• Creepypasta
    53 replies, posted
Hey there FP! I read through ED's "Creepypasta" page and now I'm really in the mood for some scary stories/pictures/videos. [b]Do not post links to creepypasta.com OR the ED page[/b] Let's get the ball rolling. I haven't really got any yet, that's why I'd like some for my collection. Let's go!
Already a thread for it but here: [b]Miasma[/b] Compared to most other towns, the one I live in is pretty high above sea level, and my house just happens to sit on the highest hill there. From my bedroom window I can look out and see the entire town, along with the surrounding mountains. It’s a lovely sight. I don’t know about you, but I actually look forward to waking up in the morning, if only to look out my window and see those mountains. It’s especially pretty after a midnight drizzle, when the air is so thick with vapor that the mountains and buildings are completely covered by fog, with only their dark outlines penetrating the thick mist. On weekends I don’t have work, but I get up early anyway to watch the fog slowly fade away to reveal everything it hides. I watched the thick blanket of fog over the mountains slowly fade away last weekend, just as I had done every weekend before. But this time, the mountains faded away with the mist until both had vanished from sight. Yeah, that was kinda weird. The next morning, the blanket of fog covered the whole town. It vanished along with the fog, just as the mountains did. That was kinda weird, too. And now, just a couple ago, I opened the shades to see nothing but fog, completely surrounding my house. I don’t know if it’s the humidity or my lack of morning coffee, but I feel kinda weird… Not great but it's ok.
Better than nothing!
[img]http://i97.photobucket.com/albums/l234/ev_baw/40273_107634.jpg[/img] Gives me that creepy feeling that I'm being watched.
One time there was a girl. She died. Nobody cared until it got on Creepypasta. People shat bricks all over the world. The end :)
Hello. I can see that my grin confuses you. Well, let me tell you the story about why I’m so happy. My name’s Jack. . At least, I call myself Jack. I can’t remember what my parents named me. I grew up in some large, grimy city. As a child I lived with my parents in a squalid apartment full of mold and cockroaches. I spent most of my time outside in the alley playing with boxes and stray cats. I recall very little about where I lived except for the gap behind my bed - that’s where I hid when mommy and daddy were screaming and hitting each other. I don’t remember it as a pleasant life, but it was okay. . Then one day mommy walked into the kitchen and pulled out a shotgun, shooting daddy in the face. Then, staring at me, she put the barrel under her chin and pulled the trigger… I ran from the room with blood-stained clothes, fleeing out onto the dirty city streets and running until my legs collapsed beneath me. I crawled into a dark alley and curled up behind a dumpster. The next few days were very horrible; I sat in the box, slowly starving to death as thousands of beautiful people strolled by. It was very painful. . Finally, the colors began to blur and the pain started to fade as I slipped below the surface of a dark ocean, the light slowly fading into the greenish water. But before I disappeared into its soothing depths, someone grabbed me and pulled me back to the streets of the city. I saw a wrinkled old face, bright blue eyes, and my mind floated into oblivion… Madame Morkavi was her name. I think. She carried me gently back to her trailer and nursed life back into me. For ten years she fed me and taught me how to live on the streets; how to steal, how to pickpocket, how to intimidate, even how to kill. I became very good at it. She ran a fortune telling business during the daytime, and I would hide behind my bed as exotic strangers sat around a smoky table watching Morkavi point her wrinkled fingers at her wrinkled cards. But at night, she would come into my room and lure me out for a night of adventure in the city… I lived for the night. Holding a bag and a flashlight, I would sneak behind her as we broke into houses and buildings. We would creep back out with our sacks bulging with money and plunder. Sometimes the places we went made me very nervous, but Madame Morkavi told me we would never get caught; she said her gypsy magic opened doors and told her where people hid their valuables. . Once, she was wrong. One night, in a car garage, a very big man crept up behind us and grabbed Madame Morkavi and began punching her. I found a tire iron and bashed his head in until grey bits flew through the air. That was the first time I ever killed someone. Madame Morkavi said we’d been caught because the man was an evil Satanist who blocked her enchantments… Then, in the middle of winter, Madame Morkavi caught an illness and slowly faded from life. I was the only one by her bed when she died. With rattling breaths, she told me to come closer. In a whisper she told me to make a wish, to wish anything I wanted and that it would come true. I thought for a moment, and finally answered that I wished to have everything that I ever needed. She placed her hand on my forehead, and with her last breath mumbled a cryptic spell. Her eyes closed... Again I was homeless, wandering the streets. But this time, I knew how to survive. For ten more years I begged and stole to endure. Sometimes I killed. A strange force seemed to protect me; every time I was starving a truck carrying food would crash, every time I was freezing a building would burn, every time I was attacked my knife would find an artery. Madame Morkavi had truly blessed me with a gift. I was content in the knowledge that I would always survive. But not happy. Something still seemed missing, a hole in my heart that was full of sorrow… My epiphany occurred one summer evening as I was walking through an unexplored neighborhood. As I rounded the corner I saw a red house unlike all of the others. It wasn’t really the house itself that astonished me, but what was inside. Behind a large window, in the warm light of their living room, a handsome man and a gorgeous woman were laughing and kissing. They were so full of joy. The face of the woman brought back memories of my mother from a long time ago, when she used to smile and hold me. I suddenly realized what had been missing from my entire life. A family. I wanted a family. No, I NEEDED a family… Madame Morkavi’s dying words came back to me and with confidence I approached the door of the couple, deciding they would become my new parents. I knocked on the door then stood smiling, sure that they would open it with welcoming arms, ushering me into the lovely house as their son. But when the beautiful woman opened the door, she gasped and disappeared. The tall man came out of the house and began to yell at me. He drew a gun from his pocket and pointed it in my face. I ran away and they slammed the door behind me… I cried, confused and alone. Why had Morkavi’s charm failed? Why had I been refused the last thing I needed to be happy? I sobbed in a ditch as the sun disappeared behind the red house. . But as the moon rose behind me I remembered another night, long ago, when Madame Morkavi’s magic had before been rendered useless. They were devil worshippers! Yes! Yes, that explained why they had not hugged me, welcoming me into their house. Madame Markovi’s magic would never work on them. It was sad that the first people I had loved turned out to be evil, but I knew what I had to do… I crouched in the ditch watching the house until late into the night. I saw them walk up the stairs. The woman flossed her teeth in the bathroom. They kissed again. Then they went to the bedroom. From my hiding place, I saw the last light in the house blink off. I waited a few hours, and then crept forward in the night. I circled the house, rattling the doors and trying to lift the windows. I thought I was locked out, but in the shifting moonlight I saw a tiny basement window stuck open. Blessing Madame Morkavi, I crawled through the window into the dingy cellar. I made my way upstairs into the elegant house, stopping briefly in the kitchen. They had pictures hung along the hallway of the two of them together. I bitterly imagined how much happier they would be if I was in those pictures with them. But it was too late now… They were sleeping, wrapped together in the bed sheets, as I opened the door. I crept past the silver light that flowed through the window and spilled across their heads. The man began to stir. Quickly, I jumped on him and plunged a steak knife into his eye with such force I cleaved through his skull. The woman woke and let out a shrill scream. I grabbed a pillow and held it against her face as she struggled to escape. Finally, she relaxed. The Satanists were dead; Madame Morkavi’s spell was safe… I had fun that night. I wandered the house, watching the TV, eating out of the fridge, even cleaning the steak knife and putting it back in the kitchen like a normal person. Late into the night I put on their clothes and pretended I was a businessman, rushing through the house late for a meeting, or a housewife, busily tidying the tables and dusting the windows. Finally, I grew tired and walked back up to bed. Settling in between the bodies, I pulled the bloodied covers across my chest. Wrapping my arm around the woman, I drifted off to sleep. . The next morning I couldn’t stop smiling. Putting on my old clothes I regretfully left the house, walking - no skipping - back down the street. I had filled the void in my heart. I was happy. From then on I lived happily in the alleyways, marveling at the wonder of the sun and the earth, staring at the bright colors of the people who strode by my home. Except on the nights I get lonely… Then, I wander down a random neighborhood, sneaking up to windows and gazing at the people living inside. I move from house to house until I find a family I like. Straightening my shirt, I knock on the door, smiling. Most people slam the door in my face. In that case, I wait until they’re all asleep and I… . Well, you know what I do… So, if you ever hear a knock on your door late at night, you should answer it. I’m a really neat guy. I bet we could have some fun together. . Or maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of me in the darkness, staring at you through your window. Grinning. I promise I’ll wave hello. . Can you see me? . I can see you.
