File :-(, x, )
sup /x/

is can be creepypasta tiem nao?

i'll start

Yesterday, a friend of mine called me. It was a John, an old buddy from high school. I hadn’t spoken with him for years, and we started to reminisce about all the crap we pulled in high school. A few days later I decided to call him back, and see if we could get together, maybe go fishing or something.

We talked on the phone for a while, and I said to him “Hey, maybe we should get together sometime.” He first said that that was a bad idea, but then he agreed. I asked him for address, copied it down, and told him I’d see him in the morning.

The next morning I arrived at the place he said he lived at. There was nothing but rubble there. It looked like there had been a fire there years ago, but nothing got cleaned up, and the plants never regrew. In the middle of the rubble, I found a old rotary style telephone on the floor, not connected to anything. Hurriedly, I pulled out my cell phone and called his number.

The telephone on the floor rang.

Comment too long. Clickhereto view the full text.
>> Anonymous
A few months ago a friend of mine, who is an up-and-coming nature photographer, decided to spend a day and night alone in the woods outside of our town. She wanted to get photos of the woods and wildlife as naturally as she could for her portfolio. She wasn’t afraid of being alone, as she had camped by herself many times before. She set up a tent in the middle of a small clearing and spent the day taking pictures. She filled up four rolls of film on that trip, but something was strange about them. What she saw in those pictures has stayed with her ever since, and she is still trying to recover from the trauma the have caused her.

Almost every picture was accounted for, save for one picture in each roll of film. These pictures were of her, asleep in her tent in the middle of the night.
>> Anonymous
>> Anonymous
On the last day of every month, close the blinds or curtains before you sleep. If in the middle of the night, you hear a tapping noise at your window, don’t open your eyes.

If you’re one of the unlucky ones, you’ll hear that pebble sound at your window. It’s not a friend; just keep your eyes shut. The sound will get louder, the tapping will get faster and faster. Don’t let your curiosity get the better of you; don’t move. It’ll lose its patience, it’ll start thumping the window. Your window will shake and shudder and the noises will only get louder. It will furiously pound the window and shake the panes; don’t worry, the window won’t break but for goodness’ sake, DON’T OPEN YOUR EYES. No matter how scared you are, no matter how badly you want to scream, pretend like you don’t hear, pretend you’re still asleep.

After a while, the noises will stop. Don’t fall for it, keep your eyes shut. Try to sleep if you can. Don’t get up, don’t open your eyes, until the sun comes up.

Those who do open their eyes…well, no one really knows what happens.
>> Anonymous
You are sitting quietly in your room. It's late and everyone else is asleep. When you came upstairs there was an eery feeling, but you dismissed it as you stepped out of the dark stairwell, onto the well lit landing.
The feeling vanishes as you enter your room, your sanctuary, and you glance out out the window. The moon shines in the distance, and casts a shadow of the trees against the dirty glass. Its a hot night, so you leave the window open, and moths flutter against the screen, tapping softly as they seek the light.
It grows late, and you decide to sleep. One persistent moth continues to batter the screen even though the room is now dark. You wait for it to stop, but it bumps more, and louder. The noise frustrates you and you switch the light back on. The noise stops and there is no moth, confused, you switch out the light and lay down.
The tapping starts again, now it is almost a scraping sound, quiet, but irritating. Again you switch on the light and look at the window, but no creatures can be seen. You consider closing the window, it would dull the sound, but its too warm. Switching out the light, you sit back, the noise starts again and you look at the window in the dark.
Silhouetted against the moonlight is a hand, the fingers grazing your second floor window...
>> Anonymous
>>1016118is this what you see?>>1016156
>> Anonymous
So yesterday he called you and a few days later in the future you called him back and this happened?
>> Anonymous
A new find was brought into the lab today. Men working the demolition of a condemned warehouse at this facility discovered a rusty oil barrel that seemed to exude cold. Preliminary electromagnetic field readings yielded chaotic data before the equipment died. Barrel appears to be constructed of stainless steel and, again, radiates cold.

13/7/2007 9:00 PM

We opened the barrel today inside a sealed chamber. Chamber immediately frosted over. Unidentified entity found within the barrel. Appears to be gaseous and black. Indeed, the very light surrounding it appears to be “sucked in” by it’s presence. Appears to be sentient, but does not communicate in any understood way. Biological matter that comes into contact with the Entity seems to disintegrate.

14/7/2007 10:11 AM

An intern entered the sealed chamber alone today, without his hazard suit. He was not seen again. The Entity has double in size since being released from containment. Has become aggressive. We are sealing off the chamber immediately in light of it’s flesh-consuming properties and rapid growth. All research is halted.

14/7/2007 11:00 AM

It’s gone! God help us, it’s escaped!
>> Anonymous
The sink's clogged again. Great. At first, the water just drains slowly and you ignore it. When it gets worse, you dump some Drain-O down the sink, hoping that will do the job.

No good. In fact, it just gets worse.

You brush your teeth that night, curse and swear about the drain, and go to bed. You'll call the plumber tomorrow.

And then it gurgles. You sit up and stare at your bathroom. Another gurgle. You've had enough, this is getting annoying. Fetching a butter knife from the kitchen, you go to your sink and pry off the drain cover, peering down into hole.

And find a set of blackened, rotted teeth smiling back at you.
>> Anonymous
have not seen this before
>> Anonymous
is handprint or running lion

omg bri/x/!!!!111!!1one!
>> Anonymous
There's a message in my alphabits-- it says OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
>> Anonymous
It’s winter, and you go outside in the morning to start the commute to work. There was a light snowfall the previous night, and your windshields are totally iced over. You drop your briefcase in the car and start it up, turning on the heater. You grab your ice scraper from the dashboard lean back towards the windshield. You clear the snow off with your sleeve and start scraping the windshield. As your scraper runs down the first length of your windshield, you see, for a moment, a hideous, bloated face with bloodshot eyes staring up at you from inside your car. Within a second, it shuffles deeper into your car, covered by the ice. You look back into the car through your side window, but see that the car is totally empty.
>> Anonymous
i think you have spaghetti-os there pal
>> Anonymous
Since before I could remember, I've wanted to be a mother. It seemed my whole childhood and teenager years were spent yearning for a child of my own. By the time I was nine, I had names--and color schemes for the nursery--picked out. All I needed was someone to make them with. But college was disappointing. I went through a whole string of bad boyfriends and bad father material. Getting on with my career didn't seem to help much. I realized, though--when I was twenty-seven, and there were no suitable prospects on the line--that, technically, I did not need a man to have a child with. Just a very particular product of his. I found a sperm donor bank, chose the best prospect they had, got out my turkey baster and... well... hoped for the best.

I was overjoyed when my first pregnancy test came out positive. My doctor was surprised to see me coming in sooner than he'd expected. Before I was four weeks along, I had the nursery painted, and the furniture set up. Toys and diapers, bottles and books, bibs and coveralls. I had everything a new mother would need.

I couldn't explain all the weight I was losing. I kept getting thinner--everything except for my belly. My friends all joked that it had to be at least twins. Or the biggest baby they'd ever seen.

I got weary of the kicking somewhere in the third trimester. And the scratching.

Just one more week until my due date.

I wish it would stop gnawing.
>> Anonymous
While honeymooning in Maine, my wife and I stopped in the picturesque town of Boothbay on a particularly dreary and rainy day. Since our planned picnic was out of the question, we sought shelter in a dilapidated little antique store near the harbour. While my wife inspected the large chests and side tables near the door, I eagerly examined the antique tools and seafaring equipment inside the glass sales counter at the back. Being a collector of optics and mariner’s instruments, I hoped to find a sextant, or perhaps an old leather-bound telescope.

A particularly interesting piece caught my eye. It appeared to be a heavy brass flashlight, bearing a worn brown patina but remarkably modern in design. I asked the shopkeeper, but he could only tell me it was found in the same old sailor’s chest as several of the compasses and the sextant also on display. He inquired as to whether I would like to purchase it for five dollars, or perhaps have it for free. “It’s worthless to me, nobody wants it.” When I remarked about the price, he sighed wearily, and then reached into the cabinet and retrieved it for me.

“Here, see for yerself, feller.”
>> Anonymous
The craftsmanship was wonderful—quite durable and apparently hand-made, perhaps originating from somewhere in Europe. Worn lettering indicated it might be German, or perhaps Austrian, in origin. I twisted the bulb housing and a weak red beam swept out. Poking it into a dark corner of the shop, I was greeted with fantastic monotone swirls, moving and entwining with each other like a pit of eels. As I stared further into this unusual projector-kaleidescope, my fanciful mind invented ghoulish faces and sinuous, gnarled tendrils.

Shutting the device off, I turned excitedly to the shopkeeper. “Fantastic!” I said. “It must have an oil filter of sorts in front of the lens! I have two Victorian kalediscopes, but none that are illuminated like this.”

“You don’t get it, do you? Nobody gets it. They all come back to return it after a while.” The shopkeeper leaned on the counter and I could see that he was breathing heavily and perspiring. “They all think it’s some sort of trick… till they start seeing it when the light’s off.”

“That ain’t no projection, mister. That… damned thing, that light… it ain’t makin’ up those creatures. It’s just lettin’ your eyes see what’s already there.”
>> Anonymous
     File :-(, x)
>> Plague Doctor !!jk/WYABxZ5D
>> Anonymous
I have been waking up between 11:50 pm and 12:53 am, but not every night. It seems to be the nights I drift of to sleep as soon as I hit the pillow. I wake up to someone sweeping my garden. At first, I thought I was just imagining, due to being tired. The first few times I heard the sweeping, I managed to go back to sleep. Fobbing it off to just hearing things. However, the last couple of times I have woken up, unable to go back to sleep, I have listened carefully and there is definitely someone sweeping my garden. They start by the patio doors and make their way towards the windows near the bedroom. It is one of those gardener brooms, I know this from the sound, very hard. When the sweeper gets to the last window, the sweeping stops.

On a couple of occasions, I have heard the chairs being moved, so the slabs can be swept and then moved back. Just recently I have heard someone tapping on the bedroom window. The tapping goes on for about one minute and then stops. The tapping has been going on for about two weeks.

I thought I was cracking up but I have noticed Inka seems to stare at the window a lot. She will just sit and stare at the window. Having said that, I have been looking at the window a lot as well when night falls, and occasionally during the day. I get a very uneasy feeling.
>> Anonymous
then john was a zombie
>> Anonymous
>> Anonymous
are you going somewhere with this?
>> Anonymous
i grow green peppers
>> Anonymous
For a brief period in 1971, a New Jersey based company sold novelty “X-ray” glasses through the mail via advertisements in the Marvel line of comic books. People who viewed their televisions while wearing these glasses reported seeing images that were “hellish” or “like hell”. It should be noted that this phenomena occurred whether the televisions in question were turned on or not. The company quickly went out of business and investigations reveal that the company’s address leads to a graveyard founded over 150 years earlier.
>> Anonymous
Legend has it that if you come face to face with your doppelganger, it's an omen or warning of death -- for both you and your twin. Because of this, if you see a replica of yourself, run for your life. If you keep seeing your doppelganger, chances are that your days are numbered, because you'll soon see your demise. There are many stories regarding encounters with doppelgangers, none of them pleasant. Often, a person does not actually see their own doppelganger, but someone else does. Can you be two places at once? No, but it's a very strange feeling when someone who knows you very well insists that they saw you just thirty minutes ago -- and you were nowhere in the vicinity. Imagine this happening time and time again and you'll soon go insane. Hence, the myth that a doppelganger will precede the arrival of the real person. Many stories explaining their experiences with these apparitions have this in common. Perhaps he's one step ahead of you?
>> Anonymous
In 1938, over 6,000 patients were checked into mental hospitals all across America within one week of each other. Reports of similar instances supposedly came from Europe and Asia as well. The circumstances of each patient were, eerily, identical.

