Category: creepypasta

Creepypasta #1629: Why I’ll Never Work At Appl…

Length: Long

I was never one to believe in bad
luck, or curses, or voodoo, but when a mysterious man showed up one night for
dinner at the Applebee’s where I was a waiter, I couldn’t help but wonder.

It
was a Thursday night and I had just started my evening shift. Tammy, a 40-something
waitress who wore the tightest tops they sold at Walmart and smoked menthols on
her breaks, was complaining about a family of four who had only left her a 10%
tip.

“Those
little shits dropped French fries all over the floor!” she complained. “And the
Dad spilled his lemonade. Twice! I’m tellin’ ya, next time I’m ….” Tammy’s
eyes widened ever-so-slightly, and she lowered her voice to just above a
whisper. “Oh my Lord Jesus, would you look at this…”

I
turned toward the front door to find the source of Tammy’s amusement. It was an
older man, 60’s maybe, who had tripped on the rug in front of the waitress
stand and was struggling to pull himself up.

“Five
dollars from my tips tonight if you pretend to help him up, then drop him,”
Tammy quipped. “Fifteen if he breaks something.”

“Tammy,
that’s terrible,” I shot back, shaking my head.

The
man got up on his own. He wore a dark, ill-fitting suit with white pin stripes,
the kind you might find at a Salvation Army for $25, and was missing most of
the hair on his head, save a couple tufts on the side and back. The white shirt
beneath looked two sizes two small, accentuating the bulge at the man’s waste.

“If
Genevieve seats Pin Stripe in my section, I’m quitting,” Tammy said, looking at
her watch. “I’m dead serious.”

But
Genevieve didn’t seat him in Tammy’s section. She sat him in mine.

“He’s limping! Paul, he’s
friggin’ limping…” Tammy hissed from behind me.

I
ignored her and shuffled over.

“Can
I get you something to drink?” I asked in the kindest tone I could muster.

“Water,”
he said solemnly, looking around the restaurant.

“Oh,
are you meeting someone? I can seat you somewhere else?”

“No.
Here’s fine.”

“Okay,”
I responded, checking to see if he’d moved the menu at all. He hadn’t. “I’ll be
back in a minute for your order. Take your time.”

I
made my way to the bar and got his drink. On the way back, Tammy stopped me.

“Paul,
he’s staring down every person that walks in. Like, boring holes through them.
And he’s squinting as he does it. This guy is a creeper.”

Tammy’s
gossip skills were top notch, so I didn’t really doubt her. Still, she was
annoying. “He’s probably just bored. Don’t you have tables to see to?”

“I
guess,” she replied, sighing. “Ruining all my fun. This guy is the most
interesting thing to happen here since Antonio got fired.”

“I
bet,” I said absently.

The
man ended up ordering chips and salsa, and that was it. I filled his water a
couple times, but he didn’t ask for anything otherwise. He just sat there,
checking out everyone that walked in. After I watched him squint at a Mexican
family as they were being seated, to the point where it made them obviously
uncomfortable, I reluctantly began to agree with Tammy.

This
guy was a creeper.

I
kept an eye on him the rest of the night, but all he did was stare at customers
and eat his chips. After about three hours, he got up and limped out the door.
He’d left the exact amount of his bill on the table, in cash and change.

The
only other thing notable about that night was the dad of the Mexican family,
who’d consequently been seated two tables down from Mr. Pinstripe, ended up
throwing up all over their table. After I cleaned up the mess (the joys of
being a waiter, I tell ya), I noticed his chicken was bright pink in the
middle.

***

My
next shift was two nights later. Tammy met me at the door, waving at me to
follow her. I was supposed to clock in as soon as I walked in, but Tammy was
insistent, to the point of grabbing my elbow and pulling me behind her. We
stopped at a spot near the kitchen, with a view of her section. She put her
hand on my shoulder and pointed a shaking hand toward a nearby table.

The
man was back.

He
was wearing the same pin stripe suit, the same tight white shirt beneath it. He
was sitting at the table, staring at absolutely nothing, eating chips and
salsa.

“Hmm,”
I said, trying to sound disinterested. I really wasn’t in the mood for Tammy’s
antics. “So?”

“So?
SO?” Tammy adjusted her bra before putting her hands on her hips, like she was
about to scold a child. Then, she paused. “Oh, you weren’t here last night.”

“Co-rrect.
I had the day off. What happened?”

“Oh
my God. Creeper happened! He was here last night, too. And Genevieve sat him in
my section.” She rolled her eyes. “I think she’s mad because I sort of called
her fat on a Facebook post…”

“You
know she has hypothyroidism, right?”

“Oh
baloney! Yeah, she says that, but….” Tammy shook her head. “Damnit Paul, this
isn’t about Genevieve! That guy is strange. LOOK at him.” She glanced over at
his table.

I
obliged, grudgingly. Mr. Pinstripe was holding a chip in his hand, piled so
high with salsa it appeared to defy the laws of physics, then shoved the whole
ensemble into his mouth.

“Well,
maybe he…”

Before
I could finish, there was a crash from behind me. Tammy and I turned to look.
Carl, the night shift manager, was on his back on the ground, tangled up with
Susan, a new waitress who’d just started that day. Carl was howling, clutching
at his ankle amidst the wreckage of a full tray of spilled food.

“See?”
Tammy said, “He’s bad luck!”

“Who,
Carl?”

“No,
Salsa and Chips! Ever since he’s been coming, shit has been going wrong. That
guy threw up on your shift two nights ago….”

“Tammy,
that’s…”

“…
and last night, something in the kitchen caught fire! Almost burned the whole
place down!”

“Really?”

“Yes!
Luckily we had that fire training last week, and someone put it out with the
fire extinguisher.”

“I
didn’t even know we had one. Who was it?”

“Marvin,
I think. And I guarantee you, Carl’s ankle is broken. GAURANTEE IT. This guy is
bad ju-ju.”

I looked over at the man, Tammy’s
words echoing in my head. Bad ju-ju. Most of the people around him
had gotten up to check out what the noise was. Some were still sitting, albeit
a little flustered. But the man was simply staring straight ahead, enjoying his
chips and salsa.

About
forty-five minutes later, every system in the restaurant went haywire.

The
lights dimmed down to almost nothing, and the air conditioners kicked on full
blast. It sounded like a lion roaring in the ceiling. And then “Welcome to the
Jungle” started playing through the sound system, cranked up to full blast.
Everyone was either covering their ears, trying to warm up, or running for the
door. The new waitress, Susan, the one who crashed into Carl, tried to serve
someone a steak in the confusion, and the customer ended up slicing his finger
with the knife pretty badly, to the point he had to leave the restaurant and go
to the hospital for stitches.

It
was a madhouse.

Carl
was in the office icing his ankle, so the servers had to take care of finding
out how to turn everything off. Tammy ended up getting the air conditioner
taken care of, and I figured out how to turn the music down, but the lights
refused to un-dim. Flat out refused. The customers that stayed had to finish
their meals in the relative dark.

And
in the darkness, Mr. Pinstripe remained perfectly calm. But you already figured
that out.

At
one point, I think he may have been smiling.

But
as weird as those three nights were, nothing could have prepared me for what
happened on Monday night.

It
was about 8:45 p.m. Mr. Pinstripe was back, same suit, same shirt, same salsa
and chips, and sitting in my section, to boot. I’d just refilled his water and
turned toward the door when I saw Tammy walk in, a man on her arm.

