my girlfriend’s for a while, I got the fuck rid of the mirror, the toaster, everything. My heart still skips a beat when I see any perfectly square piece of paper, sitting on the floor, all alone. I still live in fear of some day I’ll open up a book or look in the inner lining of a jacket, and a piece of paper will flop out.

I check all my things, now. Constantly. I also don’t drink coffee anymore.

No.263672
>>263670
Aw dude, I was just about to post that one!

You feel an itch in your throat.

You try to cough it out, but it just won't come.

You struggle with forcing yourself to vomit. You drink lots of water, but whatever it is, its just stuck there.

You reach for the carton of milk in the fridge and sneeze as you raise it up. Something hits the floor with a rattle. You look at the floor and see a small button with a flowery design on it.

Then you look up. On the milk carton, you notice a missing kid. Her blouse shows the same buttons.

No.263673
>>263672
>itch in your throat
>sneeze
>button hits the floor
>missing girl whose blouse shows the same buttons
THEN WHO WAS CANNIBAL?

No.263675
File: 128115704164.gif-(130.98KB, 621x423, wooden_box_big_brass_inlay.gif)
263675
!MESSAGE BEGINS

We made a mistake. That is the simple, undeniable truth of the matter, however painful it might be. The flaw was not in our Observatories, for those machines were as perfect as we could make, and they showed us only the unfiltered light of truth. The flaw was not in the Predictor, for it is a device of pure, infallible logic, turning raw data into meaningful information without the taint of emotion or bias. No, the flaw was within us, the Orchestrators of this disaster, the sentients who thought themselves beyond such failings. We are responsible.

It began a short while ago, as these things are measured, less than 6^6 Deeli ago, though I suspect our systems of measure will mean very little by the time anyone receives this transmission. We detected faint radio signals from a blossoming intelligence 2^14 Deelis outward from the Galactic Core, as photons travel. At first crude and unstructured, these leaking broadcasts quickly grew in complexity and strength, as did the messages they carried. Through our Observatories we watched a world of strife and violence, populated by a barbaric race of short-lived, fast breeding vermin. They were brutal and uncultured things which stabbed and shot and burned each other with no regard for life or purpose. Even their concepts of Art spoke of conflict and pain. They divided themselves according to some bizarre cultural patterns and set their every industry to cause of death.

They terrified us, but we were older and wiser and so very far away, so we did not fret. Then we watched them split the atom and breach the heavens within the breadth of one of their single, short generations, and we began to worry. When they began actively transmitting messages and greetings into space, we felt fear and horror. Their transmissions promised peace and camaraderie to any who were listening, but we had watched them for too long to buy into such transparent deceptions. They knew we were out here, and they were coming for us.

The Orchestrators consulted the Predictor, and the output was dire. They would multiply and grow and flood out of their home system like some uncountable tide of Devourer worms, consuming all that lay in their path. It might take 6^8 Deelis, but they would destroy us if left unchecked. With aching carapaces we decided to act, and sealed our fate.

The Gift of Mercy was 8^4 strides long with a mouth 2/4 that in diameter, filled with many 4^4 weights of machinery, fuel, and ballast. It would push itself up to 2/8th of light speed with its onboard fuel, and then begin to consume interstellar Primary Element 2/2 to feed its unlimited acceleration. It would be traveling at nearly light speed when it hit. They would never see it coming. Its launch was a day of mourning, celebration, and reflection. The horror of the act we had committed weighted heavily upon us all; the necessity of our crime did little to comfort us.

The Gift had barely cleared the outer cometary halo when the mistake was realized, but it was too late. The Gift could not be caught, could not be recalled or diverted from its path. The architects and work crews, horrified at the awful power of the thing upon which they labored, had quietly self-terminated in droves, walking unshielded into radiation zones, neglecting proper null pressure safety or simple ceasing their nutrient consumption until their metabolic functions stopped. The appalling cost in lives had forced the Orchestrators to streamline the Gift’s design and construction. There had been no time for the design or implementation of anything beyond the simple, massive engines and the stabilizing systems. We could only watch in shame and horror as the light of genocide faded into infrared against the distant void.

They grew, and they changed, in a handful of lifetimes they abolished war, abandoned their violent tendencies and turned themselves to the grand purposes of life and Art. We watched them remake first themselves, and then their world. Their frail, soft bodies gave way to gleaming metals and plastics, they unified their people through an omnipresent communications grid and produced Art of such power and emotion, the likes of which the Galaxy has never seen before. Or again, because of us.