Every patient completely shut down, shivering in the corner until their family, unable to calm or care for the individuals, committed them.

The only thing the patients would say was: "There is not, and never has been, such a thing in this world as a meaningless coincidence."
>> Anonymous
The man in the baseball cap walked through the hardware section of Home Depot.

Something was wrong. He had to fix it when he got home. It was a little stuffy in there; might feel good to let some air in. He thought for awhile. The hacksaw would probably take too long, and it would be a weird angle for the phillips head screwdriver. He had tried the hammer, but couldn’t get it to work, even with the four inch hot-dip galvanized nails he’d bought yesterday.

It was an old place. Sold construction, over forty years old. The fuck if he knew what it was really made of. His eyes wandered over to the power tool section. That might do the trick. He just wanted to fix it up a bit. The ventilation wasn’t right.

After some inspection, the man purchased a DeWalt 14.4 volt electric drill, with a 7 piece set of rapid load masonry bits. 3000 rpm, 98.7 foot-pounds of torque, two batteries and a charger. He paid in cash, thanked the casher, and drove home. As the clock hit 1:47, he figured he’d give it a go. He didn’t know if the batteries were fully charged or not, but figured a few minutes of juice would be enough. Besides, he was getting a headache, and he wanted to get this done before the kids came home.

The man sat down at the dinner table and loaded the drill with a battery and a 17/64” masonry bit. He wasn’t sure what size to use, so he guessed he could start low and size up. But it didn’t really matter, anyway. After removing the baseball cap, the man pressed the electric drill to the left side of his head and squeezed the trigger. The drill made a loud grinding sound as the bit struggled to pierce his skull.

Two, three minutes later it was done. The man pulled the drill from his skull. Little flecks of bone were stuck to the bit. It felt like a slight wind was blowing through his head. He sat there for a moment, smiling.

It felt good to let some air in. But now it was time to take care of that leak.
>> Anonymous
In a thread somewhere on the internet, is a group of people sharing scary stories, like at a campfire. Except these aren't stories. They're real. Little do they know of the amount of truth in their words. Know what's scarier? You just lost the game.
>> Anonymous
Normally you sleep soundly, but the thunderstorm raging outside is stirring you from your sleep. You begin to doze, then another crash jolts you awake. The cycle lasts most of the night. So you lay there, eyes open and outward, looking at your room stretching out before you in oblong shadows. Your eyes move from nameless object, to object, until you reach your mirror, sitting adjacent to you across the room.

Suddenly a flash of lighting, and the mirror flickers in illumination. For a scant second the mirror revels to you dozens of faces, silhouettes within its frame, mouths open and eyes blackened. They stare out at you, their black pupils fixed upon your face.

Then it is done. Are you sure of what you have seen? Unsettled, you don’t sleep for the rest of the evening. The next morning you remove the mirror from your wall and toss it in the trash. It didn’t matter if the vision you had seen was of truth or falsehood, you wanted to be rid of that mirror. In fact, you scrap every mirror in your house.

Weeks pass and the event of that night falls into passive memory. You are spending the day at a friend’s house and it’s time to use the bathroom. While you are in there the faucet starts to run without you prompting it. Taken aback by this, you do not yet act, trying to reason with your paranoia in your mind. The water starts to steam and a skin of moisture covers the mirror up above. You’re watching intently as words form: “Please return the mirrors. We miss watching you sleep at night.”
>> Anonymous
The great geniuses throughout history had one startling thing in common, they all went through a day where everything clicked, everything seemed to make sense, and everything they did from that day on was perfect. This is a very rare phenomenon, but cherish it if it happens to you. There is an opposite side to this coin, however, where one will have a day that is so devoid of feeling, so depraved, and every day from that point on they will be slowly deteriorating into a physical manifestation of pure insanity. If you start to have one of these days, kill yourself immediately, for after 24 hours you won't be able to die. You'll just roam the world getting worse and worse...
>> Anonymous
>> Anonymous
Rumor has it that every Halloween during the hours of 2am and 5am, there exists a void. You must stand in front of a mirror in a pitch black room with your gaze fixated on the mirror. If you remain in the room when the moment arrives, you will feel a chill seize your body. Place your right hand on the mirror and whisper “I accept.” If done correctly, in the mirror, there will be a faint image of an infant with no flesh and pitch black eyes. He will stare directly into your soul and you will hear the buzzing of flies and nervous whispering.

You will not be able to make out the image in the mirror, but you will be filled with unspeakable terror. The infant will ask you five questions about events that have occured within your life. His voice will sound like the rubbing of sandpaper and will be devoid of all human emotion. For each question that you answer incorrectly, one of your five senses will be consumed and lost to you forever. For each question that is answered correctly, you will be able to recite the name of someone you know.

That person will be found dead the next morning with their flesh removed and their eyes missing.
>> Anonymous
/r/ that really short one about not breathing on mirrors
>> Anonymous
Famed neurosurgeon Dr. Theodore Brown Rasmussen, though remembered as a warm, modest soul by his family
and colleagues, is most widely known for his brilliant research in the treatment of severe epilepsy and
degenerating neurological diseases. His area of expertise was the "hemispherectomy", in which crippling,
diffuse epileptic disturbance on one side ('hemisphere') of the brain is treated by simply removing nearly all
of the afflicted hemisphere. In infants and young children, whose brains are "plastic" and not yet developed,
the remaining portion develops to assume the removed portions' functions, and patients usually grow to average
or greater intelligence and lead normal, functional lives.

However, such an invasive surgery usually resulted in massive complications (such as fluids filling the cavity
and putting pressure on the remaining hemisphere), which in the '70s lead Dr. Rasmussen to develop what would
come to be known as the Rasmussen "functional hemispherectomy", in which most of the damaged hemisphere is left
alive and in place, but with specific nerve bundles snipped to isolate it, rendering it both useless and harmless.

In 1974 Samantha N. Williams was one of the first patients to beneft from this new operation. At age 3, she could
not walk, talk, sit upright, or eat solid food. She suffered at least 60-70 crippling seizures a day, making
any sort of meaningful developmental progress impossible.
>> Anonymous
As expected, she suffered from moderate hemiplegia (paralysis of the left arm and leg, and most of the left portion
of the face), deafness in her right ear, and blindness in the right hemisphere of both eyes (inner right eye and
outer left eye). But, though wheelchair-ridden and suffereing from predictable social difficulties, she largely
lead a normal life. She attended public school, was a member of the math and debate teams, and maintained a perky,
upbeat demeanor that endeared her to friends and family. In early adulthood, she began to frequently suffer
intense but incoherent nightmares, which left her virtually sleepless. This was dismissed as the result of stress,
her childhood operation still regarded as a complete success, and she graduated with high marks at the age of 21.

It was shortly after, in the summer of '82, that her night terrors began to grow intense enough to cause alarm.
Her distraught moans and hollow, throaty howls were reportedly loud enough to disturb her next-door neighbors.
She thrashed terribly, and most remarkably her two paralized limbs appeard to be active at such times: her left arm
and leg kicking and thrashing even more violently than their counterparts. On one occassion her left hand was seen
fumbling for and then grabbing a glass of water at her bedside, hurling it acrss the room. However, when she awoke
(often unnerved from her dreams) her paralized limbs would again be inert.
>> Anonymous
Samantha's parents were both practicing Roman Catholics, and though they had long abstained from blaming any of
their daughter's troubles on anything save biology, these recent developments deeply troubled them. They consulted
their local priest; who, in this instance, did the right thing and told them to consult a doctor.

Rebecca Williams brought her daughter to a local hospital on July 16. Samantha spoke vaguely of her nightmares,
describing them as "mad and feverish" (though her temperature was normal). Her mother also described her full-body
thrashing and 'possessed' hand, which the family doctor, while not and expert, explained to be some variant on
"alien hand syndrom"; a bizare condition occuring only in "split brains", in which the secondary hand or limb
automatically performs very simple tasks without any conscious effort. Rare, but documented. That wasn't what
bothered him.

The nerves connecting her spine to the right side of her brain (which controlled the left side of her body) had been
severed. In early development her healthy left hemisphere had assumed a great deal of the damaged (and effectively
'amputated') right hemisphere's work, including most movement and feeling in the neck and trunk, but complete
recovery of both limbs so late in life was unheard of. He knew that the potential ramifications of a hemipolegic
regaining any sort of function in such circumstances must be massive. He was also worried because 'alien hand'
requires an at least semi-functional second hemsphere, which Samantha obviously didn't have.
>> Anonymous
An appointment was made with a brain and spine specialist from out-of-state only three days later; in the meantime,
an RNA was dispatched to help keep an eye on Samantha as well as take detailed notes on her behavior.

On the night of the 16th, her nightmares grew magnitudes more severe. Reportedly, the activity in her hand grew
increasingly frantic. At one point it found a ballpoint pen on her nightstand: it was seen to 'pause for once, then
remove the cap and clasp it with a white knuckled grip'. Her spastic thrashing died down at that point but her
sleep remained uneasy. When describing her dreams the next morning she spoke of a "voice", but if asked to
elaborate would become confused and visibly more distraught.

Her left hand continued to clasp the ballpoint pen even after she had awoke. When someone or something touched the
pen, it was observed as clasping it more tightly and shying away from the contact. When her mother attempted to
take it away it clenched and jerked back protectively.

Seeing the 'alien hand' at work for the first time, Samantha responded with understandable horror. Periodically
throughout the day she would notice it and stare transfixed, repeating over and over "That's not me, I'm not doing
that, it isn't me." Perhaps delirious from stress and lack of sleep, she also appeared to suffer from auditory
hallucinations throughout the day, frequently asking "Did you hear that?" After several negative responses, she
stopped asking or making any note of the phantom sounds, but was still seen at random to perk up and look around
or appear startled by something.
>> Anonymous
Samantha spent most of this last day reading and listening to relaxing music, attempting to calm her nerves.
Fearing her dreams, she stayed up late into the night.

Around 2 a.m., having nearly nodded off in her chair, Sam was startled awake as the hand clutching the ballpoint
pen began to write in the margins of her book. Meaningless scribbles at first, followed by crude attempts at
circles and triangles, with intelligable numbers and mathematical signs strewn throughout; all while the woman
simply watched with increasing panic. When the pen was wrestled from her the hand fumbled and clawed frantically
to take it back. Her nails drew blood from her father's arm.