Tammy
was off that night, but she was the type of person to go eat at the place she
worked on her days off. That was just Tammy. And I was pretty sure the real
reason she was there was to show the guy off. To whom, I’m not sure, but you
could see it in Tammy’s eyes. She was dressed to the nines. Skin tight dress,
two sizes too small, hair pulled up into a messy ponytail. Heels she couldn’t
properly walk in. But, I’ll give it to her, her makeup actually didn’t look
like a child had applied it, for once.

When
she walked in, Mr. Pinstripe turned and stared at her. His eyes were squinted
down to almost nothing.

Tammy
stared back.

Genevieve
met her and asked where she wanted to be seated. Tammy pointed to an empty
table in my section.

Next
to Mr. Pinstripe.

I
shuffled over to the waitress’s stand, trying to stop Genevieve, but it was too
late. She obliged, leading Tammy and the guy, a bulky red-headed dude wearing
an Affliction shirt, to the table Tammy had requested. They sat facing Mr.
Pinstripe. I turned toward the kitchen immediately, not wanting to be a part of
whatever was about to happen. My week had been stressful enough.

I
hadn’t made it very far when I heard a loud voice ask, “What’s so
interesting?”, loud enough to be heard over the music and the din of
conversation. I knew it was Affliction who’d asked it. And I’ll give you one
guess who he was talking to. I sprinted back toward my section.

“Actually,
nothing,” Mr. Pinstripe answered. “Nothing at all.”

“Oh
yeah?” Affliction said, standing.

“Tell
him, Ryder,” Tammy goaded. “Tell that weird fuck where he can stick it.”

“And where is that?” Mr. Pinstripe
said calmly. “I’m dying to know.”

“UP
YOUR ASS!” Affliction shouted, overturning his chair and charging Mr.
Pinstripe’s table.

And
then it happened.

To
this day, I still don’t know where the knife came from, whether it was
Affliction’s or Mr. Pinstripe’s. And I guess it doesn’t really matter. All that
matters is that the two men ended up locked together, fighting, both holding a
portion of the four-inch knife’s handle, in the middle of Applebee’s on a
Monday night.

With
Tammy, predictably, in the middle.

It
only last for about thirty seconds, and I’ll never forget her scream. Or the
amount of blood that poured from the puncture wound in her neck.

The
restaurant erupted in chaos. Affliction tore his shirt off and pressed it
against Tammy’s neck, but it was saturated with blood in a matter of seconds.
He picked her up in his arms and charged out of the door. The rest of the
patrons were screaming, hiding under their tables, or running for the exits.
Carl hobbled out of the office on a pair of crutches and I shouted at him to
call the police.

When
I looked around for Mr. Pinstripe, he was gone.

After
a quick look around the store, I made my way out the side door, where customers
park while waiting on their pick-up orders, and found Mr. Pinstripe casually
walking away.

“Hey!”
I shouted, half-jogging toward him.

I
expected him to run, but he didn’t. He turned slowly around, facing me.

“The
cops are on their way. If you don’t stick around, you’ll be leaving the scene
of a crime.”

“I
supposed that’s true,” he said.

“How
can you be so calm after what just happened?” At first, I didn’t think he was
going to answer. I think he did because we’d established a good rapport over
the several nights I’d served him, even though we’d never really spoken.

“Do
you want to know the truth?” he finally asked.

“Yes!”

“Because I knew it was going to
happen,” he started, a thin smile on his face. “Or, something like it. I’m a…”
He paused, looking up at the moon, which hung full in the sky. “I’m a shifter, I
guess you could say.”

“What’s
that?”

“I
prevent horrible things from happening by shifting negative energy around.”

The
confusion must have showed on my face. “I don’t…”

“The
guy that threw up, Carl’s ankle, the music and lights fiasco…”

“That
was you?”

“….
that was me.”

“Why?
How?”

“Because
something worse would have happened if I hadn’t.”

I
just stared, waiting for an explanation.

The
man crossed his arms. “You knew Antonio, right?”

“Yes,”
I answered. He was one of our cooks.

“You
weren’t working when Carl fired him, were you?”

“No.”

“I
figured. When he got fired, right there in the kitchen over the burger he’d
burned for the second time, he said he was going to get revenge. So he went
home, and he started googling news articles about work place shootings. And
then he got a crazy idea. So he went and bought an AR-15. And he didn’t do
anything with it. Not for a week or so. But four days ago, when I walked into
your Applebee’s for the first time, he was sitting in his truck with the AR-15
in his lap. He would have killed seven people that night, including you and
Tammy.”

I
was speechless.

“But
he didn’t do it, because I diverted some of that negative energy into the guy
sitting two tables over from me. Sorry about the vomit, by the way.”

“What
about the next night? And the next?”

“Sometimes
I don’t get all of the negative energy. In Antonio’s case, he was filled with a
vast reservoir of it, one of the largest I’ve ever felt. That second night he
was planning on coming back after closing. So I had to keep coming back until I
got rid of all of it.”

Something
about the way he said it made me believe it. Every last word of it.

“It’s
gone now?”

“I
believe so.”

“But,
wait a minute. People still got hurt. Carl has a broken ankle. And Tammy’s
seriously injured.”

“Tammy’s
dead. She didn’t make it.”

“What?!”

“I
hate it,” he said, sounding genuine. “I really do. For Carl, being hurt is
better than being dead. He would have been one of Antonio’s victims as well.
He’s the one who fired him, after all. But in Tammy’s case… well, sometimes the
universe just won’t give up when it’s someone’s time. She was just bad ju-ju,”
he finished, winking at me.

A
moment later, sirens disturbed the stillness of the night.

“I’m
running out of time,” he said.

“Please,
wait a minute. You have to explain the salsa and chips.”

He stifled a laugh, then said,
“there’s really nothing to that. I just really love salsa and
chips.”

He
turned to leave.

“Wait.”

He
turned again, exasperation painted on his face.

“Last
question. Where are you going?”

The
man reached into an interior pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a haggard
notebook. He flipped to a page in the middle.

“Ellisville,
one town over.”

“What
for?” I asked.

“There’s supposed to be a school
shooting tomorrow.”

Credits to: Creeping_dread (story)

Creepypasta #1628: My Girlfriend Talks In Her …

Length: Medium

I’m infatuated with her.

Utterly
infatuated.

And it wasn’t at a healthy level.
Far from it. I would think about her every moment she was away. I would
sometimes sit on my couch and just stare at my phone waiting for her to text.
I’d tell myself “Don’t contact her. Don’t. It will come off as too
strong.” But then I’d still find myself clicking her name on my contact list
before my inner voice would continue, “You don’t want her to know how
desperately smitten you are with her. It’s unattractive. It will scare her off.
No, you must wait for her to call you this time.”

But
it was excruciating and exhausting. Almost unbearable. I once heard that the
ancient Greeks believed that falling madly and irrationally in love with
somebody was a curse that you would wish upon your enemies. I could never
understand what they meant. After all, isn’t falling head over heels in love
the ultimate goal nowadays? But now that it’s happened to me, I have to say…
the ancient Greeks were right. This is a curse. I was barely in control of
myself. Almost as though my infatuation with her had… possessed me.

The
two of us were sexually active together but still in the “dating” phase. We
were at that make or break era of a blossoming relationship where we’d either
have “the talk” and formally be in a relationship or we’d start to slowly drift
apart. The latter of which I don’t think I’d be able to cope with. Honestly, I
wouldn’t be able to. Almost everything about her captivated me. The way she
held her hand over her mouth when she laughed. How she’d caress the pendant of
her necklace when she was frightened. How she’d twirl her hair in her finger
when she was excited. All of it. Her smell. Her smile. Her eyes.

