Category: medium

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 #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 #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 #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 #1615: I Went To An “Escape Room”….

Length: Medium

Last weekend, I went to an escape
room.

Our
company wanted to send the three of us interns for “team-building” and
“camaraderie.” But because they’re cheap as fuck, they booked some dingy one in
the middle of nowhere.

“Your
cellphones, please,” the lone employee – a woman named Meredith – said,
extending a plastic bin. “This is an immersive, team-building experience. No
texting allowed.”

With
a few grumbles, we plopped our cell phones in the bin.

“Here
you are,” she said, swinging the door open. “The Medieval room.”

While Kate and I filed in, Derek
stood on the threshold, staring at the blinking red light in the corner. “Is
that a camera?

“Here
he goes again,” Kate whispered to me, snickering. Derek was crazy like that –
always thinking his phone was tapped or the government was spying on his
emails. Because, you know, the life of has-been frat bro is just the most
fascinating thing ever.

“That’s
just for surveillance. Or in case of emergency,” Meredith explained with her
unwavering smile.

Derek
shot her a glare, then slowly stepped into the room. The door swung the door
shut; the lock clicked behind us.

The
room was small and windowless, as most escape rooms are. Stone wallpaper
covered half the wall; the other half was covered in sky, complete with a
crudely-painted dragon. Banners hung from the ceiling, and a suit of armor
stood in the corner.

“I’m
fucking starving. Let’s get this over with as fast as we can,” Kate said,
running over to the bookshelf. “Each of you take one. Flip through it, see if
anything falls out.”

Derek
got lucky. After a few minutes of wildly shaking a Bible, a slip of paper fell
out. He picked it up and read: “Take the painting off the wall, and God may
save you all.”

We
removed the painting. Behind it was a coded message, and Kate found its cipher
taped to the underside of the table. It all went smoothly, clue after clue,
until we got to the suit of armor.

Put on the suit of armor, and you’ll
become a charmer.

I
looked at it – a beautiful thing, made of engraved pieces of metal. It looked
surprisingly realistic for escape-room décor. “They… really want one of us to
wear it?” I said.

Derek
shrugged. “I’ll do it.” He stepped forward and yanked the helmet off the stand.
Kate and I helped him get the plates over his shoulders, the bands over his
arms. Finally, I placed the helmet on his head.

“You
look great in that, Derek,” Kate said, with a hint of flirtation in her voice.

“I
can’t see anything, and it’s hot,” he complained, ignoring her. “How long am I
supposed to wear this thing?”

“No
idea,” I said, shrugging. Kate was already on her hands and knees, combing the
floor for clues that might have fallen out.

Five
minutes went by. Then ten. We didn’t find anything, and Derek’s complaining
grew louder, more hurried.

“Can
you guys take it off?” he said, his voice muffled through the metal. “It’s
tight, and itchy, and something is poking into my stomach –”

“Fine,
if it’ll quit your whining,” Kate said. “Marisa, can you help him?”

I
walked over and grabbed his helmet.

I
pulled.

And
pulled.

“It’s,
uh… it’s not coming off,” I said.

Kate
ran over and started tugging on one of the leg plates. But it was no use; it
was like the suit of armor had somehow locked itself shut.

I
could hear Derek’s panting breaths echo inside the metal, feel heat coming off
the armor. “Get it off! Get it off!” he yelled, the armor clattering as he
writhed and thrashed.

“Stay
still!” Kate shrieked, as he accidentally kicked her in the head. “We can’t get
it off if you’re moving like that!”

I
ran over to the door. “Hey, we need help in here!” I yelled.

No
reply.

“We
need help! Open the door!” I pounded on the door with all my strength.

“Get
it off, get it off!”

Pop.

Kate
finally pulled the helmet off. It rolled to the ground with a hideous, echoing
clank.

“Derek?
Derek, are you okay?”

His
face was red; his black hair was wet, sticking to his forehead. “Just get the rest
of it off!” he yelled.

Now
that the helmet was off, it was like the armor had somehow unlocked itself. The
pieces quickly popped off, and when it was done, he collapsed onto the floor.
“My stomach… it burns,” he muttered, wiping the sweat of his face on his
sleeve.

“Okay,
okay, sssssshhh. Let’s see.” Kate gently lifted his shirt.

We
gasped.

Across
his stomach were red imprints, as if something had been pressed hard his skin.
Forming letters, forming words.

CHECK THE CLOSET

I
bent over, grabbed the chest plate, turned it over.

“Oh,
my God.”

There
were the fourteen metal letters, sticking out from the surface. Backwards, so
when pressed against skin, they’d leave the message.

“That’s
sick.”

“We’re
leaving. Now.” I walked over to the door and pounded on it again. “Hey! We
don’t want to play anymore! Let us out!”

Kate
turned to the camera, its red light blinking in the corner. “Hey! Can you hear
us?! Let us the fuck out!”

Five,
ten, twenty minutes went by.

No
one came.

Derek stared blankly at the red
light. “What if – they want to keep us in here? To watch us,
to record us –”

“Stop
it with the fucking conspiracy theories, Derek!”

“But
he’s right – if the camera’s for surveillance, why haven’t they come and saved
us by now?”

She
stared at me, nostrils flaring, but didn’t say a word.

“This
isn’t an escape room. It’s some sadistic game.” Derek was standing up, now. His
young face looked at least a decade older, the lines of panic cutting deep. “We
have to get out of here. Kick the door down, if we have to.”

“Or
we could check the closet,” I said.

“No!
We are not giving into their fucking game!”

But
I was already pulling the door open.

They
ran over. The closet was about six feet deep, twelve feet across. It was pitch
black, save for the light that spilled in from the main room. And as my eyes
adjusted to the dark, I saw the message painted on the walls, in bright red
paint:

‘How can I escape this room?’, you
wonder

Here’s the answer: six feet under

I
looked down. The floor… it wasn’t carpet, or wood, or anything else. It was
dirt. And there, glinting in the light, leaning against the wall –

Were
three shovels.