Her parents called for a priest, who assured them that he would be there in fifteen minutes but whose car
unfortunately broke down on the way. Valiantly he continued on foot but would not arrive until dawn.

Delirious, Samantha spent the next half hour sobbing and telling her parents she was scared, though was unable to
articulate exactly why. Her statements grew less and less coherent by the minute and eventually she simply stopped
speaking and stared into space, hugging her knees; she still responded to outside stimuly (taking and drinking from
a glass of warm milk that was offered to her) but refused to talk or make eye contact. Eventually, her sleeplessness
caught up with her.
>> Anonymous
Her "nightmares" commenced almost immediately. Her parents were unable to wake her, and her body twitched and
convulsed, most characteristic of the severe seizures of her infancy than any of her recent "nightmares". Her
screams and moans were broken and innane, at times sounding more like gibbering or fumbling attempts at speech.

The RNA called an ambulance. Her parents attempted to move her to a bed, but due to her thrashing never made it
farther than the livingroom floor. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head. She wept and howled at once, lips
moving frantically as if attempting to speak over herself, which warped the resulting screams horrifically.

Her left arm tore her shirt off. With deep, bleeding furrows, the letters "l e t m e o u t" were etched in
lopsided letters on her chest.

Samantha Williams swallowed her own tongue and died on July 18th, 1982, shortly before the paramedics arrived at
3:07 a.m. An autopsy was performed for scientific purposes but its results have never been disclosed to the public;
records of the autopsy remain the property of the Montreal Neurological Institute. Rumors (reports from doctors
and nurses who overheard conversations but didn't see anything for themselves) claim that Sam's right hemisphere,
which should have been rendered virtually vegitative by years of isolated electric activity, in fact appeared to be healthier than the left.
>> Anonymous
I'm gonna try this now!
get rid of some of the people i hate!
>> Anonymous
be sure to let /x/ know if it works so we can all do it next year
>> Anonymous
So ur with ur honey and yur making out wen the phone rigns. U anser it n the vioce is "wut r u doing wit my daughter?" U tell ur girl n she say "my dad is ded". THEN WHO WAS PHONE?
>> Anonymous
if this is not posted in every creepypasta thread will /x/plode?
>> Anonymous

You start noticing those words when you're going about your day-to-day business - just flipping through the classifieds, or posted on telephones near bridges. Normal places. Just words that seem to be catching your eye.

Then they start appearing more randomly: the first seven tiles you pick in Scrabble, the first spoonful of alphabet soup, even those stupid spams sent by strangers. You even check a few of them, but they all end up being for the same old pills and promises.

Now it's getting so everything you read has those words crop up - close-captioned TV shows, book titles, CDs, bus schedules, menus, everywhere. It's distracting, very very distracting, it's so very hard to concentrate when words squiggle out of the corner of your eye, when the keyboard's no longer qwerty but gethelpgethelpgethelp.

The delusion's taking its toll. Who needs help? Who's sending you this message? Why you? How can you help someone who you don't even know?

You're trying to type an email to a friend. It's very hard to do. The letters keep swimming and you add an apology in the email, just in case your writing's garbled. You finally hit send.

Later, you wake up.

You're in the hospital. Your friend is sitting beside you. I was so worried, he says. When you sent that email. GET HELP GET HELP GET HELP, over and over. I came over and found you on the floor. They had to do surgery. Do you know what they found? A second brain. Tiny but fully formed, growing in your head. It was blocking an artery. You're lucky to be alive.

But you aren't really listening to your friend any more. You're staring at a fire escape diagram near your bed. It doesn't say anything about fire safety at all.

>> Anonymous
Not all murderers are monsters.

There are certain people, usually male, usually middle class, in occupations which require them to see a lot of clients: doctors, lawyers and salesmen who will receive a visit from an unusual client. He will be tall with long black hair draped over a grinning face. His clothes will tend to be dark grey or black and for some reason he will never be without brown paper gloves. He will visit regularly as a normal client, though few are able to recall precisely what happens when they meet with him. It will be three weeks before his final visit wherein he will give his ultimatum. After his final visit, the men often become introverted, shunning their friends and ignoring their commitments. Many begin to drink heavily. It will not be long before they have killed. Perhaps their whole family or perhaps a group of strangers. When the police arrest them they are quiet and stoic, as if what they did was a brutal necessity.

Not all murderers are monsters, some are heroes. If not for them none of us would be alive today.
>> Anonymous
Psychics, all over the world, are scared out of there minds. Why? Because these psychics...the REAL ones, not those posers on TV, see into the future. There is something coming up soon, something the US now calls an "Event Horizon". A point in time where no one can see the future, not one glimpse. it's like the future history just cuts off. All they can see is a blank white room, with a single woman standing away from them, clad in a white dress, black hair down to her waist. No one can see her face, but she appears to be crying. No one knows who that woman is, but the psychics know that if they met her, they would know her. They also know that they NEED to find her, soon. Because other things have been seen beyond the Even Horizon too...but those that saw them are in no condition to talk about it.
>> Anonymous
They say that cell phones have mysterious qualities. It's something that only started within the last few decades, those waves bouncing around all over the place, reaching more and more people on this planet everyday. They connect the entire world together effortlessly. But what if the connection goes even further? Beyond the reaches that we know about?

The other day, I decided to try something "interesting." Not for any reason, just for curiosity. If you ever have taken a microphone to a speaker, you will get that loud screeching sound that I'm sure you are all familiar with. That sound is the sound of the speakers destroying themselves from their own vibrations, however, the sound is always changing in pitch and tone. The idea always fascinated me, so I decided one day to try it on a "bigger", yet smaller scale.
I was able to convince my friend one day to let me borrow his cell phone to try an experiment. I took out my phone and called his so that the two were connected to each other. I then took the two and placed them so that each of the receivers were facing the other's earpiece. What came out sounded like a millions sneakers skidding across a gym floor, one right after the other (you'd have to hear it to understand). It wasn't random, it was very uniform in structure.
>> Anonymous

I decided to mess with it for a while, trying different things like clapping to disrupt the sound, or yelling into it. The sound would echo for a while, then slowly be replaced with the sneakers again. So I decided to try something different.

I spoke my name into it. "Hello. I'm Aaron. How's it going?" I listened to it settle and got a few laughs as my voice became distorted. Then right after it went back the sneaker sound, I heard something I didn't expect. It spoke back. "Hello Aaron. I am David. Why am I here? Why am I here? Why am I here?" It kept repeating that phrase for a while, getting louder each time until I freaked out and hung the phones up. The sneaker sound never came back.

I still ask myself if I imagined it, but to this day, I'm pretty sure I heard someone from "the other line". But I've never tried again. But maybe you should try it yourself if you get the chance. Most "myths" will tell you that something bad will happen to you after doing something like this, but nothing happened to me. So I encourage you to try it. However, if it wrecks your phone(s), don't blame me.

in during "THEN WHO WAS PHONE!?" The answer is David, apparently.
>> Anonymous
This one?

Every time you exhale, a little bit of your soul escapes. Luckily, you almost always inhale it back before anyone else gets to it. Almost.

Ever fogged up a mirror with your breath?

Don't do that.
>> Anonymous
yeah thanks
>> Anonymous
No. I'm one step ahead of -him-.
>> Anonymous
Every night is the same. . . I turn on all the lights. I'm not afraid of the dark, I'm afraid of the Dark. The Night. Laugh, but you've not see what I've seen, you don't have the scars, you've never seen someone walk into a shadow and vanish. There are things out there more horrible than you could ever know. . . there are voices that come out after the sun goes down, there are shadows with fingers, and claws, and teeth.

Everyone sees them. As children, you saw them, and labeled them as the boogie man, the monster under the bed, the thing outside your window that watched you sleep. You wanted the night light, you knew instinctively that it would protect you just as early man huddled around the fire light to drive the Night back into hiding. As you grew older, you convinced yourself that it couldn't hurt you, that it wasn't there. . . but you still see them. They are the moment in the dark, empty room. They are the soft scratching on your window at night. They are the nightmares that you wake up from in a panic, but can not remember.

But do not worry, as a child you had the answer. Hide under the covers, do not look them in the eye, turn on the lights. Keep your eyes tightly shut when you hear them, when you catch them from the corner of your eyes. Pretend they don't exist and push it all away, or you'll end up like me. Once you see their eyes, they see you. . . and once they see you, they hunger for you.
>> Anonymous
thats what i want you to think
>> Anonymous
>> Anonymous
there was a kid who died
and then he was a ghost
>> Anonymous
i is can write good creepypasta yes?
>> Anonymous
For a brief period in 1971, a New Jersey based company sold novelty “X-ray” glasses through the mail via advertisements in the Marvel line of comic books. People who viewed their televisions while wearing these glasses reported seeing images that were “hellish” or “like hell”. It should be noted that this phenomena occurred whether the televisions in question were turned on or not. The company quickly went out of business and investigations reveal that the company’s address leads to a graveyard founded over 150 years earlier.
>> Anonymous
ring him
>> Anonymous
nothing in this thread has made me shit bri/x/

come on /x/ enough with the boring lack or aliens

>> Anonymous
>> Holder of The End Anonymous
In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself "The Holder of the End". Should a look of child-like fear come over the worker's face, you will then be taken to a cell in the building. It will be in a deep, hidden section of the building. All you will hear is the sound of someone talking to themselves echoing throughout the halls. It is in a language that you will not understand, but your very soul will feel unspeakable fear.

Should the talking stop at any time, STOP and QUICKLY say aloud, "I'm just passing through, I wish to talk." If you still hear silence, flee. Leave; don't stop for anything, don't go home, don't stay at an inn, just keep moving, sleeping wherever your body drops. You will know in the morning if you've escaped successfully.

If the voice in the hall returns after you utter those words, continue on. Upon reaching the cell, all you will see is a windowless room with a single man huddled in the corner, still talking endlessly and cradling something. The man will only respond to one question: "What happens when they all come together?"

The man will then stare intently into your eyes and answer your question in horrifying detail. Many go mad in that very cell; others disappear soon after the encounter, and still others end their lives. But most do the worst thing, and look upon the object in the person's hands. You, too, will be tempted. Be warned that if you do, your death will be one of cruelty and unrelenting horror.

Your death will be in that room, by that person's hands.

That object is 1 of 538. They must never come together. Never.
>> Holder of The Beginning Anonymous
In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls herself "The Holder of the Beginning." A small smile will work its way over the person's mouth, almost as if to say, "You fool.”

You will then be taken down a hallway, seemingly leading out into a place it shouldn't. Physically, this place shouldn't exist anywhere in the institution, yet it does. The hall will be forever silent, even if you try to make noise. Screams will die before leaving your mouth, and footsteps will be muffled. Your guide will simply point to the door.

If you enter, you will find a cozy room full of a pleasant yet unidentifiable perfume. In the center of the room, you will see a beautiful woman holding her arms as if cradling something; further inspection will reveal that she is, in fact, holding nothing at all. This room will remain just as silent as the hallway you just left, no matter how hard you try. The only exception is for you to ask one question: "Why were they separated?" The woman will then explain, in excruciating detail, every horrific event in history, every beating, every war, and every rape. No travesty in the history of the universe will escape your ears. When she finishes, all will fall silent. It is up to you to do what you will with this information.