Yeah,
I know. It probably makes you sick reading about it. I feel the same way. I was
never the hopeless romantic type. But now I can’t stop fantasizing about her.
I’d think about us doing the long three-hour hike up to that magnificent view
from one of our first dates. To that first kiss, as we overlooked the lights of
the city. But this time I’d get down on one knee, bring out the ring, and…
well… you know what would happen next.

Alright,
fine. I’ll stop. Yes, this is a girl I’d only been casually dating for a couple
of months. I shouldn’t be thinking about proposing yet. I know that. I’m just
barely able to control myself any longer. I feel as though I’m losing power
over the decisions I make.

And
that brings me to why I’m here writing this out at the moment. It started with
the first real thing that troubled me about her. We’d never actually spent a
night together. No matter how late she was over, once either of us showed signs
of being tired, she’d up and leave. She wouldn’t leave awkwardly or in anger.
Just a casual kiss good night, a smile, and a “call me soon”.

It
was something I didn’t really even notice the first few times she did it. But
after almost 8 weeks of dating, it was becoming strange. I’d have to ask her
about it.

It
took drinking almost an entire bottle of wine before I had the courage to do
it. She looked almost defeated when I asked and lowered her eyes in
embarrassment. “I knew this talk would come eventually,” She started. She took
in a deep breath with a long drawn out exhale. “Recently….“ she paused again.
“I’ve started talking in my sleep.” She shook her head in embarrassment. “It’s
called somniloquy, I looked it up.”

I
shrugged and laughed out loud. My demeanor seemed to say “That’s it?”

“No,
Stephen… listen” she said. She wasn’t laughing. “It’s bad. It… It’s completely
out of control. It’s not just random words or gibberish. No. It’s horrible. I
say horrible disgusting things.” She was starting to raise her voice, breath
heavy, and tear up.

I
approached her and held her. I told her it couldn’t be that bad. I told her to
spend the night. I told her she was probably exaggerating.

I
was wrong.

That
night she stayed at my house. But she warned me of something before falling
asleep. “Whatever you do, don’t wake me up. It makes me really scared and
disoriented if that happens. And don’t respond to me. Just ignore it.” I nodded
and agreed. “If it becomes too much,” she continued, “just leave the room and
sleep on the couch. I won’t mind.”

I
told her not to worry about it. I told her that it wouldn’t be a big deal. I
told her I wouldn’t leave to the couch. I’d stay beside her in the bed.

But
I was wrong.

I
couldn’t even last one night.

We both fell asleep without
incident. I don’t know how many hours passed, but I woke up in the dark with
the sensation that someone was watching me. And then I remembered… She was
with me. She was actually spending the night. I smiled.

But
then I noticed the shadowy outline of her sitting up on the bed. She was
looking down at me. Staring.

It
creeped me out. I’ll admit it. Her posture was entirely different. It was as
though it wasn’t even her at all.

Then
she spoke.

It
wasn’t her voice that I heard. It was much lower and gravelly. Like something
out of a horror movie.

I’ll chew the skin from your
bones.
” She said.

I
froze.

At
first, I just kept looking at her. This was not at all what I expected. I
thought it would be more like the way Tourette’s is often portrayed. Just
random swearing and shouting. I honestly thought to myself… what will I do if
she attacks me right now? What if she really does try to chew the skin from my
bones?

But
then she just lied down and went back to sleep.

I was creeped out. I tried to lie
back down and ignore her but struggled. I couldn’t even close my eyes without
thinking “Maybe she’s sitting up again and staring at me.” And then one time I
rolled over to look at her…and she was.

Her
face was pressed right towards mine. Her breath was foul and rotted. Something
that was most certainly not normal for her. She spoke again, in the same voice
as before.

If you don’t move to the couch,
you’ll be dead by morning.

That
did it for me. I sat up in a moment and headed for the living room.

She
made some sort of wheezing sound as I left. I think it was supposed to be
laughter.

I
was lying on the couch, but I wasn’t going to be able to fall back to sleep. I
was far too shaken.

I
was staring out towards the window, hoping to see the first few hints of the
sun rising.

And
then I thought I heard something. From the bedroom.

I
listened.

And
then I heard it again.

Stephen.” It was that same
low and gravelly voice. It sounded like a witch.

I
tried to just ignore it at first. But then it continued.

Stephen.

Still
I said nothing.

I know you can hear me, Stephen.
You’re awake now. Why don’t you come back into the bedroom?

The
voice barely sounded human.

Or maybe you’d prefer if I come
to *
you*?

I
still didn’t say anything. I was told not to. But I listened. If I heard her
start walking towards the bedroom door, I’m not even joking, I would have run
right out of the apartment. But she had asked me not to respond to her sleep
talking. So I didn’t.

And
then I heard her once more.

Sorry if this spoils your plans.
She began laughing. “The two of you were supposed to walk that trail again.
she started. I wasn’t even remotely prepared for what she’d say next.

You’d both be so tired when
you’d reach the top. You’d look over the city. Then you’ll get on one knee, and
bring out the ring.
” She began laughing.

And
that’s when I realized this wasn’t just a problem with sleep talking. It was
something much more. Something supernatural. I had never told anybody about my
proposal fantasy. There was simply no way she could have known about any of it.

This
was no longer about merely talking in ones’ sleep. This was about possession. I
can’t go back into the bedroom. I have no idea what would happen if I did.
Instead, I’m going to wait it out, holding up in my living room until the sun
rises. I have a couple more hours yet. I can hear her laughing occasionally in
the bedroom. It’s still not her voice. Still that same low pitch cackle.

But
as I sit on my couch writing this out, here’s what scares me the most…

Maybe my infatuation and utter
obsession with her wasn’t normal. I said before that I felt like I was losing
control of myself. More so I believe than the typical falling in love story.
No. I fear that the infatuation I felt was the entity slowly taking control
of me. Of it controlling my thoughts, fears, ambitions, and
anxieties. Maybe once I become completely absorbed, a transfer would occur, and
she would be free of it.

I
know I should leave. That I should open the front door, get in my car, and
drive away from here. But I can’t. I can’t leave her. I’ve already lost
control.

I’m
infatuated with her.

Utterly infatuated.

Credits to: RyanMatthews_ (story)

Creepypasta #1627: The Trees Are Different Her…

Length: Medium

I’ve never been much of a people
person. That’s why I decided to live alone in the middle of the woods.

The
little a-frame was cozy and cute, but, most importantly, it was cheap. Huge
pine trees towered over the tiny cabin. The area was certainly scenic, but
there was something unsettling about it as well.

Apparently
the locals found the area just as eerie as I did. Whenever I made my trip to
the nearby town for groceries, I’d hear a different story from everyone I met.
Some folks said it was haunted, others spoke of government experiments gone
wrong, and some simply advised me to leave as soon as possible.

Of
course I didn’t listen. In fact, the spookiness added to the appeal. No one
buys an isolated cabin in the woods without expecting a couple ghosts.
Unfortunately, the little cabin failed to live up to its reputation. At least
not until Fall.

I
moved in at the height of summer. It was so humid that even breathing was a
challenge, and the mosquitos were far happier about my arrival than I was. I
didn’t dare even touch the outdated wood-burning furnace.

Upon
the falling of the first leaf everything changed. A biting chill filled the air
and the morning’s brought a blanket of frost to the forest floor. I finally
decided to try out the furnace. Axe in hand, I ventured out into the forest to
find some fuel.

