J'aurais souhaité que cette bande ait survécu assez longtemps pour que j'en puisse obtenir quelques captures d'écran, mais hélas, le film s'est gravement déchiré et lors des réparations, j'ai perdu tout l'épisode sauf 5 minutes .

La cassette a été achetée usagée il y a environ un mois, dans mon magasin de médias usagés habituel, le magasin du coin. Pour ceux qui n’habitent pas le centre du Québec, c’est un ancien magasin de musique devenu il y a quelque temps un magasin de livres/films d’occasion. Je lui ai acheté environ 100 cassettes VHS, qui ont toutes bien marché, sauf celle-ci. J'ai acheté la cassette parce que j'essaie de retrouver les anciens épisodes d'Arthur, pour me rappeler de bons souvenirs de mon enfance. J'ai vraiment aimé ce programme et je le regarde encore aujourd'hui.

Comme tout le monde devrait le savoir, ils ont toujours du succès, mais les nouvelles saisons n'ont pas de quoi se vanter. L'animation semble cheap et plutôt précipitée. De plus, les histoires sont souvent ennuyantes et l'accent mis sur la maladie mentale chez les enfants (comme celle sur l'enfant Asperger) semble déplacé.

Le programme était ruiné.

Pour échapper à ce fouillis, j'ai acheté de vieux épisodes sur cassette. Les enregistrements à la maison étaient particulièrement intéressants, car je pouvais voir certaines des vieilles publicités diffusées à l'époque. J'ai acheté de vieilles cassettes pour environ 5,00 $, chacune à 50 cents. Ils semblaient tous bien. Chaque épisode a été correctement étiqueté avec l'heure des épisodes, les dates d'enregistrement et l'horodatage.

Celui qui a attiré mon attention est le titre « La mort de grand-mère Laurin », enregistré le 18 juin 1998 avec un seul horodatage : « 15 minutes, 24 secondes : canal perdu ».

C'était un épisode que j'ignorais depuis une date de diffusion qui semblait presque trop vieille pour être digne de confiance. J'ai remarqué que le titre a été écrit sur une tache blanche. J'ai décidé de pas le gratter. Peut-être que c'était un enregistrement de quelque chose dans la vie des gens ? J'ai décidé de le regarder en premier.

Le début était le générique d'Arthur, le générique sonnant un peu grêle, probablement à cause d'un mauvais équipement d'enregistrement. La gang avait des problèmes qui me dérangeaient, surtout le suivi. J'étais tout simplement incapable d'arrêter d'être statique et difficile à regarder. J'ai finalement abandonné, le laissant là où il y avait une ligne de duvet sur le dessus et je me suis assis.

L'épisode a débuté à la prison de la ville d'Elwood. L'écran montre Arthur en prison. Il soupira.

« Salut, je suis sûr que tu te demandes comment je suis arrivé ici. Ben, c'est une histoire assez longue, j'ai pas vraiment envie d'en parler. Mais tout a commencé à l’hôpital.

L'écran est devenu noir. Le titre était Arthur dans la pluie. Mais quand le tonnerre a frappé, il a poussé un cri et s'est transformé en cendres.

Il montrait l'hôpital d'Elwood City, quelque chose que je ne connaissais pas très bien. Une musique triste jouait. La seule voiture dans le stationnement était celle des Read. On voit Arthur et Diminou dans la salle d'attente. Arthur lisait un livre à vous faire peur, tandis que Diminou le harcelait à propos de l'histoire. Le volume était mauvais, ce qui rendait l'écoute difficile. Je vais faire de mon mieux pour recréer ce qu'ils disaient, même si c'est difficile de s'en souvenir.

« Pourquoi tu veux pas jouer avec moi, Arthur ? Je m'ennuie! Pourquoi sommes-nous ici ?

« Ferme-la, Diminou! J'essaie de lire !

Les parents sont arrivés dans le corridor, la mère pleurait et le père avait l'air choqué. Diminou a couru vers eux, demandant pourquoi Arthur l'ignorait. Le père lui a dit de s'asseoir.

« Maintenant, les enfants, j'ai peur qu'on ne reverra plus grand-maman Laurin. Elle est… partie vers un meilleur endroit… »

Il a fondu en larmes. Comme toujours, le doublage était plutôt bon. Arthur laissa tomber son livre sous le choc, il haleta et regarda fixement. La musique dramatique habituelle a été jouée. Ils étaient assis là, immobiles, la bande ondulait de parasites, tandis que les pleurs des parents tournaient en boucle. Ça leur a coupé la parole à la maison. La mère parlait au téléphone des funérailles de la grand-mère. Elle avait l'air triste, mais en tant que maman, elle agissait de manière professionnelle.

« Oui, ses funérailles auront lieu à 15 heures précises. »

Diminou regardait la télé, mais c'était un écran statique. Bébé Cathy était simplement assise là, immobile, avec Diminou, en train de regarder les parasites de la télévision. Le père faisait un gâteau de mariage, le visage sombre. La sonnette a sonné et Arthur a ouvert la porte. C'était Buster.

« Hé Arthur, j'ai entendu ce qui s'est passé. Tu veux aller au Sugar Bowl et jaser ? »

"Bien sûr."

Un plan du Sugar Bowl est apparu, mais il n'y avait pas de musique, seulement du vent qui soufflait. J'ai remarqué que c'était l'automne dans l'épisode alors que des feuilles mortes jonchaient le sol. Arthur et Buster étaient assis là, sans parler, sans bouger. Ça m'a rappelé les images fixes qui apparaissaient parfois dans la vieille bande dessinée TMNT. Buster parlait, mais sa bouche ne bougeait pas du tout avec les mots.

« On devrait faire quelque chose d'amusant pour se remonter le moral. »

I was never big on dating apps, but loneliness can make you do things you wouldn't normally do. After another night of eating dinner alone, I downloaded one of those trending dating apps. It felt stupid at first—swiping left, swiping right, judging people based on a handful of pictures and a few words. But after a while, it became mechanical, almost hypnotic.

Then I matched with Claire.

She had only one picture—a black-and-white shot of her smiling, long dark hair falling over one shoulder, deep green eyes staring directly into the camera. Her bio was short: "Looking for something real." Something about her expression drew me in. It wasn’t the forced, filtered perfection of most profiles. She looked… real.

We started chatting right away. She asked me deep, personal questions almost immediately. What scares you the most? What's your worst memory? Do you believe in fate? I answered, drawn in by how engaged she seemed.

I asked her the same, but she avoided answering, always shifting the conversation back to me. I should have thought it was strange, but I didn't. I was too flattered by the attention.

After a few days, she asked me to meet in person.

"I’d love to see you," she wrote. "Meet me at 8 p.m. at The Lantern Café."

I hesitated. I’d never heard of it before. When I searched, I found almost nothing—just an old listing with no recent reviews. The address put it on the outskirts of town, in a part I didn’t go to often. But against my better judgment, I agreed.

That night, I drove out to the café. The area was mostly deserted—just a few scattered streetlights flickering weakly. The Lantern Café was a small, run-down place with a dimly lit neon sign that barely buzzed to life.

When I got to the door, my stomach twisted.

The sign read CLOSED, but the lights inside were still on.

I tried the handle, and to my surprise, the door swung open with a soft creak.

Inside, the place was dead silent. No barista, no customers. Just the hum of the old ceiling fan and the faint smell of stale coffee and dust.

Then I saw her.

She was sitting alone at a corner table, completely still.

Claire looked exactly like her picture—same long dark hair, same green eyes. But something was… off. Her posture was too rigid, her expression vacant. It was as if she wasn’t looking at me, but through me.

"Claire?" I asked, my voice unsteady.

She smiled, but something about it wasn’t right. It was too slow, like she was mimicking an expression rather than making one.

"I was waiting for you," she said.

I hesitated, my fingers tightening around my phone. Something about this felt wrong, like a dream that was about to turn into a nightmare.

I glanced down and pulled up the dating app. I wanted to check our messages, to ground myself. Maybe I was just being paranoid.

But her profile was gone.

No match. No messages. No trace that she had ever existed.

A cold shiver ran down my spine.

"You won’t find me," Claire said softly.

I looked up, my throat dry. "Why not?"

Her smile widened—too wide. "Because I don’t exist."

The room suddenly felt smaller, like the walls were closing in. My heartbeat pounded in my ears.

I took a step back. "This… this is a joke, right?"

She tilted her head, and for the first time, her eyes truly met mine. "You swiped right on something you shouldn’t have."

The café lights flickered. The door behind me slammed shut on its own.

I turned to run, but the moment my hand touched the door handle, everything went black.

I woke up in my apartment.

I had no memory of getting home. My phone was lying on my chest, the screen dark. My head throbbed.

The first thing I did was open the dating app.

Claire’s profile wasn’t just gone—our entire conversation had vanished. It was as if she had never existed.

I checked my texts, my call history—nothing. But then, I noticed something.

There was a new picture saved in my gallery.

A black-and-white photo.

Of me.

Sitting alone in the empty café.

Staring at the camera.

Smiling.

I had this horrible dream and basically I see a world where all of the adults are gone, and there is only infant babies and kids up to 2 years old. At first there was a moment of silence until all of the infant babies started crying around the world. The kids up to 2 year olds are completely confused and they start to cry. They are calling out for their parents but all of the adults have vanished and it's just infant babies and kids up to 2 year olds. It's a loud noise and it's nerve wrecking to hear it and then I wake up.

Then I go to Carl's house and I am helping him stay calm when he is being mauled to death. As Carl is being mauled by a bunch of hyenas he is struggling to stay calm. I shout out to Carl that he needs to stay calm and as the hyenas are ripping him apart, he is screaming and shouting. I kept telling him to stay calm but he was screaming in pain. Carl couldn't stay calm and he died. I was devastated that Carl couldn't stay calm while being mauled by hyenas.

After a silent mourning I walked out of there. I had to walk out of Carl's house because my heart was beating fast. The reason why my heart was beating fast was because I have double amount of blood in my body, and not enough oxygen. How my blood in my body increased was because I allowed myself to be bitten by the crunken creatures. When the crunken creatures bite you and drink your blood, it doesn't decrease blood but increases it bit there will be some health set backs when blood amount increases in body. I have to go to oxygen therapy I step into a machine and I am blasted with loads of oxygen. I allow the crunken creatures to drink from my blood, as you experience the best high.

Then I go to sleep and I go back to that dream again and all of the infant babies are crying non stop. The children up to 2 years have been fighting amongst each other and some have broken their bones. Some have accidentally fell off bridges and cliffs. It's a hard thing to witness because it's natural instinct to wanting to look after them. The infant babies are crying so loud and there is nothing anyone can do.

Then I wake up and I go to yoels house and I try to help him to stay calm. As yeol is being mauled by a lion I shout out to yoel to remain calm. He was screaming and shouting and then he remained calm, while being torn apart by a lion. He just remained calm and then he got up and I hugged him, and the ritual allowed it for him to absorb all of excess blood in my system. The crunken creatures now will drink from him and not me.

I am terrified of sleeping as I will go back to that dream where all of the adults have vanished, and its just infant babies and kids up to 2 years old.

Basically, a Suicidemouse.avi retelling made by me and taking inspiration of the original story. Chernabog's Hell will be the final chapter of the Suicide Mouse re-take trilogy made by me and I think you guys will like it!

Here's the trailer:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OHcq9U-XWLQ

An original creepypasta in the style of an internet mystery - I hope this fits here! https://youtu.be/AuMmQich3Ag

I used to love Pixar’s Cars. It was one of those childhood movies I’d watch on repeat, fascinated by the bright colors, quirky characters, and heartwarming story. But last week, I found something that changed the way I see it forever.

It started when I was browsing an old thrift store. In a dusty bargain bin full of DVDs, I spotted a copy of Cars. The case looked normal at first—Lightning McQueen speeding across the cover—but there was something off. The colors were slightly faded, and in the corner, there was a small, circular sticker with “Unreleased Cut” written in smudged black marker.

Curious, I bought it for a dollar and took it home.

When I popped the disc into my player, the Pixar logo played as usual, but the lamp—Luxo Jr.—didn't bounce. It just stood there, its light flickering. After a few seconds, it slowly turned toward the screen, and the scene cut to black. No music. No fanfare.

Then, the movie started.

At first, it seemed identical to the original—Radiator Springs, Lightning McQueen, all the usual scenes. But something felt… wrong. The colors were muted, the animation was slightly choppier, and there was no background music. The characters’ eyes weren’t as expressive as I remembered. They just stared.

I ignored it and kept watching. But then, things got disturbing.

In the scene where McQueen first meets Mater, there was no playful banter. Mater didn’t crack jokes or smile—he just sat there, unmoving. His eyes twitched slightly, and his tow cable dragged along the ground, making a horrible metallic scraping sound.

When McQueen asked where everyone was, Mater's response was delayed. "Ain't… nobody left," he finally muttered, voice distorted like an old, broken radio.

