Category: favorite

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)

Creepypasta #1619: Workday Blues

Length: Short

Could Thursdays be any worse? So close to the weekend, yet
so far. This day is dragging on and I keep getting email after email from
blithering idiots at corporate prattling on about “Our Mission” and
“Quality Improvement,” scheduling meetings right when I need to get
an important project finished.

As if right
on cue, I get a ding.

Attention Staff: We regretfully
inform you of the passing of Trevor Haverford yesterday evening. More details
will follow with a fund link for his surviving family.

Wait, what?
But I feel like I just saw Trevor this morning, his cheery self in the break
room smiling and inviting everyone to yet another BBQ. I stare at my inbox,
waiting for a follow-up saying it’s a prank.

Nothing.
Fuck. How could they announce this in an email? Alexis couldn’t come out and
talk to the office personally? Has anyone else checked their inbox?

Thankfully,
in walks Trevor with a cup of coffee. So this was just a prank. I wave him
over. “Hey, have you checked your email yet?”

“No,
why? Announcing another meeting?”

“Dude,
just read it.”

Trevor sighs
and turns to his computer. My heart pounds while waiting for his reaction.
After several seconds, I realize I’m holding my breath. I exhale and peer
around the wall.

“Trevor?”

“Hey
Sam, what the fuck is this? A sick joke?” He squeaks out weakly.

Before I
could answer, my computer dings again.

Attention Staff: The previous email
is retracted. Trevor Haverford is alive. Kelsey Langeley passed yesterday. More
details to come. Here is a link to a fund for her family
.

“Trevor,
check again. What is this?” I whisper. I don’t hear anyone else talking.
Has anyone else seen this? What is management doing?

The door
opens and in comes Alexis, accompanied by a police officer and a woman I
recognize from HR.

Alexis clears
her throat. “Everyone, may I please have your attention. The company is
under a cyber attack. The criminals are sending spyware emails to try and gain
access with links to funds claiming staff here is deceased. Please do not click
on the links or open any more emails.”

Oh, that
explains it.

Until my
email dings again. I quickly steal a glance while Alexis answers questions from
my coworkers.

Attention Staff: Alexis Williams is
part of a criminal attack on this company. Please cease to listen to her.

Ding.

Attention Staff: Please support
Kelsey’s family. There is no cyber attack. Please resume work duties. Ignore
Alexis.

Ding.

Attention Staff: Kelsey and Trevor
were murdered. These things are imposters. Please hurry to the nearest exit
without drawing their attention.

I inhale
sharply and look at Trevor. He’s staring at me, his eyes cold and empty of
their usual cheer.

Ding.

Attention Staff: Samantha Freudigman
is responsible for the attacks. She killed Trevor and Kelsey. Stop her from
leaving
.

Ding.

Attention Staff: Ignore Alexis. Stop
Samantha. Please donate to Kelsey
.

Ding.

Attention Staff: Run.

“Don’t
move.” Trevor whispers.

Ding.

Credits to: QueenSkittlez (story)

Creepypasta #1618: I Really Need To Stop Eatin…

Length: Short

TRIGGER WARNING: SELF-HARM

Recently, my wife has started making
me hamburgers for dinner. And by that, I mean that she’s been making me
hamburgers almost every night for the past month. At first, I thought it was
kind of charming. Home-made hamburgers, home-made up to her grinding the beef
herself in a little grinder she bought some time ago but never had the chance
to really use. 

After the fourth night in a row of hamburgers, though, it
quickly stopped being quite so charming. I brought it up with her that eating
hamburgers this often can’t be healthy, but she simply waved my concern away,
telling me that she made sure to get the healthiest cuts of beef for us. Of
course, the plain fact of the matter was that, after two weeks of eating
nothing but hamburgers had passed, I was getting very, very tired
of it.

Regardless,
though, my wife seemed to enjoy it. She was discovering new and creative ways
to make the hamburgers every night, and even if I got tired of it after a short
while, she at least managed to make each hamburger dinner different in smaller
or in larger ways. I couldn’t deny that it was pretty good tasting meat, too,
so it at least had that going for it. Even though I had my issues with it,
then, I let my wife make hamburgers as much as she pleased, especially since I
hadn’t seen her this excited for something she was doing in quite a long time.

I
should get something out of the way right now, though. For as long as I’ve
known my wife – going on about five years now – I’ve never seen her get
seriously injured. She might slice her finger while chopping vegetables, or she
might bang her arm or leg against something really hard, but I’ve never seen
any real sign of those things having happened an hour or two afterwards. She
always puts a bandage or some kind of ice compression pad on the injury, of
course, but I’ve always found it strange how I can’t see any cut or bruisers by
the end of the day.