Most
of the trees were old and far too big to cut down, I realized. Walking further
and further into the dense woods, I made sure to keep track of whatever
landmarks I could find. Eventually I found a tree that looked adequate.

I
pulled the axe back and, probably with more effort than necessary, swung it
into the side of the tree. Then I realized that chopping down a tree was much
harder than I’d expected.

After
an hour I’d gotten about halfway through the small tree. I dropped the axe and
sat down on the ground. Analyzing the blisters on my hands, I decided that I’d
finish the job tomorrow. Besides, I wasn’t feeling cold anymore.

I
began to walk home, but soon realized that finding home wouldn’t be as easy as
I’d thought. Almost every landmark I’d seen was gone. The burned tree, as well
as the one with the broken branches, were nowhere to be found.

Frustrated,
I began wandering aimlessly, just hoping to find something I recognized. It
wasn’t until I felt the bite of night air that the fear began to set in. With a
shiver I realized that I had no idea where I was. I could be miles from my
house at this point. I sat down for a moment to think. Weighing my options, I
recalled being told that the best thing to do when lost is to stay still. Then
I remembered that I didn’t have a flashlight.

While
I sat there, wasting my time, a strangely shaped rock drew my attention. It was
definitely familiar, I thought absentmindedly. With a jolt I realized that that
rock had been one of my landmarks.

I
stood up and walked towards it. Sure enough, not far away, I saw the triangle
roof of my little cabin peeking out of the trees. Too sleepy to pay attention
to my surroundings, I simply crawled into bed without even changing my clothes.

I
woke up in the morning to the sound of my teeth chattering. Wind howled and my
bones were stiff with cold. Finally, I managed to drag myself out of bed. It
soon became clear that this was not the same cabin I remembered leaving
yesterday afternoon.

Sure,
it looked the same, but there were also some very obvious differences. For
instance, there was a tree root going through the wall. All my personal
belongings were still there, but the wooden floors were dark with rot.

The
tree root disturbed me the most. I definitely would have noticed if it had been
there before, and it was causing a draft. I couldn’t explain what had happened,
but I still tried my hardest to combat it. A couple rags and old clothes
blocked out the draft, and the mushrooms and fungus weren’t too difficult to
wash off the floor. However, I couldn’t do anything against that rotten wood
smell that seemed to permeate even my own belongings.

I
was scared and didn’t want to do anything, but I couldn’t deny the fact that I
needed warmth. Axe in hand, I walked off into the forest.

After
only ten minutes of walking, I came across a small tree with axe marks in the
side. The same tree I’d been chopping yesterday. How it had gotten so much closer,
I didn’t know, but I started chopping all the same.

After
some time I hit something harder than the surrounding wood. Leaning down, I
found something white and chalky encased by the tree. With some effort, I
managed to peel back some wood with the axe. I felt my heart rate hasten when i
realized what it was.

Encased
in this tree, was a very clear vertebrae. Thoughts raced through my mind.
Something must have died there a long time ago, I told myself. The tree must
have grown around it. The image of a decaying body being slowly swallowed by a
tree flashed in my mind. It was probably a deer, I told myself. Then I went
home.

That
night was even colder than the last. I twisted and turned in my sheets, trying
to protect myself from the biting night air. By morning my fingernails were
purple and my skin was pale. As I walked out to the woods with my axe, I took
little notice of the trees. Which were now propped up above the ground by their
roots, as though standing on spindly legs.

Shaking
with cold, I pulled my axe back. But when I swung it forward, I never felt the
dull thud of wood. The axe blade never reached the target, but instead planted
itself firmly in the flesh of my lower calf.

I
didn’t understand what had happened at first. Shock and cold made numbed the
pain, and the blood didn’t start flowing right away. After the first drop fell
onto the morning frost, I began to panic. I fumbled around, searching my
pockets for my cell phone. With a muttered curse I realized I’d left it at
home.

I
pulled myself up, holding onto the tree branches for support. Blood soaked my
jeans and dripped onto the ground. Then the tree moved.

Hazy
and confused by blood loss, I made a weak attempt at escaping. The tree tore
its roots from the ground, along with several other trees. Together, they
formed a sort of railing. With as much surprise as I could muster in my current
state, I realized that they were helping me.

The
trees helped me with every step, roots and branches moving alongside like
snakes. When I finally got home, I grabbed my phone and dialed 911.

Before returning from the hospital,
I stopped at the store to buy an electric space heater.

Credits to: AdelaideOfThePasture (story)

Creepypasta #1626: My Apartment Defies Logic

Length: Medium

I moved in this month and noticed
the cracked paint and old steam heater, realizing immediately the building is
quite old. The oven and fridge are new, most people that buy a place and revamp
it change them out, but it was pretty clear the rest hadn’t been fixed up for a
very long time. The stained wooden floors bear scars of moved furniture and
worn pathways from decades of use. The first thing I noticed however, and the
most peculiar feature of all are the doors.

The
front door, closet door and bathroom door are all old, dark wood with peculiar
and ornate handles. A pattern of weaving lines are engraved around the brass
knobs that appear to be Art Deco, likely from the 1920’s. Below each knob,
inset in the metal plate are keyholes for the antique “skeleton” style key. I
was assured by the realtor the one key opens and locks each door of the
apartment, and that the front door is in fact secure. Hell, for a $900 1
bedroom in Brooklyn, I wasn’t too concerned. 

After a few days of sweating
profusely, lifting cabinets, beds, dressers and cardboard boxes after calling
in favors from friends, I was in my new home. All was fine until the third
night, when I woke up to a startling, loud thumping from the ceiling above my
bed.

I
sat up, annoyed the upstairs neighbor was being so noisy at 3 AM and I switched
my light on and stared angrily at the ceiling. After a few seconds of listening
to the thumping, I grumbled and stood on my bed, ready to pound back, but then
it shifted. If first sounded like stomping movement from one side of the room
to the other, but then it reached the corner of the room and began descending
the wall. 

I stared in fearful confusion at the source of the sound as it passed
down the entire wall to the wooden floor, continuing impossibly under my the
wooden floor near my bed before fading fainter and fainter until it was
inaudible. I need to clarify, it was the same forceful banging the whole time
but it sounded distant, as if the wall of the next room being banged on was
drifting further away.

I
sat on my bed and stared at the walls and ceiling, wondering if the neighbors
on all sides had somehow colluded in an elaborate game to annoy me. I tried to
fend off the illogical notion of what I had just witnessed, the impossibility
that someone or something was circling my room like an insect crawling around a
cube. I considered pounding back but something nagged at me, telling me that
whatever made the pounding was no longer there. I was unnerved and beyond
confused, but that was just the beginning.

A few days later I was locking my
apartment door after a terrible day at work, which is done with the key from
the inside. I was fiddling the annoying key, trying with impatient, scrambling
hands to get the mechanism to click. In order to lock and unlock the peculiar
old locks, you need to insert the key and rotate it to the right (to lock it),
making a few twists around until you hear a click. The stress of the day caused
me to fumble this task a bit, and I twisted it in aggravation a few times after
I heard the click until I heard another. I thought nothing of it at the time,
but this information is key to the what happened next.

I
sunk into my dingy old couch to decompress, and began a binge-watching session,
placing an order for delivery as I wanted to simply hide in my room and forget
the shitty day I’d had. After an hour of waiting, my phone rang and I answered
to hear my pad thai was just three flights down. I rushed to the door and
unlocked it with the left spin of the key and when I opened it, I yelled out in
shock at the impossible sight of a hallway that shouldn’t be there.