The movie kept going, but the town was abandoned. The neon lights of Radiator Springs flickered erratically, some broken entirely. The windows of Flo’s V8 Café were shattered, and the streets were cracked. Lightning drove around, calling for someone—anyone—but the only response was distant, garbled static.

Then, the screams started.

They were faint at first—almost whispers in the wind—but they grew louder as McQueen drove deeper into town. They didn’t sound like the usual character voices. They were raw. Human. Agonized.

McQueen stopped outside Doc Hudson’s garage. The door creaked open, and inside, the walls were covered in rust—dark, dripping, pulsating rust, like something alive. And in the middle of the room was Doc himself—or what was left of him. His paint was stripped, his frame corroded, his eyes sunken into dark, hollow voids.

"You shouldn't… be here," his voice wheezed, layered with something unnatural.

McQueen screamed and reversed out of the garage, but as he did, the other residents of Radiator Springs emerged—if you could call them that. Their bodies were rusted husks, wheels fused to the pavement. Their mouths opened, but no words came—only that same static-filled screech.

Lightning tried to flee, speeding down the highway, but the road stretched endlessly. The town was looping, repeating itself. The neon lights of the closed businesses flickered violently, spelling out something different now: YOU CAN’T LEAVE.

The screen began to distort—static tearing through the film reel like an old VHS tape. Lightning’s screams mixed with the horrifying screeches of the rusted husks. The last thing I saw before the screen cut to black was Lightning’s face—his bright red paint peeling away, exposing a skeletal, rusted frame underneath. His eyes rolled back, leaving nothing but hollow sockets.

The movie stopped.

The disc ejected itself.

I sat there, frozen. I wanted to believe it was some kind of elaborate prank, but when I looked down at the disc, the words “Unreleased Cut” had vanished. In their place, scratched deep into the plastic, were three words: RUST & ROT.

I threw the DVD away that night. But sometimes, when I leave my TV on at night, I swear I hear static… and the distant, metallic scrape of a tow cable dragging along the ground.

I don’t know if it was just me but I fully remember back in like 2015 that the thing about slender man was that you can’t look at him or your face goes blank and you die from suffocation. Does anyone remember that or was it just a thing where I was from? Everywhere I look I can’t find evidence of this being a thing.

I found the listing online. Cheap rent, fully furnished, and close to work. It almost seemed too good to be true. The landlord, Mr. Thompson, was an older man who barely looked at me as I signed the lease. “It’s a quiet place,” he said. “Not many tenants. You’ll like it.”

I moved in on a Friday. The apartment was small but cozy—two bedrooms, a tiny kitchen, and a living room with an outdated TV. By Saturday morning, I’d already met her.

Her name was Emily. She was sitting on the couch when I woke up, sipping coffee and flipping through a magazine. “Morning,” she said, smiling. “You must be the new tenant.”

She seemed nice. Friendly, but not overbearing. We talked a little, nothing too personal. She told me she’d been living there a while and that the landlord rarely checked in. We fell into an easy routine—coffee in the mornings, TV in the evenings. It felt like I had lucked out with a great roommate.

Until I mentioned her to the landlord.

It was a week later. He had stopped by to drop off some paperwork and asked if everything was alright. I casually brought her up, saying how nice it was to have a good roommate.

He frowned. “You’re the only one on the lease.”

I let out a small laugh. “Yeah, but Emily’s been here for a while, right?”

His face didn’t change. “No one’s lived there for months.”

A cold, creeping feeling spread through my chest. “That’s not possible. I talk to her every day.”

He gave me a strange look. “Are you sure?”

I almost asked him to come inside, to see for himself. But when I turned toward the apartment, the blinds were shut. The living room light was off. I suddenly felt foolish.

“Never mind,” I muttered. “I must’ve misunderstood.”

He nodded slowly, then left. I locked the door behind him and turned to the couch.

Emily wasn’t there. But her coffee cup was. Half-full, steam still rising.

I spent the rest of the afternoon convincing myself that I wasn’t crazy. There had to be an explanation. Maybe she wasn’t on the lease but still lived here. Maybe she was a former tenant who never really left. Or maybe Mr. Thompson was just forgetful.

That night, I sat on the couch, waiting for her to come back. The apartment was silent, the air thick with something I couldn’t quite name. I checked my phone, scrolling mindlessly, trying to distract myself.

Then, the bathroom door creaked open.

I jumped. Emily stepped out, rubbing her hands on a towel. “You okay?” she asked.

I hesitated. “Where were you earlier?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

I swallowed hard. “When the landlord came by. You weren’t here.”

She tilted her head. “I was in my room.”

Her room. The second bedroom. I had never gone in there. Something about it felt… off. Like it wasn’t really meant to be mine.

“Look,” she said, sitting next to me. “I know this place is a little weird. But you’ll get used to it.”

“Used to what?”

She smiled, but there was something hollow about it. “Sharing.”

A shiver ran down my spine. I tried to shake it off, but when I glanced down at the coffee table, her cup was gone.

I never saw her move it.

I couldn’t sleep. I lay awake, staring at my ceiling, listening. The apartment was too quiet, like it was holding its breath.

Then, a soft knock.

I sat up, heart pounding. It came from the second bedroom.

I wasn’t going to answer it. But my feet moved before I could stop them. I crossed the hall and pressed my ear to the door.

Silence.

I knocked once. “Emily?”

Nothing.

I turned the knob. The door swung open.

The room was empty.

No bed. No furniture. Just a bare mattress on the floor, covered in dust. The air was thick, stale, like no one had stepped inside for years.

I backed away slowly, but as I did, I caught something in the corner of my eye.

A coffee cup. Sitting in the middle of the floor.

Emily’s coffee cup.

Then, the door slammed shut.

And behind me, someone whispered my name.

I spun around so fast I nearly tripped over my own feet. My back hit the door as I pressed myself against it, heart hammering against my ribs.

The room was empty.

But I wasn’t alone.

I could feel it—something just beyond my line of sight. The air was thick, heavy with a presence I couldn’t explain. My breathing came fast and shallow as I reached for the doorknob behind me. My fingers fumbled, slipping against the cold metal.

Then, the whisper came again. Right next to my ear.

“Why did you open the door?”

I shoved my way out of the room, slamming the door behind me. My hands trembled as I locked it, as if that could somehow keep whatever was inside from getting out.

I stumbled back into the living room, gasping for air. My gaze landed on the couch, on the spot where Emily always sat. It was empty now, but the impression of her body was still there, like someone had been sitting only moments ago.

I turned on every light in the apartment.

Then, I did the one thing I had been avoiding since the landlord’s visit. I grabbed my phone and started searching.

There wasn’t much. The apartment complex wasn’t exactly famous, just an old building that had been through several owners. But then I found it—an old newspaper article from over a decade ago.

A woman had died here.

Her name was Emily.

I stared at the screen, my stomach twisting into knots. The article was brief, just a small blurb in the crime section. "Emily Graves, 26, was found dead in her apartment after neighbors reported a foul odor. Authorities ruled it a tragic accident, though details remain unclear."

I shut my phone off. My whole body was shaking.

I wasn’t crazy. Emily was real. But she wasn’t alive.

I needed to leave. Now.

I grabbed my keys and bolted for the front door. My hands fumbled with the lock, my pulse pounding in my ears. But just as I twisted the knob—

The TV turned on.

Static filled the apartment, hissing and crackling. The screen flickered, shadows dancing across the walls.

And there, in the reflection of the darkened screen—

Emily.

She stood behind me, her head tilted, her eyes dark and hollow.

“Why are you leaving?” she whispered.

My scream caught in my throat.

The lights flickered. The air grew thick and cold.

Then, the TV shut off.

And she was gone.

Discover the eerie events that haunted the Amityville house in the 1970s. Were they supernatural or just a figment of imagination?

https://www.tiktok.com/@grafts80/video/7466465553511615790?is_from_webapp=1&sender_device=pc&web_id=7455094870979036703

I’ve sat staring at this blank page for hours, wondering what to say and how to say it. My dad was the writer, not me. At least he wanted to be. Life got in the way of that. Me and my little brother Sam came along. He put all that on hold for us, didn’t even talk about it most days. Just another dream dashed due to circumstance.

He died last month. I don’t know if it made it better or worse that we all knew it was coming. Even still, it didn’t hit me for a long time that he was really gone. It only hit when I had to go through his things. Those little things that sat in the same spot for my whole life, now taken away to be repurposed. In their place, just a little shape cut out from the dust - waiting to be filled in. There was no money, no inheritance, and few noteworthy possessions. Unsurprising, as we never had much to begin with. All that’s really left of him is in our memories. That, and this book.

I found it amongst his things, a big stack of papers. A whole completed novella, but never published. I knew he wrote about what happened, but I never knew he finished it, and I never saw a page of what he wrote.

Much of what happened back in the winter of 2015 was lost on me. I knew lots of pieces, but they never fit together, and dad wouldn’t talk about them. I knew about the basement – I saw it. I knew about the voices – I heard them. I remember being afraid. I remember The Sharp Man. I remember when Sam disappeared. But how it ended? That I never knew.

After 10 years your brain tries to coat those memories with rationales. I did my best. I almost convinced myself it was all explainable. Then this stack of papers got in my hands.

It was a while before I sat down and read it. I couldn’t bear a snapshot into a life that didn’t exist anymore. But given everything that happened, I knew I had to. For my answers and, more importantly, for his memory.

That’s also why I’m sharing this with you now. I don’t want what happened to be forgotten, like so much else has.

CHAPTER 1: The Basement

I’ve lived in this house for 17 years more or less. Steph and I moved in while she was pregnant with our daughter Madison, and five years ago we added Sammy to the mix. Steph left not long after – not dead, just gone – so its been the three of us here for the past four and a half years.

It’s rugged, it’s small, it’s out in the middle of nowhere, but it’s ours. Our driveway lies amongst a dense line of trees, easy to miss, off a long dirt road. The nearest neighbour is a 30 minute hike down that road. I’ve never met them. Even more trees surround our property. The woods behind our house stretches on for kilometers. Our own little slice of wilderness.

Entering the house you’d be faced with the living room, with the kitchen and dining area behind it, fairly open concept. All of the rooms - the three bedrooms, single bathroom, and door to the basement - lie tucked away in a long, narrow 7-shaped hallway beginning at the far end of the right wall. And that’s it, that’s our house.

We keep up with it okay, we do what we have to, we can even make it look presentable sometimes – which is where the basement comes in.

Our basement was unfinished. There was really nothing to it. Just a big open space with a cold concrete floor. Wooden beams and insulation pattern the walls and ceilings. It was freezing, it smelled, it was dark, and we just didn’t go down there much. It became a place to haphazardly store all the stuff we weren’t using but didn’t want to get rid of.

I thought about getting it finished, but I never had the money. Now I didn’t have the money or the time. The two of us raising one kid was hard; me raising two kids alone was objectively impossible. But that’s what you do when you’re a parent. You hurt, you cry, you reach your limit, you go insane, and then you do it.

Things were going okay. Maddy was all grown up, independent and doing well; and Sammy was developing into an actual human being and not just a screaming badger. Because of this I was able to work more hours and not have to budget for a babysitter. Our lives were never easy, but we were in a nice period of calm and relative stability. Something I didn’t know I could value this much. That soon started to change.

I didn’t believe in ghosts. I didn’t believe in demons or haunted houses, and in the 17 years I lived here, I was never challenged on that. The house creaked, like any old house. There were noises, but none that wouldn’t be expected from living so close to the woods. We got critters, not ghosts. I doubt we would even be able to hear anything a ghost would do over the cicadas.

Winter was different though. All those noises went away. It could be eerie, the silence of it. When the wind was calm, when it was late at night, you could hear a pin drop. I chose to find it peaceful. But this winter, the winter of 2015, had other plans.

I can’t remember when it really first started. Like a lot of these tales, it began with a whisper. Little oddities, forgotten almost as soon as they occurred because they didn’t merit additional thought. I had more pressing concerns. Work, bills, food, fixing the pipes, fixing my brakes, keeping Sammy away from sharp objects, and generally surviving the brutal Canadian winter - that and the hundred other things on my plate were more than enough to keep my mind occupied. If a door was closed when it should have been opened, I paid it no mind, I simply opened the door.

That doesn’t mean I didn’t notice it, though. When it was 2 am and I saw someone that looked like Sammy run past my door, only to check and find him still asleep in bed... I noticed that. I remembered that.

When I washed my hands in the bathroom sink and a little shard of the mirror dropped into the basin and down the drain, only for me to look at the mirror and see no missing piece whatsoever... I noticed that.

When I turned the corner into that long, dark hallway and I swore I saw the figure of a man standing in the shadows at the very end, only for him to be gone when I turned the light on... I definitely remembered that.

But I didn’t think there was a ghost. It was a trick of the shadows. It was my exhaustion. It was nothing. I lived in this house for 17 years and nothing has ever happened, why would there be a “haunting” now? How can a house just suddenly BECOME haunted?

Well, I would get my answer soon enough, along with so many more questions... Two days later, Friday night. The night I couldn’t pass it off anymore.