That woman is Object 2 of 538. It is up to you if they should be joined or not.
>> Holder of Eternity 1. Anonymous
In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself "The Holder of Eternity." A sigh might escape the worker as they look upon you with the utmost pity. They will take you down a flight of stairs into what should be the basement of the building, yet isn't.

As you press deeper and deeper into the underbelly of the institution, you will begin to hear a chorus of screams. At first it will be barely audible, as if originating from a point a great distance away, but the closer you get to the end of the hallway, the louder it will become until it drones so loudly that it seems to consume all other noises. Soon the din will become so painful that you will feel the unrelenting urge to claw at your own ears to escape it; it is advisable to resist this impulse, or else it will be impossible to complete your quest. The worker will show you a door, covering both their ears as they do so. As swiftly as they can, they will unlock the door and run, leaving you alone in this cramped, dark hallway.
>> Holder of Eternity 2 Anonymous
This will be your last chance to run. If you decide to continue, open the door; the piercing wail will then end abruptly, leaving your ears ringing. The room you will enter will be coated in an almost tangible, all-consuming darkness but for the far end of the room. There, manacled to the wall, is an emaciated figure, covered in raw lashes. He will stare directly at you, with a maniacal grin plastered to his face despite festering wounds and a scalpel still half-protruding from his chest. Now will be your only chance to save yourself, and the only way is to ask, "Who created them?”

He will cackle in a manner befitting the death throes of an animal before responding. His will be the most horrific tale you have ever heard, beyond such primitive concepts as pain and death. It will delve deep into the very essence of evil; those of weak mind go mad at the man's story, so remain strong, no matter how fragile your mind may feel.

When he finishes, it will be up to you to end this man's life, releasing his terrible burden. Remove the scalpel and he will shudder once in agony before falling silent... forever.

That scalpel is Object 3 of 538. It is up to you if the rest should be protected or destroyed.
>> Anonymous
>> Anonymous
>> Anonymous
>> Anonymous
When using Internet Explorer 3 for Windows (google around for a version that works on Windows XP), enter this in the address bar (do not copy-paste, you must input it with the keyboard): for-you://gratitude-and-remembrance Wait about 40 seconds. You will fell strange. Don't fight the feeling, or you will be jerked out of it, and you have only one chance to do it. A weblog will appear. It will contain events that will happen for the seven next years of your life. Add /admin/ to the address bar. Try to guess the password your future self would have chosen. There is always a way - discovering it is never out of your reach even if it's a meaningless string of letters. Once you have access to the admin, you can delete any post you want, and that event will never happen to you. However, UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES you are to edit a post. JUST DON'T. You have only one hour to do it: after that the connection will be lost.
>> Anonymous
During the summer of 1983, in a quiet town near Minneapolis, Minnesota, the charred body of a woman was found inside the kitchen stove of a small farmhouse. A video camera was also found in the kitchen, standing on a tripod and pointing at the oven. No tape was found inside the camera at the time.

Although the scene was originally labeled as a homicide by police, an unmarked VHS tape was later discovered at the bottom of the farm's well (which had apparently dried up earlier that year).

Despite its worn condition, and the fact that it contained no audio, police were still able to view the contents of the tape. It depicted a woman recording herself in front of a video camera (seemingly using the same camera the police found in the kitchen). After positioning the camera to include both her and her kitchen stove in the image, the tape then showed her turning on the oven, opening the door, crawling inside, and then closing the door behind her. Eight minutes into the video, the oven could be seen shaking violently, after which point thick black smoke could be seen emanating from it. For the remaining 45 minutes of video, until the batteries in the camera died, it remained in its stationary position.

To avoid disturbing the local community, police never released any information about the tape, or even the fact that it was found. Police were also not able to determine who put the tape in the well, or why the height and stature of the woman in the video didn't come close to matching the body they'd found in the oven.
>> Anonymous
In the winter of 1944, with overtaxed supply lines in the Ardennes, a medic in the German army had completely run out of plasma, bandages and antiseptic. During one particularly bad round of mortar fire, his encampment was a bloodbath. Those who survived claimed to have heard, above the screams and barked commands of their Lieutenant, someone cackling with almost girlish glee.

The medic had made his rounds during the fire, in almost complete darkness as he had so many times before, but never had he been this short on supplies. No matter. He would do his duty. He had always prided himself on his resourcefulness.

The bombardment moved to other ends of the line, and most men dropped off to sleep in the dark, still hours of the morning - New Year's Day, 1945. The men awoke at first light with screams. They discovered that their bandages were not typical bandages at all, but hunks and strips of human flesh. Several men had been given fresh blood transfusions, yet there had been no blood supplies available. Each treated man was almost completely covered, head-to-toe, with the maroon stain of blood.

The medic was found, sitting on an ammunition tin, staring off into space. When one man approached him, and tapped him on the shoulder, his tunic fell off to reveal that large patches of his skin, muscle, and sinew had been stripped from his torso and his body was almost completely dried of blood. In one hand was a scalpel, and in the other, a blood transfusion vial. None of the men treated for wounds that night, in that camp, saw the end of January, 1945.
>> Anonymous
Hello, I posted some Irish things, what a couple days ago? So, here's this, an actual story, involving the watery ghosts you may remember. Old one, and I suppose it's not that scary, but figured it may be interesting. This is supposedly a true story, for what it's worth.

On Inishboffin, an island off the coast of Ireland, in County Galway, around 1902, a man named Garret Conner caught sight of a boat while tending to fishnets with his cousin Gerald. He points out the boat to Gerald, which is floating sideways in toward the shore, running the risk of colliding with the pier. Fearing for the crew of the boat, and for the pier (which would be expensive to replace, and make things hard on the fishermen), and the boats moored, Garret and Gerald run up the pier, calling to the crew on the boat. Three men, tending other boats, joined them, yelling and bringing rope to perhaps moor the boat themselves if the crew was found incapacitated, or dead. Those lost at sea long, afterall, would eventually die, so they needed to be prepared if one of these boats came floating in to moor it and remove the bodies safely.

Garret, Gerald, and a friend from another boat row out in a small boat, connecting the line, and row back toward the pier. They noticed immediately, no one was responding to the repeated calls, and the anchor chain was in the water, but the boat was floating along anyway.

They get the rope around the pier mooring, and pull it in opposite the other boats for safety. The hull gets a small dent, but the pier is unharmed, and they secure the boat safely, but it's floating back and forth, as the anchor seems perhaps be floating just below the waterline. Setting up a plank, the men board and search the ship.
>> Anonymous

The captain's manifest and log are found, but there is no sight of the crew. There are no visible sights of foul play, but the row boat for escaping the ship is still on deck. However, the anchor chain has been broken cleanly, as if cut through. Sitting on the deck, they begin to look through the manifest and log. It was a fishing trawler, but no nets or rigging were found. Oars appeared to be absent, but the main post had no sail, nor the rigging for a sail.

At a loss, they secure the boat with a new anchor, and examine the log. Garret, most literate of them, finds it written in Irish (which is fortunate, as Garret spoke little English; much of western Connacht, especially islands, are Irish-speaking places) and reads through what are mostly blaise entries. The boat came from Clare Island, not far north of them, and was trawling for dolphins (a common part of Irish islander food prior to modern sensibilities). As it went though, the captain's entries more frequently dipped into prayers. Short at first, but longer, and apparently made up by himself or his men, with only a few traditional ones mixed in.

By the last twenty pages, it's practically a missal, interspersed with nonsensical ramblings, but no dates given. Only on the last of the twenty pages does it seem to recover sense, but still no dates.
>> Anonymous
Many classic horror icons, such as Geiger's Xenomorphs, Silent Hill's Pyramid Head, and other disturbing creatures, share common characteristics. Pale skin, dark, sunken eyes, elongated faces, sharp teeth, and the like.
These images inspire horror and revulsion in many, and with good reason. The characteristics shared by these faces are imprinted in the human mind.
Many things frighten humans instinctively. The fear is natural, and does not need to be reinforced in order to terrify. The fears are species-wide, stemming from dark times in the past when lightning could mean the burning of your tree home, thunder could be the approaching gallops of a stampede, predators could hide in darkness, and heights could make poor footing lethal.

The question you have to ask yourself is this: What happened, deep in the hidden eras before history began, that could effect the entire human race so evenly as to give the entire species a deep, instinctual, and lasting fear of pale beings with dark, sunken eyes, razor sharp teeth, and elongated faces?
>> Anonymous
"We saw them in the water. They had taken the anchor. They were looking from under the water, staring at us. They were swimming, but never came up for air. Their eyes had light in them. We would sail to shore, but the compass has failed, and the sail has gone. The oars are missing. We are lost, and they move boldest at night. We sometimes hear them hold the hull, scratching. They do not breath. They are men, but not men. Please God, send your Mother for us. We are doomed. Do not abandon our souls. See this finds its way to a safe place. We have accepted the end, and thank you for what life we have been given. Protect our families and homes. If sin had led us to this place, we are sorry. If chance did, we do not begrudge you our bad luck. Captain Brian Costello"

A Brian Costello, a trawler captain, was missing, as were seven other crewmen. His boat was brought to the island, refitted with a new sail. The piermen identified it, as did their friends and family. Their corpses were never recovered. Island affairs tended to get poor recording, and all that was mentioned was a brief blurb that the men had been lost at sea. The conditions under which they were, and the unusual nature of the log were not mentioned and remained as part of the stories of the islanders in the region.
>> Anonymous
You know that ringing sound that you will perceive when you are in a very quiet area? Some people say this is an auditory-illusion brought about the ear's inability to detect frequencies below the threshold of the human senses. This is completely wrong. That ringing covers up something else altogether. If you are quick, patient, and maybe a little lucky, you will be able to hear past the ringing. What you will hear are voices whispering to each other. They will silence themselves quickly but with practice, you will become more adept at catching and interpreting what they are saying. You will hear things of the past, the present, and the future. However, you must be careful. Because there is no such thing as a voice without a body.

And when you start noticing them, they will start noticing you.
>> Anonymous
Oh shit, OC.

I liked it.
>> Anonymous

Wolves and Bears, nigger
>> Anonymous
Isn't quite finished. Sorry.

Thing is, during a storm, Costello's ship, sold to a Morgann O'Neill, was lost. His boat is supposedly still seen around Clare Islands, Inishboffin, Inishturk, and Caher Island (most of the islands of the Mayo Islands). Some fishermen, like, living fishermen, people you can go speak to, truly believe they've seen it, a sailless, small boat, being rowed by a pale bodied, or even spectral crew, with no eyes, but instead a dim glow where eyes should be. Others don't believe in it, but Mayo Islanders, especially sailors and fishermen, will swear it is real.
>> Anonymous
>> Anonymous
     File :-(, x)

...God Torgo rules
>> Anonymous
Not some bad OC, if it's true people believe it.