So ur with ur honey and yur making out wen the phone rigns. U anser it n the vioce is "wut r u doing wit my daughter?" U tell ur girl n she say "my dad is ded". THEN WHO WAS PHONE?
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhh WHO DA FUCK WUZ PHONE? /caps
Murrey put down the camera and wiped the snowflakes off of his binoculars, holding them up to his blue eyes. He spun the focus and tried to shield the lenses from the driving wind as he gazed out across the icy plains. He lost feeling in his hands after only a minute of searching. It was hopeless anyways; the driving snow obscured anything over a few hundred yards away. Sighing, he lowered the binoculars and put his gloves back on, turning to face me. “No way we can get back to the Jeep in this stuff,” he said, “the blizzard’s gonna be on top of us within an hour and we better have some shelter by then.” I struggled to hear him over the shrieking wind, “What? No. No, we have to get back; we’re supposed to be shooting the next segment in St. Petersburg on Wednesday. If we don’t start driving tonight, we’ll never get back on schedule.” “You’re worried about the filming schedule?” Murrey gave me stern look, “You’ve never been in a Siberian blizzard have you? If we get caught on those open plains when the storm hits, we’ll freeze to death in ten minutes! Fuck the schedule, I’m worried about making it through the night.” I knew Murrey well, he wasn’t the kind of guy who exaggerated. If he said we were in trouble, he truly meant that our lives were in danger. “Well, shit. Fuck the schedule then. What do we do now?” Even as I spoke I could feel the freezing wind gusting stronger, little jets of ice shooting through the seams in my parka and chilling me to the bone. Murrey had to yell to be heard over the gathering snowstorm, “Let’s head back to that forest we passed earlier. We can pile some branches and try to make a shelter before the worst of it reaches us.” “Alright Mur, you lead the way, I already feel half frozen.” Without further discussion we set off back across the snow laden fields; me struggling to follow Murrey as the driving gale buffeted me about, thick sheets of snow blocking out the golden evening sun and the dark shadow of my cameraman hurriedly trudging along before me. By the time we reached the first line of trees the sun had set and the storm had begun to attack us in earnest. As we marched deeper into the forest I began to appreciate the sense of fear that this storm had given Murrey. Never before in my life had I been so cold; although I was running as fast as I could over snow banks, burdened by thirty pounds of cold weather clothing, I had already lost all feeling in my feet. Just over the howling of the wind blowing through the trees I could hear him yelling back to me, “Deeper, deeper, we have to keep going, we have to go deeper into the forest!” And so I half-ran, half-stumbled behind him as the numbing cold slowly crept along my skin and the sky grew darker and the drifting snow fell thicker. 45 minutes later and I had lost all sense of reality; the white flurry blanketed all sounds, obscured my vision. The bitter wind clouded my brain and froze my muscles. I forgot why I was running, I forgot that I was running, I forgot who I was supposed to be following. All that existed was my thoughts and the swirling blackness. I could have run like this for hours or minutes and not known the difference, time had stopped; the cold froze my thoughts and stung my eyes, it even stopped my watch, delicate fingers of ice stretching over the hands and freezing them in place. I have no idea how long I ran within those dark woods until a sudden flash of thought stopped me in my tracks. Gasping for breath even as the frigid air seared my lungs, I realized that I had no idea where I was. Murrey had disappeared into the night. I stood there bewildered, a creeping sense of doom slowly crawling across my dulled mind. I had no idea where Murrey was. Hell, I had no idea where I was. What was I supposed to do now, trudge onwards and try to find him or attempt to make a shelter and survive the night by myself? It dawned on me that I had no idea how to make a shelter and without Murrey I would doubtlessly die, a rescue party eventually finding me frozen to a tree, half-buried in the glimmering snow, my black lips drawn open over a blue face. But a hopeless rush to find my partner would be just as deadly, in the night I could never hope to find him. Eventually I would just collapse under my numb feet, quickly dying where I had fallen. And then suddenly, unexpectedly, I beheld a wonderful sight; two glittering blue eyes swimming out of the darkness, a hand reaching down and pulling me to my feet. “Get up you idiot, you want to die?” Murrey brushed the snow off my back, “C’mon big time reporter, there’s something I want you to see.” He grabbed onto my shoulders and dragged me through the forest. As the cold swept in around me, I felt my eyelids falling, the last of my strength seeping from my tired body; but just as I fell asleep Murrey whacked me on the top of the head, “Wake the fuck up you lazy bastard, I found shelter. Check this place out.” I blinked and rose unsteadily to my feet. Before me was a clearing in the woods. A miniscule amount of moonlight filtered down through the swirling clouds and the dancing canopy to illuminate two large structures squatting in the grove. The first was an old cottage, its wooden siding close to rotting off, the walls slanted at an angle, the middle of the roof sunken down. It looked like only the heaps of snow piled against it kept it standing up. No light came from its cobwebbed windows. As for the other object, I had to shake my head and ask Murrey if it was real to convince myself it wasn’t a hallucination. Towering above the dingy house, a cross was planted near the front door. It was wooden, Catholic Eastern Orthodox style, but of a very basic design, rotting boards hastily nailed together and stuck upright into the ground. If it wasn’t for its massive height, the cross would have been completely unremarkable. Clearly, it was almost as old as the house. The main post was sagging over at a severe angle, as if the base of the cross had begun to rot away. But its size and its decay paled in comparison to the overall impression it seemed to give off, a strange vibe of foreboding. As I stared upwards at it I felt a shiver creep down my back that had nothing to do with the cold. This cross wasn’t an indication of salvation, it wasn’t a marker for sanctuary, this cross was a warning, a sentinel telling wanderers to run away, far away. As a wave of oppression swept out from the dark structures I felt a pat on the back. “Yeah I know what you’re thinking,” said Murrey in a quiet voice, “I don’t like this place either, but it’s the only way we’ll last the night. C’mon, there’s something I want to show you.” He led me up to the house, past the crooked cross as the storm blew in again with renewed fury, blotting out the moonlight and hiding the wooden sentinel from sight. We climbed up a broken set of steps and reached the front door. Murrey pulled out a flashlight, “I need you to take a look at this, your Russian is better than mine.” He illuminated the door. Nailed to it was a large wooden plaque covered in worn Russian writing. Just below that a rusted dagger was thrust deep into the wood, bifurcating a single word that had been gouged into the door itself. Murrey shined his light at me, “So, Jim, what’s it say?” I squinted at the decayed wood, “I’m not sure, it’s worn out pretty good.” Running my fingers along the writing I tried to feel the letters cut into the plaque, “These big ones on the top are easy, they basically say ‘Warning! Do not enter!’ I-I’m not completely sure what’s written right beneath that. I can’t read some of the words, and the rest doesn’t make that much sense…. I think it’s supposed to read, ‘The old woman still lives here. Stay away.’ But, uh, obviously no one’s lived here for dozens of years.” “What about the word in the door? The one with the knife stuck in it?” “The word is ‘Ved’ma’, but I have no idea what that means. As for the knife, it’s got a little cross carved into the handle. Looks pretty fancy. If it wasn’t all rusted up it might be worth something. I don’t know Mur, I’ve got no idea what this means. Does this make any sense to you?” Murrey gave me a strange look, I could see his blue eyes reflected in the flashlight, his eyebrows raised quizzically. “You know, it kind of does. But, first things first, let’s get inside before we freeze to death.” It took a couple of good hits, but together we were able to overcome the rusted hinges. A shower of splinters flew from the lock as we stumbled into the dark house. Without hesitation Murrey slammed the door shut behind us. Instantly, I felt warmer. It was freezing cold in the cottage, but at least there was no wind. With the feeble light from Murrey’s flashlight we retreated to a corner to check our condition. As I sat down I could feel the rotten floorboards sagging beneath me. Once it was apparent that neither of us was dying of hypothermia or suffering severe frostbite, Murrey began to shuffle around in his backpack for the camping light. As he set up the light he told me what he thought about the place, the cross, and the writing: “It all made sense when you said Ved’ma. I might not be able to read Russian as well as you can, Jim, but I know a lot more about Eastern European culture. ‘Ved’ma’ is a really archaic term meaning ‘the one who knows’. Basically it’s a derogative term for a hag that lives in the forest. Historically, any old hermit that decided to live out in the wilderness was labeled a wizard or a hag. Usually they were just people with bad mental disorders or just loners who preferred the wild life. Unfortunately Russian peasants were a pretty superstitious lot, so any misfortune visited upon a town, say a bad crop or a plague of disease, was blamed upon the local ‘hag’. It was pretty common for a gang of vigilantes wielding stereotypical pitchforks and torches to come after and kill these people. According to tradition you had to bury their body underneath a cross to prevent their spirit from coming back and haunting the forest.” Murrey lit the lamp and light flooded across the room. Travelling across the world I’ve stayed at some pretty damn creepy places, but this cottage took home the bronze, silver, and gold. Although the propane lamp sitting on the floor was usually so bright that one could read by it, here it barely illuminated a single room. The harsh white light spread outwards across what was once a living room, casting long shadows across broken and rotten furniture. As soon as the warm glow hit a wall it seemed to stop; I can’t really describe it better, it was almost as if the ancient wood was sucking in the light, leaving the two long hallways on the other end of the room pitch black. With every movement we cast up clouds of dust, every step caused a rain of mold to fall from the rafters above. Murrey cautiously walked across the creaking floor to peer into the two dark rooms. “One’s a bedroom,” he yelled back, “and one’s a kitchen. They both look pretty grody, I’m not sure if the floor could take our weight. We better sleep in this room for the night.” I nodded my agreement and we collapsed back into the corner with the lamp. Curling into a ball, I felt warmer than I had in hours. As I drifted off to sleep I saw Murrey turning off the lamp. It was the heat that woke me. When I had fallen asleep I was barely warm enough to feel all of my extremities; now I was so hot that I was literally drenched in sweat. As I stripped off my outer jacket I noticed that the room was lit by a flickering orange light. A roaring fire was blazing in the crumbled stone fireplace. Now, I trusted Murrey, after all he had saved my life, but it seemed like a stupid idea to light a fire in a house that was close to falling apart. I turned to face him and saw his blue eyes glowing from the dark corner of the room. “Hey man,” he asked me, “did you light that fire?” “No. Didn’t you?” “Wasn’t me. Don’t fuck around with me right now; did you light that fire?” “I swear it wasn’t me.” “Then who the fuck was it?” “I don-“ “What the FUCK is THAT?” I turned and stared off into the dancing shadows. In the narrow entryway a shadowy form stood hunched over. It rose about 4 feet off the ground and had the texture of mildewed rags, like a pile of laundry that had been left to decay for years. Was it swaying back and forth or was that just the firelight playing tricks? “What the fuck…” Murrey was slowly creeping towards the door. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the strange figure standing just barely in the living room. It was definitely moving. It was walking, hobbling, across the floor towards us. As it moved further into the room the firelight splashed across its face. Or at least the half of a face it had. Bent double underneath its tattered robes, the thing’s head emerged from the layers of rot at about chest height. Its skin was peeling off in patches, dripping from the scalp; it was bleached white except for patches stained a deep red. From the left side of the face a blank white eye peered at us from above torn blue lips. Worms burrowed around under the skin, bursting from holes and falling onto the decayed floorboards. The right side was completely missing, just shattered bones pieced together. Thin red nerves tangled with bits of dripping grey tissue hung from the empty eye socket. The Jaw was gone. A hole ran down the length of the neck, back into the folds of clothes that hung around the thing. I was frozen in spot as it slowly stumbled across the floor towards us. Lengths of intestine and organs spilled out from its