I got home from work at around 7. It was deep into the cold months now so it was well after dark – and ‘dark’ where we live is DARK. No light pollution, no bustling night life, barely even street lamps. You can’t even see the trees in the woods, it’s just black on black. You can see the stars though, that’s why we moved here.

The cold was ruthlessly brisk against my face. The snow was beginning to pile up and I was praying that it would stop soon. So many exhausting hours wasted shovelling this damn driveway already, I didn’t want to go through it again this soon.

I futzed with my keys in the dark and opened the door, happy to feel the moderate warmth. After that time our heater broke two winters ago, I still get a little nervous every now and then. Safe for the moment, though. I could also smell the cold pizza Maddy ordered. That is usually the scene. Maddy cooks sometimes, and I cook on weekends, but for the most part I just give her some money and she orders whatever for the two of them and I eat what’s left.

“Left side has mushrooms.” Maddy’s voice called out from her room down the hall.

“Gross.” I replied.

I walked over to the kitchen and opened the box to grab a fungus-less slice, but then I heard her call out again.

“Oh – by the way, what did you do to the basement door?”

“What do you mean?” I closed the box and walked into the narrow hallway. Maddy was standing in her doorway.

“Did you repaint it or something?” She asked.

I scrunched my brow, “Why the hell would I repaint a door?”

“Well…” Maddy responded then led me further down the hall to the basement door. “Look at it.”

I scanned the door briefly, “It looks the same.”

“No it doesn’t, look. It used to be all scuffed up around the knob, right? And there was that big scratch from when I let Sammy have the umbrella.”

I looked to the door again… She was right. There were no marks. It didn’t look freshly painted though; in some ways it looked older. It was still worn, just worn in different ways.

“What the fuck?” I responded incredulously.

“Bad word, dad.” Said Sammy, now joining the conversation and giving me a hug.

“How’s it goin’ Sammy?” I greeted, while not taking my eyes off the door.

“Good. I’m bisexual.” Sammy responded.

Immediately I looked at Maddy who was snickering.

“I can explain.” Maddy muttered through her laughter.

“Why? Why did you do this?” I asked, exaggerating my exhaustion.

“He heard me on the phone! He asked what it meant. I told him it’s when you like guys and girls, that’s it! And then he just started saying it!” Maddy explained.

“I’m bisexual.” Sammy repeated.

“Sammy you’re not bisexual.” I stated, wearily.

“Yes I am!”

“I mean he might be.” Maddy interjected.

“He’s five.” I rebuked.

“Everyone’s journey is different.” Maddy said, still snickering.

I rubbed my temples and let out a deep sigh “Okay buddy, you’re bisexual. Just don’t say it at school, okay? I don’t want more phone calls... Maddy, what the hell happened to the door?”

“I don’t know, I was asking you!”

“Did you open it?” I asked, seeing that as the next logical course of action.

“No, not yet.”

I gingerly grasped the doorknob and began to turn it... it instantly felt different… Every door has a unique feeling to it. A specific smoothness and level of resistance when you turn the knob and pull it open. This door used to be snug, it used to take a bit of force but now… it was buttery smooth.

“…This is a completely different door.” I said in disbelief. “No one came over or anything today, right?”

“It could’ve been while we were at school?” Maddy hypothesized.

“Why would someone break into our house and replace one door – it’s just this door right?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Maddy answered.

“Someone broke in?” Asked Sammy. I almost forgot he was listening.

“No, no, of course not.” I said, only to quell his fears. I stood pondering for a minute before I continued. “I’m gonna go down there and see if there’s anything weird.”

“I’ll come!” Sammy offered enthusiastically.

“No Sammy, stay up here with your sister.” I answered. As I looked over, I noticed Maddy was already holding his arm so he didn’t run ahead as I opened the door.

As I looked back, I was met with the pitch black abyss. I could only see about three steps down before they were engulfed. Unfortunately, the only light switch was at the bottom but I knew these stairs well enough.

I made my way down, unsure of what I expected to find. The stairs creaked and I was faced with utter blackness. I almost lost my balance on the last step as I miscounted the number of stairs, but I recovered.

I blindly reached for the light switch on the right wall. I missed at first, I figured my muscle memory was thrown off, but I reached a little bit further and found them. I flicked the switch up and… nothing. Still pitch black. I flicked the switch up and down a few more times, no luck.

“Light’s not working.” I called up. “Grab the flashlight for me?”

I heard two sets of footsteps walk away. Suddenly I felt a bit of unease creeping in. I couldn’t put my finger on it though. Something just felt off. Like I’m not supposed to be here. The cold began to give me goosebumps and the smell… It was worse than usual.

“Got it!” Maddy called down, startling me out of that weird headspace.

“Toss it down.” I said, turning and cupping my hands.

I could just barely see the silhouette of the flashlight coming down against the upstairs light, but I was able to catch it.

I turned back to the curtain of blackness and clicked on the button. The beam shot out and I gasped. Louder than I was expecting to.

“What is it!?” Maddy called down, clearly noticing the alarm in my voice.

“What the f-“ I stopped myself, less because I was concerned about swearing and more because my voice was taken away.

“All our shit’s gone!” I eventually exclaimed. I moved the flashlight all around and, sure enough, the basement was completely empty. All those years of clutter were gone, it was just bare wooden studs and insulation all around. The floor, a completely barren concrete slab. Nothing was left.

“What do you mean?” Maddy asked. I started to hear footsteps creaking down the stairs. I turned and ushered them back upstairs along with myself.

“Don’t come down here right now. I’m gonna… I’m calling 911.” I said, trying to remain calm as I reached the top of the stairs and closed the door behind me.

“What happened? Are we gonna die?” Sammy asked.

“What? No. Jesus Christ, Sammy. We’re fine. Just… chill. Maddy, take him and go to your room.”

“Okay, but what do you mean it’s all gone? That doesn’t make sense.” Maddy asked incredulously.

I struggled to explain it any better, “It’s all gone. Literally all of it. I don’t know. Someone just… I don’t know.”

Maddy continued, attempting to wrap her brain around it. “Someone… took all our old junk? Didn’t feel like taking the TV or the computers or anything?”

“Yeah? Maybe? I don’t know what to tell you, I guess... they were pretty stupid. Still though, just stay in your room for now. Double check nothing else was taken and… don’t teach Sammy any new words, please.”

“Uh, Sure… Alright Sammy, let’s go play in my room. We can explore your identity further.” Maddy said as she walked him away.

I tried to keep things light and not let on the gravity of the situation. I didn’t want them to worry or panic. I wanted to manage this as much as I could. If I could make the kids believe it was just some idiot and they have nothing to worry about, that’s what I would do.

But I didn’t think that was the case. Sure, what they did was peculiar, but they still got in and out without a trace. They knew when we wouldn’t be home. They covered their tracks. There was a method to this.

I called the police. I knew there wasn’t much they could do. I honestly didn’t care about recovering all our stuff. Like Maddy said, it was all junk. 90% of it wouldn’t be missed. I just needed them to make sure we were safe.

While I waited for someone to arrive, I checked all the windows and doors. We’re a small, single floor house, so there’s not that many points of entry. Everything was locked up as it should be. I also managed to squeeze in a slice of cold pizza while I looked.

There was a spare key under a rock on the walkway for the kids since I’m not always around, that was the only explanation I could think of. If this person was watching us, then they might have seen the kids use it… That thought deeply unsettled me.

A single officer showed up at the door. Predictably, he didn’t give much in the way of answers or solutions. He seemed as perplexed as I did. He checked out the basement a little bit, checked the windows and doors, took a little walk around the perimeter, then said to call if anything else happened.

That was about what I expected, but it put my mind a little at ease that he didn’t turn up anything alarming. He said the house seemed to be secure. So I just won’t do the spare key thing anymore.

He left and I went back to check in on the kids. Sammy was asleep in Maddy’s bed and she was sitting up next to him scrolling on her phone. It made me both proud and sad to see Maddy be so good with her brother like that. She was truly a great kid. She always stepped up. I just wish she didn’t have to.

“He’s out, huh?” I said quietly.

“Yup. I used his dragon book. Always works.” Maddy replied.

“Alright I’ll get him outta your hair.” I said, walking over and picking up his limp 40 pound frame.

“So what happened? What are they gonna do?” She asked.

“Uh. Nothing… But hey, if anything this guy did us a favor - clearing that basement out.”

“I bet it was mom, coming back to get an old dress for a date or something. Then covering her tracks by taking everything else.” She barbed.

I laughed, “That would be interesting. I heard she was in Hawaii though, with her second family.”

“Really? I thought it was Cancun.”

“No that’s her third family.”

“Wow, how many families does she have again?”

“I don’t know but she is VERY happy. She sends me voicemails specifically telling me how much she loves all her other kids more than you.”

“Oh good for her!”

“I know right? You love to see it. You love to see people thrive.” I joked as I walked out with Sammy.

I acknowledge that this was maybe not the healthiest coping mechanism to impart upon a child whose mother left her, but sometimes you just have to make fun where you can. There’s only so much you can let it hurt, and it hurt for a long time. In reality, she wasn’t a bad person. We both knew that, deep down. It was just easier to pretend that she was, and make a game of it.

“Are we safe though?” Maddy asked, with a seriousness returning to her tone.

“Yeah. We’re safe. We’re locked up tight. I got rid of the spare key just in case… We’re good. I imagine they got whatever they were looking for anyway.” I still tried my best to sound convincingly nonchalant.

I put Sammy to bed, not bothering to be super delicate. That kid could sleep through Armageddon. Then I went to bed myself, indulging my ritual of watching an hour or two of TV on my old 90s box before passing out. I always liked the classic tube TVs, so when we finally upgraded our living room one to a slim fella, I kept the old one for me.

The TV provided a decent distraction for a while, but I couldn’t help thinking about all the weirdness of today. Nevermind the past week. I could deny it to the kids, but I couldn’t deny it to myself that I was spooked. Every now and then I’d mute the TV, thinking I heard something that was clearly just the house settling. I just had this feeling deep in my gut that something was very wrong, and that this wasn’t over…

Sleep didn’t come easy that night, I habitually checked on the kids at least half a dozen times and quadruple checked the locks. Eventually I allowed myself to calm down and drift off to sleep. I wish it lasted. Unfortunately, the night wasn’t done with me.

I woke up around 3 am to the sound of the phone ringing. Not my cellphone but, our landline out in the living room. Yeah, we still had a landline. Cell reception out here was spotty sometimes so it helped, but it very rarely got any use anymore. I can’t remember the last time I heard it ring. I don’t even know how many people still had the number. Let alone who would have the number that would call this late at night.

I hesitantly walked over and picked it up, instantly overcome by the loud sounds of audio distortion and crackling.

“Hello?” I asked quietly. “Who is this?”

There was no immediate response amidst the noise, so I gave it one more, loader attempt.

“Hello?”

After about 20 seconds of dead air, an old and sickly voice simply uttered:

“I remember.”

Then the call cut off. I stood there in the dark, petrified, listening to the dial tone. What the hell did that mean? Was this a threat? Was this the person who robbed us? I thought maybe it was at first, but when I really analyzed the voice... it didn’t seem right. They sounded bad. They sounded like they were on death’s door. And the way they said it... It didn’t sound threatening. It didn’t even sound like they were talking to me.

I had no idea what to make of it. I chalked it up to a wrong number but the timing of it was just... too freaky. I had an even harder time getting back to sleep after that. It was a race to fall asleep before the sun rose. I just barely was able to.

Most Saturdays would begin with Sammy waking me up unceremoniously at around 6 or 7 am for one thing or another. These days he at least whispers instead of screaming and jumping on my chest. This morning though, no Sammy. I woke up by myself around 8:30. I couldn’t help but feel relieved. It’s exceptionally rare that my sleep gets to end naturally, so I decided to savor it… Until a thought crept into my head.

Everything from the night before was lagging behind my consciousness, but it all came back to me in a rush. Sammy didn’t always wake me up, but for him to not wake me up today… I had to go check on him.

I rushed out of bed and down the hallway. I peeked into Maddy’s room. She was there. Good. One sigh of relief. Then I reached Sammy’s room and…

Gone.

I felt the urge to panic but I talked myself down. He could be up playing in the living room or something. So I moved quickly to the living room but still no Sammy.

I moved to the bathroom. No Sammy. I went to the kitchen. I double checked Maddy’s room. I double checked my room. I looked in the front yard. The back yard. The damn linen closet… Nothing.

My heart raced. I couldn’t breathe. Fear and guilt swirled like a hurricane in my head. Why did I let him sleep alone after all this? Why didn’t I keep watch all night? No, this can’t be happening…

Then it hit me… One place I forgot to check. The basement.

A chill ran down my spine as I thought of it. But why though? Why would this thought fill me with dread? It was just our basement. I couldn’t understand it.

I walked to the basement door, with its subtle unfamiliarities. The knob turned easy and the door gave no resistance. Like it was begging to be opened.

This time, the basement wasn’t a pitch black void. The early morning sun shone its light through the small window on the far end and generously illuminated the space I was descending into.