Those are the ones I find scariest, honestly. Not the overblown 'this'll happen to you' or such, it's, 'people who are probably largely sane, somewhere, for some reason, really believe this, in large numbers'. But don't know who the Irish guy is, anyone knows what he refers to?
>> Anonymous
     File :-(, x)
>> Anonymous
There's actually an explanation for this one; humans are naturally made uneasy by human corpses and other 'human like' things.
>> Anonymous
Oh shit saved.

Tubes need more torgo
>> Anonymous
>> Anonymous
Slyvia Plath, is that you?
>> Anonymous
>> Anonymous
A strange number appears on the cellphone. You pick up anyway.

-Hello, Can I have five minutes of your time?
-Thank you

The phone goes dead, and you feel just a little bit older now.
>> Anonymous
On the internet, there is a message board. Occasionally, someone will post a thread asking for generally creepy stories. These threads are usually long and contain a lot of entertaining reading.

However, occasionally someone will enter the thread and post only an 8-digit number that if read, will give you a specific recurring nightmare for three nights.

In this nightmare, you visited in your sleep by a man with a very curious smile. During these visits, he performs unspeakable acts. And repeats a phrase over and over again. This phrase is different each night.

At the end of these three nights, the events of one of the stories posted in the thread will happen to you.

It is said also that if you dial this 8-digit number into a payphone at exactly 2:30 AM, a voice with no discernable gender will answer and tell you all of the great secrets of eternity.
>> Anonymous


Dial away, faggots
>> Anonymous
no bri/x/ were shat
But it certainly was delicious
>> Anonymous



So which is it?
>> Anonymous
A man went to a hotel and walked up to the front desk to check in. The woman at the desk gave him his key and told him that on the way to his room, there was a door with no number that was locked and no one was allowed in there. Especially no one should look inside the room, under any circumstances. So he followed the instructions of the woman at the front desk, going straight to his room, and going to bed.

The next night his curiosity would not leave him alone about the room with no number on the door. He walked down the hall to the door and tried the handle. Sure enough it was locked. He bent down and looked through the wide keyhole. Cold air passed through it, chilling his eye. What he saw was a hotel bedroom, like his, and in the corner was a woman whose skin was completely white. She was leaning her head against the wall, facing away from the door. He stared in confusion for a while. He almost knocked on the door, out of curiosity, but decided not to.

This disinclination saved his life. He crept away from the door and walked back to his room. The next day, he returned to the door and looked through the wide keyhole. This time, all he saw was redness. He couldn’t make anything out besides a distinct red color, unmoving. Perhaps the inhabitants of the room knew he was spying the night before, and had blocked the keyhole with something red.

At this point he decided to consult the woman at the front desk for more information. She sighed and said, “Did you look through the keyhole?” The man told her that he had and she said, “Well, I might as well tell you the story. A long time ago, a man murdered his wife in that room, and her ghost haunts it. But these people were not ordinary. They were white all over, except for their eyes, which were red.”
>> Anonymous
but.... but then.....
>> Anonymous
Maybe it's the fact that they have pale skin with dark, sunken eyes, razor sharp teeth, and elongated faces.
>> Anonymous

Anyway, here's another:

The human body is a strange thing. Its complexity and instability are both a marvel. It is the most advanced machine of all, with hundreds of gears all working in unison to produce an intelligent, adaptive life form. But like any machine, it wears down. With virtually no exceptions, each and every one of us has to sleep eventually. As we feel this need take over, we feel tired. Our minds begin to slow, and our strength drains. More intricate thoughts begin to cease, and are replaced by simple, erratic visions in our minds. Eventually, thought completely shuts down, and our minds put on a show for us so we aren't bored during the recharging phase. Before this play of the brain takes place, however, we reach the apex of our confused thought. Incredibly simplistic but profoundly deep thoughts occur. The simplicity and, consequently, the deepness of such thoughts increases as we near unconsciousness. The instant before our slumber begins, we reach the pinnacle of such ideas. At this point, the simplicity of the thought has reached the point of prehistoric standards. Fears have been passed down, such as the fear of darkness stemming from the danger presented by such unknown conditions in the past. Why shouldn't thoughts descend through generations as well?
>> Anonymous

We absolutely never remember these thoughts; we are too far gone by the time they appear. We don't remember them in the morning, and we don't expect them the next time we go to recharge. Normally, these thoughts never even hold out long enough to reach our dreams. Occasionally, however, they do pass the threshold. Have you ever woken up from a nightmare in a cold sweat? Awoken only to find that you can not remember the details of your horrid psychological assault on yourself? Sometimes, these memories of the past creep through. And you can be sure that your mind is prepared to present them only in a form that appears fictional to you, as a sort of self-defense mechanism. The next time you wake up only remembering claws, or a demonic visage before you, just think: those might not be simple dreams.
>> Anonymous
Don't be a pussy and do it yourself. Take pictures plz.
>> V07
Where be you getting this delicious pasta?
>> Anonymous
bumpity bump bump
>> V07
This morning I stepped out of the shower and this bathroom was fine: white walls, white tiles, sink and counter with toothpaste crusted all over. Three out of the four light bulbs over the mirror were still good — 100 watt, clear bulb, blinding bright in the small white room. Like always I was late, so I skipped shaving. She liked it when I didn’t shave, anyway. I was thinking about doing mutton chops. She’d get a kick out of that. I passed the mirror and noticed I was grinning. I didn’t even know I was grinning.

I’m in the bathroom tonight before bed and there’s something wrong with the lights. All three are on again but they glow kind of brown and don’t really light up the rest of the room. I should get more bulbs from the kitchen. I should, but I’m busy. The date was shit and she shut her apartment door on me. You’d think that would wipe off the stupid grin from this morning. But I came back in the bathroom and, in the mirror, my face was still doing it. If I touch my face it doesn’t feel like a grin, but there it is in the mirror.

In the brown light it’s hard to make out but — have you ever actually counted how many teeth show when you smile? I lean in close. One, two, three, four — I didn’t know my mouth was so wide — nine, ten, eleven — I can’t do mutton chops after all. The corners of my lips are out to my ears. It still doesn’t feel like a grin. But I keep counting, for curiosity.

Thirty-six — thirty-seven — thirty-eight...
>> V07
     File :-(, x)
You are home alone, and you hear on the news about the profile of a murderer who is on the loose. You look out the sliding glass doors to your backyard, and you notice a man standing out in the snow. He fits the profile of the murderer exactly, and he is smiling at you. You gulp, picking up the phone to your right and dialing 911. You look back out the glass as you press the phone to your ear, and notice he is much closer to you now. You then drop the phone in shock.

There are no footprints in the snow. It's his reflection.
>> Anonymous
Interesting little story some football jock I know told me once, I thought it was a bit creepy so I'll share with you guys. It was about a dream he had:

Imagine waking up in the middle of the night, all the lights in your room are on, and you hear a noise outside. You decide to walk downstairs and check it out, you discover that the noise is coming from outside, so you innocently take a peek out the window and what do you see? A Little girl playing with a ball. You think nothing of it at first, but suddenly she turns around and looks at you, suddenly you realize that she isn't human, and she smiles demonically at you.

You wake up in a cold sweat, shaking with uneasiness.

Then you realize something.

The very same ball the girl was playing with is lying at your feet in bed.

Even though you dont remember even owning a ball like that.

Not to mention it ever being in your room.

That was some creepy shit, he admitted that he cried out of fear when that shit happened to him, and he still doesn't know where the ball came from.
>> V07
Coffins used to be built with holes in them, attached to six feet of copper tubing and a bell. The tubing would allow air for victims buried under the mistaken impression they were dead. Harold, the Oakdale gravedigger, upon hearing a bell, went to go see if it was children pretending to be spirits. Sometimes it was also the wind. This time, it wasn't either. A voice from below begged and pleaded to be unburied.

"Are you Sarah O'Bannon?" Harold asked.

"Yes!" The voice assured.

"You were born on September 17, 1827?"


"The gravestone here says you died on February 20, 1857."

"No, I'm alive, it was a mistake! Dig me up, set me free!"

"Sorry about this, ma'am," Harold said, stepping on the bell to silence it and plugging up the copper tube with dirt. "But this is August. Whatever you are down there, you sure as hell ain't alive no more and you ain't comin' up."
>> Anonymous
>> Anonymous
Harold is a fucking badass
>> Anonymous

Fuck yeah, Irishfag is back!

Neither Pyramid Head nor the Xenomorphs have eyes, Pyramid Head doesn't have teeth, and Xenomorphs aren't pale.
You fail.
>> Anonymous
>> Anonymous
>> Holder of Nothing Anonymous
In any city, in any country, go to any mental institution or halfway house you can get yourself to. When you reach the front desk, ask to visit someone who calls himself "The Holder of Nothing". Should a look of sheer, primal disgust mar the worker's expression, you will then be taken to a separate building, which appears to be an old, wooden outhouse. Inside will be a seemingly endless corridor far, far longer than the length of the outhouse.

There will be no sound in the corridor. Attempting to make any at the wrong time is a grievous, grievous mistake. You will notice the lights in the corridor get brighter and brighter as you make your way down towards the end, becoming nearly blinding. If at any point the lights go out, QUICKLY shout out "No! Stop! What you are doing is wrong!" while backing away. If the lights do not come back on, bolt for the door you came in through. It should still be open and hopefully you aren't far enough down the hallway for them to close it on you. If they manage to close it, hell itself would be preferable to what you will suffer.
>> Holder of Nothing Part 2 Anonymous
f the lights come back on, return to walking forward down the corridor. Upon reaching the cell, the worker will open the door for you while glaring at you in disgust. Inside the cell will be a mad pastiche of colors, arranged in several harlequin-like formations. You must not be distracted by them, for at the center of a room is a naked young woman, slathered in blood and bound by strips of human sinew. If you take your eyes off her even for a moment, she will destroy you utterly. She will only respond to one question. "What were they when they were one?"

She will then stare into your eyes, and speak the answer in incredible detail. It will be unlike anything you have ever heard and you will be on the verge of both ecstasy and agony at her mere words. It is not uncommon for most to lose themselves in the euphoria. The worst thing you can do, however, is look upon the tattoo on her chest. It will pull at your mind to gaze upon it, but you mustn't. If you do, you will be hers.

She will flay you alive and add your mutilated flesh to her bindings, and you will remain trapped with her, fully conscious, for the rest of time.

That tattoo is Object 4 of 538. They desire to be one again, but they mustn't.
>> Anonymous

Holy fuck! Good thinking anon, I never realized that
>> Anonymous
Can someone try this please?
I'm to scared to do it LOL
>> Anonymous
Oh come, now. The "this page cannot be displayed: Did you type the right url, faggot?" page isn't as scary as all that.
>> Anonymous
Dear /x/,

Stop posting Holders, shitsux.

>> Anonymous
>Fuck yeah, Irishfag is back!

He needs to come back more, I liked this story:
>> Anonymous
BUMP want moar holders
>> Anonymous
Harold is my hero.
>> Anonymous
I remember that thread, need more shit like that. For the love of god, no more Holders, no more Red Eyes, for fucks sake, find some new AND decent pasta. Kudos to the Irish dude though.
>> Anonamoose
At 11:11, PM or AM, go up to any full-length mirror that you can find. Stare into the eyes of your reflection, and do not break contact. Speak the following words with your utmost confidence:

"I wish to trade, will you oblige?"