Kate
began to sob; Derek awkwardly put his arm around her.

“The
only way out… is death?” Kate said. “Is that what that’s supposed to mean?”

I stared at the message. A shrill
ringing filled my ears; my vision swam and shimmered. Six feet under…
six feet under…

I
grabbed a shovel.

Kate
scoffed. “So what, Marisa, you’re just going to give up, and dig your fucking
grave now?”

I
didn’t dignify her comment with a response. I just started digging.

I
hit the first body after only two feet.

Kate
began screaming. Derek hid his face, forcing down vomit.

Shreds
of plaid cloth caked with dirt and dust. The waves of decomposing stench hit me
like a truck; but I pushed everything away and kept digging.

A
foot later, I unearthed a clump of long, dark hair.

“Stop
digging,” Kate sobbed. “Please, stop.”

But
Derek grabbed the next shovel and started to help.

It
took us three hours to finish. By the end, we were starving, exhausted, and
weak. Kate was lying on the floor, in a half-faint, half-asleep way; Derek
looked like he was about to pass out.

But
we found it.

At
about six feet under, the shovel clanged against metal.

And
on that metal was a doorknob.

It
took several tries, but I was able to lower myself into the hole and kick it
open. And when I did, I dropped through the opening – and into a damp, cold
tunnel.

“Come
on!”

The
rest of them followed. After walking through muck and sewage for an hour, the
tunnel opened to the outside. We found ourselves standing on the street, a few
miles down the road from the escape room.

We
flagged down a car and made it to the police station.

But
by the time they made it over there, no one was there, save for the decayed
remains we found in the closet.

And the “surveillance footage”
was gone.

Credits to: BlairDaniels (story)

Creepypasta #1611: Park Investigation Report M…

Length: Medium

After Action Report: (redacted) National Park, Ranger Service.

Park Radio Main Channel: MAR 19, 1994 4:52pm PST

Morgan: Ranger Station 3, this is Morgan over at Fire Watch Tower 2. Anyone got ears on?

Ranger Todd: Todd here. Whatchya got, Frank?

Morgan: Lotta smoke about a half mile East of you.

Ranger Todd: Damn it, I was just about to call it a day.

Morgan: Jared in yet?

Ranger Todd: Nah, I’ll take a look. I’ll put the walky on channel 2 if you need me.

Morgan: Roger.

Main channel: MAR 19, 1994 5:07pm PST

Ranger Yancey: Yancey reporting in. Anyone seen Hank?

Morgan: He headed out East to check on some smoke. Should be hearing from him on Channel two any time now.

Ranger Yancey: Alright. Anything serious?

Morgan: Probably not. You’ll know when I do.

Channel 2: MAR 19, 1994 5:12pm PST

Ranger Todd: Hey Frank, you there?

Morgan: Yeah, what’s it look like?

Ranger Todd: Just some kids making a huge bon fire over at camp site 24. I gott’em smothering it now. Heading back. I told them the night shift likes to lay down the law. Just let Jared know if they start it up again.

Morgan: Will do. He’s in, by the way.

Ranger Todd: Good, I’ll fill him in before I head out.

Main Channel: MAR 19, 1994 5:43pm PST

Ranger Yancey: Morgan, you there?

Morgan: Yeah, what’s up?

Ranger Yancey: Was Hank gonna stop back by here before heading out?

Morgan: Yeah, he was supposed to fill you in on our “kids” issue.

Ranger Yancey: Oh? Do tell.

Morgan: Nothing out of the ordinary. You know how kids are with their bon fires. Hank told’em you were the wrath of God type. Hopefully that keeps’em strait.

Ranger Yancey: Here’s hoping.

Main Channel: MAR 19, 1994 5:51pm PST

Ranger Yancey: Hey, Hank’s car is still here. Has he been back on the radio at all?

Morgan: Nope. Try his cell?

Ranger Yancey: Yeah, I’ll give him a ring.

Ranger Yancey: He’s not answering. I’m gonna head over to check the trail. Which way were those kids?

Morgan: Hold on, a flare just went up.

Ranger Yancey: Where?

Morgan: Looks like… About a mile and a half North by North-East of you. Should by right around the rope course.

Ranger Yancey: Alright, I’m headed there now.

Morgan: Stay safe.

Ranger Yancey: Was Hank on channel 2?

Morgan: Yeah.

Ranger Yancey: Alright, I’ll drop to Channel 2 also, in case he checks in.

Morgan: Channel 2, gotch’ya

Channel 2: MAR 19, 1994 6:37pm PST

Ranger Yancey: I’m coming up on the rope course now. Any more activity?

Morgan: Nope. Sun’s setting. I won’t be able to see anything but flares and fires until morning.

Ranger Yancey: Alright, I’ll take a look around.

Channel 2: MAR 19, 1994 6:49pm PST

Ranger Yancey: It was a bear. Couple guests were holed up in the equipment shed. Probably wondered off a while ago. I’m walking them back to their camp.

Morgan: What site are they staying at?

Ranger Yancey: Site 21.

Morgan: Hank was at 24. Should be a quick walk.

Ranger Yancey: Ah, thanks.

Station 2 call log: MAR 19, 1994 6:52pm PST

Ranger Juarez: Station 2, Juarez speaking.

Caller: Ah, Pete, thank God! I wasn’t getting an answer from Station 3.

Ranger Juarez: Oh, hey Hank. Yeah, Jared’s out following up on a flare. Sounds like a bear or something.

Caller: It’s not a fucking bear. Is he with guests?

Ranger Juarez: Yeah, he’s taking them back to site 21, why?

Caller: Tell him to get back to the station immediately

Ranger Juarez: What’s going on, Hank?

Caller: I don’t (line disconnects)

Channel 2: MAR 19, 1994 6:55pm PST

Ranger Juarez: Jared, you read me?

Ranger Yancey: Pete? Yeah, what’s going on?

Ranger Juarez: Just got a weird call from Hank. Said to get the guests back to the closest station house.

Ranger Yancey: He say why?

Ranger Juarez: Nope, we got disconnected.