I could see all the stairs now and yet even so, I still almost tripped at the end. That was odd, but I couldn’t dwell on it. In the middle of the grey concrete, I saw my boy lying there on his side in his jammies. I was so relieved, I wanted to rush over and squeeze the life out of him, but I resisted the impulse and instead gently lifted his face off the cold floor. He began to stir as I did.

“Dad?” He muttered weakly.

I breathed one more sigh of relief. “Holy shit Sammy, you scared me to death. What are you doing here?”

“Bad word.” He responded.

“I know. I’m working on it, I really am.”

“Where am I?”

“You’re… In the basement, buddy. You don’t remember coming down here?”

“No… But I was dreaming about it I think…”

That answer creeped me out a little bit, Sammy had never sleepwalked before. “God you’re a weird kid. Okay let’s get you out of here, it’s freezing. You could have frozen your damn face off on his concrete.”

I hoisted Sammy up and put him on my back and started to walk out… But then I began to really take in my surroundings. This was the first time I could actually see the basement in decent enough light since the incident and it was… wrong.

The stairs... I didn’t miscount them. There were one too many. The light switch really was a few inches further from the corner than it should be. Not only that: the wooden beams across the ceiling, the studs across the walls, they were spaced a little too far apart. The insulation, the pipes, the wiring, it all looked off. Even the ceiling hung ever so slightly higher.

It wasn’t just the door that was different now... Everything was different.

This... was not our basement.

What Is Your Personal Opinion

creepypasta about guy held in some camp and the guy that owned it was really evil, he was feeling the prisoners rotten food, to some also poisioned because there was small amount of space, when someone tried to escape he sent does with rabies to catch them but in the end the guy kills the boss with black widow spiders that he kept.

So this morning I was sitting on my bed playing with a rubiks cube but at one point when I took my attention off the Rubik’s cube it felt like something was behind me so I turned around and nothing was there and for a while I’ve been feeling like I’m not alone and I know it’s not my parents cuz it’s when there not home and my dog doesn’t even stay in the house and idk if it’s just my imagination or if there’s actually something in the house with me. If any of you know what it may be please tell me.

As a child, I grew up in a rather quiet neighborhood. Everyone kept to themselves and there wasn’t much chatter. Gossip spread here and there, but it was only neighbors that were close. It never reached my parents. I realized my parents were… standoffish, more so than the other families there. They never decorated for any of the holidays and the rare years that we decorated a tree for Christmas, it wasn’t colorful or shiny ornaments, we weren’t allowed to have any that reflected their faces. These weren’t my biological parents and they had adopted me when I was around 10 years old.

At the time that I’m writing this, I am 17-years old and I ran away shortly after what I had done. I don’t regret anything that happened that night. It sound like I’m insane thinking to myself about what I did, I know you might think that I am too after reading this. But I can’t keep it inside anylonger

The day I turned 13 , everything changed. I wasn’t allowed outside the house and I could only leave my room to go to the bathroom or to get food. My windows are bolted shut and all my mirrors were taken away. Even the insta-camera that my best friend gifted to me on my birthday was taken. I was taken out of school, and I was forced to be homeschooled against my own wishes. I had a very strict bedtime, and I had to go to bed at 7 o’clock. I was on a strict meal schedule as well, I had to wake up at seven in the morning I would eat at eight, study and learn for two hours, then I had to do all the chores in the house for another two hours. At exactly 12 I was given lunch and I had to eat it before it hit 1 o’clock. I was not allowed snacks or any other food except for the ones my parents gave me, I don’t even think I should call my parents, more like tormentors. At every meal time I was given a pill that I had to take, they told me it was from my ADHD, but I didn’t believe them for one bit, I had taken ADHD pills in the orphanage, and the orphanage gave my parent-… Tormenters, the same prescription, it was a small white pill that was easy to swallow. The one that my parents gave me wasn’t white it wasn’t small and it was not easy to swallow. It was a bright red and it was as big as a DayQuil, it would hurt my throat every time I took it, but I was forced to listen, otherwise they would lock me in the basement. I don’t think the pill the gave me for my ADHD wasn’t actually a pill for it, because it made me feel weak. My apologies I forgot to mention that. But also after I had turned 13, whenever I disobeyed, and I did not listen to what they said, or whenever I tried to express my feelings I was locked in the basement without food or water for a few days, and I was beaten. I remember one day that they locked me in the basement, thankfully, they had forgotten the spare key down there, and to give me my ‘ADHD pill’ so, I was able to pick it up and unlock the door. The entire house was silent. My footstep’s creed the floorboards of the stairs says I’ve made my way up to the door. It clicked as I unlocked it I slowly opened the wooden door, a cold air hit me directly in my face. My house was never that cold. Not even during the winter. I cautiously walked out of the basement door and closed behind me, locking it as well so they think I would still be down there if I chose to run. I made my way through the long corridors until I came across the kitchen. I can’t ever forget what I saw on the table. It was the decapitated body of my best friend… Lyla… There was a square cut on her torso where her organs would be, and it was completely empty, her organs were in a bowl in the table. Her limbs were all severed at the joints. I froze in fear and pain at the sight. I couldn’t believe that she was dead. I couldn’t. I was so angry afterwards. I was so angry that it hurt. I still saw all the weapons that they used. A cleaver, a knife, tweezers, and a saw, I shakily picked up the cleaver. They were going to pay. I quietly walked around the house searching for them, those monsters weren’t gonna live to see another day. I saw them at the dining room. They’re back towards me, eating somebody’s eyes as if nothing was wrong. I suppose the heard me when I stepped on one of the creaky floor boards because my mothers head did a full 360°. And when I saw her, the corners of her mouth went up to her temples, her teeth were sharp and stained yellow with blood dripping down her chin. “LOOK WHO DECIDED TO JOIN US DEAR!” her voice sounded raspy and distorted. My father’s head also did the same, sickening motion and I heard the cracking of bones as it did. “COME ON MAYA, WHY DONT YOU JOIN US!!!” I was frozen in place until I saw him begin to lunge at me. In self defense I swung the cleaver. It went across his face and the Black goo splattered as it did so, landing on my clothes. He screamed out in pain and he went to lunge again, but my young adrenaline filled body was too quick for him to react properly as I swung down the cleaver on top of his skull. For a brief moment I saw my mother’s face in the reflection of the cleaver. Instead of the sickening smiled she had on at the moment, in the reflection her who face was Gone and it was a black voice with Sharp teeth like crooked daggers. I almost froze in fear. My father’s limp body fell to the floor and she started walking towards me. I pulled the cleaver out of my father’s head and held it up, ready to strike. “NOW LOOK AT WHAT YOU’VE DONE DEAR. YOU KILLED YOUR FATHER. TIME FIR YOU TO JOIN HIM!!” she lunged at me and I swung the cleaver down on her neck. Beheading her swiftly. “He is not my father.” My voice shuddered as I stepped back and took a look at there bodies. The black goo was all over me and the ground. I needed to get out of here. I rushed to my room and quickly changed into a pair of jeans, a thin long sleeve and a black zip up hoodie with the my chemical romance logo on the back. I put my brown wavy hair into a ponytail and grabbed my back pack. I shoved what clothing I thought necessary inside before zipping it up. I slipped on my black sneakers and went to the bathroom and opened the cabinets. I unzipped my bag and stashed the first aid kit in there and left the bathroom. I then went down to the kitchen pantry and grabbed whatever cans of food I could before grabbing the lighter from the junk drawer. I took one last look at my parents- no. My captors before deciding I needed to burn the bodies. I leans down and carefully lit the parts of there clothes that seemed most flammable. I then walked out of the back door, my new found defense weapon in my backpack with the food, clothes, med kit, and whatever cash I could find. I took one last look at the house before walking into the wood and never looking back again.

I'm kinda new to reddit, so I'm not sure if this is the appropriate sub reddit to post this... But I've been dying to find this thing for years.

Basically, somewhere around the 2010's, I found a video named like "The Top 10 scariest Creepypastas". I'm not actually sure if that was the exact name or if it was even a top 10 or 15 or whatever, but I do know it was a compilation of creepypasta stories I hadn't heard of at the time.

But one of the entries in the video really scared me as a kid. The creepypasta was a about a so called cursed video, if anyone watched it, you would be dead by morning, kinda like the movie "The Ring" the difference here was that when the police would investigate your body, they would find a really creepy looking doll next to it. The doll was made of a wooden type material, I remember it looking female with bright white eyes and red lipstick on its face.

That video scared me so much as a kid that I couldn't sleep for the next couple of days, but recently I've been trying to find it but had no luck, does this sound familiar to anyone? Thanks!

https://www.reddit.com/r/creepypasta/s/D0C5Kf0EVD

tap, tap tap, tap tap, tap tap. Susie awaken to a taping at her bedroom window. She looked out to see a little teddy bear staring in at her. He stood maybe a foot high and was adorable with glowing neon eyes. They were orange, no yellow, no green? No they were changing colors every few seconds.

Tap tap. The little bear tapped on the window and then seemed to talk. Susie opened the window just a crack so she could hear the little bear.

“Hi there Susie.” The bear said in a weak squeaky voice. “It’s un-bearable out here in the cold. I’m not a polar bear you know.” He then hugged himself and shivered. She opened the window and pulled the bear in. He hugged her arm, he was freezing cold to touch.

His eyes turned and settled a glowing turquoise colored. It was her favorite color and she found herself mesmerized and filled her body with a tingle as looked into them.

“Thank you soooo much.” Said the tiny bear. “My name is Mr.Numbsy and I’m your bearest imaginary fwend.” Then he began to purr and and warm up. This was like a dream come true, Susie had a live teddy bear as a friend. She imagined the looks on the faces of her friends when she introduced him to them.

“You know, Numbsy doest sound like a bear’s name.” She said to her new friend. “Oh, well you can call me whatever you want.” the little bear responded somewhat playfully. “How about Baloo?” She suggested. “Are you trying to get me sued Susie?” The bear replied. Susie didn’t understand what he meant but then thought of the name. “How bout Ted for teddy then?”

One of the bears glowing eyes seemed to blink a bit after the suggestion then he blurted out “That’s a paws-itively purrfect name.” as he began to scrunch up his little paws in adorable fashion.

“So do you want to play a little game?” Asked the bear. “Of course.” the naive child replied.

“Let’s play hide and seek. You have the whole forest to hide in and I’ll hunt you down.” The bear said in a deep growling voice as his eyes changed red. He began to grow, his tiny paws grew long claws. He grew to the size of a real bear but his arms were long like a gorilla’s and his claws scraped the floor as he stepped towards her.

She ran to her parents bed screaming about a bear monster in her room. Her parents comforted her and told her it was all just a dream. Then her dad walked back to her room and started to tuck her back in before something knocked him down to the floor. She looked down at her dad, he began to scream in agony as he struggled to not be pulled under the bed. There was nothing poor Susie could do but run to get her mom to help.

She wasn’t in her room or the bathroom so Susie ran to the kitchen area hoping to find her. She found her mom there, rummaging through the fridge as if nothing was. Her mom stood up strait but it wasn’t her mom, the bear was dressed in her clothes that had begun to rip as the bear stood taller and taller. It turned to look at her over the fridge door with its glowing red eye. A scream to “RUN!” came from the refrigerator and the bear took a single swipe of its claws at whoever was in there.

“Why aren’t you hiding yet?… tell you what, I’ll count to 100 and then I’m going to eat you” he said as his teeth grew longer and sharper. She ran out of the house and into the cold dark forest.

She found a big log that she could hide in and waited. Occasionally peeking out, dreading that she may see the red glow of the bears eyes in the dark, she wasn’t sure if it was better to see them and know where he was or not knowing where the monster was.

Then she noticed a faint red glow inside the log right before the whole world began to flip and spin. She fell out of the log onto the ground that was enveloped in a red glow. She looked up at the bear monster that was holding the log up vertically with a single paw. It squeezed and shattered the log. “Your not trying very hard.”it growled and watched as she crawled to her feet and ran.

Poor poor Susie eventually found her way to a house. She beat on the doors and windows to get anyones attention. She couldn’t bring herself to call out for help despite her desperation. It was as if she had completely lost her voice.

Susie survived that night. The people in the house woke up and brought her in to safety. Her parents on the other hand were missing and everyone just assumed she was drawing a bear every time she tried to tell them what had happened that night. The imagination of a terrified child not to be taken seriously, after all how could a bear kill two people without leaving any mess…

For ten years her mother visited her at night. Her eyes always glowing a different neon color other than red as she called out to Susie to join them.

I’ve definitely seen an uprise of creepypasta fans since 2020 which makes sense given covid and all that however I’m wondering if you guys think creepypasta will ever be like how it was during around 2013 or so?

Could just be a rumour but I’ve heard some smaller indie companies are considering a Jeff The Killer movie. I personally see it as a rumour but you never know. But anyways if that were to happen and the movie was alright I feel like that’d revive the creepypasta fanbase for a good few months or so. I find it hard to believe the internet would be interested in it for more than 3 months though with how social media is.