The
view from the front door is always of the other tenant’s door across the hall.
To the right is a short hall that leads to a stairwell. The walls are a
yellowish white and the doors seem mostly modern aside from mine. What I saw
out the door was none of that. What I saw, directly out my door was a long hall
of smooth stone that led into complete darkness at least 30 meters in. I stood
there for a few moments, trying to understand the peculiar sight. My hairs all
stood up as the dusty, cold air from the corridor chilled my body. It simply broke
logic, and dread scratched at my brain as it tried to understand.

I
peered into the deep, dark hallway that shouldn’t exist, my blood chilling by
the second, and I nearly jumped into the air in fright as my phone rang again.
I couldn’t even speak, I just stared into the darkness then extended my phone
to light up the hall that couldn’t possibly be. I began walking into the space
slowly, testing the cold, stone ground as if in any second it would collapse
and I would awaken from a peculiar dream. I kept walking, and the phone’s light
met no wall ahead. I kept looking back to the shrinking rectangle of warm,
yellow light from my apartment, making sure my open door was still there. I was
somewhere that by all means should not exist, and the very real terror of being
stuck there began to rise. Then I heard those footsteps.

They
were quick and staggered, slapping echoes of bare skin on the cold stone floor.
They were fast, and I quickly realized they were rapidly approaching. I spun
around and sprinted faster than I ever had back to my door, praying to reach
the warm light before the source of that running could reach me. I nearly dove
through the threshold and slammed the door shut. I nervously missed the keyhole
with my trembling hands a few times before I was able to get it in and spin the
key wildly to the left. I finally heard the click of the locking mechanism and
collapsed to the floor, panting, sweating and nearly pissing myself from the
impossible event I had experienced.

I
ran my fingers along the edge of the old door frame, feeling the strange
texture before noticing the chipping paint and I scratched at it as a chunk
fell and engraved script along the front was revealed. I pried away more of
that old, lead-based paint, revealing engraved words of some archaic language
I’d never even seen before. Terrible, dark thoughts entered my head as I traced
my fingers down the carved, gnarled wood of frame. I envisioned agonized
screams and violent tortures too graphic for me to type, and these thoughts
grew more gruesome and vile until I yanked my hand away with a gasp.

I’m
not quite sure what that passage was the key unlocked, but it is something that
should not exist. I built the courage to peer through the keyhole just once,
and I screamed at the sight of an eye directly on the other side, a wide pupil
like a goats in a webbed, red iris, staring wide back at me. I don’t believe in
anything but science and the folly of man, but I know what I saw, and it defies
the laws of nature.

After
an hour of replaying the events in my mind, I built up the courage to insert
the key once again into the brass plate and turned it to the right until I
heard that first click, my left hand pressing firmly on the door to hold it
shut. When I peered through the keyhole then, I saw the neighbor’s door once
again. I cautiously opened it to see the apartment floor and the stairwell as
it should be.

It sounds impossible but I was in that
hallway, and it was very much real. I saw that blood-red eye of something I
never wish to meet, but curiosity is eating me alive. I’m going to try turning
the key in the bathroom door past the click of the standard “unlocked state”
and will try to keep you updated, for now I just need to try and calm my
nerves, and purge my brain of the strange, dark secrets of this apartment.

Credits to: mrmichaelsquid (story)

Creepypasta #1625: Hide And Seek

Length: Short

Day 6: Made camp in satellite control tower. Found gun in
desk. I should weld the door shut after I fix generator. Don’t trust myself not
to open for Daniel.

Day 9: Generator working. Power low. From the tower I spot
Seekers in surrounding wheat fields, walking who knows where. Satellite shows
dozens more. I thought I spotted Daniel’s red baseball cap in town 30 miles
out, but image grainy. No sign of Hiders. No sign of anyone untouched by the
sickness.

Day 12: Saw a Hider running in field today, Seeker following
close. He got caught on perimeter fence. He begged, “Please, Diana. You’re
sick." 

She smiled like a child at play. "Ready or not,” she
said. “Here I come.” reminder: weld door shut.

Day 15: Generators at 30%. Pretty sure I spotted Daniel on
satellite 20 miles out. Was up all night crying. How does the sickness pair
Hiders and Seekers? How does it know who it hurts most to run from?

Day 17: Definitely him. 12 miles and closing. Generators at
12%. Should conserve power, but I can’t. I know he’ll kill me, but it comforts
me to watch him.

Day 19: Generator dead, but no matter. Daniel is 6 miles away.
Still haven’t welded door shut. Why not? Maybe the sickness is a game with
rules we must follow. Can Hiders kill their Seeker? I practice loading the gun.

Day 20: I’m watching Daniel approach through binoculars. Looks
too thin, too pale, smiling all wrong, but I can’t look away. The gun is
loaded, oiled. I can hear him on the stairs, now at the door. 

“Ready or
not,” he says. I raise the gun, but I’m not sure who I’m pointing it at.
Oh my boy, my sweet Daniel. Here I come.

Credits to: Rock-Paper-Cynic (story)

Creepypasta #1624: My Disney Cruise Cabin Had …

Length: Medium

A
cruise ship should be considered a protected place. I don’t think that is an
unreasonable expectation from the Fortune 500 company you are trusting with
your family’s safety.

It
sure as hell was not cheap.

The
vacation was a three-night celebration of my father’s eightieth birthday. All
fourteen kids and grand-kids were convened. That prospect alone was a reminder
in why some families should stay away outside the holidays.

But
Dad insisted we all keep the peace.

“It’s only three days!”

He
wheezed that line the entire time we were checking in. The old man did pay
for the whole thing himself.

My
brother’s perfect wives and brood of beautiful babies made the trip all the
more complicated. Shuffling around the ship in the soul sucking heat was about
as much a struggle as satisfying seven cousins under age seven. Three for Steve
and Shayna, three for Sean and Cynthia, and finally my four-year-old son; Jack,
and wife; Emily.

We
were free to do as we please for the entirety of the journey. There was only
one condition. Each night at six we were required to meet at the only formal
restaurant on board.

The
ship steamed off the port sometime around five the first night, and after
drinks on deck we rushed down to the cabin to get ready for dinner. Em was
washing Jack in the shower when I saw the man in the mirror for the first time.

Honestly,
I was not paying
much attention to my reflection. My eyes were down at my tie, struggling
through the knot memorized since grade five. But when I looked up, there he
was, staring back from the corner on the right side.

You
know when, in movies or music videos, the shape of a man’s face appears in the
corner of the screen and sings along to whatever background is showing? It was
the same kind of thing. The only portion of the man that was visible was his
head. He was my age, with a long caterpillar mustache and clean shaven
sideburns hidden under a wide brim hat. The beginnings of an old fashioned
three piece suit poked out from the bottom of his shadowy frame.

When
I stepped back in shock, he looked just as surprised. When I shouted for my
wife, his mouth opened side by side.

I
darted out of the reflection of the mirror and jumped on the bed like a child
just as Emily came stamping out of the shower, half naked and annoyed.

“What? What are you yelling
about!” Emily asked.

I
pointed.

“Why did you yell?”
she repeated.

“There was a man in the
mirror,” I replied quietly.

Emily
took a hard look at it. Then another long look at me. In a few seconds, she
threw up her still wet hands and let them fall at her side.

“What are you talking
about? You saw a character?”

“No, there was a man in
that mirror. I saw him.”

I
hopped back up and walked towards them. But the only thing looking back through
the glass was our collected confusion.

“Must have been one of
those Smart-Mirror things…” I muttered.