By
the time I get home from work, the hamburgers are usually already made – if not
the whole meal, then the patty itself is formed up and cooking on the grill. I managed
to get off work early, today, and I decided to come home and surprise my wife,
and maybe help her out with the dinner if I could. After all, it wasn’t fair
that she had to make the hamburgers all by herself every night, and maybe if I
helped cook them, I could learn to love them as much as she did, herself.

I
think you might see where this is going, by now.

Since
I wanted to surprise her, I made sure to park my car a few houses down the road
so that she wouldn’t hear me pull into the driveway. I quietly walked up to the
house, and peeked in through one of the front windows that looks side-long into
the kitchen. As I did, I saw something that made my stomach churn, and it took
every ounce of self-control I had to not hurl right there on the lawn.

My
wife was shoving her own hand and lower arm into the meat grinder, barely
wincing as her flesh was ground into strings of meat that strung themselves out
onto the plate in front of the grinder. Blood splattered up a bit, but it
looked like she had some sort of towels or something to keep it from flying all
over the place. I suppose I would have suspected something the first night if I
came back to my kitchen covered in blood. 

Either way, I watched in horror as
she continued to push her limb into the machine, losing more and more of her
body as she went. Eventually, she pulled her arm out, and what I saw next was,
perhaps, even more horrifying. Right there, before my eyes, her arm started to
grow back. In less than a minute, everything was right back to what I was used
to: A perfectly normal arm and hand, not looking at all like it had just been
put through a meat grinder. And yet, the ground “beef” was still
there on the plate, the “beef” that I knew would be cooked up into
the hamburgers both her and myself would eat later on for dinner.

I
must have stepped on a branch or something, because my wife twirled around to
look through the window in my direction. I think that I had managed to duck out
of the way quickly enough that she didn’t see me, but I didn’t take any
chances, and quickly retreated back to my car. I drove the opposite way from my
house, figuring that I could take refuge at a coffee shop or some such until
the time that I normally get back home.

I’m
so confused. I want to believe that maybe I was just imagining it. That maybe
she was just putting normal cow meat into the grinder, and I just couldn’t see
properly at the angle I was looking in from. But her arm. Her hand. I saw them,
missing, a bloody, mutilated stump where the grinder had stopped. And I saw
them grow back, grow back and looking like nothing had ever happened. It must
have happened. There’s no way it didn’t. The image was too vivid, too ingrained
in my head for it to not have been real.

It’s
been about an hour now. I’m supposed to be back for dinner soon. I’m not sure
that I can eat those hamburgers tonight.

At the same time, though, I’m
worried about my wife. I don’t want her to think that I don’t like her cooking.

Credits to: MissBrainProblems (story)

Creepypasta #1617: I Was Re-Watching Some Old …

Length: Short

I live alone now. It was hard to adjust to living in rural
England after having lived in a house packed to the brim with family in London,
but, I was trying. It gets a little lonely sometimes.

I left a few
years ago and have kept minimum contact. It wasn’t my family, they were always
good to me. They loved me and I loved them. I just felt… out of touch with
everything going on. I guess you use the classic ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ here,
but really, it was my fault. There was nothing wrong with them but I felt more
and more suffocated the longer I stayed there.

That brings
us to now. I managed to get some home video tapes before I left and recently,
I’ve been missing them. So I put the tapes in, sat down with a tub of ice
cream, and played.

They started
off normally; the usual bustling of Christmas time at our home. Kids running
around, my mother and aunts preparing dinner. I remember this Christmas. I was
in my bedroom, not really doing much. My father is holding the camera as he
walks upstairs towards the rooms. He pans the landing: my parents’ room, my
aunts’ and uncles’ rooms, my sisters’ room, and my roo-

My room
wasn’t there. A wall stood in its former place. I put in the next tape, a beach
trip to Bournemouth with just me and my parents. I distinctly remember playing
in the water with my mother but there is nothing on the tape except my mother
swimming alone. I begin to panic; I shove the next tape in, my birthday. The
tape starts with the family crowded around the table singing ‘Happy Birthday’.
The camera zooms in between my uncles’ shoulders to an untouched cake with
candles alight and an empty seat.

I put the
next tape in, and the next. Our trip to Alton Towers, our days out in London,
our trip to Tenerife. Each tape plays and plays yet I am absent in every single
one. My fear grows on me more and more before I decide to pick up the phone and
do what I haven’t done in three years. I call my family. The phone rings..

But the line
responds dead.

I go online,
trying to look for their social media accounts but everything comes up empty.
There isn’t a single indication to them ever having existed.

I go cold as
the realisation dawns on me. The familiar noise of the nearby railway has been
silent for days. My mail is a week late. I have not spoken or seen another
person in a week. I try to remember where I’m living, and how I got here, and
why I left but I can’t think of anything. I try to remember my mother’s name,
my sister’s name, my own name, but all thoughts escape me except for one:

I’m lost, and no one is looking for me.

Credits to: Zero_Blasted (story)