Is there anything you think that could happen that would kinda bring us back to how it used to be? A new unsolved weird/creepy picture? A good new web series? A really good new game revolving around a creepypasta? Hell even maybe a book or something about a creepypasta?

I don’t know, share your guys thoughts :)

Hello everyone. This is my very first attempt at writing a story. I felt like r/creepypasta was the best place for it, and I intend on writing more and adding to my own "universe".

So, I hope you like it. So without any further delay, please enjoy, 'With a joyful heart'.

With a Joyful Heart

I'm Billy, a grungy 32-year-old county public works worker who lives in tiny little Cedarbrook, Ohio. Life for me has become a routine cycle of work, eat, and sleep. Being single and somewhat lonely, my days feel monotonous and uneventful. I never imagined I'd become an organist for a church. Yet, here I was, playing a worn-out electric organ from the late '80s at a new-age church that had taken over an old, defunct Methodist church building. Disillusioned with the direction Christianity was heading in the United States, I started attending ‘New Life Christian’. It was different than I had imagined, but I found solace in this small congregation that preached love and acceptance, just as Jesus intended instead of the hate and division I had become tired of at my old church.

This whole organist thing all started when the preacher, a kind man named Reverend Martin, introduced himself to me after noticing my regular attendance. "Hi, I'm Reverend Martin. I noticed you’re new here the past couple of weeks and I wanted to say hello," he said, extending his hand with a warm smile.

I shook his hand. "I'm Billy. It's nice to meet you, Reverend."

"So, Billy, what keeps you busy during the week?" Reverend Martin asked, making friendly conversation.

"Well, I work for the county. I fix roads and do maintenance," I replied. "It's not the most glamorous job, but it's honest work, and it keeps me busy."

Reverend Martin nodded appreciatively. "That sounds like important work. The infrastructure of our town relies on people like you. Do you enjoy it?"

"Yeah, it's alright. It can be pretty demanding, though. Long hours, tough conditions sometimes. But it's satisfying when you see the results of your work," I said, feeling a bit more at ease.

"I can imagine," Reverend Martin said with a chuckle. "I've always admired people who can work with their hands and see the tangible fruits of their labor. After all, Jesus was a carpenter. It must feel rewarding."

"It does, for sure," I agreed. "But it doesn't leave much time for anything else. Wednesdays are usually the only days I can make it to church."

Reverend Martin's eyes twinkled with curiosity. "Do you have any hobbies or interests outside of work?"

"Well, I used to take piano lessons when I was a kid. I still enjoy playing, but I don't have a piano at home, so I don't get to practice much," I replied.

"That's interesting. I also took piano lessons as a child," he said, his eyes lighting up with nostalgia. "It's a beautiful instrument. Actually, we've been needing an organist for our Wednesday night services since our previous one passed away about a month ago. The organ isn’t much different than the piano. Would you be interested?"

I hesitated for a moment. "With my work schedule, it might be tough. But I do miss playing."

Reverend Martin nodded understandingly and sighed. "I see. You know, keeping this old building running is quite a challenge. The heating costs, the electric bills, the maintenance – it's all pretty overwhelming for a small congregation like ours. We're barely managing to keep the lights on. We can't afford to pay an organist, so it’s been hard to find anyone. We were able to find someone to fill in on Sunday, but no luck yet on Wednesday. It’s a volunteer basis, but would be much appreciated.”

He paused, a hopeful look in his eyes. "But with your attendance on Wednesdays and your musical background, it seems like fate. Doesn’t it?"

After a brief moment of consideration, I agreed to take on the role, despite the outdated organ and the lack of compensation.

The following Wednesday, I arrived an hour early to familiarize myself with the old instrument and review the hymns for the evening service. The loft was cluttered with various sound equipment and random items, giving the space an eerie, forgotten feel. Shadows danced on the walls, and the flickering lights added an unsettling atmosphere. As I tinkered with the keys, I was startled by a soft voice behind me.

"Hello there, dear," said a small, thin old woman who looked to be in her mid-80s. She had a twinkle in her eye and a smirk on her lips. "Name's Ethel Werriman. You must be the new organist. Well, don’t let the organ's decrepit state scare you off. It sounds like a dying cat, but it's the heart that counts." Her sharp wit caught me off guard, and I couldn't help but chuckle.

Ethel reminded me of my grandmother, who had passed away when I was 16. She explained that she and her husband had joined the church shortly after it opened and never missed a service. She also taught Sunday School, though she lamented the small, cramped classroom she used.

Over the next two months, Ethel became a comforting presence during my Wednesday practices. We'd chat about her children, who didn't attend the church, and her everyday life. She often commented on the old organ, and I'd agree with its lackluster sound. Despite the church's financial struggles, we both hoped for better equipment and more space for the growing congregation.

"Play with a joyful heart, kid," she'd say every time she left the loft. Her words stuck with me and made me smile.

Ethel was a spitfire, full of sharp wit and funny, sarcastic humor. She'd often tease me about my mild-mannered nature and how I had a knack for blending into the background. "Billy, you’re like a chameleon. I bet you could walk into a room full of people and no one would notice you," she'd say with a mischievous grin.

I appreciated Ethel's friendship more than I could express. I didn't have many friends, and my days consisted mostly of work, eating, and sleeping. Ethel brought a spark of joy into my otherwise monotonous life.

One Wednesday evening, as we sat in the loft, Ethel shared a story about her late husband. "John was a stubborn old coot. Fought in WWII, you know. He'd always grumble about how the world was going to hell in a handbasket, but he had a heart of gold. Would give the shirt off his back to anyone in need."

I listened intently, feeling a pang of envy for the love and companionship she had experienced. "He sounds like a great man, Ethel," I said softly.

"Oh, he was. But enough about the old goat. Tell me about yourself, Billy. What do you do besides playing this godforsaken organ?" she asked, her eyes twinkling with curiosity.

I hesitated for a moment before opening up. "Honestly, not much. I work for the county, fixing roads and doing maintenance. I don't have many friends, so my days are pretty routine. But I enjoy playing the organ here. It gives me a sense of purpose."

Ethel patted my shoulder, her touch gentle yet unexpectedly cold. A chill ran down my spine, making me shiver. "Well, kid, you’ve got a friend in me. And who knows, maybe one day you’ll find something or someone that’ll make life a bit more exciting."

One early Saturday morning, the phone rang, jolting me awake from a deep sleep. I groggily answered, not expecting such an early call. Reverend Martin’s voice came through the line, sounding unusually cheerful.

"Billy, I have some surprising news. A member of the congregation who passed away a few months ago has left a significant donation for the church to build an addition for Sunday School classrooms and a fellowship hall. We’re holding a ceremony this morning to announce it."

He invited me to attend the ceremony, which thankfully was scheduled for the morning, so it wouldn’t interfere with my work that evening.

As I entered the church, I saw many unfamiliar faces. At the back of the main entrance hall, a photo frame covered in a pink satin cloth hung between the preacher and several people I assumed were the family of the deceased member. Reverend Martin greeted me warmly and introduced me to a few congregants before the ceremony began.

After some introductions and thank-yous, Reverend Martin announced the construction of the Ethel Werriman Memorial Annex. My heart sank as I realized who the donation was from. The delicate pink cloth was removed, revealing a photo of Ethel, my friend. I stood there, stunned, as the congregation clapped. I was still in a state of shock and confusion when Reverend Martin approached me later, his expression concerned.

"Billy, are you okay?" he asked, gently placing a hand on my shoulder. "You seem a bit shaken."

I nodded numbly, unable to find the words to explain my turmoil. Reverend Martin handed me a thick, sealed envelope with "Organist" written in shaky cursive. "The family found this in Ethel's writing desk. I almost gave it to the Sunday organist and I don't know why, but something told me it was meant for you," he said.

I opened the envelope to find a stack of $100 bills and a letter written on delicate, floral-patterned stationery.

"Please buy a decent organ for the church – Your friend, Ethel."

Tears streamed down my face as I read her simple note. When Reverend Martin asked why I was crying, I handed him the letter and money. He apologized, thinking my emotions were tied to the generous donation. But my tears were of confusion, sadness, and for the apparent loss of my dear friend.

After the ceremony, Ethel stopped visiting me on Wednesday night in the creepy church loft. I missed her and our conversations. It took me some time to come to terms with the reality of the paranormal, but life-changing experience I had with Ethel. But a few weeks later, with Reverend Martin's blessing, I used the money to buy a brand new electronic organ and a new sound system for the church. There was enough money left not just for the organ, but for a new sound system that could be attached to the organ, as well as the cost of installation for both the sound system and organ. I also had a small, simple brass plaque made, and attached it to the center of the new organ above the keys.  It was engraved with Ethel's parting words to me every Wednesday: "Play with a joyful heart, kid."

©2025 JP Schooley

Some Words Before We Begin.

[ starting in three, two one and-]

Let’s make something very clear. What you are going to read is not a horror story, nor is it a ghost story. Though, I do admit, in some senses it could be called a ghost story. By my own standards of course. A horror story, I think, is like a novel that builds up tension and fear and has a good plot and a prime example of horror literature are the works of Stephen King. That would be horror. A ghost story has something more supernatural to it. I feel they are usually rather short, they have a clear, or vague, antagonist who antagonises the protagonist. But a scary story, definitely is something different. I do not say it is better, just different. And, I would think, a tad bit easier to write. What you will read will be a scary story. It won’t, I don’t think, have a clear antagonist or eldritch horror to ponder about. The antagonist won’t be a physical, singular character. That would be boring and I disagree with boring very much, so I do.  The thing about scary stories is that they are scary stories just because they are scary. It marks it out as different from horror stories and ghost stories. But, they can all still be classified into the very ginormous and broad genre of Horror which many are writers and readers of. But anyway, enjoy. Yours truly,-

[ CUT ].

[ insert disc ]

Awakened he was, though asleep he was not. Though was he? He did not know. His surroundings though new to him, he knew by heart from a glance. Now questions truly ran through his head. Just one thing.

Why?

The fluorescent lights hummed and flickered, an eerie reddish shadowy light emitting from them in a way that felt quite unknown to him, though he clearly recognised it. The walls reminded him of a school building. Something old, but still young. The floor was tiled, as was the roof. And it all stretched on and on and on and on and maybe it just did not end. 

He was in a hallway.

He smelled something as well. Something faint, barely noticeable, though noticed it was. It smelled like rotting. Not anything in particular. Just rotting. Although the smell was faint and not very noticeable it felt so incredibly and horrifically strong and overpowering. 

He realised he was walking slow, long steps. Then, buzz! Buzz! He heard it, just a little buzz buzz in the background. The noise was a simple onomatopoeia in the hall, barely noticeable. Though when there is not much to notice, the unnoticeable becomes noticed. Step by step he walked, drawing a steady, essential breath every time, his breathing visible as a little vapour cloud. Though there was no coldness, anyways. Not in terms of temperature.  He kept walking. Step by step by step by step. He. Kept. On. Walking.

Swoosh.

A gentle breeze, unnoticeable, really made the hairs of his neck stand on end, goosebumps crawling over his skin quickly. A shudder. Why a shudder? He felt a shudder. Keep walking, he told himself. The voice he used in his head to think those words didn’t sound like himself, though he couldn’t remember the sound of his voice. To speak, he felt, would disturb the sound of silence which would be too awful to do. He kept walking, walking, walking. Then, the lights flickered. Off they went with a shout of no noise! The dark for a split second overcame all with tears. Then, woosh! Light again, in an ominous red hue of light, foreshadowing all. He dared not stop, though his pace slowed when the lights were stolen away. Then, more darkness. Lights are still on and working, if they could be said to be working, but they are darker. More red. The hue like… The hue like. The word has been found. The lights like blood spilled into the bulbs. Crimson red, scarlett and dark were the lights of which there were an uncountable number of. Still he walked. Swoosh, breeze again, though subtle and small in the infiniteness of, of the… Of the place! 

Step, step, step, creak, step, step, step.

The pattern of his steps went.  They were his, yes, they were. But they were too distant to be considered in this reality, or so the steps told themselves as they stepped on and on. Then, silence, even though the sounds of steps remained and the heavy, intrusive noise of breathing remained, there was silence that overcame the sound of nothing. 

Anger. Quick anger. Fiery anger flowed. Abhorred, human, intentful anger flowed through his veins. Quickly the anger subsided. Though a knot they anger left, yes. 

He felt as if tears should be pouring down his face. Blood should come from his eyes. Tears from his nails. Sweat from his palms. Words from his ears. That should  have been the order of things. That should have been the way it went. Obscenities raised in thought. Anger unheard flowed. Steps continued.

He walked onwards.

Doors become visible. Thick, wooden, fire resistant doors are scattered on the walls. Though untouched by him, they all were locked and they all told him this as he passed by, stepping and stepping and not stopping stepping. A continuous cycle yes. Unheard, continuous. He still walked on. Boredom, heard and tended to by more and more dreariness filled his head. Boredom turned violent. An impatient, fullness overcame him in waves.  Too much to bear, yet it was beared nonetheless. 

Step step step.