robes, dragging along the rotten floorboards. As it neared us a hand green with rot emerged from beneath the folds of clothes. In its skeletal fingers it grasped the knife that had been stuck into the door. Gurgling and spouts of blood flowed from the hole in its punctured throat. Soon it was within arm’s length of me, spluttering, swaying, brandishing the rusted knife towards my face. The smell of something long dead, something buried for decades, filled my nostrils. Something grabbed my shoulder. It was Murrey. The spell was broken. As fear flooded through my veins I felt my body stumble to the door, open it, and run back into the dark forest. As we tore pass the cross I noticed that it was completely uprooted. A dark hole yawned up from where it once stood, piles of bones and rotten flesh spilling out onto the snow, staining it red. I ran for so long into that dark forest. I had no idea where I was going, but I knew that whatever terror I faced in the darkness was better than what stumbled towards me in that cabin. Tree branches lashed out at me like clawed hands, roots and bushes reached up and grabbed my ankles, pulling me to the ground. I lost track of Murrey. I ran for hours into oblivion. Each brief time I stopped I swear that I could hear that slow shuffling right behind me, and the smell of something long buried would cloud my brain. I passed out after running for hours on end. The next thing I remember was waking up in an intensive care unit in Moscow three weeks later, a doctor staring down at me. He told me that two hunters had found me stumbling through the woods in the early morning. I was completely out of my mind, screaming at them, trying to claw their faces off. I was lucky to be alive, he said, frostbite claimed part of my ear and three toes, but other than that I was expected to make a full recovery. A week later they found Murrey. A doctor came into my room to tell me that he was dead. He asked me if I wanted to hear the details. I said yes. Apparently the searchers had found his corpse leaning against a tree. He had died of cold before the storm lifted. By the time the rescuers had got to him his body had been picked apart by scavengers. Something, probably a pack of wolves, had eaten off part of his face and ripped into his abdominal cavity. That was it. That would have been closure, would have given me a little peace. But the last day I was in the hospital, the night before I left for the states, one more person came to see me. He nervously ran his fingers through his hair as he sat down. He said that he was the coroner who had led Murrey’s dissection. He said that some men from the government had threatened him, made him put down certain things on the official death report and leave out others. But before I left he wanted to reveal a few things to me personally: “Murrey did not die from cold. He was frozen, yes, but he was killed long before that. My prognosis is that he died from massive blood loss and shock from grievous bodily damage. Murdered, essentially. Someone pinned him down and cut into his chest. After he was incapacitated they carved off the right portion of his face with a very sharp knife. This was done with a high degree of skill and precision. I do not accuse you of anything, Mr. Young, nor do I want to hear about what really happened. I just wanted to tell you the truth.” He left. That night I had a dream of a man wearing gloves trying to suffocate me. Behind him a pile of filthy robes rocked back and forth; issuing from its folds a horrible laughter. Now I am back at my own house, but I do not feel safe. I keep glimpsing something creeping by the windows. I can’t go to work, I can barely muster the courage to venture out to feed myself. As I lie in my bed I hear a soft shuffling wandering through the room. Someone knocked on the door. When I opened it I found the rusted knife stuck into the wood, beneath it was gouged “Ved’ma”. The next time I heard a knock I looked out through the peephole; a glittering blue eye stared back at me. People look at me oddly. Sometimes they blink and their eyes will change, one blank white, one sapphire blue. The dreams continue. The man with gloves has come into view. He has Murrey’s face. As he strangles me to death I can see the hatred in his face. He repeats himself again and again, “Ved’ma Ved’ma Ved’ma.” until I die. In public I hear people whispering it behind my back. In hushed voices they point accusing fingers at me. “Ved’ma!” they whisper, with venom in their voice, “Ved’ma!” V I don’t answer the door ed anymore. I don’t ans ’ma wer the phone, though it rings constantly. The blinds are all drawn, the Ve windows bolted shut. The d’ whole house ma reeks of death and rot. The smell drifts down from the V attic, but I don’t dare find out ed’ma why. At night I dream of men in suits and crosses and rotting corpses. Sometimes I wake up with that damned knife in my hands, Ved’m dripping a blood. Something has taken over the living room. I have bolted the door shut, but still it speaks to me. Is it laughing or is it crying? How does it know my name? How Ve does it know the d’ name ma of my friends, my family? Why can’t I remember what it tells me to do? Why do I wander through my house, V gouging the same words again and E again into D the walls and the cabinets ‘MA and into my own skin? Vhy de ma the VEnser D’onw when I MA caV only to see thee hD’rrible thMA siVEng staring D’t mMA? VED’op what doMA iV Eant? D’M thAre is oVEy ouD’M and I mAst take it. Goodbye, tell everyoVED’MA VED’MA tD’MA housV in D’he foreDA VED’MA VED’MA
holy shit Sanjuaro that was the best Creepypasta read I've ever had
This is from memory so. Two wanderers were out in the Texan wood one night, looking for shelter to rest their weary heads. They encountered a small cabin that looked as if it had been deserted. They quickly ran through the door to escape the rain. They threw their sleeping bags on the floor and tried to sleep, but the rain was getting worse and worse. Suddenly, they heard a banging sound upstairs. They both sat up. They heard muffled sounds that sounded like...screaming? It couldn't have been screaming, could it? The were jolted at the sounds of feet and screaming upstairs. Their was no-one else in the house was there? No, it couldnt be, they checked. They heard wood against wood, like the sound of something being picked up. A baseball bat? They heard even louder screams and a sickineing crack. They saw a red puddle forming on the ceiling. They heard moaning and another crack. they puddle grew larger. They lightening flashed outside. They heard footsteps coming down the stairs. The lightning cracked again. This time, they saw something in the flash. What was it? Lightning again. This time they knew what they saw. A bloodied face. "HELP MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE" it shouted. Those two campers were never found again.