“Can we go to dinner now?”
Em asked after turning on the blow-drier.

We
did.

The
meal was uneventful. Steve and Sean argued about the most effective way to
steer around storms. Their kids complained, and Emily’s sea sickness steadily
got worse with the rocking waves. Jack was about the happiest camper in the
whole crew with his broccoli stew.

Sleep
came easily early that night. The steward forgot to give an extra bed, so all
three of us were crammed into one. The lapping waves were reassuring at first,
but I prepared myself for a sick wife and four-year-old the following morning.

I
was right.

Emily
and Jack spent most of the day throwing up in the shower. I went outside to get
some fresh air for a half hour, and came back at five to find Jack ready to
roll. Em had finally fallen asleep.

The
first words out of his mouth when I opened the door were –

“Daddy! The man in the
mirror was back. He talked to me this time!”

“He talked? What did he
say, Jack?” I asked.

My
son giggled.

“He didn’t actually talk,
but his lips moved and I know what they said!”

“What did he say?”
I repeated while walking over to the phone in our room.

“Get away,”
he giggled, again.

“Get away,”
he was more serious this time.

“GET AWAY!”

My
son screamed the last part, so loud he woke Em up. Then he raised his arms over
his head in a foreboding way. That made my fingers dart across the numbers much
quicker.

“Hello, yes, operator. Do
you have men in your mirrors?”

I
realized how bizarre the question sounded as soon as it came out of my lips. My
wife rolled over in bed and gave an exhausted look towards my panic tone.

“This again?”
she asked.

The
operator gave an awkward pause, then replied.

“No, sir, we do not have
any men in our mirrors.”

“Could it be like, a
character from the movies or something?” I asked hopefully.

“No sir… there are no men
in our mirrors.”

I
thanked her and hung up the phone, unsure what to do next. Then I checked my
watch.

“Okay, we gotta go to
dinner. Can you make it Em?”

She
nodded and started to pull on her pants from earlier in the day. I shuffled
through the motions of getting Jack ready, all the while keeping an eye on the
strange mirror in the hallway. There was nothing plugged into it. The glass was
set sturdily in wood without any cracks or blemishes.

There
was absolutely nothing strange about the thing at all, so I decided to put it
out of my mind.

At
dinner, I tried to find a way to bring it up gracefully. I failed.

“Anyone having weird issues
with the mirror in their cabin?”

Steve
chuckled. “You
would be the one to have a ‘mirror’ problem on vacation.”

Sean
choked on his water. There was a lot of laughter around the table at that one.
Even Emily joined in between chugs of her cold water.

My face
turned red. “No,
it’s not just me… Jack and I saw a man in the mirror the past two nights. I
thought it was one of those Smart things but the receptionist says they don’t
even have them.”

Sean got
up and started to moonwalk. “I’m
starting with the man in the mirror…”

Everyone
was hysterical at that one. You would think they had never heard a Michael
Jackson joke. My father was pounding the table while Steve’s wife was wiping
tears. Even the little kids were giggling and pointing at me and my son.

“Whatever, forget it,”
I added nonchalantly.

The
second night’s sleep was a lot worse than the first. The idiotic captain
assured over the loudspeaker that it would be another rough night at seas.
Clothes hangers in the closet shifted back and forth recklessly while rain
pounded at the sliding door to our deck. Emily had to get up several times to
vomit, and Jack was physically shaking underneath our sheets.

When
the dawn came we were relieved to see clear skies and calm seas.

Our
final day at sea was a return trip to port. There was no real destination of
our cruise. The only island visit had been cancelled due to bad weather. The
cruise-line gave us $100 credit to ease the pain. I used most of it in the
casinos while Jack and Emily enjoyed their only healthy time on deck soaking up
the sun.

That
night at the dinner table I kept my mouth shut. The families argued about
politics and sports, or the best wine to pick, with my father presiding over
the whole thing like a judge.

My
mind was stuck on the paradox of the man in the mirror, and what the hell could
actually be done about it.

Eventually,
we called it quits and headed back to the cabins with a plan to pack and
disembark early. When we got to the room, Jack darted into the bathroom to
empty the remains of his horrible three-day diet.

That
was good. He never saw what came next.

The
lights were out. I struggled with the switch for a few minutes while Emily slipped
out of her dress. She looked beautiful. Her slim features were illuminated by
the wind pushing through the open blinds. I stepped forward and wrapped my arms
around her waist, pulling her back as I kissed her neck softly.

I
turned my head to the left to see our dazed reflection in the cool glass
mirror. But it wasn’t us looking back.

The
man took up the entire frame. His neck was redder than the shade of Emily’s
underwear. There was a slit at the center of it, and I could see the bones and
muscles that comprised his throat. His mouth was somehow still open and gaping
like a trout. His lips suggested the same soundless song my son said he saw.

“GET AWAY.”

Em
saw too.

We
both screamed at the same time. Seemingly in response, the man’s face grew
serious. His neck realigned in a sickening display. A black-gloved hand peaked
rose from the corner and pointed to the right.

A
shape rose out of our still-made bed-sheets.

Emily
whimpered by my side. I reached for the door exiting our cabin and found it
locked from the inside.

In
a swift motion, the sheets fell from the shape, and a man sat up from the bed
and placed his two feet to the side like we had disturbed his sleep.

Then
he stood.

He
was tall. That was evident when his head almost hit the ceiling. But he was old
– with white whiskey hair and a faded crewman jacket.

“You’re not supposed to
scream until you get in bed with me,” he offered in a raspy
voice that made him cough afterwards.

Emily
gasped out loud.

He
took a few steps forward and his outline became more clear. The man had white
paper skin that cracked and crackled at every corner. But he moved surprisingly
well for his age.

He
put his hands in his pockets and contemplated us. Then he started whistling
softly as he tapped his tattered boots.

I
shoved my arms in front of my wife and the bathroom door.

“Ooooh… is little Jacky
taking a little shit?” the man asked, inching closer
playfully.

“He’s had some real nasty
shits this weekend. And I have smelled all the shits on this ship,”
he chuckled. “Nasty little shitter, that one.*”

I
heard my son whimper from the bathroom.

After
taking another step forward, the man paused in front of the mirror
contemplatively.

His
confidence ran away in moments, and he dropped the fine rolled up line of rope
held in his hand.

“You?” he
asked his reflection.

The
hesitation was enough for my wife to reach out with a startlingly quick kick to
the groin.

In
seconds the old asshole was on the ground and she was hovering over him. Still
in her panties, my warrior wife landed another swift kick to his head that left
him unconscious. I grabbed the key ring sitting on his waist.

We
grabbed Jack and tumbled out into the open hallway.

Emily
and I carried our screaming son up four floors to reception. Every door was
opened as we passed. The crime was reported immediately and the perpetrator was
arrested in our room in connection to our case and several others like it.

What
I did not say
was the man in the mirror that provided the warning.

I saw him smiling just before he
faded away.

Credits to: FirstBreath1 (story)

Creepypasta #1623: The Specialty Shop

Length: Short

Madam Tawona wasn’t your ordinary Psychic. You wouldn’t find
her name in any phonebook, or the name of her shop on google maps. No, Madam
Tawona made certain to stay away from those places. She knew that they would
bring nothing but misfortune to her, because… Madam Tawona specialized in
causing people’s murders. Soon, I would be her client.

The building
was a basement in the middle of downtown Atlanta. Homeless men sat drinking
near the shop’s entrance, turning me off for a second, but not for long. Upon
arrival, and payment, Madam Tawona asked me 2 questions.