Ranger Yancey: Alright, I’ll get’em back to Station 3. Should be there in, I don’t know, twenty minutes or so.

Ranger Juarez: Roger. I’ll let you know if he calls back.

Channel 2: MAR 19, 1994 7:11pm PST

Ranger Yancey: Juarez, Morgan. You guys still on channel 2?

Morgan: Yeah.

Ranger Juarez: Yeah, you guys get back alright?

Ranger Yancey: Yeah, we’re fine.

Morgan: Whoa, I just got another flare. Looks like it’s probably site 24, where Hank went.

Ranger Yancey: Alright, I’m headed that way. Juarez, think you can find someone to head to station 3 to watch these guys?

Ranger Juarez: Yeah, I’ll try to scare someone up.

Ranger Yancey: (away from mic) I’ve got to make a run. Another Ranger should be by shortly. There’s water bottles in the fridge in the back, help yourselves. (on mic) Alright, I’m headed out.

Main Channel: MAR 19, 1994 7:14pm PST

Ranger Juarez: Hey, is anyone available to head over to Station 3? We have some guests shacked up, Yancey has to make a run.

Ranger Phillips: I’ll head down. Probably take me a half hour to get there. I’ll be on Channel 7.

Ranger Juarez: Roger, thanks.

Channel 2: MAR 19, 1994 7:38pm PST

Ranger Yancey: Hey, Juarez. You still on the line?

Ranger Juarez: Yeah, what do you need?

Ranger Yancey: How many guests are supposed to be at site 24?

Ranger Juarez: Looks like fifteen or so. We’ve gotten a lot of calls since they got here Thursday.

Ranger Yancey: They’re supposed to head out tomorrow, right?

Ranger Juarez: Yeah, why?

Ranger Yancey: No one here. Looks like the fire is still smoldering. Couple chairs knocked over, but everything is mostly in place.

Ranger Juarez: Maybe they went for a hike?

Ranger Yancey: As the sun’s going down? Also, who would have shot the flare, then?

Ranger Juarez: Hmm.

Ranger Yancey: I’m gonna take a look around.

Channel 2: MAR 19, 1994 7:59pm PST

Ranger Yancey: Guys I’ve got blood here. Not in the campsite proper, but I found some tracks leading off into the tree line. I’ve got claw marks on the trees, and a pretty big splatter, probably arterial.

Ranger Juarez: Jesus. Bear, you think?

Ranger Yancey: Nothing else out here can carve up a tree like that, yeah.

Range Juarez: You know what, Hank said something about it. I’m gonna try to call him.

Ranger Yancey: Alright.

Station 2 call log: MAR 19, 1994 8:03pm PST

Ranger Yancey: Hey, Pete, I presume?

Ranger Juarez: Jared? How’d you get Hank’s phone?

Ranger Yancey: Heard it ringing. Found it under some brush about fifteen feet into the tree line.

Ranger Juarez: Uh…

Ranger Yancey: Getting back on the walky.

Channel 2: MAR 19, 1994 8:05pm PST

Ranger Yancey: Guys, I think we need to call everyone in. Get the guests evacuated and start a search party for Hank and the guys from site 24.

Ranger Juarez: I’ll start making calls.

Ranger Yancey: Did you ever get anyone to station 3?

Ranger Juarez: Phillips was headed that way. Should be there by now, come to think of it. I’ll see where he’s at.

Channel 7: MAR 19, 1994 8:06pm PST

Ranger Juarez: Phillips, you there?

Ranger Phillips: Yeah, what’s up?

Ranger Juarez: You get to station 3 yet?

Ranger Phillips: Yeah, just walked in. Got held up on the trail. Another guest was lost, wondering around, scared out of her mind. Got her with us now, she’s calming down.

Ranger Juarez: Alright, everything good over there?

Ranger Phillips: Yeah. Guests seem to be behaving themselves.

Ranger Juarez: Alright. Hit the main channel if you need anything.

Ranger Phillips: Will do.

Channel 2: MAR 19, 1994 8:09pm PST

Ranger Yancey: Guys, I’m going open mic. I don’t have a free hand for PTT between the flashlight and all this brush. (sounds of braches scraping across clothes and leaves crunching beneath feet) If you hear me breathing, you know… Sorry.

Ranger Juarez: Do what you gotta do, Jared.

Ranger Yancey: (in background a faint voice can be heard, Yancey stops moving) Whoa, hold up. Hank? That you? I think I hear Hank, guys.

Ranger Juarez: He okay?

Ranger Yancey: (away from mic) Where you at, Hank? (in mic) I don’t know Pete, he sounds weird.

Ranger Juarez: Uh, Jared? Are you still inside the tree line?

Ranger Yancey: Yeah, why? (voice heard much closer, words unintelligible, sounds like Ranger Todd) Frank? What are you saying? Where are you?

Ranger Juarez: Jared, get back on the trail.

Ranger Yancey: What? Sounds like Hank needs help. (voice is very close)

Ranger Juarez: Look, he can obviously move, just get clear of the tree line and let him come to you.

Ranger Yancey: That doesn’t make sense, if he needs help…(voice says Jared’s name) Hank?

Ranger Juarez: That’s not Hank, get to the trail, now!

Ranger Yancey: (sound of a scream, likely from the voice, sounds like Ranger Todd) Oh fuck! (sound of branches scraping clothes, lots of heavy breathing, fast footsteps) Shit shit shit! (loud branch crack, stumbling, sound of Ranger Yancey rolling across the trail)

Ranger Juarez: Jared, you okay?

Ranger Yancey: (sounds of scrambling, a few steps are taken, heavy breathing) Pete, what the fuck was that?

Ranger Juarez: Look, just stick to the trail and get back to station 3 quick.

Ranger Yancey: I’m gonna need a little more than that, Juarez!

Ranger Juarez: I don’t know, but we’ve all heard the stories, right?

Ranger Yancey: The what!?

Ranger Juarez: You know, the…

Ranger Yancey: If you even say the Ghost of (redacted)…

Ranger Juarez: Well…

Ranger Yancey: Jesus Christ, Pete. You scared the shit out of me!