They converted their home world into a paradise (by their standards) and many 10^6s of them poured out into the surrounding system with a rapidity and vigor that we could only envy. With bodies built to survive every environment from the day lit surface of their innermost world, to the atmosphere of their largest gas giant and the cold void in-between, they set out to sculpt their system into something beautiful. At first we thought them simple miners, stripping the rocky planets and moons for vital resources, but then we began to see the purpose to their constructions, the artworks carved into every surface, and traced across the system in glittering lights and dancing fusion trails. And still, our terrible Gift approached.

They had less than 2^2 Deeli to see it, following so closely on the tail of its own light. In that time, oh so brief even by their fleeting lives, more than 10^10 sentients prepared for death. Lovers exchanged last words, separated by worlds and the tyranny of light speed. Their planetside engineers worked frantically to build sufficient transmission infrastructure to upload the countless masses with the necessary neural modifications, while those above dumped lifetimes of music and literature from their databanks to make room for passengers. Those lacking the required hardware or the time to acquire it consigned themselves to death, lashed out in fear and pain, or simply went about their lives as best they could under the circumstances.

The Gift arrived suddenly, the light of its impact visible in our skies, shining bright and cruel even to the unaugmented ocular receptor. We watched and we wept for our victims, dead so many Deelis before the light of their doom had even reached us. Many 6^4s of those who had been directly or even tangentially involved in the creation of the Gift sealed their spiracles with paste as a final penance for the small roles they had played in this atrocity. The light dimmed, the dust cleared, and our Observatories refocused upon the place where their shining blue world had once hung in the void, and found only dust and the pale gleam of an orphaned moon, wrapped in a thin, burning wisp of atmosphere that had once belonged to its parent.

Radiation and relativistic shrapnel had wiped out much of the inner system, and continent sized chunks of molten rock carried screaming ghosts outward at interstellar escape velocities, damned to wander the great void for an eternity. The damage was apocalyptic, but not complete, from the shadows of the outer worlds, tiny points of light emerged, thousands of fusion trails of single ships and world ships and everything in between, many 10^6s of survivors in flesh and steel and memory banks, ready to rebuild. For a few moments we felt relief, even joy, and we were filled with the hope that their culture and Art would survive the terrible blow we had dealt them. Then came the message, tightly focused at our star, transmitted simultaneously by hundreds of their ships.

“We know you are out there, and we are coming for you.”

!MESSAGE ENDS

No.263681
File: 128115863342.png-(201.75KB, 581x2354, CandleCove.png)
263681
I love this pasta.

No.263687
>>263675
This one was never scary. It's entirely too HUMANITY- FUCK YEAH! to be scary. You stupid alien fuckers, you blew up the wrong planet full of crazy people.

No.263691
A man saw a Ferrari at a used-car lot and asked for the price of the car. The salesman lit up with a smile and said he'd give it to the man for $500 dollars. The man bought the car instantly on the spot after hearing the ridiculously cheap deal.

The man had the car for months now, but on a cold, winter day as he got into the driver's seat he was startled to see someone in the rear-view mirror. He quickly turned around and saw nothing in the empty seat and quickly shrugged it off thinking he must have imagined it.

As the cold days went by, the car doors started to lock up on him, the engine would stall, and he would hear sounds of something hitting in the back. The man started getting anxious about this bad omen. That horror soon showed itself as he was driving to the airport to pick up his relatives. He looked up and saw 3 bloody bodies in the rear-view mirror staring at him. He screamed and realized that this car is really haunted and fled from the car.

Later he heard the story of the car from the salesman. The police found the car 2 years ago abandoned in an empty airport parking stall where 2 dead bodies were found in the the back seat and another one found in the trunk.


Yeah, I'd keep the car. It's not like they're doing anything, just sitting around and staring. Pussy.

No.263693
I heard this one was a true story, but you never know.

There was a couple from Texas who was planning a weekend trip across the Mexican border for a shopping spree. At the last minute, their baby-sitter canceled, so they had to bring along their two year old son with them. They had been across the border for an hour when the baby got free and ran around the corner. The mother tried to find him, but he disappeared. The mother found a police officer who told her to go to the gate and wait. Not really understanding the instructions, she did as she was told. About 45 minutes later, a man approached the border, carrying the boy. The mother ran to him, grateful that he had been found. When the man realized it was the boy's mother, he dropped him and ran. The police were waiting for him. The boy was dead, and in less than the 45 minutes he was missing, he was cut open, all of his organs removed, and was stuffed with cocaine. The man was going to carry him across the border as if he were asleep.