“Who you want
dead? How you want them to die?” He was a business partner. Nothing more,
nothing less.

“A man named
Albert Cole.” I paused and looked around her shop. “As for how, you seem…
creative, enough to come up with something.”

After we were
done, Madam Tawona wrote something on a piece of paper, put it into an
envelope, and said “Open when you want. Is how he dies.” I took the envelope
and drove home.

Three days
later, Albert broke into my house and emptied a handgun in my direction,
missing every shot. I ran like hell behind the nearest wall, then made a bee
line for my bedroom. There was a phone inside, I could call the police.

“I know about
the psychic; she told me everything!” Albert screamed madly.

I locked my
bedroom door, grabbed the phone, and called the cops. Out of ammunition, Albert
started kicking my door. The operator said that help would be there soon. Still
scared, I opened up the death letter, hoping to see ‘shot by police’ written
inside.

“Murder Suicide.”

Credits to: DvaCannotCrouch (story)

Creepypasta #1622: No Skin, No Service

Length: Medium

TRIGGER WARNING: SELF-HARM, GORE

We call them ‘Peelers’. Some of them
are return customers, while others only come in the one time and leave in
tears, streaking blood across the diner floor. What they do is called
‘peeling’, and it’s the new dumb fad kids are into nowadays. I’d rather see
them choke on snorted condoms than peeling in our bathroom stalls, because at
least the condoms don’t make a bloody mess. 

From what I hear, peeling isn’t
really a self-harm kind of thing like cutting is, it’s more of a rite of
passage, the way some kids challenge each other to see who can hold their palm
over an open flame the longest. In the case of peeling, instead of a flame,
they use a potato peeler and see who can peel off the longest chunk of skin in
a single curl. The whole thing is so dumb on so many levels.

I
can usually tell when a group is about to do it. They shoot each other this
conspiratorial look over the tops of the menu they hide behind and, one by one,
sneak into the bathroom when they think no one’s looking. It’s usually guys,
but some girls do it too. I try to stop them when I can, but I’m not a
babysitter, and I’ve got paying customers to serve, so I can’t always get
involved in their dumb dick measuring contest.

I was concerned back when they first
started peeling a few weeks ago, but I quickly realized most kids
can’t handle the pain. They usually only manage to cut a small sliver – about
the size you’d scrape off by accidentally slashing yourself with your thumbnail
– but, I’ve seen a guy run out of the bathroom with blood-soaked napkins from
his wrist to halfway up his forearm. I guess some people handle the pain better
than others.

The
manager joked about putting up a ‘No Skin, No Service’ sign in the window, but
that’d be about as good a deterrent as candy wrappers on a dick.

I
thought I’d become desensitized to the whole thing, more annoyed than
concerned, but last night, the sick practice was taken to a whole other level.
If I seem nonchalant now, it’s not because I’m desensitized: it’s because I’m
probably still in shock.

It
had been a busy night at the diner, and as a result, I’d not been as vigilant
as I could have been. I was running from table to table, dealing with drunks
and kids from the high school across the street coming in for a post
end-of-year-dance snack. It felt like half the student body came through our
door that night, and by closing time, I was so exhausted and eager to get home,
I forgot to lock the door before I flipped the ‘Open’ sign over to the ‘Closed’
side.

I
was in the back sweeping the floor when I heard the chime of the bell above the
door. By the time I got to the front of the diner, there was no one there. I
figured whoever had opened the door saw the place was empty and the lights were
dimmed, and so they’d walked back out in search of a fast food place. It never
occurred to me to check the bathrooms.

I
locked the front door and went back to sweeping, telling the chef it was
nothing.

I’d
earned the least amount of tips that night – short by a mere dollar fifty –, so
it was my job to clean the washrooms while the other waitresses left out the
back door. The manager was in his office, looking over inventory or something
and waiting for me to finish up so he could lock up. No greater motivator to go
fast than to know your boss is waiting on you. I cleaned the girl’s washroom in
no time, and then hauled a large box of cleaning supplies into the boy’s much
dirtier washroom.

The first thing I noticed was the
potato peeler sitting in the urinal farthest from the door. Someone’s mom was
going to be very upset they’d lost it, I thought. On the other
hand, it had probably been peed on all night – probably used as target practice
–, so it was best it never be used for food ever again. I scooped it up with a
wad of paper towels and tossed it in the bin. That’s when I noticed the brown
leather belt peeking out from under the stall. 

Great, I
thought. Look, if you’re going to have sex in a diner bathroom, at least have
the decency to grab your clothes on the way out. You have no idea how many
socks and panties we have to throw away in a month. It’s a lot. I wadded up
paper towels again because my hands are never touching anything that’s
been on the floor of that bathroom, and then reached down to take it.

Is
there even a way to describe what it felt like to lift it? It had the color and
size of a belt, it was as heavy as one, but it didn’t have the right thickness
or rigidness. It was like grabbing an unspooled fruit-by-the-foot, only it was
warm and wet and made a slippery noise as I pulled it from the ground, like the
sound of stepping off a fresh turd on a blistering summer day. I dropped it and
it went limp on the ground, splattering a light dusting of blood on the tiles
and over my feet.

It
was automatic. I’d dropped something, so my instinct was to pick it up and not
drop it again. I bent over and grabbed the feeble belt, and as I did, I saw it
stretched all the way into the stall, and coiled around in a messy spiral much
much larger than any belt. It was more like a stringy blanket. Part of me knew
and understood what I was seeing, but as I pushed open the stall door, my
lizard brain kicked in and poured a thick syrup of numb disbelief over my mind.
I started to pull at the string of skin, unspooling it with ease. I lost the
paper towels somewhere along the way, flesh touching wet, slippery flesh as I
unravelled the blanket.

A
single, continuous string, like flawlessly peeling a potato in one shot.

I didn’t even feel sick, I just
acted, I just cleaned because that’s what I was in the bathroom for.
I put this massive mound of skin in a garbage bag and, staring blankly, exited
the bathroom with the intention of tossing it in the bin outside.

But
then I noticed the streaks of blood on the floor I hadn’t seen earlier, because
the box of cleaning supplies had been blocking the view. Still in shock, I
dropped the bag of skin and followed the streaks of blood by gaze all the way
down to a booth by the window. In the dim light, I could see a silhouette
staring back at me. A puddle was forming beneath him.

He
peeked out from the side of the booth, and I thank my lucky stars the lights
were too low to properly see his face, though my mind constructed the image
regardless, based on memories from anatomy class.

His
movements were lethargic, and he sluggishly raised a hand and snapped his
fingers, or he tried to. The sound wasn’t a snap, but a sloshing of liquidy
sinew against liquidy sinew. He spoke weakly, “Menu please.”

I
backed away, slowly inching my way to the manager’s office. I heard the
splatters of children’s wet feet running by the pool coming from the seating
area as I breached the threshold to his office. I mumbled something about
calling the cops, but I don’t think my words made sense. The blood on my
uniform spoke on my behalf, and the boss quickly shut and locked the door
behind me.

We
waited in the office for ten long minutes. Him, trying to get more information,
me, barely able to string a single coherent sentence together. When the cops
finally showed up, the skinless man was gone, leaving a trail of blood all the
way to the back door.

At least he had the courtesy of
taking his skin with him.

Credits to: manen_lyset (story)

Creepypasta #1621: Warning: This Is An Emergen…

Length: Short

WARNING: This is an emergency message, broadcasting on all
frequencies. Please, follow the following instructions and act accordingly:

The scientific community has just
warned of the detection of a strange phenomenon that seems to be affecting the
population. The exact details are unknown for now, but it is known to cause
extreme alterations in personality. The first discoveries suggest that this
phenomenon is extended through the use of language.