Ranger Juarez: Look, Hank said it wasn’t a bear.

Ranger Yancey: Oh yeah, it’s gotta be a ghost then.

Ranger Juarez: Ha ha.

Ranger Yancey: I keep forgetting how superstitious you are. (away from mic) Hank? Sorry buddy. Juarez got me riled up. You alright in there?

Ranger Juarez: Sorry.

Ranger Yancey: It’s fine. Hank! Well great, now it’s too quiet and I’m all worked up. (loud snap from the distance) Gah! Jesus. Fuck you, Pete.

Ranger Juarez: Sorry.

Ranger Yancey: Hank! Come on, man!

Ranger Juarez: I don’t…

Ranger Yancey: Shut up, Pete! Hank! OHGODWHATTHEFUCKHOLYSHIT (sounds like Ranger Yancey breaks into a full sprint here) OH CHRIST! OH GOD!

Ranger Juarez: Jared? You alright?

Ranger Yancey: (still in full sprint, heavy breathing) IT’S… NOT… HANK… (sounds of Ranger Yancey tripping and falling) Ow! Oh shit! Fuck! My ankle!

Ranger Juarez: Jared? What’s going on?

Ranger Yancey: I just twisted my fucking ankle! (heavy breathing)

Ranger Juarez: Alright, want me to send Phillips?

Ranger Yancey: No I don’t want fucking Phillips to come out here!

Ranger Juarez: What’d you see?

Ranger Yancey: I don’t fucking know! (sound of Ranger Yancey shuffling to his feet) Ow, shit. That’s just fucking great. Now I have to limp back. (distant voice is heard) Shiiiiiiiiiit. (sound of Ranger Yancey limping quickly down the trail)

Ranger Juarez: It’s only a half mile.

Ranger Yancey: And the ghost of (redacted) is like 40 feet away! (heavy breathing, the voice calls out again, you can vaguely make out “Yancey”)

Ranger Juarez: Just…stick to the trail…

Ranger Yancey: Yeah no shit.

Main Channel : MAR 19, 1994 8:176pm PST

Ranger Juarez: Hey Phillips, you there?

Ranger Phillips: Yeah, what do you need?

Ranger Juarez: Jared is heading your way, sounds like he twisted his ankle. Get a kit ready. You may need to go get him.

Ranger Phillips: Alright, standing by. Let me know.

Channel 2: MAR 19, 1994 8:25pm PST

Ranger Yancey: (heavy breathing) Shit.

Ranger Juarez: What is it?

Ranger Yancey: A bunch of trees are blocking the path.

Ranger Juarez: Can you get around them? You have to be close to the station.

Ranger Yancey: I’d have to go into the tree line. Let me see… Damn, looks like they were… pushed over? What could… (voice in distance calling out “Yancey” in kind of a slow hiss, Ranger Todd’s voice) I’m not going into the fucking tree line.

Ranger Juarez: Hackum’s trail?

Ranger Yancey: Just passed it, yeah. It’d add about ten minutes to my walk, but, oh shit.

Ranger Juarez: What is it?

Ranger Yancey: Someone is standing in the trail behind me.

Ranger Juarez: Hank, maybe?

Ranger Yancey: Yeah, maybe. (off mic) Hank? That you? Ah, what the shit. He just walked into the tree line.

Ranger Juarez: If you just passed Hackum’s then you gotta be like two minutes from Station 3. It’s behind you, so…

Ranger Yancey: Yeah. (sound of Ranger Yancey pushing into the tree line, leaves and branches brushing against his jacket and the mic, he stops)

Ranger Juarez: Jared? You alright?

Ranger Yancey: (Todd’s voice whispers “Yancey” from somewhere very close) GAH, NO! (sound of panicked scrambling through the brush, a sort of scream is heard, then a crunch, then silence)

Ranger Juarez: Yancey? Yancey? Jared, you okay? Shit.

Main Channel : MAR 19, 1994 8:36pm PST

Ranger Juarez: Phillips, you there?

Ranger Phillips: Yeah, hold on. Jared’s calling me from the door. (away from mic) It’s not locked!

Ranger Juarez: Do not answer the door! Lock yourselves up somewhere inside! Hello?!

No further contact from Station 3.

According to the attached file, within the hour there were around 25 Rangers combing the park, but no traces of Rangers Todd, Yancey, or Phillips, or any of the guests from camp site 24 or the one’s holed up in Station 3 were ever found. The search lasted two-weeks while the park was closed. Afterwards a sundown curfew was put into effect and camping over-night was no longer allowed.

In 2003 the camp sites were reopened. Since then, over fifteen guests have gone missing without ever having a body recovered, according to related records in the file. These have been chalked up to wildlife and foul play. These records have been sealed since 2004, and the name of the park was removed from all related records.

Credits to: QuackNate (story)

Creepypasta #1604: A Talking Crow Taught Me To…

Length: Medium

TRIGGER WARNING:
IMPLIED CHILD ABUSE

I
used to look out the rusted iron bars of my window and dream about being a
bird.

The
chain that shackled me to my bed was just long enough to reach the windowsill,
and so every night after my father would visit my room I would lie awake and
wait for the first rays of light to creep over the horizon, then walk over to
my window to listen to the morning’s first few notes of birdsong.

Their
melodies were so beautiful, I knew that they must have been singing about
places far away and wonderful, about sailing on the wind through endless blue
skies, looking down at the treetops that dotted the land below.

Then,
one morning as I lay in bed, something impossible happened. I had fallen asleep
the night before, and would have missed my morning birdsong but for a tapping
on my window. I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and sat up to see a crow
sitting outside on the sill, tapping my window with his beak.

I
crept over to the window and smiled at the bird.

“Hello,
Mr. Crow,” I said.

“Hello
little girl,” said the crow.

I
stood there dumbfounded for a moment, not knowing what to say. Finally, after
what seemed like an eternity, I forced myself to speak.

“You
know how to talk?” I said.