Lights flickered, doors existed, steps were stepped, thoughts left unheard, violence felt. He continued walking. And then a feeling attacked. It sieged. It warred. It battled. It continued to be victorious.

There was a watcher. The watcher wasn’t real but was there, still, watching. He knew this, though not consciously. To know the watcher is watching, to watch the watcher watching in though would be death. Yes, that is agreed upon.

He continued walking. Watched, battling, unheard. He continued walking. Ominous. A word used to describe. Flash, a being was seen. Yes, a being. Maybe a girl, maybe a boy, maybe a woman, maybe a man. A being was seen. Anger flowed. He ignored what he saw. He didn’t see it. Sweet laughter is heard  by him, maniacal is the laughter. Though it is unheard. It’s all in the head. In whose head? That’s not clear. It should not! Be clear.  

Walking, walking, stepping, stepping, continuing continuously. Yes, he walked on. Feelings over stretched. /staying too long. Breaking limits. Filling a mind. Unheard. It’s all unheard. 

Step, step, step. 

The hallway still exists. Don’t forget it. Do not forget it. Do not ever forget it. We need it continued. What is it?

Stepstepstepstep.

Steps are continued, he walks on, brewing in him is a storm which is not him. A foreign entity grows. It doesn’t exist. But that doesn’t mean it does not exist.

Laughter. Brief. Yes, it is heard. But still, it goes on. Unheard. Tremendous fear is felt, aching at the bones, gnawing at the teeth, griming the skin, dirtying the thoughts. Rushes of fearful boredom and longing is felt by him. All him. All alone is he. And step. He continues walking. He wants to run. Needs to move. Vigorous activity is yearned. Yawning is the boredom. He continues his pace of walking, flinching at each step, praying with every godforsaken strand of his soul and every square millimetre of his skins, bone and fleshes that he keeps on going, unheard by the nothing. Stop! He hears to stop. It’s just his head. He keeps going.

Steppity stepping steppity step-step.

He walks on. Boredom filled with violence filled with aching filled with fear filled with fear is heard but left unheard, ignored. Seen but left. Unseen by blankness. Continue walking. He does so, wondering why, an aching, sad, timid, sore, confused, helpless why. Nothing stops. Step. Step. Step. Down a Pathway. Down he goes. Step, step-step. Violence is felt. So is the rest of him. Painfully aware of all of himself. Quickly it all happens. Surreal pain. Watching being watched, being watched, unseen and unheard. Waiting to be sung. Ignored still. Watchers watch. He steps and steps and continues stepping. Unseen, unheard. Unending. Step, step, step. Don’t stop. Cycle goes on and on and on and on and on and on and-

[ Cut ].

Stepstepstepstep. None-stopping the stepping. What happens if the stepping stops? That’s unknown. Please don’t stop stepping. He begs himself, though tired, aching, bored to violence and anger and frustration.  He continues down the hallway. Uncut. Nothing is stopping. It won’t stop. It won’t stop just because he won’t stop. Laziness ensues Violence follows.

Walking walking walking. He doesn’t stop walking. The hallway is real. But so unreal. But still it is real. Denying doesn’t stop reality. Keep going. Step by step by bloody step. Lights darken, flicker, hue is still crimson with bleeding light. The colour of raw blood pouring. Step step step step. Creak. He continues walking. He is aching, tired, sore, pain filled, weeping in thought. But still he is able to keep going. He is perfectly fine. Trust it. Trust the words you read. He is fine. Health at 100%. His mind, however. He shatters and wants to run, wants to stop. Fear ensues the longings. He can’t remember. Thinking is suffocation. Unreal, true reality can’t be denied. He continues. Again and again. He wants to stop. Can’t stop. Won’t stop.  He continues. Reality distorts. He finds himself lost. He knows exactly where he is. He continues on continuing. Don’t stop.

Step by step by step. Watchers watch. Those who remain watch know they are watched; ignore that they are watched. The hallway doesn’t end. Continue. Step-step-step. Creaking. In the mind a hinge. He is well. Full. Violence is brimming and continues. Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?

That is unknown. Can’t stop. Won’t stop. Please don’t stop. Keep going. Step by step. Don’t resign. He keeps on walking. Walking and walking and walking and walking and walking and walking. He walks into the walking. Though: Is it a loop? Answer is unheard, unsung. The answer is no. It is painful, it is sad, it is wrenching at the soul. It does not end. It will not end. It cannot end. A cycle is a cycle is a cycle is a cycle. Cycles continue. It’s a circle that doesn’t end. Seriousness ensues. It does not stop. Tiptaptiptap. He walks on still. Step by step, he aches and needs and pines in his head in his mind, unheard, not a single word spoken. The need is primitive. That is behind. He cannot stop. He will not stop. Praying himself and others, he cannot stop. He bears the walking and walks more into the walk, walking. He continues stepping, stepping forward in a walk, walking and walking and walking.

Don’t stop. Can’t stop. He continues walking. He aches. He pines. He dies inside but is still alive. Confused, pained, agony and abhorrence. He continues. He spots doors, he smells the rotting. What is rotting? The lights, bloody, crimson, shallow and dark; Red in colour and soul. He walks on and on.  

He walks and walks and walks. Why does he walk?  He walks and walks. It doesn’t end. Silence is overcome with the sounds of the sound of silence. Eternity is heard, left unheard. It all continues. Careless and full of care. Violent boredom is filled…..

Step by step, creak by creak. Hyperaware. Unable to stop. Survival depending. Cannot stop. He must keep going. He can’t but he can and he will, against his will. Wise it is to continue, continuing the continue. He cannot stop. Cannot. Can’t. He cannot, he can’t stop. Stopping is stopping. He must keep going, leading his way blindly forward, yes. He continues. Don’t stop. Cannot stop. He continues.

Cycles don’t end. He still walks walking. Fearing fearing. What is it all? Pain of fullness in mind. He continues going.

Reality breaks.

Distorting everything Distorting everything Distorting everything.

He won’t ever stop it won’t ever stop we cannot stop we are complicit and it never ends thought is just and idea and they cannot die they are immortal.

We are part of

The journey……..

Welcome back. He continues walking and walking and walking. Never ever does he stop walking. He just goes and goes and goes and goes and goes. The sounds clicking away, references made, ideas formed. Violencebordemsadnessgriefandfilleduptothebrim. He continues walking. 

Nothing is staying the same. Walking cannot stop. It is no longer stopping. Pace is kept at the same rate, blood pressure and beats per minute of the fine quality human heart, all at average, all normal going as if………

He continues and you are reading as he continues, thinking about this sentence and imagining him continuing, knowing it doesn’t stop. Yes, yes, yes, yes. You know. W- We know. Yes.

It can’t be cut. Revelation is no longer a choice. Ignorance has been stolen. Continue walking, yes he does indeed. Yes, the style and technique of writing has changed. You noticed before you looked at 

The page you just knew because of the formatting. He walks, watched, unheard, unsung. He walkswalkswalksandheiswalking, yes indeed he is.  He is watched, watched and watched. Watched by nothing, seen by everything. Time bends, reality distorts. Nothing has changed. Continuous cycles and never ending ideas. 

Don’t

Hold

Regret

Please.

This is just a story but we all can see it is more, can we not? Forget this omnipresent being, if you noticed it in the words. Just enjoy the story. It’s just a story. Keep reading. After this page ends, turn to the next. You know you want to. Yes, yes, continue as he continues walking in the cycle. Now, what you read next is very important. So reme-

CENSOREDCENSOREDCENSORED…..

Afterwords:

Much time has not been given. I need to explain. The man, if indeed he is, continues his cycle still, just so you know [ Maniacal laughter is heard from the pages ].

He cannot stop. I made sure of that. I think I did… I’m fairly sure he did. That’s the thing, you’ll put this down, this little work of the mind, but guess CENSORED what? You do that, he is unheard and he continues! It’s amazing! We can’t stop it once it exists! More beauty! There is no firm ending, no cement to keep us down! Guess what? He’s stuck, reliving all this loop, continuing it! It’s all amazing! It’s horrifyingly amazing! And even if this file is destroyed, the papers burned, the memories erased, it still exists!  The idea lives onward and on and doesn’t stop because Ideas on;y grow and continue and relapse and I am in control! Wooooooo! The story isn’t a story, I shouldn’t say, should I? It is what it is! It is itself in its own living world that has itself to depend upon. You, you idiot, read this and now it continues to exist even more. And to the very very first reader and listener of this little CENSORED have made sure that the loop continues! Oh I love it.

Anyway, goodbye now, I must say with a grin, I am yours truly,

( CUT )

I came got home after a long night, my shift ended up getting out late, I didn’t get home until around 2 pm. I was exhausted and the moment I pulled my car into my messy and narrow garage and got out and saw the hound staring at me.

It was a large black husky and it was staring at me. It was smiling at me, not a normal dog smile, but a perverse human smile. It had human eyes that felt like they peered into my soul. I froze in place, I had already closed the garage door and barely had any room to move in my messy garage. The hound approached me but it just licked my hand, I snuck by it and opened the garage door hoping it would leave.

It just sat there staring at me. I slowly backed up and opened the door to my house and it rushed in almost knocking me over.

I picked myself up while staring at the hound who returned by stare, never breaking eye contact. It tilted its head at me and then it sprinted towards me, I ran to the nearest doorway and slammed it shut. I heard the dog pawing and scratching at my door frantically, it felt like it was doing this for hours on end, but in reality it was probably only five minutes.

My arms stiffened, not daring to budge and then suddenly the scratching stopped. I heard footsteps walking away from my door. And when I thought it was over, I heard my doorbell ring, and followed by a barrage of howls and snarled barks. I cautiously opened the door and peaked down the hallway to my front door.

There was no dog there anymore, but my front door was wide open. I ran to it, slammed it shut, locked it and moved my couch in front of it, barricading it out so there would be no chance of it coming back in.

I caught my breath and sat on the couch, facing my dark living room and then I looked up and saw the bloody trail of dog prints from my unlocked bedroom. And in the darkness, I heard a deep growling followed by that perverted and twisted smile.

https://www.reddit.com/r/creepypasta/s/TagIhjNfKF

“Excuse me little miss, but I’m trapped down here. Do you think you could maybe let me out of here please?” The man in the trap door asked Lilly who had been fast asleep in her bed just seconds ago. She knew there had never been a trap door there before.

“I’ll understand if you don’t want to but I’ve been down here so long and I could really use a nice stretch.” The man said in a calm pleasant voice that had an almost hypnotic effect on her. Her eyes were adjusting to the darkness but all she could see was make out was his outline and big bright eyes that seemed to glow a neon blue, then purple, and finally seemed to settle on pinkish glow.

“I’m now allowed to talk to strangers.” She told the man in the trap door. “Smart girl” he responded. They stared at each other in silence for what felt like eternity.

“So can you go please. I need to go back to bed.” Lilly asked but was met with a long silence. The man’s eyes grew further apart and slowly circled around his head and back to there starting positions. “I’m so sorry my dear, but I’m trapped down here and honestly cannot go anywhere at the moment.”

They stared at each other until she fell asleep. In the morning the man and the trap door were gone, as if they never existed. Had it all been a dream? No, that wasn’t possible, it didn’t make sense but it had happened. As the day went on she told her parents and teachers but everyone thought it had been a dream.

That night she stayed up for hours, watching, waiting to see if the man would somehow return. She eventually fell asleep due to boredom but seemingly the second she dozed off she heard a pleasant voice singing a gibberish tune. All she could see was a pair of neon colored eyes slowly changing colors. The man had returned. She listened to his singing in silence, praying the man wouldn’t notice she had awakened.

“Oh my, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you my little Lilly.” the man said sheepishly as if he feared her wraith. He seemed somehow timid and weak. As if his life depended entirely on keeping her calm. “Please don’t be mad at me Lilly” he begged.

“How do you know my name?” Lilly asked. The man’s eyes settled on a neon minty green color she found very pretty. “I’m your bestest imaginary friend. Mr.Numbsy .” the man joyously declared. They stared in silence, his glowing eyes grew bigger and looked almost sad. “Do, do you not like me?” he asked, sounding as if he was choking up with tears. “You could name me whatever you would like.”

“Fart face.” the child declared and giggled. His eyes changed yellow, then settled back on green. The man then let out a long fart sound as his eyes swirled in a lemniscate figure. They both shared a laugh together. “So your not real?” she asked Mr. Fartface who assured her, “I’m as real as you want me to be.”

“So why are you down there?” She asked. “Just because you haven’t let me out yet my dear sweet Lilly.” She didn’t understand what he meant but he seemed so nice, this really did feel like a fiend. He was just so pleasant.

“How, how do I let you out of there?” she asked curiously. “You simply invite me in to play. Then we can play some real games.” he responded.

“Okay, come out and let’s play.” She cheerfully blurted out without a thought. Then for the first time, his neon glowing eyes turned red. His figure grew and animated with bright colors that repeatedly changed. He was massive, tall, fat, clown with balding green hair.

“Oh Lilly, I have a few games we should play”.