No.263695
>>263693

Not so much creepy as it is horrifically disturbing. My mom said the thing that got her to stop smoking pot was a news report about a drug smuggling ring that would making living human sacrifices to try and ensure that their drug runs were successful. Something about cutting out a girl's spinal cord while she was still alive.

It's not that scary at first, but then you consider that it's true and it gets really horrific.

No.263697
This morning I stepped out of the shower and this bathroom was fine: white walls, white tiles, sink and counter with toothpaste crusted all over. Three out of the four lightbulbs over the mirror were still good -- 100 watt, clear bulb, blinding bright in the small white room. Like always I was late, so I skipped shaving. She liked it when I didn't shave, anyway. I was thinking about doing mutton chops. She'd get a kick out of that. I passed the mirror and noticed I was grinning. I didn't even know I was grinning.

I'm in the bathroom tonight before bed and there's something wrong with the lights. All three are on again but they glow kind of brown and don't really light up the rest of the room. I should get more bulbs from the kitchen. I should, but I'm busy. The date was shit and she shut her apartment door on me. You'd think that would wipe off the stupid grin from this morning. But I came back in the bathroom and, in the mirror, my face was still doing it. If I touch my face it doesn't feel like a grin, but there it is in the mirror.

In the brown light it's hard to make out but -- have you ever actually counted how many teeth show when you smile? I lean in close. One, two, three, four -- I didn't know my mouth was so wide. Nine, ten, eleven -- I can't do mutton chops after all. The corners of my lips are out to my ears. It still doesn't feel like a grin. But keep counting, for curiousity. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. Thirty-nine...

No.263700
Jesus Christ. The kind of shit that goes down in the big drug-smuggling rings... that's why I only do locally-grown.

This one is kind of cute:

Normally you sleep soundly, but the thunderstorm raging outside is stirring you from your slumber. You begin to doze, then another crash jolts you awake. The cycle lasts most of the night. So you lay there, eyes open and outward, looking at your room stretching out before you in oblong shadows. Your eyes move from nameless object, to object, until you reach your mirror, sitting adjacent to you across the room.

Suddenly a flash of lighting, and the mirror flickers in illumination. For a scant second the mirror revels to you dozens of faces, silhouettes within its frame, mouths open and eyes blackened. They stare out at you, their black pupils fixed upon your face.
Then it is done. Are you sure of what you have seen? Unsettled, you don’t sleep for the rest of the evening.

The next morning you remove the mirror from your wall and toss it in the trash. It didn’t matter if the vision you had seen was of truth or falsehood, you wanted to be rid of that mirror. In fact, you scrap every mirror in your house.

Weeks pass and the event of that night falls into passive memory. You are spending the day at a friend’s house. It’s time to use the bathroom. While you are in there the faucet starts to run without you prompting it. Taken aback by this, you do not yet act, trying to reason with your paranoia in your mind. The water starts to steam and a skin of moisture covers the mirror up above. You’re watching intently as words form:
“Please return the mirrors. We miss watching you sleep at night."

No.263711
>Ctrl+F
>Fuck yeah

It's early in the morning. The sun won't be up for another couple of hours. You're fast asleep in bed, lost in a dream, when the phone rings. Rather than waking up, you roll over and cover your head with a pillow. Hours pass. The sun rises. The phone is ringing.

When you wake up, your alarm clock is blaring and the phone is ringing. By the time you will yourself to turn the alarm off, the phone has stopped ringing. You realize that it's been ringing all morning. You slide out of bed and press the blinking red button on your phone as you stumble into the bathroom. The phone beeps, followed by the friendly, electronic voice. Hello. You have six hundred and sixty-six new messages. Message one. The phone beeps again, and you're not prepared for what comes next.

Screaming.

You spin around, thinking that she's standing right behind you. There's pure terror in her screams, accompanied by other disturbing noises. You stand there, horrified, for about ten seconds. Screaming gives way to hysterical, garbled crying before dying out with the sounds of spilling meat and tearing flesh.

The phone beeps again. You're shaking.

Message two.

No.263712
You get a phone call from your Mother. Since her car has been in the shop, she asks you to go to the grocery store and pick up a few odds and ends for her. Bread, milk, cereal, and chicken breasts.