“All
birds know how to talk,” he replied. “It’s just that not all humans know
how to listen.”

I
pushed my window open a crack until it hit against the bars. The bird cocked
its head in curiosity.

“Why
are you in a cage?” it asked.

“I
think it’s my destiny,” I said. “It’s always been this way.”

“You
look rather thin,” replied the crow. “Would you like something to eat?”

My
stomach gave a weak growl.

“Yes,” I
said. “That would be wonderful.”

Without
another word the crow took flight. A few minutes later he returned with a small
branch of figs. The crow watched me as I greedily devoured the fruit. After I
had finished he stared at me for a moment before speaking again.

“I
didn’t know they put people in cages,” he said. “Do you think they mistook
you for a bird?”

“I
don’t think so Mr. Crow,” I said.

We
whiled away the rest of that day talking. The crow told me all about what it
was like to fly, how there was no better feeling in the world. He told me about
the far away lands he had visited when he was a young bird and could still make
the journey north with the changing of the seasons. Finally, evening came and
the crow said that he had to go. The next morning he was back, however, with
two more branches of figs.

I
thanked him for his generosity, and we talked another day away. That day he
even sang me a song. He didn’t have a voice for singing, but I thought his song
was beautiful anyway.

We
passed the entire fall that way, and the bird’s visits became the only bright
spot in my life. He brought me not only figs, but cherries and walnuts
too–anything small enough for him to carry.

Soon,
however, winter came, and with it the frosts that destroyed the figs and
cherries that the crow had used to bring me. His gifts became fewer and fewer,
and I could tell from his tired voice that he was flying farther and farther
away to get them.

One
morning, when the first snows of winter had fallen, the crow asked me a
question.

“What
would you do to leave this place?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

I
thought for a moment, but I wasn’t sure how to answer. Finally, I told the
truth.

“I
would do anything to leave this place,” I said. “Anything at all.”

The
crow solemnly nodded and said, “The frost isn’t the only thing that winter
brings.”

He
flapped his wings once and jumped from the windowsill, and I didn’t see him for
three days. I began to fall into a deep depression. Every morning I would still
listen to the birdsong, but it sounded forlorn and empty without my friend
there to listen with me.

The
morning after the third day my crow friend returned. It was so beautiful that
day; the sun had come out from behind the clouds to melt the snow–one of the
last green days before winter came in earnest. As the shadow passed over the
valley in which we lived, I first mistook it for a storm cloud, but then I
heard the sound. It was loud enough to crack the sky, but it wasn’t thunder–it
was birds.

Thousands
upon thousands of them descended on our house. A whirling storm of beating
wings and shrieking caws, they crashed into the walls and windows, pecking at
them with wild ferocity. The house shook under their assault, and their calls
were so loud that I didn’t even hear the windows breaking.

They
were not so loud, however, that I could not hear my father scream. It was over
in a matter of minutes, and the key to my shackles slipped under the door. I
rushed over and picked it up with trembling hands, sliding it into the metal
cuff around my ankle and turning it.

The
cuff came loose with a heavy click, and for the first time I was free.

The
key to the door slipped under the jamb as well, and I opened the door to the
rest of the house. The place had been all but destroyed. There was splintered
wood and broken glass everywhere, and in the center of the living room was what
remained of my father–a pile of bloodstained feathers.

The
birds had all flown off, but Mr. Crow sat on top of the living room fireplace,
regarding me with a curious look.

“Now
you can fly free, little girl,” he said. “No more cages for you.”

“Thank
you, Mr. Crow,” I said. “Will you come with me?”

Mr.
Crow shook his head.

“I
am an old bird,” he said. “And my journey is coming to a close. But yours
is just beginning.”

Mr.
Crow flapped his wings and took flight, and I never saw him again. As I stepped
out of the front door my bare feet touched the grass for the very first time,
and I could smell the flowers on the breeze as it drifted over me.

At
that moment, though my feet were firmly on the ground, my heart was soaring
through endless blue sky, far above the world that I had left behind.

I
still wake up every morning to hear the birds sing, and when the first few
notes break the silence of the early dawn, I think of Mr. Crow and smile.

Credits
to: lifeisstrangemetoo (story)

Creepypasta #1602: I Work Security At Disney W…

Length: Medium

I
work in security at Disney World, the happiest place on Earth. Typically, I
wouldn’t say where I work as obviously there are some pretty strict rules about
things employees can put online, but I just don’t think I can tell this
properly without that context. And, honestly, I think this may be it for me
anyway with this job. I just can’t see myself working here any longer now.

I’ve
been with the company for 23 years. The first 20 years I worked in the parks –
nabbing shoplifters and rounding up people who were drinking too much for the
heat. Occasionally there’d be a fight to break up, but people usually kept it
pretty mild.

The
heat and walking was getting too much for me the last few years so I asked to
be transferred somewhere with a/c and the company moved me to one of their
resorts. While the working conditions were 110% better as far as climate and
comfort go, the guest issues were trickier – mainly domestics. I guess the
expensive and stress of vacation got to a lot of people and I’d be called by
neighboring rooms because some mom and dad were yelling at each other. I’d try
to suggest they take a nap or go do separate activities for a bit and that
would usually calm them down.

But
none of that is what I’m here for. I’ve got to get this out while I have time.

Three
days ago I got a call from management. Apparently a couple of days before that,
housekeeping had went into a room that should’ve been turned over that day
(turned over is when one guest leaves by about 11:00 a.m. and the next guest
checks in around 3:00 p.m.) and all of the guests’ items were still in the
room. Housekeeping made a note of it and moved on, but during the next two days
when they entered the room, everything was still there and untouched.

I
went to check it out and sure enough there was an empty room full of luggage, clothes,
snacks, some toys, everything a family would need for vacation. The manager had
already looked up the previous reservation and it was for a family – dad, mom,
two little kids. I tried to call the phone numbers they had given but all I got
was voice mail. We were a bit stumped so I made the call that housekeeper could
clean the room and take the family’s personal items to be held until we got in
contact with someone.