If your reflection does not blink, slowly back away from the mirror without breaking eye contact until you are out of its line of sight. If your reflection blinks, and you do not, then it has accepted the trade. The movements you make will not affect your reflection, and you will be able to step into its world. The reflection will then take your place on the side of the mirror that you came from. When the clock strikes 11:12, you will not be able to go back. Ever.

It's a permanent change, /x/. Everything is different on the other side of the mirror.

And I miss it so much.
>> Anonamoose
Stamp Collector
During the war a soldier faithfully wrote his mother every week so she would know he was all right, until one week she didn't get a letter and immediately began to worry. Within a couple of weeks she got a letter from the Army saying that her son had been captured and was being held in a Prisoner-of-War camp, and they assured her that they had no reason to believe the American prisoners were being mistreated in any way.

A few weeks later the woman finally received another letter from her son, it read: "Dear Mom, Try not to worry about me, they are treating us well and I'll be released as soon as the war is over. Make sure that little Teddy gets the stamp for his collection. Love you, Joe" The woman was overjoyed to hear the news, but was confused because she had no idea who "little Teddy" was. She decided to steam the stamp from the envelope and have a look. When she did she saw that written on the back of the stamp were the words:
"They've cut off my legs".
>> Anonamoose
A baby girl is mysteriously dropped off at an orphanage in Cleveland in 1945. “Jane” grows up lonely and dejected, not knowing who her parents are, until one day in 1963 she is strangely attracted to a drifter. She falls in love with him, but just when things are looking up for Jane a series of disasters strikes: First, she becomes pregnant by the drifter, who then disappears. Second, during the complicated delivery doctors discover that Jane has both sets of sex organs, and to save her life, they most surgically convert “her” to a “him.” Finally, a mysterious stranger kidnaps her baby from the delivery room.

Reeling from these disasters, rejected from society, scorned by fate, “he” becomes a drunkard and a drifter. Not only has Jane lost her parents and her lover, but he has lost his only child as well. Years later, in 1970, he stumbles into a lonely bar, called Pop’s Place, and spills out his pathetic story to an elderly bartender. The sympathetic bartender offers the drifter the chance to avenge the stranger who left her pregnant and abandoned, on the condition that he join the “time traveler corps.” Both of them enter a time machine and the bartender drops the drifter off in 1963. The drifter is strangely attracted to a young orphan girl, who subsequently becomes pregnant.

The bartender then goes forward 9 months, kidnaps the baby girl from the hospital, and drops the baby off in an orphanage back in 1945. Then the bartender drops off the thoroughly confused drifter in 1985, to enlist in the time traveler corps. The drifter eventually gets his life together and becomes respected and elderly member of the time traveler corps, and then disguises himself as a bartender and has his most difficult mission: a date with destiny, meeting a certain drifter at Pop’s Place in 1970.
>> Anonamoose
so /x/, I was in a pretty damn bad car crash last night, a car traveling about 50mph went straight into the side of us (who were going about 35), it was just horrible the car is a total wreck, not to mention the guy's car who hit us. However, everyone somehow walked out totally unharmed. If I could bet at the time I would have said at least 1 of us would be dead. It really was an absolute mess.

After getting out the back seat with 2 friends who were also passengers and making sure everyone was fine Not a scratch. Same goes for the guy who floored it right into us. I was trying to get my head together when I saw someone else in the car we all just got out of, so I ran up to the car to see who it was, when I got to the car I looked in and no one was in there. At first I thought it was someone just checking for damage, but they were just sitting there, and what startled me was that the person looked like me.

When everything got sorted out and the driver was taken to the police station and we had been checked out we started to walk home from the incident. Then I noticed music playing from my pocket. It was my iPod. I assumed I'd just pressed play by accident so I took it out of my pocket and it was displaying a white screen, and the time. I put the music in my ear and it was a song I'd never heard before, and I was confident that I didn't have it on my ipod. It was a drone noise with harmonized vocals going over it. After pausing the song and trying to play it again the ipod was back to normal and I couldn't find the song anywhere...
>> Anonymous
sumone else posted this but i liek it

They continued staring from the foot of my bed. Faces ashen, eyes wide, teeth sharp. And that smile... If I live past this night, that smile will haunt me forever.

They didn't speak. Not exactly. I certainly heard their voices, but their mouths never moved, never so much as a twitch of their blood red lips. As if they were determined to hold that soul chilling grin.

"You have something of ours," they said, all of them together, six different voices unified in a terrible harmony.

Somehow in my horror I managed to move my body. I reached under my bed and picked up the heavy box. Once I handed it over to the closest one, their expressions only widened, gleeful now.

"Idiot girl," they chuckled, "why would you rob us? You can't be unaware of the consequences." The tallest, who I assumed to be the leader, produced a small black bag out of the air. He opened it and searched for something in its depths with his hand, but those eyes never left mine.

I stammered, "Con-consequences? She... She didn't say anything about consequences! It was just-- I didn't mean--"

"Your meaning is immaterial. The simple fact: you betrayed us." They all took a step forward.
>> Anonymous

"It didn't work!" I screamed, desperate now. "After learning of it, who wouldn't want it for their own? You cannot blame me. But it didn't work! It didn't show me anything!"

It didn't seem possible for that smile to grow grow and bigger, but it did. "Of course you didn't see anything. You didn't realize, as you held the Eye in your hand, that you were then in possession of one too many."

I gasped as realization settled over me. Finally the tallest produced from the bag a queer instrument; like two eyelash curlers fused together to form a circle. There was a sort of trigger on the handle but I couldn't tell what for. At the other end, the edge of the circle looked razor sharp.

They advanced again.

"What are you going to do to me?"

With narrowed eyes, they said, "We're going to show you how it works."
>> Anonymous
beware of shamwow imitators!
>> Anonymous
Saw this on here the other night, thought it was interesting at least

I went to the zoo today with a friend and we walked around for a couple hours, laughing about monkeys humping things and feeding every type of animal we could get feed for. You know, typical day at the zoo - we walked around, ate some lunch, and in the end, we LEARNED shit - but everything came screeching to a halt when we got to the rhino exhibit.

The rhinos were pacing back and forth, snorting and keeping their heads low to the ground. For about two or three minutes this went on while we watched, until one of the bigger rhinos made an almost human screaming noise and slammed itself into the concrete wall at the back of the exhibit, then it lay still. That's when we noticed another rhino propped up against the wall a bit further down. It was semi-obscured by the foliage of the exhibit, but there was no mistaking it had done the same thing as the first - there was a bright red smear down the wall to where its head lay. The other rhino just continued to pace back and forth snorting like it did when we first go there. We were the only ones around and of course we were freaking out, so we sprinted down the path, looking for anyone who could do something until we finally found someone stepping out of the monkey cages. We told him what had happened, explaining how the rhinos were acting and about the two that had smashed against the wall and his eyes were wide with alarm.

"Are you sure? That concrete wall down there?" he asked us, and we both said yes, to which he replied "I'm not sure how to tell you this, but...we don't even HAVE a rhino exhibit!"

My friend looked at me and said "Then who was wall?"
>> Anonymous

could you use a cordless instead of a cell?
>> Anonymous
Does anyone have the story about the girl who goes about her day normally but then finds out that it was her family's turn to die and everyone but her remembers it? She went to some facility and when the family pushed buttons one by one they died and acted like it was totally OK. I've only seen it posted once.
>> Anonymous
Dr. Theodore Brown Rasmussen,

The name is Theodor Brun Rasmussen!
>> Anonymous
>> bump the girl with family's turn to die Anonymous
Anyone have the rest of that?
>> Anonymous
I saw that, I think it was called "Red Button Day". I really liked it but was retarded and didn't save it. If anyone has it, please post it.
>> V07
>>1024776 want.
>> Anonymous
>> V07
Laura was woken by her father; something that he had not done since she was a child. As her thoughts slowly swam back into focus, she was suddenly sure that she had slept naked and he had seen her, but to her relief she was wearing her baby-blue pyjamas. God, what was he doing in here anyway?

“Come on, you,” he said brightly, opening the curtains and letting the sunlight in. Outside, she could hear a lawnmower running, perhaps in the next street, and what could’ve been birdsong. “It’s Button Day, remember? Get dressed, put something nice on. We’re leaving in an hour.”

Laura stirred, her voice groggy. “Dad, what the hell? Couldn’t you just knock? What if I’d slept nude?”
He didn’t look at her, he was too busy admiring his garden from the window. “Oh, you’ve nothing I haven’t seen before. I’m your bloody father, I‘ve wiped your arse many a time before now.”
>> V07
“Not the point, Dad.“ Squinting, Laura sat up, rubbing her eyes, and remembered what he’d just said.
“Dad, did you just say ‘Button Day’?”

“Well, yeah. What, did you forget?” He laughed as he crossed the room to the door. “You were only talking about it last night.”

“Wait - what?” She frowned, not understanding. Something was wrong here. A fine way to start the day, really. She hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet, and she was already getting weird shit. “What are you talking about?”

He shook his head, still smiling as he left the room. “Get dressed. Breakfast is ready.”
>> paranormal kittens
/r/ing the one about the hunter in the house with the paintings that turn out being windows
>> V07
He left her sitting up in bed, holding the covers to her breasts, a look of confusion on her face. Eventually she got out of bed, and began to pull some clothes on that were to hand. Familiar sounds floated up to her from downstairs: pots and pans rattling, the TV on low, the muffled tones of her family talking to each other, a short, harsh laugh - her brother. No doubt laughing at the TV.

She did her zipper on her jeans, and stood for a second before finally saying out loud, “Button Day?”

Downstairs, her mother was washing the dishes, humming to herself. Sunlight filled the room, making it warm and fresh. Her father and brother were sitting at the table, eating toast. There was a plate set for her, and she sat down, pulling it toward her.
Her brother was wearing a crisp white shirt - and he never wore shirts. She doubted that he even owned one. This was one of her father’s, she recognized it.
>> V07
“What’s with the shirt?” She asked, picking her toast up, and his eyes never left the TV, which was typical of him. A year younger than her at fourteen, he was arrogant and know it all to boot.
“It’s Button Day, isn’t it?” He mumbled through a mouthful of toast, and her mother turned around, and tutted loudly at him.

“Mark, don’t talk with your mouth full.” She saw Laura and sighed. “Laura, you could dress a little better than that. At least make an effort.”

“What for?” Laura said, then looked at the ceiling, irritated. “Oh wait, let me guess. Button Day. Am I missing something here?”

Her mother shook her head, turning back to the dishes. “Don’t be so childish, Laura. It doesn’t suit you. Please make sure you get changed into something else before we leave.”

“I wanted to see Michael today. I’m not going with you, sorry.”

A hush fell over the kitchen as everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at her in surprise. Warily, Laura said, “What?”

“Are you crazy?” Her brother asked. “You can’t go out today, you’re coming with us!”