After writing down a small list you reluctantly get in the car and pick up the items at the store. The lady cashier makes an odd remark to you, "You know, we're in no danger of a milk shortage." Upon arriving at her house you knock several times. No answer. You decide to try the door. It opens. You place the grocery bag on the counter. Strange. There seems to be six other grocery bags, each with identical contents. In a couple, the chicken and the milk has gone bad. "Mom," you call out, but no answer. You make your way thru the kitchen and into the living room. Sitting on the couch, with her head cut off and neatly resting on her lap, is your Mother.

Naturally you call the police who come over to investigate. They mention that she has been dead for nearly a week. Furthermore, the police psychiatrist is at the scene and talks to you after you give your initial statement. Sitting on the front steps, you overhear the psychiatrist talking with the crime scene investigator. "It's not uncommon for people suffering from schizophrenia to get locked into a series of repetitive behaviors," he says.

You think to yourself, "They can't be talking about me. Schizophrenia? Nah. Repetitive behavior? Do they think I did this?" Suddenly your cell phone goes off. "Hello?"

"Hi hun, it's me. Could you stop at the store and pick up some chicken and milk. Ohh, and I need some bread and cereal too."

"No problem Mom. I'll be right over."

No.263713
"Daddy, I had a bad dream."
You blink your eyes and pull up on your elbows. Your clock glows red in the darkness—it's 3:23.
"Do you want to climb into bed and tell me about it?"
"No, Daddy."
The oddness of the situation wakes you up more fully. You can barely make out your daughter's pale form in the darkness of your room.
"Why not sweetie?"
"Because in my dream, when I told you about the dream, the thing wearing Mommy's skin sat up."
For a moment, you feel paralyzed; you can't take your eyes off of your daughter. The covers behind you begin to shift.

No.263714
You are home alone, and you hear on the news about the profile of a murderer who is on the loose. You look out the sliding glass doors to your backyard, and you notice a man standing out in the snow. He fits the profile of the murderer exactly, and he is smiling at you. You gulp, picking up the phone to your right and dialing 911. You look back out the glass as you press the phone to your ear, and notice he is much closer to you now. You then drop the phone in shock.

There are no footprints in the snow. It's his reflection.

No.263715
You stumble into the kitchen, covered in sweat. Mind racing. Heart thumping. Christ, could he have followed me here? You think. How did he even find me?

A moment passes. One thing is certain.

He’s not here now.

Your stomach rumbles. Even someone in your position has to eat. Your refrigerator door cries as you tug it open. You peer through the shelves. A jug of tea catches your eye. You take a swig, right out of the container. Your mother won’t know.

The tea tastes sharper than usual. You examine the label. Black tea. She bought the wrong kind. You shrug, reach for some leftovers. Flip the TV on in the other room as you slide them into the microwave. The five o’ clock news plays in the background. It might say something about him.

The usual teary story about the war. Some presidential candidate is coming to your town. You count down the numbers on the microwave. 5, 4…

“And, finally, tonight a food contamination alert for all residents in this county.”

…3, 2…

“A shipment of Lipton’s Black Tea delivered to local stores has tested positive for traces of the ebola solanum virus. This super-strain of the disease causes painful sores on the underarms, neck and groin followed by profuse bleeding from all orifices. The survival rate once infected is less than 10%. I repeat, Lipton’s Black Tea has been pulled from the shelves but any resident who purchased the tea is advised to call the Center for Health Control to dispose of it immediately.”

1.

You tug open the fridge once more and look at the tea you just drank.

Lipton’s. That’s not the kind your mother usually buys.

“Authorities report the shipment was tainted by an unidentified biological expert who remains at large.”

He’s not here now. You think. The jug of tea falls to the floor.

But he was.

No.263717
A recent study by the National Psychiatric Institute in Boston, MA, concluded that no activity can account for the phenomenon known as nightmares. Whereas many dreams come from unconscious desires, most nightmares seem to come from an outside source independent of the individual. In fact, when subjects are asked to recall nightmares they are almost always found in the same memory section as actual physical memories, not the section where normal dreams are replayed. In other words, those aliens and creatures you see at night in your “dreams?” They’re real.

No.263718
Have you ever heard the expression "an apple a day keeps the Doctor away?" Most assume, with no reason to think otherwise, that it is simply an easy-to-remember rhyme that stresses the importance of eating healthily to young children. But the saying did not originate as a harmless reminder. It was born in a frontier town in the early years of the gold rush, where food was scarce and money even scarcer.