I
went digging into the reservation more. The family had arrived five days before
housekeeping discovered all of their stuff. I found that the family had paid a
parking fee and their vehicle description was listed. A quick walk of the
parking lots and I had easily located their vehicle. So that ruled out a car
accident or them deciding to just leave all their stuff behind.

Next,
I saw that they had bought a dining plan. This is when a guest prepays for all
of their food. They’re given a certain number of “credits” to use for meals.
This family had only used 3 credits and the last one was two days after they
checked in. It appeared that the day they arrived, they got here late and
probably just stayed on the resort. The next day they used 2 credits at Epcot.
The second park day they used just 1 credit at Magic Kingdom and it was at
breakfast time.

Now
at Disney we have something called Magic Bands. Magic Bands are worn by the
guests and act as a room key, park ticket, credit card, dining reservation
payment, fastpass (a system used to bypass lines), and more. It took some work,
but I was finally able to look up this family’s fastpass history. The day they
went to Magic Kingdom, they had breakfast at a restaurant in the park, rode a
couple of rides, and then rode their last ride, It’s a Small World around 11:00
a.m. Then nothing.

Finally,
it was time to bring in someone else on this. I called an old co-worker at
Magic Kingdom and asked him to pull security footage for It’s a Small World at
the time they rode it and I made my way over there. When I got there, my friend
was very confused, almost distraught, looking. He showed me what he found.
There’s usually a camera in the direction of where rides load and unload. The
footage showed them scanning their bands to use fast passes for the ride and
boarding the ride. The footage from the exit of the ride just showed the other
people in their car exiting. They weren’t there.

Of
course we thought the worse, maybe one of the kids had fallen out and mom and
dad and the other kid got off in the middle of the ride to help and they all
got injured or killed or stuck in machinery somewhere. So we shut down the
ride. Middle of the damn day. Turned off that ear worm music and turned up the
lights. Me and my buddy walked that ride three times before we called in help.
Eventually there was close to ten cast members searching, and we didn’t find
shit except for three cell phones and a hat.

I
was right stumped. I’ve kept digging the past couple of days, and I’m not sure
who to tell what I found next to. I’ve called the police and I suppose they’re
on the way, but the company has a way of covering up things like this and I
decided I can’t live with myself if I don’t put out some type of warning.

I
kept digging into their reservation over the last couple of days and today I
noticed they had purchased memory maker. There are photographers all over the
parks and cameras in a lot of the rides and, with memory maker, the photos are
all free. They automatically get added to a guest’s Disney account when the
system knows their picture has been taken. And the system always knows.
Everyone’s whereabouts are always known with the Magic Bands.

Well,
I opened up their memory maker photo album and, I swear, there’s 732 pictures.
The first 30 or so are pretty normal. Epcot, a few rides, in front of the
castle. But the rest. The rest are all in It’s a Small World. The rides only
take one picture per go around. So it appears as though this family has ridden
this ride over 700 times. The first picture was pretty normal. Everyone looked
happy, it was busy day and a full car of guests. The next one is rough to look
at. The car is empty except for this little family and they look so darn
confused. The next 10-15 I can see dad getting angry, yelling. Mom is holding
onto those two kids like her life depends on it and you can see the kids getting
increasingly upset, crying. And it goes on, and on, and on. After 50 or so it
looks like they’re trying to get out. In one the dad is missing. In another
they’re all gone. Maybe like they’ve bailed early in the ride and tried to walk
out, but in the very next one, they’re all right back in that damn car. After
around 450 or so, I only see the mom and kids. It’s just when I look closely I
can see dad, maybe just his body now, slumped down in one of the other seats.
Since about 675, there’s just mom and one kid. Another body in another seat.
The mom and kid aren’t moving anymore. I think them two are still alive, just
damn near catatonic. Looking straight ahead, pale.

And,
y’all, I swear on my fucking life, the dolls are moving or something. In some
of these pictures I can tell they aren’t where they should be. I even saw one
with a doll in the car with this family.

I
can’t look anymore or I’m going to lose my lunch. I closed the album. It’s file
sized has increased since I closed it. God, are there new pictures being added?

I see on security cameras that
the local PD just arrived so they’ll take over soon. I wish I knew what the
fuck is going on, but I also wish this damn thing had never landed in my lap. I
don’t think I’ll be able to update this. After I talk to the police, I think
I’m going to walk out of here and never come back. I just wanted to get this
out there, before Disney feeds the media some bullshit cover up as to why a
whole family vanished. They didn’t vanish. I know where they are.

Credits to: disneysecurity (story)

Creepypasta #1599: Thalassophobia

Length: Medium

Thalassophobia: from the Greek thalassa meaning
“ocean” and phobos meaning “fear” – a pathological fear of
the sea.

That’s
me, nowadays. Like most phobias, Thalassophobia stems from a fear of the
unknown, flavoured with the particulars of one’s terror. If you’re afraid of
snakes or spiders, I imagine bites and envenomation are concerns. Crashes for
fear of aeroplanes, falls, for heights, all that.

The
things that flavour a fear of the ocean are varied: there are antediluvian
horrors of a thousand stripes slinking through the sea, all manner of utterly
alien life. The ocean is also capricious and deadly, with its rip tides and
rogue waves, and then, there’s all that depth below, all that distance to
simply sink, slip away, and vanish. Take your pick.

I
don’t know where my fear first came from, but it grew steadily throughout my
youth. It’s funny: I always loved to fish and swim and for the longest time, I
told people I wanted to be a marine biologist, Jaws and lungfulls of water be
damned. Practicality, more than my growing disquiet, killed those dreams, and
I’d never have called this unease “phobic.” I still paddled around at the beach
and went deep-sea fishing with my folks. It never kept me from anything.

So
when my in-laws gave me a set of tickets to join them for a cruise, I was
merely reluctant, hesitant, to come along. The prospect of spending so much
time out to sea made my skin crawl, but with my boyfriend’s eagerness and the
sheer generosity of the gift, I couldn’t rightly refuse. Besides, it was the Caribbean,
our trip slated for the bleakest months of the Canadian winter, and there would
be all the liquor I could drink to calm my nerves. I told myself that we’d be
puttering between islands and spending half our time on shore, anyways, that it
wouldn’t be that bad.