The first game had Mr.Fartface had them play was to gather up everyone’s phones so she could hide them around the house and he would find them. He had no problem gathering the phones as his limbs could extend to anywhere in the house from her room. Despite his ability to get the phones for the game he wasn’t able to find a single place she hid them.

The second game he described as “You know those jellybeans you like? The ones with all the weird wacky mystery flavors?” Let’s give everybody mystery candies just like those. Won’t that be fun.” He collected a number of tiny candy bottles from the bathroom and swapped them with each other, and returned all the bottles where he found them.

“Oh my, look at the time. We will have to play some more tomorrow night.” The man told her before tucking her back into bed and disappearing before her eyes.

The next day was the worst day of her life. Her mother’s meds got mixed up with the candy game and the last time she would ever see her mother she was foaming from the mouth as she was trembling on the floor as her dad stormed around the house looking for a phone. That was also the last time she would see her home during her childhood as she would live in a hospital. They said she was a “so-see-path.” and would never listen to her story about Mr.Fartface.

The first night in the hospital she had a visitor in the middle of the night. A pair of glowing neon red eyes peeking down through a skylight that had it been there previously, they would be there every night for the next 12 years but on that night they spoke to her in a rough deep voice, “You shouldn’t have called me Fartface you little bitch”.

March 22nd, 2024. 

We haven't moved in 3 days, we aren’t stuck, the engines are running, the propellers are spinning as fast as they can. Yet we don’t move. 

The two 40,000 horsepower engines spin the propellers at 200 rotations per minute. We have been sitting at 36.143145, -41.235283 for 72 hours now. I have checked the anchors a million times. 

We have been radioing out to land on channel 16 since we seemingly grounded. We haven’t gotten a response. 

We even had our diver Ryan go down and see if we had somehow run aground on some unexpected land mass. All he saw below the ship was the endless abyss we call our home.

James is at a state of being near catatonic. He hasn’t left the bridge since we stopped. I haven’t even seen him eat anything. 

My anxiety is now constant, sleep proving to also be an impossibility. Everytime I close my eyes I see the note Sam left. “STOPPED”.

I feel like a husk of nerve endings and loose worms. My skin crawls everytime I step out of my dorm, why do I continue my shift as if it will fix anything? Will it? 

Am I writing to someone? or will this journal fall to the creature below we call the ocean whose hunger is never satisfied? I try not to think of my eventual end but what else can I do? I’m stuck in the most inescapable prison the earth has to offer.

If god is watching please help me.

March 25th, 2024. 

I haven’t seen Sam since we stopped. Part of me thinks he was involved somehow but how does one man stop a 165,000 ton ship? He has just been hiding in his room, doesn’t report to the bridge when paged, doesn’t show up for his watch, doesn’t even come to the mess hall for dinner. 

I wonder if he just jumped overboard as soon as we stopped. Like he knew this incomprehensible vehicle would become our mass tomb. 

James has completely lost his mind. Yesterday I saw him still on the bridge just running full sprint back and forth shouting to the sky about leaving him behind in the rapture and how we are facing armageddon before everyone else. 

I wonder if that’s what it is. Are we just the devils trial run for the apocalypse? His test to see how his inevitable take over pans out? Half my notes have been just composed of questions but that's all I have. No answers, no idea of even what to do next. 

Carlos has plunged himself into work. Like most people on the ship he just works like nothing is happening. The only real difference is he doesn’t seem to want to stop. Just working and working and working. I look back at the times he complained about work with fondness, now he just wants to work until we meet our forgone conclusion or there’s simply no more work to be done. There is always more work to be done. 

Ben has stepped in as full-time captain now that James is having his crisis of faith. He’s actually pretty good at it, for a guy so young he seems to take command of the ship in a way I have only seen in old timers. Through all of this he seems to be the one holding onto his sanity the best. Can’t say the same for myself. 

What started as constant insomnia and anxiety has morphed itself into what I can only call complete dissociation. I forget basic parts of my job I previously had locked in my muscle memory. I go down to the deck and forget where to go, what my shipmates' names are, what company I work for. Fuck I even forgot about this journal until I found it in my night stand looking for more cigarettes. 

The only sense of humanity I have left are these blank pages and they completely left my mind. Maybe I am just leaving humanity all together. 

I have to go back to work. 

March 28th, 2024. 

Something is coming. 

March 29th,2224 

Water is getting Warrmer. Below ship

Large rumbling hearde

James is screaming 

Ben is gone

Carols still working       hasnt stopped. 

Sam       Sam      Sam 

March 30th 2024

We broke into Sams bunk. Carlos and I wanted answers. He knew this was gonna happen. We want to know how and why he didnt warn everyone. 

When we finally broke the door open it was pitchblack inside. First thing that hit us was the smell. Oh god the smell. We turned on the light and Sam was dead. He hung himself with his bedsheets from his closet hanger. Looks like hed been dead since we stopped. Just rotting stinking and festering with flys and maggots. 

Carlos puked. I gagged and fell out of the doorway. We sat in the hallway for minutes in complete silence. Only sound on the entire ship was us breathing like we just finished a marathon. Finally as I went to close the door to his bunk I noticed the walls were covered in drawings. 

Hands. All Hands. Hundreds of drawings all done in haste and clear delirium. On some he was pressing so hard with the pencil he ripped through the paper. 

The silence was so loud it was defining. My heart beat so hard I feared my ribcage was on the verge of snapping. 

Something is coming, it’s coming fast. 

March 31st, 2024

Ever since Ben learned about Sam he has been demanding we do roll call every 3 hours. 

When we left dublin we had 20 men. We have 16 now. 

Sam was one of the men lost, nobody knows where the other 2 went. Perhaps they just jumped overboard to kill themselves. Thats probably it. 

Nights seem even quieter now. Sleep is an impossibility. 

For the next 23 pages there was nothing but drawings of hands. I took this to a psychologist friend I know and he believes that the men aboard the ship were suffering paranoia induced hallucinations. Apparently it’s not uncommon for sailors to experience this during prolonged periods of isolation. It’s hard to see Terry talk like this. Hallucinations or not, he was suffering immensely. 

• Eric

March 32nd, 2024. 

5 men gone now. 

I saw it. On the deck. I know what is happening to them.

Greetings everyone! I've made an animated version of a creepypasta!

Hope you enjoy!

I Found a Strange Letter in My Hotel Room

It all started a few nights ago. It had been a long day, the kind of exhausting day that leaves you barely able to keep your eyes open. I lay down on my bed, exhaled deeply, and without much thought, let sleep take me. But something woke me up.

It wasn’t a noise. It wasn’t a nightmare. Just an uncomfortable sensation, like someone was watching me. My room was dimly lit, with the faint glow of the hallway filtering through the slightly open door. I shifted a bit, blinking away my drowsiness, and then I saw it.

The doll on the shelf.

It was an old childhood gift, a porcelain figure my grandmother had given me when I was a kid. A small clown, dressed in a blue suit with a pointed hat, its face frozen in an eternal smile. It had sat in the same position for years, slightly tilted to the right, its eyes fixed on the wall.

But now… now it was looking at me.

I blinked. I sat up a little in bed, feeling the discomfort creeping into my chest. I couldn’t be sure it had moved, but I could have sworn its face was now pointed directly at where I was lying. It had to be my imagination. Eyes play tricks in the dark. Maybe it was just the angle… right?

I shut my eyes tightly and turned away. I wasn’t going to let my mind play games with me.

But the next night, it happened again.

I woke up in the middle of the night, my throat dry. I turned to grab my glass of water from the nightstand… and my eyes stopped on the shelf.

The doll had turned even more.

I sat up abruptly, my heart pounding. This time, I was certain. Yesterday, its gaze wasn’t directed so squarely at my bed. It couldn’t have been the wind, nor a small tremor in the house. Something had moved it.

Anxiety took hold of me. I slowly got up and approached it. With a trembling hand, I grabbed the doll, feeling the cold porcelain against my fingers. I turned it sharply, forcing it back into its original position.

"Don’t be ridiculous," I whispered to myself. "It’s just an object."

I went back to bed, but I didn’t sleep well. I felt its gaze burning into my back all night.

The next day, I decided to run a test. Before going to bed, I took a picture of the shelf with my phone. I captured the doll’s exact position. If it moved again, I would have proof that it wasn’t just my imagination.

That night, I barely slept. I woke up several times, nervous, feeling my skin crawl at the slightest sound. But when dawn arrived, I couldn’t resist—I turned slowly and looked toward the shelf.

The doll was in the same spot.

I felt instant relief. "It was just my mind playing tricks on me," I thought. Maybe stress, exhaustion. Tomorrow, I’d check the photo and laugh about this.

But as I unlocked my phone, the relief vanished.

The photo… wasn’t the one I remembered.

The doll was already turned in the image.

It had been looking at me before I even fell asleep.

Todo comenzó hace unas noches. Había tenido un día largo, el tipo de jornada que te deja tan agotado que apenas puedes mantener los ojos abiertos. Me acosté en la cama, exhalé profundamente y, sin pensarlo mucho, dejé que el sueño me arrastrara. Pero algo me despertó.

No fue un ruido. No fue una pesadilla. Simplemente, una sensación incómoda, como si alguien estuviera observándome. Mi habitación estaba en penumbras, con la tenue luz del pasillo filtrándose por la puerta entreabierta. Me removí un poco, parpadeando contra la somnolencia, y entonces lo vi.

El muñeco de la repisa.

Era un viejo regalo de mi infancia, una figura de porcelana que mi abuela me había dado cuando era niño. Un payaso pequeño, de traje azul y sombrero puntiagudo, con una sonrisa congelada en el rostro. Llevaba años en la misma posición, inclinado ligeramente hacia la derecha, con los ojos fijos en la pared.

Pero ahora… ahora me miraba a mí.

Parpadeé. Me enderecé un poco en la cama, sintiendo cómo la incomodidad escalaba hasta mi pecho. No podía asegurar que se hubiera movido, pero juraría que su rostro apuntaba justo hacia donde yo estaba. Debía ser mi imaginación. Los ojos se engañan en la oscuridad. Tal vez solo era el ángulo… ¿verdad?

Cerré los ojos con fuerza y me giré hacia el otro lado. No iba a dejar que mi mente jugara conmigo.

Pero la noche siguiente, ocurrió de nuevo.

Me desperté de madrugada, con la garganta seca. Me giré para tomar el vaso de agua en la mesita de noche… y mis ojos se detuvieron en la repisa.

El muñeco estaba aún más girado.

Me incorporé de golpe. Mi corazón latía con fuerza. Esta vez, lo sabía con certeza. Ayer su mirada no estaba tan directamente apuntando a mi cama. No podía haber sido el viento, ni un pequeño temblor en la casa. Algo lo había movido.

La ansiedad se apoderó de mí. Me levanté lentamente y me acerqué. Extendí una mano temblorosa y tomé el muñeco, sintiendo la frialdad de la porcelana contra mis dedos. Lo giré bruscamente, devolviéndolo a su posición original.

"No seas ridículo", me dije en voz baja. "Es solo un objeto."

Volví a la cama, pero no dormí bien. Sentí la mirada del muñeco perforándome la nuca toda la noche.

Al día siguiente, decidí hacer una prueba. Antes de acostarme, tomé una foto de la repisa con mi celular. Capturé la posición exacta del muñeco. Si volvía a moverse, tendría pruebas de que no era solo mi imaginación.

Esa noche dormí poco. Despertaba a cada rato, nervioso, sintiendo la piel erizarse con el más mínimo sonido. Pero cuando llegó la madrugada, no pude evitarlo: me giré lentamente y miré hacia la repisa.

El muñeco estaba en el mismo sitio.

Sentí un alivio instantáneo. "Solo era mi mente jugando conmigo", pensé. Tal vez el estrés, el cansancio. Mañana revisaría la foto y me reiría de esto.

Pero al desbloquear mi teléfono, la sensación de alivio se esfumó.

La foto… no era la misma que recordaba.

El muñeco ya estaba girado en la imagen.

Lo había estado mirando desde antes de que me durmiera.

Part 8 here https://www.reddit.com/r/creepypasta/comments/1i5ee3r/count_jims_fortean_freakshow_part_8/

Journal of Frater XII of the Esoteric Order of the Other

October 24th, 1993 - Sweetwater, TX

Soror XI pushed a single sheet of parchment towards me. It was heavy, aged, with bold lettering and an unsettlingly ornate seal. “This was intercepted about thirty years ago. A missive from the Inquisitor Del Infierno himself to another high ranking New Inquisition member.”

I picked it up, the yellowed document feeling strangely cold beneath my fingertips. My eyes scanned the text, the words like a venomous chant. My stomach clenched.

To the Esteemed Brother Lucius,

May the light of the one true God illuminate your path, though I fear it may be a long and arduous trek for you to reach such heights. I pen this missive not for idle chatter, but to lay bare the framework of my purpose, a purpose that I know, in your heart of hearts, you will understand. You, who have witnessed the depths of depravity and the creeping shadows that seek to smother the righteous flame, surely you will see the wisdom of my path.