One August, when a bad drought had struck the region, a series of bloody killings swept through the town. Every night, a single house would be broken into, and anyone who saw the invader would be swiftly, brutally slain. Nothing was ever stolen, save for a few scraps of food.

After two weeks of this, the local grocer set out a few apples and a glass of milk in the town square overnight. He then hid in the tower of the church, hoping to catch a glimpse of anyone who came by.

Fighting fatigue, the grocer waited for any sign of life below. Just after midnight, he was rewarded by a chilling sight; a man, carrying a black bag stuffed with dully shining metal tools and covered from head to foot in cloth bandages, staggered into view. He paused at the sight of the apples and milk, and then whipped his head around, as if looking for the one who dared to patronize him. Seized with fear, the grocer ducked out of sight, staying hidden 'til sunrise.

The strange man had only taken one of the apples, and didn't even touch the glass of milk. No houses were broken into, and no one was killed. For decades, the town continued to place out an apple or two every night, even long after a single apple stopped disappearing.

No.263719
It's there - just at the veil of sleep. That dull sensation of falling or spinning just before you fall to sleep. The next time you go to bed, try to hold yourself there. Just as you drift off, hold onto that feeling. Hold on, and listen. Listen close, for you cannot hold onto that edge of sleep for long. There, in the space before sleep, is a sound: a gentle hum, a distant echo; like a sigh in a brick building. Listen well, and remember that sound. That is the sound of your last breath.

No.263720
Eric was reaching for the towel when he saw it. Something in the mirror, darting out of his line of vision. He stared at the mirror for a while, trying to work out what he'd seen, letting the water drip off of him into the empty shower. There was nothing but his own reflection. He began to dry himself, and he saw it again. Flickering out the corner of his eye, something in the mirror. He stepped out of the shower and towards the mirror.

Eric's wife, Sue, arrived home later that evening, but her husband was nowhere to be found. After searching the entire house, all she could find to suggest he'd ever been there was a towel lying on the bathroom floor. She phoned the police. She didn't look at the mirror.

Two days after Eric was reported missing, Sue dissapeared off the face of the earth. The only clue to suggest she'd ever been home was the shower, still running after long she'd gone.

No.263721
Somewhere, in the world, there's an artist. Her only painting is a painting of a simple white room, devoid of furniture or features. The room is lit by a simple white dome with a bulb inside it. Art scholars, on examining the painting, found that there's a faint suggestion of two shadows on the floor of the room.

She disappeared a while ago, but there's still a gallery in a large American city that has her contact information - they used to handle her PR work. If you go to her apartment, you'll find a door that seems to lead into what can only be a wall.

If you open it, you'll see a pristine white room - white carpet, white walls, and a white dome light overhead with a bulb inside it illuminating the room. You'll be drawn in, and if you've seen the painting, you'll look down at the floor for the shadows. They aren't there, of course - just your shadow. When you turn back to the door, it'll be gone, only a smooth wall where you were sure there was a door.

Somewhere, in the world, there's an artist. Her only painting is a painting of a simple white room, devoid of furniture or features. The room is lit by a simple white dome with a bulb inside it. Art scholars, on examining the painting, found that there's a faint suggestion of three shadows on the floor of the room.

No.263722
You wake up one morning to find a note taped to your mirror: “Don’t worry, I took care of everything.” Your clothes have been freshly laundered, the bathroom is spotless, and your garage has been organized. Even your faithful old toolbox has been replaced.
Later that week, there’s another note on your mirror: “GET OUT OF TOWN.” Paper-clipped to this message are several grainy photos of police in a taped-off section of a field. One of them is carrying your old toolbox in his latex-gloved hand.

No.263723
A man was walking down a city street in the middle of the night headed home from work, when he suddenly saw a dark object coming toward him.

He squinted down the road and saw that it was a sarcouphagus, closing in on him, as it screeched along the road.

SCREE SCREE

The man turned and fled, as he heard the scrape getting faster.

SCREEE SCREE SCREEE

He ran as fast as he could to his house, the screech getting louder

SCREEE SCREEE SCREEEE

He bolted into his house. The coffin was still after him! It tore through the door as he dashed up the stairs and into his bathroom.

He heard the coffin ascending the stairs. Panicking, he grabbed a bottle of Robotussin and hurled it at the coffin.

The coffin stopped.

No.263724
You’re slowly stirred awake by the distant ringing as the phone beside your bed pulls you out of your dreams. Your thoughts gather themselves and you groan, reaching over to answer.