“Laura, you made plans? Today, of all days?” Her father asked, and she pushed back on her chair as a dull anger rose in her.
>> V07
Long creepypasta is long
“Yes, I made plans! What the hell is going on this morning?”

No-one answered her. They were staring at her as if she’d took a crap on her plate. She got up, pushing her plate away. “You know what? Forget it.”

“Laura, stop this, right now,” her mother snapped. “You knew perfectly well what we were doing today. It’s been planned for a long time. Now you can just call Michael and tell him why you’re not seeing him.”

“That’s just it!” Laura yelled. “What do I tell him? I don’t know why I can’t go! It’s just you telling me I can’t!”

“It’s Button Day,” her brother said. “That’s why.”

“Button Day?” She cried. “What the hell are you all talking about? I’ve never heard of Button Day! You’re all acting like-” She suddenly stopped, comprehension dawning on her face. Her family were playing a joke on her. This was all a joke. With a warm rush, a huge weight lifted from her shoulders. Now she understood.

“Very funny, guys,” She said, her voice calm and collected. “You really had me going there.” She turned and left the room, heading for the front door. As she went, her mother called after her, “Laura! Please be back in an hour, we can’t leave without you, okay?”
>> V07
The short walk to Michael’s house gave Laura enough time to feel guilty about how angry she had gotten with her family. As she’d gotten older, her temper had shortened. She planned on apologising later - she had an hour, right? Wasn’t that what her mother had said?

I wonder where we’re going, Laura thought, watching a plane a few miles above cut a white line across the sky. Or was that a joke too? Was it that they really were going out, and it had been a planned thing, and she had simply forgotten all about it?

She could see Michaels house from here, with the white fence and broad front lawn. She began to jog, eager to see him. As she crossed his driveway the front door opened and Michael came out with a look of shock on his face. He had seen her coming up the street.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Laura asked, and to her dismay he suddenly looked a little angry.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.

“What, did we fight, and I missed the memo?”

“You told me this was your family’s Button Day,” he said, and there was movement behind him.
>> V07
Laura blinked, her mouth open in surprise. A blonde girl came to the door, squinting in the light, and slinked her arm around Michael. She was wearing a nightshirt and nothing else, and her hair was tousled.

“Go home,” the blonde said, and Laura backed away, blinking back sudden tears. Michael would not meet her eyes, so she turned and ran.

Her mother caught her just as she was about to run into her bedroom.

She pulled Laura close, holding her as she sobbed. “I know, I know. Let it all out.” She stroked Laura’s hair, rocking her a little. “Men are bastards, aren’t they?”

Laura pulled back to look at her mother, sniffing. “…You know?”

“You’ve just come back from his place in floods of tears. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what happened.”

“He’s got himself a blonde. A blonde! I’ll bet that’s why he wanted me to dye my hair!”

She cried for a little longer, and her mother held her. “There, there. Come on. Let’s get you changed for our trip.”

“…So we are going out?”
>> V07
“Of course we are, silly! Here we are, this is a nice blouse. Your best, I think. Put this on, I want us looking our best for our Button Day.”

Laura’s stomach rolled lazily. She suddenly remembered Michael mentioning Button Day, too. This wasn’t a joke. This was real. It was all real, and she didn’t have a clue what was happening.

“Mom, listen to me a minute. Something here is very wrong.”

“I know. You really liked him, I know you did. It’s terrible that he’s upset you, on this day, of all days.”

“That’s just it, Mum - I don’t know anything about Button Day. I’ve never heard of it, and since this morning I feel as if I’m the only one who hasn’t the faintest idea what’s going on!”

“Well, to be honest, I’m no expert. I know it was the Governments idea to combat overcrowding, but other than that-”

“No, no. I mean at all. I’ve never heard of it.”
>> V07
There was an uneasy silence, in which her mother looked at her for a long time. Her mouth was set in a hard line.

When she finally spoke, her voice was calm. “I know you’re upset, so I’ll play along with your little prank, okay? Just get changed - here’s your blouse - and I’ll see you in the car in five minutes, okay? We’re waiting for you.”

Her mother walked away, leaving Laura alone and frightened, her best blouse in her trembling hands.

The next thing she knew, she was in the car. Everything was flowing by in a fluid, carefree motion that made her feel more and more uneasy. What the hell was going on? Why did she not recall anything about this day that everyone was talking about?

She could see everything in absurd detail, slowed down to super slow motion: The fluff on the back of her mothers headrest. A bit of stubble that her fathers razor had missed. A crack in the pavement as they passed. She suddenly felt more lucid than she had ever felt in her whole life, yet she was unable to speak, trapped inside her own body. It was as if she were a puppet, walking on strings made from fear’s own web.
>> V07
Somewhere deep inside, she was still clinging to an ocean-battered rock of hope, a charred crater of sense that told her that this was all a massive joke, a huge, elaborate hoax. As they pulled up outside the white, box-like building, squat and stern, that hope faded.

“Here we are,” her father said cheerfully, and she felt herself pull the door handle and step out of the car. She stood trembling in the sun like a baby deer, the building bearing down on her as if it had teeth.

Acting as if they were at the seaside, her family got out of the car, chatting animatedly. They set off towards the main entrance, Laura trailing behind. A sign stood over them: GOVERNMENT PROPERTY - KEEP OUT. She saw the security cameras watching them, and hurried after her family, her footsteps flat and dead.

The door to the building was made of glass, and as they pushed through into the clean lobby, Laura saw a receptionist busily typing on a computer. The receptionist looked up with a professional smile at her father as he approached.

“Hi, we’re the Krandalls. Here for our Button Day,” he said, and she smiled.

“Go on through, sir. Just keep walking that way.”

Her father thanked her, and on they went, down a long brightly lit corridor, lined with brass plaques which gleamed. There was something engraved on them all, blocks and blocks of text, and she drew closer as she walked to see what it was. She saw her own reflection looking back at her, and in the harsh fluorescent lights, she looked haggard.

Names. Hundreds and hundreds of names, thousands of names, one after another. Hogg. Wilson. Carpenter. Buxton. Bell. Palmer. Rowe. Brown. The list went on, seemingly endless.
Her family walked on, still chatting as if they were on holiday, and up ahead the corridor was coming to an end.
>> V07
>>1024949The corridor opened up into a large, white room. In this room, four small, waist high pillars stood, each with a red button on the top. Beyond them was a long polished desk, with three Government officials seated at it. The Government insignia hung on a huge banner over it all. The room was silent, and sterile.

Laura watched her family each step up to a pillar, watching the officials expectantly, leaving a pillar for her. Her very own button. Trembling, she stepped up to the pillar, only to notice with a jolt that the floor around them all was on a slight incline, angled towards a drain behind that she hadn’t noticed when she had first arrived. One of the officials spoke, his voice echoing in the open space.

“Krandall family. The Government has deemed this to be your Button Day. We thank you for your sacrifice to your country, and to your people. Your names shall join those in the long Hall in your honour.”

“We’re proud,” her father said, and her mother nodded, sincere. Her brother looked as if he were about to weep with pride.

The official continued. “Then please, in your own time, push your buttons. May God be with you all.”
Her father turned to his wife, his son, and his daughter, and smiled. “I’ll go first, to show you how easy it is.” He pushed the button on the pillar, and it depressed with a loud, satisfying click.
>> V07
As Laura watched, her fathers face turned red, as if he’d been jogging. She remembered how easily flustered he got with exercise, and assumed he’d just walked too fast down the corridor, or something. That was when a crimson teardrop slid down his cheek, and plopped fatly onto the hard, white floor.

Laura watched, frozen, as blood began to pour from her fathers eyes, nose, ears and mouth. It ran down his shirt, over the belt that she had bought him for his birthday, and down his trousers. It splattered onto the floor. All at once, his eyes burst like over-ripe plums and hung on his cheeks, still connected by red strings. Liquefied brain ran from his eye sockets.

As his body crumpled to the floor, her mother and brother looked at each other and smiled, pushing their buttons at the same time. They turned to Laura, holding their hands out, blood seeping from their eyes and noses, tricking from their mouths. They assumed Laura had pushed hers, too.

Laura drew in a breath to scream, but the soft pop of her mothers and brothers eyeballs made it catch in her throat. They fell over backwards, landing on top of each other. Blood was being channelled to the drain, which drank quietly.

All was silent.
>> V07
“Miss Krandell?”

Numb, she saw the officials watching her closely.

“Miss Krandell, overpopulation is destroying our towns and cities. Your country needs your action today.”

She stared wide-eyed at the official. To her side, her brothers hand twitched, the last of the nerve impulses fading. Blood was already congealing in his empty eye sockets.

The official was standing up slowly, and she saw that he was a tall man. Taller than most, no doubt.
“Humanity has called,” he said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. The world had faded away to the button under her fingertips. It was smooth and red. Pushable.

“…Will you answer?”
>> Anonymous
I love that one. Even if it is sort of a ripoff of The Lottery.
>> Anonymous
I second this observation.
>> Anonymous

And I second this one.
>> Anonymous
how do you know these things?
are...are you God? O.O
>> Anonymous
>> Anonymous
     File :-(, x)
keep this thing alive.

rename the extension to .rar


keep up the good work!
>> Anonymous
>> Anonymous
Estás con tu novia y ustedes estan besando cuando los anillos de teléfono. Lo contestas y la voz dice, "¿Qué haces con mi hija"? Dices a tu novia y ella dice, "Mi padre está muerto.
>> Phil Ossiferz Stone !!SFRnrjTlVC6
     File :-(, x)
>> Anonymous
mental illness =/= not creepy
>> Anonymous
     File :-(, x)
>> Anonymous
does the word "copypasta" not mean anything to you?
>> Anonymous
Do you ever wonder how scary death is? Think about it, its the one thing that we truly know absolutely nothing about. Some people may cite religious beliefs of an afterlife, others might claim they just focus on life, but its really something that is totally and utterly foreign to us. And what if the religious people are wrong? What if death really is nonexistance, that its simply over once the brain dies? Terrifying, huh? Of course, a reasoning goes that you won't notice it, since you won't exist. But... Let's say a certain someone could expose you nonexistance. Let's say this person could actually let you experience the state of not existing and more importantly, let you remember it. He'd probably be able to get you to agree to anything in order to avoid that fate. Tangentially, for certain people near death, their brain activity sometimes ceases completely for about 3 seconds, and then returns, only to shortly die in a more conventional fashion. As another aside, many hospital orderlies have noticed a man wearing a suit that they have never seen in any catalog or on any person before. Interestingly enough, when you ask them about the suit, they will struggle for a moment, then reply that it’s hard to describe, but they are sure they haven’t seen it before. Ask them about the man, however, and they will freeze up, spasm violently, and reply "What man?"
>> Anonymous
Do want.

Here's another.

-You get a phone call from your Mother. Since her car has been in the shop, she asks you to go to the grocery store and pick up a few odds and ends for her. Bread, milk, cereal, and chicken breasts.

