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It sits. It waits. It calculates. Watching your every move. Waiting, impatiently. It fumes. It hates. It salivates. Dreaming its terrible dreams. Scheming, contentiously. It strikes. It takes. It dominates. Doing what it does best. Feasting, voraciously. It lures. It baits. It escalates. Mauling a helpless victim. Laughing, fiendishly. It hides. It shakes. It regulates. Changing into something new. Shedding, relentlessly. It sleeps. It breaks. It elevates.

At the outset, I should tell you I’m a thief. Not a classless “smash and grab” guy or a lowly pickpocket. Those require no planning or strategy beyond “move quickly and be ready to run.” I’m a fourth-generation cat burglar. I’m very good at my job. If everything goes right, you don’t notice I’ve been there for weeks. If ever.

by Tristan Mason “I swear I’m dreaming of someone else’s memories,” Samantha told her fiancé on the anniversary of their engagement. “I know I sound crazy. It’s just that—” Caleb took another bite of his burger, leaning over the stainless steel table, and smirked. “You’ve said crazier things.”

Halle and I had only been living in Brunswick, Georgia for a few months. We moved here from Tallahassee over the summer and honestly, we missed home. But hey, the area had grown on us. We liked the beaches and the culture. But one place we hadn’t checked out yet was Jekyll Island. Jekyll had a mystique to it to say the least. It had history given that it once served as a vacation destination for many of America’s wealthy elites during The Gilded Age. The opportunity to visit said island arose…

"The last few nurses we've hired have all flaked on me," Jim said with an exhausted sigh. "Please tell me you don't plan on flaking."

"Flabbergasted. F - L - A - B - B - E - R - G -A - S - T - E - D. Flabbergasted." Sweat rolled down Natalie's forehead as she watched the three judges chatter amongst themselves. Her heart was beating so vibrantly, she felt like wheezing. Each aching moment was like a nail being gradually driven between her fingernails. After what felt like an eternity of suspended animation, the female judge tilted her glasses on the bridge of her nose and nodded. "Good job, Ms. Flowers."

“That caint be the number. Just caint,” Wes said, taking off his faded John Deere hat and slapping it against his leg. “I dried the corn before I hauled it over. I know what the moisture level is!” “Wes, I’m just the messenger. The machine checks and gives back a level.” “Well, your gosh-darn machine must be broken!” “It’s just recently been recalibrated. I can run another sample if you want.”

I was five when the man in the wolfman mask scared the shit out of me. No, he didn’t eat me. No, he didn’t kill me. He just gave me one good Halloween scare.

Smoke covered the midnight moon, while cheers could be heard all across a small farming village. Bonfires were lit all around the main road. Young and old folk alike celebrated as the Fire Runners, dressed in dark clothes adorned with bright red and yellow ribbons, moved among them, their faces covered with masks whose abhorrent features imitated the unholy visage of demons and monsters. They were performing what was locally known as the Devil’s Dance, an ancient pagan tradition, much older…

When I read the articles about him. I spent three weeks looking through my window. I was terrified by the thought of him being in the woods. I thought it was hunting me at first, trying to get me into a tragedy; it wanted me to suffer, but I was entirely wrong. I know, what a way to start, but I have been suffering from sudden explosive nosebleeds and migraines.

The howls of aberrant mutants filled the night sky, low and ominous. Their disgusting skittering could be heard all around me. Inhuman forms swam in the dark, never allowing my eyes to pin down their true shapes. At once, I saw a dog, a feline, a bird, and a man. Dread filled my bowels as I watched from my perch. I checked my weapon again; the magazine was still empty. I sighed and checked my sidearm: one full-charge magazine, not nearly enough. That left my blade, a sixteen-inch, heat-sheathed…

I never really did want to go to that Christmas party, but I have to say it turned out all right in the end. The Christmas party was to be held on the great stage at the Opera House downtown, and it was open to all employees of the law firm Goble & Mundorff and their immediate families.  That last part was a problem for my brother Henry and me, because our mom was a paralegal at G&M, and she’d made it clear that she expected us to put in an appearance.

Every small town seems to have its own claim to fame. Something that draws in the looky-loos to spend their big-city cash. I’m sure you’ve made your fair share of roadside stops or taken a backroad to see the World’s Largest Ball of Twine, toured the mistress’s house of Blackbeard, where he may or may not have buried his treasure, or touched the hanging tree of those poor ethereal women. Well, my town is famous for red pumpkins.

"So you're actually like that, aren't you?"One of my classmates approaches me as I try to distance myself from her, desperately trying to hide from her everpiercing gaze. Please don't look at me like that. I silently beg. But they don't listen to the screams in my soul and even more gather around, closing in on me. They all start asking me questions, speaking right over one another. I press my hands against my ears to shield myself from the noise.

I slammed the door shut and brushed the snot off my nose and the tears out of my eyes, then kicked my trainers off. They went sprawling over the door mattress and across the hallway floor. All of that for some stupid pills! My life these days revolved around my illness. I had a chronic seasonal allergy which lead to me snorting and sneezing for hours. Two weeks ago it was so bad that I stopped going to work because my condition became intolerable. My sinus thickened and my eyes were constantly…

One time, near Prescott, Arizona, I witnessed a ghostly wagon train rumble across the scrub brush for nearly an hour. Kept pace with my truck as I screamed down the highway. The driver even doffed his cap to me. I returned the favor as he evaporated into a fine mist.

I'm awoken by a bright golden light. Carefully I open my eyes, the bright light hurting them in the process. So I rub them for the pain to go away. In order to protect my sight further, I sit up, creating shadow. It takes a moment for my eyes to finally adjust to and at last I'm finally able to see my surroundings, something by which I'm taken by surprise. There's water above me... I'm sitting on what seems like the sand at the bottom of the sea.

It's late and I've just gotten home from work, I walk up to the front door and stick my key in. When the familiar, soft click reaches my ears I push it open. Behind it the dark hallway greets me. Normally I don't hesitate to enter, but today something feels... off. I remain standing just outside, staring inside the building. It looks the way it has always looked. It smell the way it has always smelled. So what is it that makes me feel this way?

“It’s going to happen, Jack. Nothing we can do about it. The wheels are already in motion. Higher-ups tell me I need to release the staff by the end of the week.” “Then ‘AM 640 - Talk of the Town’ becomes what, exactly?” Ron sighed. “Another DJ-less, auto-programmed, adult easy listening station.” “Aww, Christ on a bike,” I said. “They’re stealing the soul of this industry. Our Arbitron numbers grew last ratings cycle.”

Please stop writing creepypastas. It's not funny, anymore. Just when I thought the genre was dead, a bunch of brand new chucklefucks start trying their hand at creating the next internet urban legend. Oh, wow, look at you... you live in a small town, right? There's a strange tradition, isn't there? Maybe a figure that's "entirely too" this with "way too many" that... For fuck's sake, just give it up. You want to go viral, to get noticed, reap accolades and secure a movie deal.