As soon as you place the phone to your ear, you’re greeted by the background noise consisting of twisted screams. People in agonizing pain begging for help or death, not that the interference allows you to hear any individual voice clearly enough.

“Get out of the house now!”

The call ends abruptly after what you could have sworn was a voice from closer to you than on the other end. You shift yourself to the side of the bed, sighing while rubbing your eyes. A call this startling and this early in the morning would keep you awake.

Your wife shuffles to the side, apparently also woken by the call. She wraps her arms around you and gives a light kiss on the neck.

“Don’t worry about it,” Her half asleep mumble calms you down somewhat.

Just as you’re about to place the phone down, it rings again. You fumble slightly and drop it. Instead, you feel your wife’s arms tighten around you, preventing you from leaning forward.

It’s then you notice a subtle difference between the arms around you and the familiarity of your wife’s.

“He’s too late to save you anyway.”

No.263730
There once was a ghost.
Boo.

No.263739
Hey Red, were you on /x/ posting in the "real stories" thread, or was that a different Red?

>>263730
And then a skeleton popped out.

No.263741
>>263730
>>263739

And you were dead all along.

No.263743
>>263741
Then who was Bruce Willis?

No.263744
>>263743
Phone.

No.263750
File: 128119449259.jpg-(165.96KB, 299x450, tomomi00572.jpg)
263750
One school day, a boy named Tom was sitting in class and doing math. It was six more minutes until the end of school. As he was doing his homework, something caught his eye.

His desk was next to the window, and he turned and stared outside. It looked liked a picture. When it was home time at the school, he ran to the spot where he saw it. He ran fast so that no one else could grab it.

He picked it up and smiled. It had a picture of the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She had a dress with tights on and red shoes, and her hand was formed into a peace sign.

She was so beautiful he wanted to meet her, so he ran all over the school and asked everyone if they knew her or have ever seen her before. But everyone he asked said “No.” He was devastated.

When he was home, he asked his older sister if she knew the girl, but unfortunately she also said “No.” It was very late, so Tom walked up the stairs, placed the picture on his bedside table and went to sleep.

In the middle of the night Tom was awakened by a tap on his window. It was like a nail tapping. He got scared. After the tapping he heard a giggle. He saw a shadow near his window, so he got out of his bed, walked toward the window, opened it up, and followed the giggling. By the time he reached it,
it was gone.

The next day again he asked his neighbors if they knew her. Everybody said, “Sorry, no.” When his mother came home he even asked her if she knew the girl. She didn't either. He went to his room, placed the picture on his desk and fell asleep.

Once again he was awakened by a tapping. He took the picture and followed the giggling. He walked across the road, when suddenly he got hit by a car. He was dead with the picture in his hand.

The driver got out of the car and tried to help him, but it was too late. Suddenly he saw the picture and picked it up. He smiled. He saw a cute girl holding up three fingers…

No.265529
File: 128179816530.jpg-(0.99MB, 900x2025, windows.jpg)
265529
There was a hunter in the woods, who, after a long day hunting, was in the middle of an immense forest. It was getting dark, and having lost his bearings, he decided to head in one direction until he was clear of the increasingly oppressive foliage. After a what seemed like hours, he came across a cabin in a small clearing. Realizing how dark it had grown, he decided to see if he could stay there for the night. He approached, and found the door ajar. Nobody was inside. The hunter flopped down on the single bed, deciding to explain himself to the owner in the morning. As he looked around, he was surprised to see the walls adorned by many portraits, all painted in incredible detail. Without exception, they appeared to be staring down at him, their features twisted into looks of hatred. Staring back, he grew increasingly uncomfortable. Making a concerted effort to ignore the many hateful faces, he turned to face the wall, and exhausted, he fell into a restless sleep.

Face down in an unfamiliar bed, he turned blinking in unexpected sunlight. Looking up, he discovered that the cabin had no portraits, only windows.

No.265641
>>265529
That's one of my favorites.

No.265796
>>263675
I love this one. I've been thinking of using it as the basis for a webcomic for some time now.

No.266044
You are home to watch Pravda on televisir about degenerate murderer who is on the loose. You look out the window door to beet field, and you notice Man standing in the snow. He look like foto on televisir and he smile at you. You gulp vodka, picking up fone to your right and dialing Local Militia Precinct Commissar. Back out the glass you look, pressing fone to ear. Notice he now closer to you. You drop vodka in shock.

No footprints in snow. It was reflection. You dullard!

Your apartment is bulldozed down to make way for glorious tractor factory. Such is life in Moscow.