[QUOTE=Sanjuaro;17543179]Murrey put down the camera and wiped the snowflakes off of his binoculars, holding them up to his blue eyes. He spun the focus and tried to shield the lenses from the driving wind as he gazed out across the icy plains. He lost feeling in his hands after only a minute of searching. It was hopeless anyways; the driving snow obscured anything over a few hundred yards away. Sighing, he lowered the binoculars and put his gloves back on, turning to face me. “No way we can get back to the Jeep in this stuff,” he said, “the blizzard’s gonna be on top of us within an hour and we better have some shelter by then.” I struggled to hear him over the shrieking wind, “What? No. No, we have to get back; we’re supposed to be shooting the next segment in St. Petersburg on Wednesday. If we don’t start driving tonight, we’ll never get back on schedule.” “You’re worried about the filming schedule?” Murrey gave me stern look, “You’ve never been in a Siberian blizzard have you? If we get caught on those open plains when the storm hits, we’ll freeze to death in ten minutes! Fuck the schedule, I’m worried about making it through the night.” I knew Murrey well, he wasn’t the kind of guy who exaggerated. If he said we were in trouble, he truly meant that our lives were in danger. “Well, shit. Fuck the schedule then. What do we do now?” Even as I spoke I could feel the freezing wind gusting stronger, little jets of ice shooting through the seams in my parka and chilling me to the bone. Murrey had to yell to be heard over the gathering snowstorm, “Let’s head back to that forest we passed earlier. We can pile some branches and try to make a shelter before the worst of it reaches us.” “Alright Mur, you lead the way, I already feel half frozen.” Without further discussion we set off back across the snow laden fields; me struggling to follow Murrey as the driving gale buffeted me about, thick sheets of snow blocking out the golden evening sun and the dark shadow of my cameraman hurriedly trudging along before me. By the time we reached the first line of trees the sun had set and the storm had begun to attack us in earnest. As we marched deeper into the forest I began to appreciate the sense of fear that this storm had given Murrey. Never before in my life had I been so cold; although I was running as fast as I could over snow banks, burdened by thirty pounds of cold weather clothing, I had already lost all feeling in my feet. Just over the howling of the wind blowing through the trees I could hear him yelling back to me, “Deeper, deeper, we have to keep going, we have to go deeper into the forest!” And so I half-ran, half-stumbled behind him as the numbing cold slowly crept along my skin and the sky grew darker and the drifting snow fell thicker. 45 minutes later and I had lost all sense of reality; the white flurry blanketed all sounds, obscured my vision. The bitter wind clouded my brain and froze my muscles. I forgot why I was running, I forgot that I was running, I forgot who I was supposed to be following. All that existed was my thoughts and the swirling blackness. I could have run like this for hours or minutes and not known the difference, time had stopped; the cold froze my thoughts and stung my eyes, it even stopped my watch, delicate fingers of ice stretching over the hands and freezing them in place. I have no idea how long I ran within those dark woods until a sudden flash of thought stopped me in my tracks. Gasping for breath even as the frigid air seared my lungs, I realized that I had no idea where I was. Murrey had disappeared into the night. I stood there bewildered, a creeping sense of doom slowly crawling across my dulled mind. I had no idea where Murrey was. Hell, I had no idea where I was. What was I supposed to do now, trudge onwards and try to find him or attempt to make a shelter and survive the night by myself? It dawned on me that I had no idea how to make a shelter and without Murrey I would doubtlessly die, a rescue party eventually finding me frozen to a tree, half-buried in the glimmering snow, my black lips drawn open over a blue face. But a hopeless rush to find my partner would be just as deadly, in the night I could never hope to find him. Eventually I would just collapse under my numb feet, quickly dying where I had fallen. And then suddenly, unexpectedly, I beheld a wonderful sight; two glittering blue eyes swimming out of the darkness, a hand reaching down and pulling me to my feet. “Get up you idiot, you want to die?” Murrey brushed the snow off my back, “C’mon big time reporter, there’s something I want you to see.” He grabbed onto my shoulders and dragged me through the forest. As the cold swept in around me, I felt my eyelids falling, the last of my strength seeping from my tired body; but just as I fell asleep Murrey whacked me on the top of the head, “Wake the fuck up you lazy bastard, I found shelter. Check this place out.” I blinked and rose unsteadily to my feet. Before me was a clearing in the woods. A miniscule amount of moonlight filtered down through the swirling clouds and the dancing canopy to illuminate two large structures squatting in the grove. The first was an old cottage, its wooden siding close to rotting off, the walls slanted at an angle, the middle of the roof sunken down. It looked like only the heaps of snow piled against it kept it standing up. No light came from its cobwebbed windows. As for the other object, I had to shake my head and ask Murrey if it was real to convince myself it wasn’t a hallucination. Towering above the dingy house, a cross was planted near the front door. It was wooden, Catholic Eastern Orthodox style, but of a very basic design, rotting boards hastily nailed together and stuck upright into the ground. If it wasn’t for its massive height, the cross would have been completely unremarkable. Clearly, it was almost as old as the house. The main post was sagging over at a severe angle, as if the base of the cross had begun to rot away. But its size and its decay paled in comparison to the overall impression it seemed to give off, a strange vibe of foreboding. As I stared upwards at it I felt a shiver creep down my back that had nothing to do with the cold. This cross wasn’t an indication of salvation, it wasn’t a marker for sanctuary, this cross was a warning, a sentinel telling wanderers to run away, far away. As a wave of oppression swept out from the dark structures I felt a pat on the back. “Yeah I know what you’re thinking,” said Murrey in a quiet voice, “I don’t like this place either, but it’s the only way we’ll last the night. C’mon, there’s something I want to show you.” He led me up to the house, past the crooked cross as the storm blew in again with renewed fury, blotting out the moonlight and hiding the wooden sentinel from sight. We climbed up a broken set of steps and reached the front door. Murrey pulled out a flashlight, “I need you to take a look at this, your Russian is better than mine.” He illuminated the door. Nailed to it was a large wooden plaque covered in worn Russian writing. Just below that a rusted dagger was thrust deep into the wood, bifurcating a single word that had been gouged into the door itself. Murrey shined his light at me, “So, Jim, what’s it say?” I squinted at the decayed wood, “I’m not sure, it’s worn out pretty good.” Running my fingers along the writing I tried to feel the letters cut into the plaque, “These big ones on the top are easy, they basically say ‘Warning! Do not enter!’ I-I’m not completely sure what’s written right beneath that. I can’t read some of the words, and the rest doesn’t make that much sense…. I think it’s supposed to read, ‘The old woman still lives here. Stay away.’ But, uh, obviously no one’s lived here for dozens of years.” “What about the word in the door? The one with the knife stuck in it?” “The word is ‘Ved’ma’, but I have no idea what that means. As for the knife, it’s got a little cross carved into the handle. Looks pretty fancy. If it wasn’t all rusted up it might be worth something. I don’t know Mur, I’ve got no idea what this means. Does this make any sense to you?” Murrey gave me a strange look, I could see his blue eyes reflected in the flashlight, his eyebrows raised quizzically. “You know, it kind of does. But, first things first, let’s get inside before we freeze to death.” It took a couple of good hits, but together we were able to overcome the rusted hinges. A shower of splinters flew from the lock as we stumbled into the dark house. Without hesitation Murrey slammed the door shut behind us. Instantly, I felt warmer. It was freezing cold in the cottage, but at least there was no wind. With the feeble light from Murrey’s flashlight we retreated to a corner to check our condition. As I sat down I could feel the rotten floorboards sagging beneath me. Once it was apparent that neither of us was dying of hypothermia or suffering severe frostbite, Murrey began to shuffle around in his backpack for the camping light. As he set up the light he told me what he thought about the place, the cross, and the writing: “It all made sense when you said Ved’ma. I might not be able to read Russian as well as you can, Jim, but I know a lot more about Eastern European culture. ‘Ved’ma’ is a really archaic term meaning ‘the one who knows’. Basically it’s a derogative term for a hag that lives in the forest. Historically, any old hermit that decided to live out in the wilderness was labeled a wizard or a hag. Usually they were just people with bad mental disorders or just loners who preferred the wild life. Unfortunately Russian peasants were