After writing down a small list you reluctantly get in the car and pick up the items at the store. The lady cashier makes an odd remark to you, "You know, we're in no danger of a milk shortage." Upon arriving at her house you knock several times. No answer. You decide to try the door. It opens. You place the grocery bag on the counter. Strange. There seems to be six other grocery bags, each with identical contents. In a couple, the chicken and the milk has gone bad. "Mom," you call out, but no answer. You make your way thru the kitchen and into the living room. Sitting on the couch, with her head cut off and neatly resting on her lap, is your Mother.

Naturally you call the police who come over to investigate. They mention that she has been dead for nearly a week. Furthermore, the police psychiatrist is at the scene and talks to you after you give your initial statement. Sitting on the front steps, you overhear the psychiatrist talking with the crime scene investigator. "It's not uncommon for people suffering from schizophrenia to get locked into a series of repetitive behaviors," he says.

You think to yourself, "They can't be talking about me. Schizophrenia? Nah. Repetitive behavior? Do they think I did this?" Suddenly your cell phone goes off. "Hello?"

"Hi hun, it's me. Could you stop at the store and pick up some chicken and milk. Ohh, and I need some bread and cereal too."

>> Anonymous
Bob Saget?
>> Anonymous
moar creepypasta! this is some good shit
>> Anonymous
There is a demon of great evil, that will be able to walk upon the Earth if someone is told of its existence and does not repeat the name to another. To the best of my ability, his name roughly approximates "Jkqxxllyuo".

This was told to me by a rather unkempt man on the street; if you have not noticed it already, I just told it to you.

I fucking love you.
>> Anonymous
If approached, he'll speak a phrase in Old Irish, "The generous have no fear of Hell, but it is no safety of Heaven." He will promptly stand, offer his skin, but immediately disappear. If approached right out, as if to touch him, he fades before being touched.

A third apparition appears in early spring, a much later looking man, probably English, who sometimes walks the second story halls, or is seen briefly hurrying up the stairs of the main hall. He can be heard at times yelling, but it's incomprehensible, garbled presumed English, and there is the sound of him striking something.

The apparitions disappear near middle spring. However, at this time, there is a worse problem in the wine cellar. To enter the wine cellar at this time, at night, will bring on the smell of rotten earth, and one can be assailed by something that is very large, and heavy, and has left cuts on people who have gone down. It can also leave bites, and at least once was blamed for a broken arm.

While the house is still owned by the same family since the middle of the 1800s, they don't reside there. It's kept up by a skeleton crew of caretakers who do not reside there, and try to avoid working at night unless in large numbers.
>> Anonymous
Sean was angry with his wife. During a party, drunk and still angry, he wandered off from town to an old hill. He sat on top of it, in the middle, staring at the town and drinking from a jug of whiskey. He fell into a drunken slumber, and awoke several hours later. The town had gone quiet, the party over. It was dark, and the sky was cloudy, the moon dimmed by it. A rolling shower could be seen coming closer by the dim light, though. The horizon was black as pitch but for a rare flash of lightning, an even more distance storm. Then came the singing.

A soft but bizarre song in an unusual language was being sung round the hill. Sean, still drunk and bleary eyed, stood and peered into the dark, looking for the singer. After a few moments, he saw the man come into view. He wore a black coat, a red waist coat, black trousers, and black shoes. On his head, he wore a deep crimson pointed cap with no rim (think one of those hats smurfs wear, very common across much of Europe at one time). The man's skin was very pale, and he was very, very tall, though Sean passed this off as his blurry vision.

"Hey down there, who goes?" Sean called. The black clothes, ignoring the vest, appeared to be the casual dress of the town's priest. "Father Leclaire, is that you?" The man stopped singing and walking abruptly, but did not answer. His head craned up to Sean. His face was deathly pale, and his sunken eyes were milky. His skin was unnaturally smooth.
>> Anonymous
With unnatural speed and bizarre gait, with long, awkward strides, he mounted the hill and gripped Sean about the neck and shoulder before he could react. Sean's body froze with abject terror, and he feared he had urinated on himself. His fingers were long and freezing. Out of his mouth came a long black tongue, waggling in front of him down as far as the middle of his chest, but he began to speak effortlessly regardless.

"Priest, no. Priests take away sin. I only see them." He threw Sean to the ground, spinning him onto his stomach. The impact cause Sean to vomit, but the man simply crouched over him, a knee against his spine, and that horrid long tongue dragged itself along the back of his neck. His breath was hot and uncomfortable, but he smelled like flowers of some sort. Into Sean's ears he began to list off a litany of evils Sean had committed, many long forgotten.

This went on until Sean passed into an uneasy sleep, where he dreamed the ghastly man took him into the hill through a hidden way, and he was tormented by fairies and spirits there. He awoke naked, in the middle of town, during a storm, still late at night. He vomited repeatedly and limped home. He woke his wife, and did what he could to reconcile with her and told her he loved her. When she fell back asleep, Sean unceremoniously hung himself from the rafters. The back of his neck and upper back revealed several long burns. He was given a Christian burial, as his suicide was determined madness, given the state of his expression, an unnaturally wide grin, seemingly impossible for one who had hung themself.
>> Anonymous
All I did was save a picture. I keep coming back to that. I have a hard time wrapping my mind around it.
The only thing I did to deserve this is save a picture from a paranormal site...
What's ironic is that I have always felt uneasy when I decided that a pic had something interesting enough in it to save to my "paranormal" folder. Like whatever was in the photograph could be passed to me that way. Ha! I always told myself I was being superstitious and silly.
I was so naive.
I don't know how long I will be allowed to enjoy my newfound wisdom, but I will leave a record so that maybe other people will trust their instinct and not have to know the creeping dread I face now.
I've read so many creepypastas and horror novels, seen scary movies by the dozens. Nothing prepared me. Every time I hear a noise, a scrap, a rattle, I'm sure that this is it. I've finally reached the final moment of my life. But no, it never ends.
I constantly see it's face...when I close my eyes, in my dreams, out of the corner of my eye, even if I walk around a corner too quickly I see it for a moment, then it vanishes with that horrible smile. That stretched, wrong smile.
>> Anonymous
The dreams are so vivid I can't tell I'm asleep until...until it starts touching me. Sliding it's long hands up my thighs, squeezing the meat there. Gently brushing across my belly and cupping my breasts. Oh yes, it can be gentle. It...plays with me. I never know when the pain will come, or the pleasure. The pleasure is the worst. The shame I feel, it's indescribeble. How can my body betray me that way? It taunts me in that deep, inhuman voice. It tells me, as it thrusts it's pelvis against mine, how I will die. How it will end me. This thing is very imaginative and I can't help but wonder how many times it has done this before. Every night it comes up with a new, inventive way to murder me and whispers it in my ear as it rapes me. I'm afraid it's changing me.
The day brings no relief. I constantly hear footsteps coming closer, but when I whip my head around to face what may come there is never anything there. The shadows move in strange ways. When I look at a mirror my reflection is...odd. The way it seems to take a moment before doing what I do, the slight smirk on my face even though I know I'm not smiling.
Animals won't come near me now, they shy away like I might hurt them if I even glance their way. They can feel it there, like I can, watching. I don't know what it's waiting for...but the animals don't want to be there when the waiting is over. I don't either.
I've thought about suicide, I can't seem to stop thinking about it these days but I haven't been able to take that final step.
I...I can feel it's hand on my shoulder. Oh, god...It's so cold. Someone help me.
>> Anonymous
On the lighter side, a short living dead story;

Morgann died. His whole family came to his funeral distant cousins, old relatives he hadn't seen since he was a child all came. Morgann was young and had fallen from his horse, ruining his innards on a broken log, completely disemboweling him.

During the funeral mass, Morgann sat up. He was confused, though wide awake. The assembled mourners gasped, though the priest simply cocked his head and looked down from the pulpit.

"Morgann?" Morgann turned to the father.

"Father Ryan, how are you? What goes on here, father?"

"Well, Morgann, you've died. I think. Are you breathing?"

"...Can't say that I am or am not, I never really notice lest I'm swimming, father."

"Well, for certain I can say you're dead, I helped look at your innards. You lay cold, unbreathing, no pulse, for a full week. Morgann, you are dead, lay down in that box and go back."
>> Anonymous
...comedy is weird at times when people died much easier
>> Anonymous
Lots of stories of the living dead were actually meant to be funny at certain times (even if we don't see them so funny today) because it was to help people cope with the deaths of so many loved ones. That and making fun of the dead in a tongue and cheek manner was considered good natured and would help ease spirits who might be restless (though not outright mocking the dead or desecrating their resting place or body, of course).
>> Anonymous
oh SHI-
>> Anonymous

Major deja vu reading this.
>> Anonymous

>> Anonymous
I've got chills right now...
>> Anonymous
>>1028328sexual ones?
>> Anonymous
>> Anonymous
>I constantly see it's face
So it's not Pyramid Head...
>it rapes me

That's a damn good one, though. Anybody know who wrote it, or where I can find moar of the same?
>> Anonymous

Then, he turns back and asks, "Do you like Popsicles?"
>> Anonymous
Don't Worry, we have it under control
>> Anonymous
Or perhaps cheerios?
>> Anonymous
>John shouted "COME ON PROFESSOR SCREW EYES, WE MUST DEFEAT THE MONSTERS" And Screweyes said, "No Mr. Goodman, you ARE the monsters."

And then John was a Dinosaur
>> Anonymous
>> will
Somewhere in West Philadelphia, you will find an old basketball court with a single ball lying in the middle. Pick it up and start shooting hoops. After a while, a small group of hooligans will approach you and challenge you to a fight, which you must accept.

After the fight, you must go home and relay the events to your mother. She will then inform you that you have an aunt and uncle living in one of the districts of Los Angeles, and out of fear, she will send you to live there for an indefinite period of time.

With your bags packed, go to the street corner, and whistle for a cab. The cab that will pull up will bear the word FRESH on the license plate, and upon closer inspection, novelty fuzzy dice will hang in the mirror. Although you will suddenly realize that cabs like these are extremely hard to find, do not bear any thought to it. At this point you MUST point out in front of the car and say ‘Yo homes to Bel Air’. You will stop in front of a mansion, and it will be sometime between 7 and 8 o’clock, even though it will feel like you’ve been traveling mere seconds. Get your luggage out and say ‘Yo homes, smell ya later!’, but do NOT turn back to face the cabby. Walk up to the door, look over your shoulder once, and then knock on the door three times.

If you follow these instructions, your life will get flip-turned upside-down.

Scariest pasta ever, y/y?
>> Anonymous
>> Anonymous
Finnegan's wake, anyone?
>> wulfslove
I wrote it, but I don't have any more written yet. Sorry. I haven't gotten a very good reception with most of the stories I've posted here so I didn't bother writing any more short stories that qualify as /x/ material.
>> Anonymous
moar holders... what happens when all the items come together
>> Anonymous
     File :-(, x)
Well, this /x/phile wants MOAR.
>> Anonymous
Doesn't remind me at all of Finnegan's Wake.
>> Anonymous
Well, I guess I'll get to work on another one then. It might be a couple of days, my son's birthday is coming up and we are swamped getting ready for it. Thanks for the vote of confidence. I hope this thread is here long enough for you to read this, lol.