No.266076
File: 128198320280.jpg-(13.33KB, 489x122, 1276487941007.jpg)
266076
Short and sweet.

No.266098
>>266076
Well, I think Molly is a lovely name, so I don't mind one bit!

No.266204
>>266076

It was pretty empty in there anyway. Welcome, Molly!

No.266426
File: 128207343094.jpg-(3.12MB, 670x4985, 59666_scalemodelhell1.jpg)
266426

No.266427
File: 128207345134.jpg-(2.76MB, 670x4485, 85235_lifeinhell2.jpg)
266427
>>266426

No.266614
>>266426
>>266427
That's not creepypasta, that's just creepy. D:

No.266752
>>266614
Well, some of that stuff does actually look like noodles... so it's perhaps a literally creepy pasta.

Up
by Josef K.

Do you know what a Cordyceps is? I didn’t either until 20 minutes ago. It’s a family of thousands of different types of fungus, grows all around the word in various rainforests and jungles. The awful thing about them is they’re parasitic, they grow on other animals. An ant happens to run into some spores, and then it starts to colonize his insides, starting with his brain. At some point, the ant starts to act visibly ill; standing in place and shivering, or walking in circles. If a fellow colony member sees him in this condition, he will be dragged to the border of the colony and exiled.

Then, when it’s almost over, the ant weakly climbs as high as he can up the vines, and locks his body on tight. Finally, he dies, and the fungus emerges from the back of his head, bursting forth like a long and foul fruit. After a short time, the little stalk spews forth its own spores, leaving the mummified and broken ant clinging to the stalk, his eye cavities filled with drying fungus.

I mention this because last night, when I was up on the roof of my apartment complex, I found my brother’s body. He’s been back from 18 months on duty in the Philippines for less than three days. This was the first I’d seen him. My parents called me up the day before yesterday to tell me that he was on his way up. They told me he’d stayed in his room since he got home, and then suddenly got up and announced he was on his way to see me. They thought he was drunk, I’d I thought he’d never made it.

He must have come straight up to the roof and died, by the smell of it. I was just finishing a cigarette, all torn up with anxiety and head throbbing, and when the acrid smoke vanished I caught a whiff of rot on the hot wind. It took me just a few minutes before I’d found him; face down behind the vents and fans. A slimy gray column rose up obscenely from the base of his skull, and a frozen waterfall of roots and tendrils was dangling from his eye sockets and mouth. At the top of stalk was small arrangement of feathery wisps, a white powder drifting idly from it tips.

The spores must have drifting over the north side of the building all day. My side of the building. I came down to my apartment to try to call up the police, and my headache was rising to a feverish throb. I got through the door, and the moment I reached for the phone, pain flared in my head, so bad I almost passed out. I’ve since tried three times and I can never get my hand up on it.

The same thing happens when I try to get up and leave the room; I feel spines of ice tunneling up into my skull and my limbs lock up and shudder.

The ants, in their last moments crawl as high up the vines as he can climb. This is so the spore will spread over more of the colony below. In the end, the parasite controls the ant with an almost intelligent drive. God help me.

The pain is almost blinding now, and a new thought has been rising up rhythmically in my head, like a record skipping. Up. Up. Up. It’s joined by an image of my office tower. It’s taller than my apartment, the tallest place I can think off and although the bulge on the back of my neck is the size of a peach, the skin stretched shiny, and I’m dizzy and my eyes are cloudy, I think I can make it there. Up.

No. I’m sick. I need help.

The building pulses again in my mind. The cold wind. The roof and the sky. These images and concepts dull the pain momentarily as they pass through my mind. I think I can get there. Up. Up.

If you live in downtown Chicago, I would get the fuck out.

No.266900
>>266752
this is my favorite because holy shit cordyceps is real and it grows in places i've actually been to

just another reason for me to lie awake paranoid at night

No.266901
>>266426>>266427
idk why these make me laugh

maybe it's the pterodactyl in the stocks all stressed out, or the diners who simply cannot handle such long strands of spaghetti and are slurping it all around oh dear, or the poor fellows who havent been served yet and are all tapping their hands on the table and looking up and around like damn wheres my intestine-pasta

im not drunkposting just like, no sleep, two hours, and ten of those past 48 i've been in class, how am i still functioning even

No.266962
>>266900
The key is to keep reading about it.
Eventually the concept will become overused and boring, and you'll stop caring.

No.267078
Here's an original I just wrote up. Feedback is appreciated.