a pretty superstitious lot, so any misfortune visited upon a town, say a bad crop or a plague of disease, was blamed upon the local ‘hag’. It was pretty common for a gang of vigilantes wielding stereotypical pitchforks and torches to come after and kill these people. According to tradition you had to bury their body underneath a cross to prevent their spirit from coming back and haunting the forest.” Murrey lit the lamp and light flooded across the room. Travelling across the world I’ve stayed at some pretty damn creepy places, but this cottage took home the bronze, silver, and gold. Although the propane lamp sitting on the floor was usually so bright that one could read by it, here it barely illuminated a single room. The harsh white light spread outwards across what was once a living room, casting long shadows across broken and rotten furniture. As soon as the warm glow hit a wall it seemed to stop; I can’t really describe it better, it was almost as if the ancient wood was sucking in the light, leaving the two long hallways on the other end of the room pitch black. With every movement we cast up clouds of dust, every step caused a rain of mold to fall from the rafters above. Murrey cautiously walked across the creaking floor to peer into the two dark rooms. “One’s a bedroom,” he yelled back, “and one’s a kitchen. They both look pretty grody, I’m not sure if the floor could take our weight. We better sleep in this room for the night.” I nodded my agreement and we collapsed back into the corner with the lamp. Curling into a ball, I felt warmer than I had in hours. As I drifted off to sleep I saw Murrey turning off the lamp. It was the heat that woke me. When I had fallen asleep I was barely warm enough to feel all of my extremities; now I was so hot that I was literally drenched in sweat. As I stripped off my outer jacket I noticed that the room was lit by a flickering orange light. A roaring fire was blazing in the crumbled stone fireplace. Now, I trusted Murrey, after all he had saved my life, but it seemed like a stupid idea to light a fire in a house that was close to falling apart. I turned to face him and saw his blue eyes glowing from the dark corner of the room. “Hey man,” he asked me, “did you light that fire?” “No. Didn’t you?” “Wasn’t me. Don’t fuck around with me right now; did you light that fire?” “I swear it wasn’t me.” “Then who the fuck was it?” “I don-“ “What the FUCK is THAT?” I turned and stared off into the dancing shadows. In the narrow entryway a shadowy form stood hunched over. It rose about 4 feet off the ground and had the texture of mildewed rags, like a pile of laundry that had been left to decay for years. Was it swaying back and forth or was that just the firelight playing tricks? “What the fuck…” Murrey was slowly creeping towards the door. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the strange figure standing just barely in the living room. It was definitely moving. It was walking, hobbling, across the floor towards us. As it moved further into the room the firelight splashed across its face. Or at least the half of a face it had. Bent double underneath its tattered robes, the thing’s head emerged from the layers of rot at about chest height. Its skin was peeling off in patches, dripping from the scalp; it was bleached white except for patches stained a deep red. From the left side of the face a blank white eye peered at us from above torn blue lips. Worms burrowed around under the skin, bursting from holes and falling onto the decayed floorboards. The right side was completely missing, just shattered bones pieced together. Thin red nerves tangled with bits of dripping grey tissue hung from the empty eye socket. The Jaw was gone. A hole ran down the length of the neck, back into the folds of clothes that hung around the thing. I was frozen in spot as it slowly stumbled across the floor towards us. Lengths of intestine and organs spilled out from its robes, dragging along the rotten floorboards. As it neared us a hand green with rot emerged from beneath the folds of clothes. In its skeletal fingers it grasped the knife that had been stuck into the door. Gurgling and spouts of blood flowed from the hole in its punctured throat. Soon it was within arm’s length of me, spluttering, swaying, brandishing the rusted knife towards my face. The smell of something long dead, something buried for decades, filled my nostrils. Something grabbed my shoulder. It was Murrey. The spell was broken. As fear flooded through my veins I felt my body stumble to the door, open it, and run back into the dark forest. As we tore pass the cross I noticed that it was completely uprooted. A dark hole yawned up from where it once stood, piles of bones and rotten flesh spilling out onto the snow, staining it red. I ran for so long into that dark forest. I had no idea where I was going, but I knew that whatever terror I faced in the darkness was better than what stumbled towards me in that cabin. Tree branches lashed out at me like clawed hands, roots and bushes reached up and grabbed my ankles, pulling me to the ground. I lost track of Murrey. I ran for hours into oblivion. Each brief time I stopped I swear that I could hear that slow shuffling right behind me, and the smell of something long buried would cloud my brain. I passed out after running for hours on end. The next thing I remember was waking up in an intensive care unit in Moscow three weeks later, a doctor staring down at me. He told me that two hunters had found me stumbling through the woods in the early morning. I was completely out of my mind, screaming at them, trying to claw their faces off. I was lucky to be alive, he said, frostbite claimed part of my ear and three toes, but other than that I was expected to make a full recovery. A week later they found Murrey. A doctor came into my room to tell me that he was dead. He asked me if I wanted to hear the details. I said yes. Apparently the searchers had found his corpse leaning against a tree. He had died of cold before the storm lifted. By the time the rescuers had got to him his body had been picked apart by scavengers. Something, probably a pack of wolves, had eaten off part of his face and ripped into his abdominal cavity. That was it. That would have been closure, would have given me a little peace. But the last day I was in the hospital, the night before I left for the states, one more person came to see me. He nervously ran his fingers through his hair as he sat down. He said that he was the coroner who had led Murrey’s dissection. He said that some men from the government had threatened him, made him put down certain things on the official death report and leave out others. But before I left he wanted to reveal a few things to me personally: “Murrey did not die from cold. He was frozen, yes, but he was killed long before that. My prognosis is that he died from massive blood loss and shock from grievous bodily damage. Murdered, essentially. Someone pinned him down and cut into his chest. After he was incapacitated they carved off the right portion of his face with a very sharp knife. This was done with a high degree of skill and precision. I do not accuse you of anything, Mr. Young, nor do I want to hear about what really happened. I just wanted to tell you the truth.” He left. That night I had a dream of a man wearing gloves trying to suffocate me. Behind him a pile of filthy robes rocked back and forth; issuing from its folds a horrible laughter. Now I am back at my own house, but I do not feel safe. I keep glimpsing something creeping by the windows. I can’t go to work, I can barely muster the courage to venture out to feed myself. As I lie in my bed I hear a soft shuffling wandering through the room. Someone knocked on the door. When I opened it I found the rusted knife stuck into the wood, beneath it was gouged “Ved’ma”. The next time I heard a knock I looked out through the peephole; a glittering blue eye stared back at me. People look at me oddly. Sometimes they blink and their eyes will change, one blank white, one sapphire blue. The dreams continue. The man with gloves has come into view. He has Murrey’s face. As he strangles me to death I can see the hatred in his face. He repeats himself again and again, “Ved’ma Ved’ma Ved’ma.” until I die. In public I hear people whispering it behind my back. In hushed voices they point accusing fingers at me. “Ved’ma!” they whisper, with venom in their voice, “Ved’ma!” V I don’t answer the door ed anymore. I don’t ans ’ma wer the phone, though it rings constantly. The blinds are all drawn, the Ve windows bolted shut. The d’ whole house ma reeks of death and rot. The smell drifts down from the V attic, but I don’t dare find out ed’ma why. At night I dream of men in suits and crosses and rotting corpses. Sometimes I wake up with that damned knife in my hands, Ved’m dripping a blood. Something has taken over the living room. I have bolted the door shut, but still it speaks to me. Is it laughing or is it crying? How does it know my name? How Ve does it know the d’ name ma of my friends, my family? Why can’t I remember what it tells me to do? Why do I wander through my house, V gouging the same words again and E again into D the walls and the cabinets ‘MA and into my own skin? Vhy de ma the VEnser D’onw when I MA caV only to see thee hD’rrible thMA siVEng staring D’t mMA? VED’op what doMA iV Eant? D’M thAre is oVEy ouD’M and I mAst take it. Goodbye, tell everyoVED’MA VED’MA tD’MA housV in D’he foreDA VED’MA VED’MA[/QUOTE] Creepy as hell man FUCK my automatic air cleaner when off and scared the shit out of me.