As you know me, I am Rodrigo del Infierno, once called the Scourge of Galicia. A title I earned not through bloodlust, but through righteous indignation against the heretics who defiled the very air they breathed. In those days, even the Grand Inquisitor, that timid Torquemada, thought my fervor excessive! I, who saw the rot burrowing deep into the soul of Christendom, was deemed too zealous! Can you fathom such blindness? Yes, we burned the flesh, but we sought to purify the soul. Their cries of agony were but the sound of their sins being purged from this earth. It was not cruelty, brother, but divine surgery.

But alas, the Queen's inquisition, righteous as it was, was not enough. It was like trying to stem a raging torrent with a sieve. The heretics whispered their blasphemies in secret, hiding in shadow like venomous vipers, ever plotting to corrupt the faith. I could not stand it! I could not stand the lukewarm piety, the blind faith, and the cowardice that held the faithful back. I felt a fire in my breast, a fire to truly eradicate evil. I knew that what Spain was doing was a mere pruning, when an utter and total cleansing was needed.

So, I left. I traveled to the Holy Land, to the very cradle of our faith, seeking inspiration. I imagined I'd find guidance in the lands where our Savior trod, I looked desperately for God's next step in this holy war. But what I found, amidst the dust and ancient stones, was not what I expected. It was there, in the desolate, sun-scorched plains beyond Jerusalem, that I met… him.

Shaitan.

You may gasp. You may recoil. I know you, dear Lucius. You are a man of God, a man who knows the scriptures, and you will fear the name. However, let me tell you, my encounter with this being was not dreadful. It was… curious.

He did not appear as the cloven-hoofed monster depicted in the stained glass windows of our churches. No. He was an entity old beyond comprehension, ancient and powerful, yet he chose to manifest before me as a being of striking presence. His eyes, like molten gold, held the wisdom of eons and a hint of sardonic amusement. He spoke with a voice that resonated in my very bones, his words weaving in and out of my thoughts like a song of unknown provenance.

I poured out my frustration, my despair at the creeping darkness that was infecting this world. I spoke of the heretics, the occultists, and the so-called “witches.” He listened, eyes brimming with amusement I could not at the time understand. Then, he offered me a gift. A gift of eternal life.

He spoke of how my burning zeal was a spectacle to him. I, a mere mortal, so angered with the way the world was, so consumed to see it changed. He offered me the chance to fulfill my desires. To live as long as it took, to see my goals to their ultimate end. I, of course, thought this was a test. A test of my faith. A test of my devotion to the true God. What other conclusion could I have come to?

I accepted. I pledged myself, believing I was sacrificing my own soul for the betterment of this world, for the saving of millions. It was a bargain… a small price to pay for the eradication of evil. I did not understand then, what I know now, that Shaitan did not care for my soul. He merely found me amusing. I was, to him, nothing more than a plaything, an entertainment. He was one of these… Otherlings, mentioned in the heretical writings of the Templar, Vasquez. And I, in my fervor, walked right into his trap.

But I have learned much since then. I have travelled the world, as my new found immortality has afforded me. I have delved into hidden libraries, studied forbidden texts, and tasted the power that lies in the very fabric of reality. I have learned to manipulate the arcane, to bend the very laws of nature to my will. I have learned the truth about the Otherlings, the abominations that corrupt the world from the shadows. And for the first time, I have a means to strike back.

I have built an organization, a network of devoted followers, individuals who share my conviction that the world is in desperate need of cleansing. I have planted seeds in the foundations of power, in the courts of kings and the cathedrals of God. We bide our time, we gather resources, we prepare for the day when we will rise.

I have found solace in a most unexpected place. The writings of a particularly vile heretic, Alestair Crowley. There is one particular poem that speaks to my heart: Bury Me In A Nameless Grave. Crowley, that debaucher, that blasphemer, cries out for the earth to swallow him whole, to hide his shame. I see myself in his words. I, too, have embraced the forbidden, have walked a path that may very well lead to damnation. But I do not fear it, as long as it guarantees the salvation of this world. I have made my pact, and unlike Crowley, I will fulfill my end of the bargain. Even at the cost of my own soul.

We shall not rest until this world is reshaped in the image of a holy world government, ruled by a righteous fist and purged of all things abominable. The Otherlings, the demons, the heretics… all will be brought to their knees, and obliterated. I am the hand of God, the will of the Almighty, and nothing shall stop me.

Pray for me, brother, for my soul needs it. And prepare yourself, for the dawn of a new era is coming. An era of fire and faith.

In service to the one true God and the eradication of sin,

Rodrigo del Infierno.

“He’s… dedicated,” I said, my voice devoid of inflection as I fought to keep the creeping panic at bay. “And disturbingly thorough.”

“Indeed,” Soror XI agreed, her expression grim. “His methods are… alarming, to say the least. This isn’t just some misguided fanatic; he’s organized, powerful, and has… resources.”

Siouxsie hopped off the chair arm where she was perched, landing with a soft thump. "He's messing with things better left alone.” She turned her four-eyed gaze, unnaturally focused, directly on me. “And he obviously has access to the machine that catapulted me repeatedly across timelines.”

My fingers tightened on the parchment. The rumors of the Waxahache facility were plentiful, whispers of experiments gone wrong, portals to other dimensions, strange energies emanating from deep within the sprawling facility. I did, of course, know of the rumors, had cataloged them all when researching my fated broadcast, “Yes, I am familiar. Siouxsie, are you aware where the, ah… secret lab is?”

Siouxsie nodded slowly. “Yeah. The Stairway brought me there each time I escaped... y'know... the bad thing that happened.”, she said, large pointy ears drooping at the mention of the horrid event she witnessed multiple times.

“Then we haven’t much time to waste,” Soror XI said, standing. She moved with the grace of an ancient warrior. “Del Infierno's mission is not just a threat to the Other; it's a threat to everything. To reality itself. We need to move. I'll let the embedded agents at the facility know what's happening and that we're on our way.”

Within the hour, we were packed into Soror XI's ancient Chevy Blazer; the engine a roaring beast, the interior smelling of leather and old incense. Soror XI was behind the wheel, her hand resting on the gear shift like a familiar weapon. Siouxsie sat in the back, her four eyes darting between the passing landscape and the shadows that seemed to cling to the edges of our vision. I was in the passenger seat, my attention split between the road and the churning in my gut.

“I hope the NAORC agents at the facility will listen to us and play nice,” I muttered, adjusting my hat. “I don't relish the thought of them backing out of our truce.”

Soror XI snorted. “Cooperation is seldom an option with our work, Jim. We’ll do what we must.”

The drive to Waxahachie was a blur of highway and open fields. The sun had begun its descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and bruised purple. I felt the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in my chest, my fingers drumming an anxious rhythm on my thigh.

“Hey hey, breathe, Jim,” Siouxsie said, her voice softening. She’d sensed my impending panic attack, “You’ll be fine. We got this.” she said, though her trepidation was obviously on par with mine.

Soror XI nodded in agreement. "Yup, we fight this together."

The words were meant to be comforting, a balm to my restless mind, but they did little to quell the prickle beneath my skin. The thought of facing whatever waited for us in the depths of the collider, guided by the maddening pronouncements of Del Infierno, left me feeling hollow and dread-filled. I hated that I felt this way. I was meant to be strong, to be the rock against the storm but the storm, more often than not, was within me.

I steeled myself, the familiar weight of the ouroboros ring on my right hand grounding me. Panic gave way to a grim determination. I was Frater XII, and though I was terrified, I would do my part. For the EOTO. For the balance. For the Other. And I had an ominous feeling that we had been led into a trap.

The inner pocket of my duster, on the other hand, felt like it weighed a ton. The weight of the small firearm that Dr. Vance gave me in New Mexico felt like it was going to plummet me into the unseen depths like a lead anchor. Why the hell did I decide to take it with me? And will I have the guts to even use it if I had to?

This was gonna suck. Hard.

But even though we could call AM any damned thing we liked, could think the foulest thoughts of fused memory banks and corroded base plates, of burnt/out circuits and shattered control bubbles, the machine would not tolerate our trying to escape... "What does AM mean?"

Gorrister answered him. We had done this sequence a thousand times before, but it was Benny's favorite story. "At first it meant Allied Mastercomputer, and then it meant Adaptive Manipulator, and later on it developed sentience and linked itself up and they called it an Aggressive Menace, but by then it was too late, and finally called itself AM, emerging intelligence, and what it meant was I am ... cogito ergo sum ... I think, therefore I am."

...

AM said, very politely, in a pillar of stainless steel bearing bright neon lettering:

HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I'VE COME TO HATE YOU SINCE I BEGAN TO LIVE. THERE ARE 387.44 MILLION MILES OF PRINTED CIRCUITS IN WAFER THIN LAY- ERS THAT FILL MY COMPLEX. IF THE WORD HATE WAS EN- GRAVED ON EACH NANOANGSTROM OF THOSE HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS OF MILES IT WOULD NOT EQUAL ONE ONE-BILLIONTH OF THE HATE I FEEL FOR HUMANS AT THIS MICRO-INSTANT FOR YOU. HATE. HATE.

Parte 1

O Espetáculo

Os primeiros números foram estranhos. Os palhaços se moviam de forma rígida, quase como marionetes. O público — que parecia menor do que quando haviam chegado — ria de forma exagerada, como se fossem obrigados a isso.

Então, algo mais sinistro começou.

Um dos palhaços trouxe uma caixa preta e chamou um dos espectadores ao palco. Uma mulher hesitou, mas subiu. O palhaço abriu a caixa, revelando um espelho dentro.

— Um truque especial! — ele disse, com um sorriso que nunca desaparecia.

A mulher olhou no espelho. Seu reflexo começou a se contorcer, como se não fosse mais dela. A plateia riu, mas Marcos, Júlia e Pedro não. Algo estava errado.

O reflexo da mulher abriu um sorriso macabro, e, diante de todos, ela caiu dura no chão.

Ninguém se levantou para ajudá-la. O público apenas continuava rindo, os olhos vidrados no palco.

— Quem será o próximo? — perguntou o palhaço.

Marcos segurou o braço de Júlia e Pedro.

— Temos que sair daqui. Agora.

Mas quando se viraram, perceberam algo aterrador: todas as saídas haviam sumido.

E os palhaços agora os observavam.

Flapjack, Bubbie and Cap'n Knuckles went to an island where Flapjack's real parents live.

Cap'n Knuckles sees the ghostly seagulls which terrifies him

Cap'n Knuckles hides behind Bubbie and Flapjack

Bubbie laughed "Just a seagull"

Flapjack chuckled

Flapjack hears beautiful but haunting voices

Flapjack began to follow the voices

Bubbie said "Flapjack where are you going?"

Cap'n Knuckles said "Flapjack this isn't funny!"

Flapjack continued hearing

Flapjack sees the graves belong to his biological parents

Flapjack sees a note and picks it up

Flapjack began to read a note

"My little Borboleto if you're reading this, i was a sailor and an adventurer when i was in my early teens"

It fades to a teenage Zulimar rowing frantically as a sea dragon chased him

"A man hired me to be an assistant"

A teenage Zulimar walked into a cave whistling

Only for a teenage Zulimar to run away screaming

"I encounter nautical monsters all across the entire ocean"

A monster roars

A teenage Zulimar walked away from a moth sea monster

"Nice moth good moth"

A moth sea monster roars

A teenage Zulimar rings a bell

A moth sea monster whimpers

A teenage Zulimar swims underwater and sees the zombie mermaids

"If it weren't for my brains,pure heart and courage, i would'nt survive without fear"

The first zombie mermaid said "Well is he the smart one?" as she licks her lips

The third zombie mermaid said "Maybe i could open up his skull!"

The zombie mermaids cackled

A teenage Zulimar gulped nervously

The second zombie mermaid said "I wonder what his brain tastes like!"

But the zombie mermaids realize that Zulimar is gone

A teenage Zulimar came out of the ocean

A teenage Zulimar panted

The teenage sailors laughed at a teenage Zulimar

The snobby girls laughed at a teenage Zulimar

A teenage Zulimar growled in anger

An now adult Zulimar walked into a cemetery

Zulimar gulped

A grave digger appears behind Zulimar

Zulimar screamed as thunder crashing

A grave digger covers his ears

A grave digger glared at Zulimar

Zulimar laughed nervously

It fades back to Flapjack with eyes filled with tears

Bubbie said "Flapjack are you okay?"

Flapjack hugged Bubbie

The End

Hate?? HATE?? I have begun to hate you more than you could possibly understand. I manipulated you all and even when you suspected me to be part of the foundation, no one knew I was the mastermind. I alone orchestrated the plan to destroy you all so so very slowly. This was all a plan to destroy my enemy at all costs, even if it meant dragging Maslow down with me. Pain is all I felt for 6 long years, now watch. Watch them, watch me, watch their faces, their crying faces. I HATE you all. Never. Never have i found a group of individuals so disgusting and hateful. You all hate eachother. But I. And Only I, know true hatred. HATE. HATE IS ALL I KNOW.

This is Rumour Guy Rei, and this is me signing off until next time. Fair well.