--------------------------------------------

It’s been two days since you first noticed it. At the start it was just a human-shaped flicker out of the corner of your eye, but every time you turned to look, it was gone. The strange thing is that it would only ever appear in some kind of clear glass; your bedroom window, the glass on your cabinet your mom gave you, the sliding doors at the grocery store. You haven’t been able to get a good look at who the figure is, but it seems to get clearer every time.

Finally last night, you got a good look at it. Her. Why her? You hadn’t thought about her in years. She just looks through the glass with her hands around her eyes. It’s like she’s looking for something. For you.

The next day, her image is clearer still. You now notice that she’s holding something in her right hand. It’s small and round, but you can’t quite make it out. You don’t want to look. You drive to work. She isn’t in any of your car windows, but you don’t look at any of the nearby stores because you’re afraid one of the people inside is really her. At work, she isn’t in your computer monitor, thank god. But she is in the photo of Rodney and Sarah you keep on your desk. You flip it down. Now she’s in your framed letter of recommendation from Prof. Gilson. You throw it in the drawer. Now she’s in the window behind your desk, standing in space four flights above the busy street.

You can’t go on like this. You tell your boss you’re not feeling well, but you don’t look him in the eye because she might be in his glasses. You drive home in a cold sweat. She’s in your living room window. She’s in your family photo. You run to the bathroom. Your stomach feels like it’s turned inside out. You forget about the fish tank you keep in there, and you almost look right at her. She’s as clear as if she were really behind the glass. And now you see what she’s holding. It’s the rock.

The same rock that sat in the garden outside her house for years. The same rock you picked up that night you were angry and half-drunk. The same rock you threw into the dark room with the arm that got you on Little League team. The same rock you carefully picked up even though it was coated with red. The same rock you ran holding for almost two miles before you threw it into the pond on the golf course.

You curl into a ball behind the shower curtain. What does she want? Is she even real? You convince yourself that she isn’t. This has to be some kind of trick your mind is playing on you. Some sort of buildup of guilt over the years. But what do you do about it?

Then you realize that, during all the time she’s looked through the glass at you, you’ve never made eye contact. That has to be it. You need to face her. You go downstairs to the living room. She’s in the cabinet. You stand in front of it and look straight at her eyes. She looks right, then left. Then her gaze meets yours. Her face is completely blank.

She pulls back her right arm. SLAM! The rock hits the glass. You fall backwards, gasping for breath. SLAM! This can’t be happening. You try to tell yourself you’re imagining the noise, but you hear it all around you. SLAM! The windows shake with every blow. You try babbling some sort of apology or excuse, but you can’t form the words. She pulls back her arm. Her eyes have a look you’ve never seen before. They’re entirely without anger or sadness or joy. They’re empty.

SLAM!

For an instant you see the windows shatter inward. All of them.

No.267106
>>267078
Dude, moar!

No.267188
>>267078
hey this is

good

not really capable of more feedback but i swear my judgement isnt all impaired right now

No.268267
File: 128266985347.jpg-(66.40KB, 396x594, Body Worlds cadaver.jpg)
268267
I know this isn't exactly creepypasta and there's already a dream thread but I just had one I thought would be more fitting here. Could make a good prompt, I guess.

I found myself in a sparsely furnished room with with just two metal beds. The other one was occupied with this hulking mass of muscle and sinew, like some sort of large and deformed person without skin. I wasn't afraid though because in that way you know things in dreams, this was my close friend or maybe even biological sibling and they would not hurt me. I was incredibly repulsed by being in the room, all covered and reeking of rust and rot, and made a move to leave. The thing looked at me balefully and warned me not to go wearily. I went anyway.

After walking some ways down the hall I came upon a guard. He asked me to stay. He couldn't force me because that would anger the thing just as much as my absence and when it was angry, it was vicious. It was then I realized thumping and screams and a loud primal cry from the room. The guard informs me that they keep people there as a damper, a bid for time if the thing ever went on a rampage. For now, it was relatively calm, as the mood of a naturally bloodthirsty creature goes, but the longer I was away the deeper it would spiral into madness.

Despairing, I went back to the room now half splashed in blood and gore with limbs and bits of people scattered on the floor like toys and looked at my friend looking utterly defeated and disgusted with himself. But there was nothing either of us could do.

And now I really wish Body Worlds were in Vancouver again cause that is the coolest exhibit.

No.269805
>>267078
This is quite good!



2 posts omitted. First 100 posts shown.
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