Well,
I’m writing this now, so I suppose that assessment was… half-right. But I’ll
never so much as visit the sea again.

We
were somewhere off the coast of Jamaica, a bit less than halfway through our
trip. I had upgraded to a balcony view, mostly to placate the claustrophobia of
those tiny cruiseline cabins. We’d pulled away from shore in the late
afternoon, eaten like pigs in the dining hall, and sucked back rum like it was
going out of style. My beau and I called it an early night, retiring to our
little balcony just after sunset to crack into a couple bottles from the port,
and spark some cigars from the last one over.

It
was then that I felt, more than heard, this… reverberation. Deep, like a
fog-horn, barely audible for all its resonance, it made the hair on the back of
my neck stand on end. I’d become acclimatized to the ship’s engines and the ebb
of the water, but, being no sailor, I wouldn’t have called myself “familiar.”
So I didn’t know, then, if it was just my liquor-fed imagination. Shrugging it
off, we played our cards, drank our drinks, and went to bed.

But
when I heard it again, the next night out to sea, I knew I wasn’t hearing
things. Something about that sound made my blood run cold, made me want to
hide, to flee. I felt dread in my bones. I drank harder to conquer my
cowardice, and asked around the next day.

“It
was just the ship,” my boyfriend said. The crew echoed his explanation.

“Maybe
there was a tremor or an earthquake,” my mother-in-law suggested.

“How
much were you drinking?” my father-in-law joked.

Funny
how some booze and an idyllic week can engender complacency. But curiosity,
straddling paranoia, kept that rumbling, resonant sound on my mind all day. So
I was listening for it when it happened the next evening aweigh.

There’s
something breathtaking about all that black water at night, something gorgeous
in the dark, glassy sea. I’d looked at it almost fondly the past few days,
almost enjoyed watching the sunset boil into the ocean. I gazed down, when I
felt that rumble, searching. And I wish, in hindsight, that I hadn’t.

It’s
near impossible to see a shadow at night, harder still to see a darker patch in
inky sea water. But see it I did. No word of a lie, this shadow beneath us, was
wide as the boat and trailing behind farther still. I squinted at it through
the haze of rum, grabbed my boyfriend and made him look too. But with his
cokebottle glasses, his eyes were useless, and he returned to his seat
unconcerned and unconvinced.

I
may well have joined him in his dismissal had I not watched an eye open up
beneath the surface… then another, and another still, raggedly spaced in that
undulating shadow below. I’m a shite guess for sizes, but this eye, it must
have been six foot across, more. Orange and glowing, staring… alien.

Had
I not recently pissed, I’m sure I would have there. Addled with liquor and
empty-bladdered, I stumbled instead, mashing our drinks as I leapt back from
the rail. Frantically, I bade my beau look again, and, white-knuckling the
banister, I looked down with him. But while that rumbling sound still vibrated
through the vessel beneath us, while I could still see the shadow pacing our
ship, those monstrous fisheyes were nowhere to be seen.

I
wouldn’t sleep that night or the next, not until exhaustion and drunkenness
tag-teamed me into oblivion. All the prying about my suddenly sullen demeanour,
my obvious reluctance to climb back aboard after our island forays wouldn’t
make me talk. It sounds insane to pen it all even now, let alone to have spoken
it then… but I know beyond a doubt what I saw, what I felt.

There
is something very, very big down there.

I
never much liked aeroplanes before, but I blew a sigh of relief when we pulled
into our final port. I never much liked Canada’s winters, but I nearly wept to
be back in our frozen, land-locked province. And I can say with certainty that
I was right about the sea.

I’ve
read that we know more about outer space than we do the ocean, and that we
extinguish new species of life as often as we discover them. With all that
water covering the globe, it’s no wonder that there are things out there yet
unseen. And with the Precambrian monstrosities we dredge up each day, with that
nigh-impenetrable blanket of the unknown across the earth, it’s unsurprising
many have a primordial fear of the ocean.

I
don’t know what I saw those nights, and truth be told, I don’t want to. But if
an anonymous warning is worth anything to you, stranger, please:

Stay on dry land.

Credits to: OTheThingsIveSeen (story)

Creepypasta #1593: There’s Nothing Wrong With …

Length: Medium

“I’m sorry that we have to meet
under these circumstances, Mr. Fenix, but it’s an absolute must, that we talk
about Abigail.”

I
look down at my watch and let out a sigh. “Mrs. Johnson, there’s probably
a misunderstanding…”

“No,
Mr. Fenix…”

“Just
call me Adam.” I asserted.

“Mr.Fenix,
your daughter…” She pulls out a stack of paper and pushes it toward me.
“…has been drawing these in class.”

I
pick one up and looked at it. “This is a drawing of a Dragon. What’s wrong
with that?” I picked up another drawing. “This one is of a Butterfly
with razor sharp wings. She loves Comic books. I don’t see why…”

The
Counselor interrupts. “Keep looking.”

I
go through about a dozen more drawings and found one of a little girl holding a
decapitated head. I look over at my daughter. Her eyes fixated on the floor.
“Abigail. ” She looks up. “Yes, Daddy.”

“What’s
this about?” “It’s about a dream I had. There was a man who wanted to
kidnap me and so I killed him.”

Mrs.
Johnson tenses up.

“How
come you were dreaming about such a thing.” I asked.

“Mrs.
Roberts was talking about stranger danger in class that day.” said
Abigail.

Oh,
it totally makes sense now in my head. My daughter had a day filled with talks
about creepy people and so, naturally, she is going to have a dream about it.

“Mrs.
Johnson, my daughter is bright and creative. She wants to be an artist.”

Mrs.
Johnson is very stern. “Keep looking.” she repeats.