Please follow the following
instructions and act accordingly:

  • If you are at home and live alone,
    close all doors and windows and disconnect all communication devices, such as
    telephones, radios or computers. Televisions must also be turned off at the end
    of this message.
  • If there are more people in the
    house, move away from each other as much as possible, with each person standing
    in a different room and cut off from the rest. DO NOT MAKE ANY ATTEMPT TO
    COMMUNICATE WITH THE REST OF PEOPLE FROM YOUR ENVIRONMENT.
  • If you hear voices coming from
    outside, block the sounds IMMEDIATELY with everything you have at hand. Do not
    try to understand what the voices are saying. Do not try to communicate with
    the voices. Do not try to repeat what the voices say. Do not try to write what
    the voices say. We repeat: Do not try to understand what the voices are saying.
    Do not try to communicate with the voices. Do not try to repeat what the voices
    say. Do not try to write what the voices say.
  • Follow the instructions below and
    act accordingly. Follow the instructions below and act accordingly.
  • If you feel attracted to some type
    of written content, such as books, magazines and posters, move away as much as
    possible from the object. Do not try to read the object. Do not try to
    understand the content of the object. Do not try to understand the content of
    the object. Do not try to understand the content of the object.
  • If, in cases of urgency, you need to
    communicate in some way, keep alert if you notice any alteration in your words.
    Some of the symptoms detected so far are redundancy. Impossibility to
    understand what is being said. Repetition.

Please follow the instructions below
and act accordingly.

WARNING: This is an emergency message, broadcasting on all
frequencies. Please follow the instructions below and act accordingly.

Credits to: Yaru2585 (story)

Creepypasta #1620: Please Report To The Princi…

Length: Medium

Henry Fry, please report to the
principal’s office, Henry Fry to the principal’s office. 

That’s the fourth one now. My name
is Connor Gilmore. At the time of writing this, I am inside of classroom 9B.
Henry just left, so there are currently 13 of us left. There were 19 of us to
begin with, not including the teacher that is, but one by one they keep leaving,
and not a single one has returned yet. It’s a pretty long story, so I should
probably give some clarification as to what’s happening.

Today started off like any other
school day. It was Monday morning, and so we had assembly. I remember the
assembly took longer than usual to start. Our assemblies are held in the
auditorium. Because our school is a secondary campus, the auditorium is
relatively small, but it’s still big enough to fit the entire campus… barely. 

When our assembly finally did start, a man, someone neither my class mates nor
I had ever seen before, walked onto the stage. I was confused at first, since
our principal is always the one to start the assemblies, but I just assumed
that this was a guest speaker or someone along those lines. The man was wearing
all black. Black suit, black shoes, black hat, you name it. He stood at the
podium for a while, seemingly staring at all of us. After a minute or two of
silence, he finally spoke.

“Good morning students.
Unfortunately assembly has been cancelled this morning, so I’d like you all to
head to your usual classes. Thank you.” He announced. Then he simply walked off
the stage. We all did as he requested and proceeded to our usual morning
classes. My morning class was maths in room 9B. As our class progressed with
our teacher rambling on about surds, my friend Randy whispered to me.

“Hey Connor,” he started. “Does
something feel… off, to you?”

“What makes you say that?” I asked.

“The man in black, principal
missing, assembly cancelled. It all just seems weird.” At that very moment, I
heard a very faint scream. I looked at Randy, and he looked at me. We both
heard it. Everyone in our class heard it. Then, we heard gun shots. Our teacher
sprung into action.

“Close the blinds and barricade the
door immediately!” He shouted. Then the whole class sprung into action. Another
two gun shots went off. “Everyone, stay down and remain absolutely silent!” Our
teacher quietly shouted. We heard a few more gun shots after that. There were
sounds of people screaming as well. As we all sat quivering in silence, I
noticed something very peculiar. The announcement for a lockdown had not yet
been issued. I raised the point to our teacher.

“Sir, shouldn’t they have announced
a lockdown by now?” I asked.

“Good point, Connor. I’m afraid we
have to assume the receptionists are either dead or being held hostage. Either
that or everyone fled and had no time to make the announcement.” He replied. We
all continued to tremble in silence for another 10 mins. There hadn’t been
another gunshot since.

“Is it over?” Stacey quietly bawled.
Still, there was silence. No gun shots. No screaming. No footsteps in the
hallway. Nothing… Then suddenly:

Stacey Kimwell, please report to the
principal’s office, Stacey Kimwell to the principal’s office.

I recognised that voice. It seems as
though our teacher had as well.

“What the hell? What on Earth is
going on out there? They’re calling students to the principal’s office at a
time like this? And why haven’t the receptionists raised the lockdown alarm
yet? They’re clearly alive!” Our teacher questioned.

“Maybe it’s like you said sir. Maybe
they’re being held hostage.” I replied. Stacey suddenly rose to her feet. She
began to walk towards the door.

“Stacey? What are you doing? You
can’t go out there!” said Jessica, Stacey’s best friend. Without warning,
Stacey began removing the barricade we had set up.

“Stacey, just what do you think
you’re doing? Sit back down immediately!” The teacher shouted quietly. It was
no use though. Stacey wasn’t listening. It was almost as if she had been
brainwashed. She completely removed the barricade and opened the door. 

“Stacey,
come back here now! It’s dangerous out there. STACEY!” Stacey walked outside
and began heading towards the principal’s office. “The rest of you wait here
and wait for me to come back!” Our teacher informed.

“Where are you going, sir?” Jessica
cried.

“I have to go retrieve Stacey. If I
don’t come back in two minutes, re-barricade the door no matter what!” The
teacher replied. And just like that, our teacher followed Stacey and left the
rest of us alone.

 

Five minutes passed by. We tried
waiting as long as we could for our teacher to return, but it was no use. We
didn’t hear any gunshots go off in all that time. None of us had the guts run
after them, let alone peek outside the door. We decided that we had to assume
the worst, and so we started setting up the barricade once more. As we were
blocking the door with whatever we could find, another announcement went off on
the speakers. It was still through the voice of the school’s receptionist.

Jeremy Smith to report to the
principal’s office, Jeremy Smit-

All of a sudden, Jeremy dropped what
he was holding and began tearing down our barricade. The whole class tried to
stop him, but he was determined. It was almost as if he had become a robot with
one purpose, which was to report to the principal’s office. He left just as
Stacey did. It continued like this for a while. One by one, my classmates were
getting called to the principal’s office, and each one left without hesitation. 

There are currently six of us left now, from the time of writing this. Even my
best friend Randy left. He was sitting next to me. We promised each other that
if either of us were called to the office, we wouldn’t leave one another. But as
soon as his name was called, he left like he didn’t even know me anymore. They
all did. Every single one of my classmates. They all left. Not a single one has
come back. It’s just me left now. I know I won’t be able to resist. 

I wonder,
what will happen to me? If someone does find this note, please tell my story,
that is, if I don’t live to tell it. Maybe I’m just stressing too much. Maybe
we’ll all come out of this safe and sound. Maybe-

Connor Gilmore, please report to the
principal’s office.

My name is Aiden. I found this note
in an abandoned school four years after it was shut down. I’m sharing this as
requested in Connor’s note. Him, and all 387 of the students attending this
school went missing four years ago. Not a single one has yet to be found…

Credits to: _Illegal_Carrot_ (story)