You turn on the T.V. and the news shows some headline about a murderer that escaped from prison. You don't care and start to flip through the channels. You hear a loud sound and look out the sliding glass door off of the T.V. room. You see the murderer standing out in the snow. You immediately call the police and lock the glass door. While you're on the phone with the police, you notice he's a lot closer. You then drop the phone in shock. There are no footprints in the snow. It's his reflection.
Snip misread title for copy paste.
[QUOTE=FFStudios;17544617]You turn on the T.V. and the news shows some headline about a murderer that escaped from prison. You don't care and start to flip through the channels. You hear a loud sound and look out the sliding glass door off of the T.V. room. You see the murderer standing out in the snow. You immediately call the police and lock the glass door. While you're on the phone with the police, you notice he's a lot closer. You then drop the phone in shock. There are no footprints in the snow. It's his reflection.[/QUOTE] AND THEN A SKELETON POPPED OUT! eep
[QUOTE=kamikaze470;17544697][IMG]http://i264.photobucket.com/albums/ii169/Sarkji/whydoi.jpg[/IMG][/QUOTE] I believe you have the wrong thread. This is 555-7254 I think you're looking for 555-7524
the one that freaks me out is the guy who comes to the cabin with all the ugly portraits but then he wakes up and they were windows. obv. i dont tell it good but its probably the creepiest of pastas because it totally leaves you hanging rather than just saying "AND THEN HE DIED AND IT WAS SCARY."
One night, go outside for a little while. Just walk around, I suggest a walk around the block. You'll notice it's almost deathly quiet. No cars going by, just the sound of your own, hollow breathing. Imagine if this is what you did everyday, if everyday was dark and cloudy. If everyday was just you walking around with no aim. When you get to the afterlife, it won't be such a scenario anymore.
yours are terrible. ok this is THE WORST ONE. EVER. "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. Then the covers behind you begin to shift… LIKE HOLY FUCK.
Oh I misread the title, somehow, and thought this was Copy Paste, haha oh wow.
[QUOTE=InsaneInThe;17544818]yours are terrible. ok this is THE WORST ONE. EVER. "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. Then the covers behind you begin to shift… LIKE HOLY FUCK.[/QUOTE] Your's aren't creepypasta but COPYpasta Spedface
what do you mean. how is that not terrifying to you. i get chills every time i read it. yours are just like "there was a murderer and he murdered a guy." [editline]11:08PM[/editline] oh. so you mean that i didnt write them so therefore theyre not creepypasta? thats the origin of the term. the "pasta" means "pasted from somewhere else" dummy.
Guis, how wus mah stori
give me the link to the better thread.
[QUOTE=TinSoldier;17545054]Guis, how wus mah stori[/QUOTE] booooooooring
It has been reported that some victims of violence, during the act, would retreat into a fantasy world from which they could not WAKE UP. In this catatonic state, the victim lived in a world just like their normal one, except they weren't being raped. The only way that they realized they needed to WAKE UP was a note they found in their fantasy world. It would tell them about their condition, and tell them to WAKE UP. Even then, it would often take months until they were ready to discard their fantasy world and PLEASE WAKE UP. If you don't get it, read it again. You'll notice it eventually ;) [editline]02:56PM[/editline] Also, I don't know what to do anymore. I’m so scared and I can't trust anyone. I went camping about three weekends ago in the Huntsville national forest in Texas. Me and three friends that came home for the weekend, they are all in college and usually we all get together at least once a year, old friends from high school. For the camping trip we planned to go backpacking deep in the forest, live off of fish that we catch and animals that we can trap. We have been doing this for awhile in Texas and in numerous places, Arizona, Colorado (if anyone is familiar with the Spanish peaks there), New Mexico, so we‘re pretty much used to anything you‘d encounter out there. It was my turn to pick where we went camping, so I chose Huntsville (more accurately it’s Huntsville/New Waverly). So we drive up there park our car in a camping park spot and start walking off into the forest. We had some laughs along the way, everyone catching up with eachother's lives. We walked until it started to get dark and set up camp where we stopped. Everyone gathered wood to make a fire and we set our tent up. And we do what we always do: try and scare each other with weird stories. Around this time we started to smell something very faint. It was noticeable, but not overbearing. We couldn't put our finger on what it was, so we just carried on. Mike had to go piss and he walked off in the forest. A second later he come running back, piss all down his jeans like he’d missed really bad. Immediately we all crack up and throw some jokes at him. Then we noticed that he was white as snow and trying to catch his breath. He starts screaming for us to follow him, and runs off. We all get serious and go follow him, not knowing what the problem was. We start to hear a faint scream and crying in the distance, in the direction we were running. It was pitch black away from the camp and Mike had the only flash light (we left ours at the camp, he had his from his trip taking a piss), so at this stage we didn’t have much choice but to follow the light, which was frantically pointing here and there in front of him. The scream gets closer and Mike starts to slow down. We then notice a ratty old cabin that looked like it was abandoned, except for a faint light that we could see from one of the old mildew covered windows. The crying was intense: whoever it was couldn't breathe enough to let out a full yell. We all followed Mike up to the front door and we could all hear the crying from inside. As soon as he knocked on the door it stopped. We all waited and heard really heavy footsteps walking fast to the door. There was a giant slam against the door and the sound of a bolt unlocking. Then nothing. We waited for a bit, knocked a few more times, but still nothing happened. We walked around the house (there was no fucking way any of us were leaving each other’s side) and noticed a window, which was a good way up. Alex took a deep breath and said asked us to give him a boost so he could see inside. Me and Mike lifted him up to the window. We watched him brush away dirt and webs from the window and place his face close to the window to try and see something. There was a quick beat. Then suddenly he breathed in fast and let out a loud scream. Then he fell back from the window, screaming bloody murder the whole way. We all tried to calm him down but he was hysterical. We went to him but he started to shake, punch, kick, you name it, and then took off towards the camp. None of us wanted to be separated so we all ran close behind him. We caught up to him and grabbed him and set him down. The fire was dying out so I grabbed some nearby wood that we collected added it to the fire. My hands were shaking and I had to do something. I went back to Alex and we all tried to calm him down. He wouldn't he kept screaming and was breathing so hard that he eventually fainted. All of us are terrified now, and we all kept the fire high until sunrise. Periodically Alex kept waking up, screaming just like before. By sunrise he was up and looked catatonic, just mumbling to himself and whimpering. Me and Mike decide to go look at the cabin now it was daylight. We searched where we thought it was, except there was nothing there. Nothing at all. The indistinct smell from last night had now grown into a very strong smell of something dead, something stale. We headed back to the camping site. When we got