I
reach over and grab the rest of the stack. As I look through them, the drawing
becomes more and more sinister. There was a drawing of boy with a gun and dead
kids all around him. Another drawing is that of the word “KILL! KILL!
KILL!” written repeatedly on a chalkboard. Another one shows a cat hanging
from a tree. Yet another is of a Mother putting her children into the dryer.

“Now
you see, Mr. Fenix, why we have to talk about Abigail?” said the
Counselor.I put down the stack of drawings and asked the Counselor if I can
have a moment with my daughter.

The
Counselor obliges and leaves the office.

“Abigail,
talk to me, honey.”

“Daddy,
it’s not me. He wants me to draw those things.”

“He?
Who’s he?”

“He’s
scary, He stands behind me in class and tells me to draw these things.”

“Abigail,
listen to Daddy. I want you to look me in my eyes and tell me that you’re not
lying to me.”

“Daddy,
I am not lying to you. He…”

“Abigail,
listen. Your teacher is very concerned about these drawings. Mrs. Johnson is
the school counselor. She is very concerned about these drawings.”

“You’re
not listening to me. I didn’t draw these because I wanted to. The scary man who
stands behind me in class is making me draw these things.” My daughter’s
eyes welling up.

“What
man? How can a man just walk into a classroom and nobody notices him.”

“I
don’t know.”

“Abigail,
this is my final warning to you. I don’t want to hear any more lies coming out
of you again."Abigail stays quiet. She pouts and looks the other way. Her
arms folded.

"No
more comic books. No more video games. No more of anything. You’re getting out
of hands with your imagination.” I told her.

“THAT’S
NOT FAIR!!!” she yells.

I
was going to say something else to her but I stopped myself. I collected
myself. What should a good father do? a good father listens, I thought to
myself. My precious daughter is all I have.

“Abigail.
About this man that stands behind you in class. What does he look like.”

“He’s
very pale and his fingers are long. I don’t like looking at him. He’s got a
hundred ugly teeth. He is a scary man.”

“Did
this man hurt you in any way?”

“No.
He just stands there. Sometime he points with his long fingers at my drawing to
let me know that I am doing a good job.”

“Does
any of the other kids see him as well?”

“No.
He only comes to me.”

“Mrs.
Roberts just lets him in the class?”

“Mrs.
Roberts doesn’t care.”

“Why
not?”

“Because
Mrs. Roberts, like you, called me a liar when I tried to tell her.”

I
leaned back in my chair. Perplexed. Why is my daughter saying these things. I
motioned for Mrs. Johnson to come back inside.

“Would
you mind letting me in on this little discussion?” she asked.

“Mrs.
Johnson, I know this may sound crazy but my daughter is telling me that there
is a creepy man that comes in the classroom and stands behind her and forcing
her to draw these morbid drawings.”

“A
man? how is that possible. The whole school would have been surrounded if
a….”

“Yes,
I know, but she is very adamant about it. There is nothing wrong with my little
daughter. I think I believe her.”

Mrs.
Johnson pauses and gives me a look. She’s not biting.

The
counselor gets up from her chair and motions for me and my daughter to follow.
In the hallway, she pulls me aside and spoke softly under her breath.

“Mrs.
Roberts is still in her classroom going over some papers. I suggest you go see
her and sort this out. I don’t know what else I can do. If anything should
arise, and you have any concerns or questions. You can always call me. Even
during off-hours. I am here for you and Abigail.”

I
thanked her and off we went toward Room number 22.Mrs. Roberts is a portly
woman. I know I shouldn’t point out her size like that but I think that’s part
of her charm. Very motherly. Always full of sunshine.

I
peek my head inside the classroom. Mrs. Roberts is at her desk with her head
down low squinting at some paper. “Hello, Mrs. Roberts.” I said.

She
looks up and instantly flashes a giant, heart warming smile. “Mr.Fenix,
what brings you here this late. How’s Abigail doing?”

Abigail
tucks away behind my back. She’s refusing to look inside the classroom. Mrs.
Roberts suddenly remembers why I’m visiting her.

On
the walls were a bunch of drawings by the other children. “Mrs.
Roberts” bright smile quickly disappears. She motioned for me to come
inside.

“Abigail
is a wonderful girl. Lovely student. She’s also quite the artist but it’s the
subject matter I’m a little wary of.”

She
points to a drawing on the wall made my Abigail. “I couldn’t bring myself
to take it down because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Take a look for
yourself.”

She
points toward Abigail’s drawing tacked up between a drawing of a rainbow with cats
underneath it and a Unicorn shooting stars out of its mouth.

Her
drawing was of a pale man with long fingers. His eyes were tiny, black and
round. His abnormally large mouth agape with hundreds of pointed teeth
protruding from within it. Below him sits a little girl at her desk with her
head buried in her arms. There is a word balloon and inside, it reads:
“Shhhhh, It’s going to be alright, Abigail.”

“Abigail
say that this man in the drawing stands behind her in class and forces her to
draw these horrendous things.” I said without turning to look at Mrs.
Robert. “What do you make of it?”

“Mr.
Fenix, I’m sure this is a just phase and is easily fixable. You, as a father,
knows what’s best for her. Kids are brutally honest but also very vulnerable to
their surrounding. A days worth of playing video games could trigger these
nightmares.”

Abigail,
who was milling about outside the classroom suddenly walks in and goes to her
desk as if by command.

She
pulls out a piece of paper and a pencil and starts doodling. Mrs. Roberts looks
over at her. She nods at me.

“Let’s
just let her have her way with it and we’ll see what she comes up with this
time.”

Abigail
then began furiously sketching away at the paper. She’s gripping the pencil
with her hand and drawing in circles.

“Honey,
stop that. You’re going to hurt yourself.” Abigail continues to violently
draw in circles. Her arms are moving against her will. She cannot stop.

Something
prevents me from going toward her. I feel as though I was shackled in place.
Paralyze. Helpless.

Her
pencil snaps in two. She breaks out of her trance.

“Honey,
are you alright?” I yelled out.

She
looks up at me with her eyes full of terror.

“He’s standing right behind me,
Daddy.”

Credits to: Abstractcastle (story)