Most favorited stories

I was quietly sleeping reminding myself of the ol boring school stuff. Nobody ever had a chance to get vacation as i did. We went to a nearby forest at alaska. I loved alaska and always wanted to visit it. Huge thanks to my dad who accepted it. My dad was a veteran animal hunter. My mom was a skiled nurse and self defense trainer. Im a loving artist. I love to draw and sing. The night felt big. Long. Shivered. Almost frozen. As my eye saw nothing but darkness. When i woke up. My body was unable…

Someone asked me, “Who are you?” I answered quickly, “I’m glory.” But they smiled. They looked into my eyes, not kindly. “No,” they said, “Who are you?” The question didn’t leave. It followed me home, sat at the edge of my bed. Who am I? Who is glory? I try to think. A depressed soul? Too easy. A tired one? That’s just the surface. Glory. Glory. Glory. I’m limited by my problems, That I can't see past them. Glory. Glory. Glory. Say it enough times,

Hi. My name is Rick Leave. If you are reading this, you are alive, or at least foolish enough to seek danger where it waits. That is appropriate. Curiosity can be fatal in my world. People called me insane, a threat, someone who should be locked away and discarded. They were right—only in that they never understood. They never understood the way my mind observes patterns, how life moves like clockwork when seen through careful eyes, and how fear can be orchestrated, anticipated, controlled.

Did you see what happened last night? I’ve checked all the major news sites, channels, and popular social media sites, and I haven’t seen anyone talking about it. I even looked into some more obscure forums, but no one is talking about it. Am I the only one who saw it? Or I guess I should say the only one left who saw it? Did it even happen? It must have, the memories I have are so clear they can’t be a dream. But it happened so fast, and those people. I never learned their names or anything.…

When I was very little, I met my very best friend. I was quite the fearless little child, so I wasn’t afraid of him. Though, I do think most little kids might’ve been. But, I was a boy, and by my logic that meant I wasn’t supposed to be scared of anything. Even if I was little, I was still a boy.

August 13th, 1921 Prof. Herbert Clayton Children's Ward St. Mary's Childrens Hospital Fife, Scotland Dear Professor, My trusted friend and mentor, I write to you in the hope that you may advise me on a matter of urgency concerning a patient of mine. Edward is a boy of just nine years who arrived with his mother six days ago with a disposition so positive that we did not at first admit him. This did not last long.

My dog has always been kind of overexcited, running up and down the corridor, jumping all over our guests, relentlessly barking, and so on. I'm aware it's probably my fault for not being strict enough and encouraging this type of behaviour when he was a puppy. However, over the past few days, he has been very quiet. A bit too quiet. He's always hiding under the bed or behind the curtains, and sometimes, he even tries to hide under our linens, which is unusual since he's never been allowed on…

I used to work security at a vehicle safety testing facility - a crash test facility, really - just outside of Gothenburg in Sweden. The place has been around for a long time, and many of the most popular models around here have been tested at this facility. The purpose of security in this context was mostly to keep trespassers out and ensure that doors were locked and alarms primed.

I was 32 when I married Ashley, the love of my life. The daughter of two wildly successful divorce lawyers, she carried her wit as well as she carried her elegance. Taking after her mother, she was blessed with strikingly Baltic features, and taking after her father, she was perhaps the sweetest and most genuine soul I had ever met. In other words, she was perfect.

I have worn countless masks, but those most beloved is my mask of words. They refer to me as a play. A lie. A plague lay down in ink and breath. They tell me I am nothing more than a character within those pages of the volume, that yellow book whose words pour through comprehension. They are in error. I was not written. I wrote myself.

I used to walk with her, now I walk alone. We used to marvel at the beautiful houses together, now I look down at my feet. Each home we pass, a grain of salt in the wound, each house a reminder of what I lost. Even though it hurts, I still find myself continuing our walks. Sometimes pain is good. It reminds us that we are still living. I’d rather feel the pain of her passing, than not feel her at all.

In the first quarter of 2012, a scientist named Alexander Stuart Khaimov discovered a technological means to immortality. That is to say, Dr. Khaimov fulfilled one of the longest running pursuits of the human race – the desire to defeat death.

You wake up in a cramped, windowless room, and see blood on the walls. As you walk a little, you trip over something and look underneath… It's a small child's skull. Looking closer, you notice his clothes. You wake up from this terrifying dream… But you realize you're still stuck in the same place, and that it wasn't a dream. Blood is everywhere, and you've been sleeping next to your little brother's skull for about three weeks. You keep forgetting why you're there, how it all happened…

I have been imprisoned here in this hell hole for the last four years. Fucking TDCJ psych ward. This is where they send the real fucked up prisoners. I’m in for murder, but I managed to make the courts believe I was completely insane. I thought I’d get to go to some hospital. I figured I could handle a lifetime of dealing with the crazies, then having to fight everyday to protect myself and my man-hood.

"I just needed to sleep; it wasn't personal," he murmured, focusing intently on his fidgeting hands to avoid my gaze. "During the war, to desensitize us, our superiors played the harrowing screams of dying men over the speakers in our barracks. Initially, it was deeply unsettling, but over time, I couldn't sleep without it." He yawned, revealing the dark circles under his eyes. "I see," I responded, sitting across the table from the soldier. "And this justifies your actions?"

“What’s up with her, Sammy?” Steven grunted, puffing on his half-burned cigarette.

(Authors note: This is a rewrite of my first ever pasta from the creepypasta wiki. I hope you all enjoy!)

I sliced the arms and legs. I sew together each vein. Delicate patterns of lace, and the soft blush of first love. My palms are stained red. The needle slipped in, swiftly as the sleek body of a fish. Sans hésitation A gentle gush of warmth, Flowing freely from each cut. Catching in the cracks of the pavement And between my lovers lips These are only the amateur first strokes Of my watercolour painting. Next are the fingernails. which have endured the brunt for many years,

My parents were the first to fall violently ill from the sickness we now know as XoRax, I can vividly recall my father lying on his bed while his muscles spasmed and he chocked on his own vomit. I stood as his side, frozen in place and refusing to leave as I held back sobs, his pupils dilating until his entire eye was like an inky blackness. He tried to speak, turning his head toward me but opening his mouth only brought forth another torrent of vomit.

Larson woke up startled in the middle of the night. He clutched his chest with his tiny hand trying to dull the sharp pain in his heart. As he gasped for air, he desperately tried to remember what his nightmare had been about. He looked over at his alarm clock and discover it was 4:58 AM. He began sobbing and thought about calling out for his mom to come calm him down, but he couldn’t bring himself to make a sound. That’s when he realized that he was not the source of the sniffling and heavy…