there we found Alex had chewed into the sides of his face and swallowed so much blood that he was throwing up. John was at his back, and he looked like he was about to die from exhaustion. I guess we all looked that way, I just didn't notice until I saw his face. Alex said quietly that we need to leave. Now. We all started to pack up the tent. It started to rain really heavily (it was about noon) and the sky started to grow really dark. Alex started to go into a panic. He went and grabbed a big stick and yelled at us to leave it and leave, now, or he‘d knock us out and drag us out of there himself. Mike started to yell at him, and they started to fight. We broke it up and finished packing, and then started to make our way back. After a little while we arrived at a creek we had crossed the previous day, only it was flooded over, and the water was moving to fast for us to cross it. Alex started to scream again, yelling at Mike for taking his time packing up the tent when we could have gotten out of here. This went on for a while until we finally convinced Alex to calm down and tell us what happened. He said as soon as he put his face to the glass, a face on the other side did the same thing, and started to smile really big. It had dark eyes and a dark mouth which was much bigger then Alex's, as the smile got as large as it could. A giant shadow behind it swung something down and sliced it‘s face off. The face was stuck to the window, and he said it started to laugh quietly as it slid down. Mike, still pissed off (and though he wouldn‘t admit it, beginning to get freaked out), started to argue with him again. We eventually started to follow the creek for a way to cross. We then started to see toys floating in the creek. Really old toys, old Barbie dolls and baby dolls. This wasn't like any old trash floating in the creek, though… this was a lot of barbies, a lot of baby dolls. One washed towards the side and Mike picked it up. It had some kind of voice chip that was dying and started to say some gurgling words we couldn't understand, followed by it’s sad excuse for laughter. Then it sounded like it was whispering. We thought the batteries must be dying, he threw it down. We kept going, and the sun was starting to set. Alex was freaking out more now, and was whimpering and breathing heavily. We all started to see shadows move behind trees, something we all called BS on until we all were seeing it. It was barely light out and we stop as we see the cabin right in front of us. None of us knows what to think. Mike says “This is bull, I’m going in there.” Alex tries to stop him. We all do, all of us just wanted to go home. Mike says to all of us to fuck off, do our own thing, he doesn't care anymore, this is all bull. We start to hear hundreds of the same sort baby doll as before, laughing, whispering and trying to sing. We start to move forward past the cabin, all of us, and kept pushing forward. We smelled something dead in the air, something stale. The same something as before. We started to hear something crying, and something screaming. We kept on going. We eventually crossed the creek and left the woods. We get back to our vehicle and got in. Its pitch black, and we drive. We are about to get on the 45 to Houston but the road is under construction and can't be accessed. It points to a detour. As we head towards the detour it seems to be small, bumpy dirt road going into the woods. We then see a young girl come up to us. She looks like she was in trouble, young and pretty. She approaches the passenger side door and she looks like she‘s really drugged up, or beaten up. Alex doesn't roll down the windows, nor does he open the door. She reaches for the handle and he immediately locks it. She puts her face on the window and starts to smile really big. We floor it, Alex starts to cry and scream and we are all breathing heavy. We finally cut on a street that takes us to the 45 and we take it the whole way. When we get back to my apartment everyone doesn't know what to say and we all break apart and go our separate ways. Mike messages me later and says he is going to go back. I try to convince him not to and all he does is say it was our own minds that were screwing with us. I think he just went to prove to himself he wasn’t scared. I can smell that stench everywhere now. I don't go out anymore, I just stay in and don't answer the door. Last week everyone I met was acting really strange, people that I knew for a long time and total strangers. My own dad, when I went to his place to eat supper with him he just watched me, strangely, when I was sitting down. He didn't say a word the whole time. I kept asking him “What’s wrong?” He just slowly shook his head. When I was leaving to go home I turned to wave. He had black eyes and an open mouth like he was in pain. When I started to walk back he shut the door and bolted it. I stayed there knocking and knocking. Nothing. I called him, his phone was disconnected. I even called the police. Halfway through the questions they were asking me the connection started to fade into static. I could hear a faint mumbling, singing and laughing. Mike has completely vanished. There is not even a record of him being alive. When I call Alex’s house they talk to me like I’m some salesman. They say they don't know any Alex and to please stop calling. The person who tells me that is Alex‘s mother. I can’t get ahold of John. Someone knocked on my door and when I went to look I saw a face completely covering the peephole and a giant smile started to form. I called the cops again and instead of it turning into static they got really strange. “Sir, are you affected by any drugs at the moment?” “No.” “Are you coming home anytime soon?” “Excuse me?” “Come home.” and the phone call ended. My mail slot swings every now and then. Someone is sliding pieces of baby dolls through it. I try to call people now and all I can hear is static and bad baby doll noises and this crying and screaming. My TV is busted but when I go to piss I can hear it on. I might be going insane. Whoever lives above me started to scream in pain and crying deeply recently. I hear giant footsteps from their apartment, I hear bangs and something falling to the ground. From the neighbors to the right of my apartment I hear what sounds like a baby that never gets tended too and then it sounds like a baby doll whose batteries are dying. My phone has been ringing now and it’s Alex telling me things in a language that I have never heard before, nor could even manage to repeat. I kept getting emails of pictures of black and small colorations, now I can't even access my email. Someone knocks on the door, then they slam against it. I hear the bolts unlocking one by one and I run to make sure to lock all of them back and sit down crying. What do I do? My electricity keeps dimming. My water, sinks, bath, shower, all smell like something dead. I keep seeing a shadow of someone behind me raising something up in the air, and I just take off to the other side of the apartment with my head against the wall. I have boarded my windows shut, someone was throwing rocks through them. I never could see who. I have boarded my bedroom in, I hear crying and screaming in there now. And right now while I’m typing this I can see the reflection off the computer screen of some shadow behind me.
ho-ly shit
...and then there were tits.
Joe, Buddy, and Virgil were some of the best of friends. They did everything together, and always would plan a roadtrip activity every year. This year, they decided to go camping in the wilderness of Colorado. They were never seen again.
[QUOTE=Robman8908;17548496]Joe, Buddy, and Virgil were some of the best of friends. They did everything together, and always would plan a roadtrip activity every year. This year, they decided to go camping in the wilderness of Colorado. They were never seen again.[/QUOTE] I just pooped my pants
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