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My dad shared with me a story that happened a long time ago. I apologize if some details do not make sense; my dad was younger back then, so details may be a bit fuzzy.

“Wanna hear about the weirdest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen in the ocean?” Harvey, the old salt who lived at Neptune’s Net, asked me one night. “Buy me a sip of Cutty Sark, and I’ll tell you something only a handful of people have ever heard, and all of them are dead,” he said, jabbing his finger for emphasis. His gravelly voice gave the ancient mariner a gravitas you wouldn’t expect from a drunk at the end of the bar.

Orson had a mind like no other. He could be shown a craft once, just once, then repeat it with a precision that startled his mentors. The carpenter on Ellis Street had only to demonstrate the carving of a dovetail, and Orson’s hands would shape that exact cut as though he’d been doing it his whole life. The carpenter peered over his shoulder, frowning. “That’s some fluke,” he muttered. “Took me months to cut like that.”

Cry Baby Lane (or JosephTheSnail’s Cry Baby Lane, as titled on Spiral Nightmares) is a thriller creepypasta that retells the 2011 creepypasta of the same name while correcting many of its flaws, most notably the defamation of the real-life director Peter Lauer by replacing his role with an unhinged character who gradually proves to be even more deranged than initially believed, alongside the disturbing, never-before-mentioned-until-now “actual” (not really) history of a goofy Nickelodeon horror…

“You’re gonna give me a hundred dollars to sit inside this cardboard box for two minutes?” I asked, feeling the booze slosh around my brain. “It’s that simple,” the street performer said with a cocksure grin. “You last two minutes inside the box, you get a hundred dollars.” “What if I don’t make it two minutes?” “You don’t get a hundred dollars.” “What’s inside the box?” The street performer opened the top of the large refrigerator box and, true to his word, it was empty.

Thunder booms in the distance as his hand brushed against her soft cheek, his callous hand a rough contrast against her skin. Rain pelts down onto their bodies as they meet each other's gaze, for what could be the final time. He cups her cheek and lets out a breath, tucking a wet strand of hair behind her ear. “My love...” He starts, his voice shaky and broken, just like his heart. “Don’t.”

6/29/1316 ... My name is Edith, and I have not prayed in four months. I used to. God knows, or perhaps He does not, that I used to. Every morning, before the rooster crowed, I would kneel on the cold floor of our cottage and press my hands together until my knuckles whitened, and I would speak to Him the way my mother taught me, soft and grateful, the way you speak to someone who is listening. I do not kneel anymore. The floor may be the same cold stone it always was, but I have changed.

In a small cottage lived a girl with brown hair with curls and amber eyes of soft hues. She wore a light blue dress as she moved into the kitchen. Her name is Hellen Greeds. Her hands always smelled like vanilla, even when she wasn't baking, even when she was only sitting at her desk with a pen between her fingertips. A blank page waiting to be turned into a world, the scent clung to her life, proof that sweetness could be made from nothing but patience and heat.

I have to pretend to be dead for my wife and I am in quite a strange situation right now within my relationship. I used to do drama back in my school days so I know a few things here and there about acting. Me and my wife before the birth of our first baby, we were completely normal and loved doing things together and talking to each other. We went on dates and travelled to other countries like how most loved up couples do. Then things got serious and I asked her to marry me and she loved the…

It was a brilliant club to be part of and we were a bunch of 60+ year olds enjoying ourselves, we have our own club or space in a library and the times are from 8-10 Sunday to Tuesday. Mind you, there are only ten of us in this club, but we are a brilliant lot and 5 of the members are retired. It is more of a club for the old and the retired, who have worked all of their lives and we do creative things, from reading scripts, novels to even put on a little show as we have our own stage. We also…

Next to where I live there is a load of residential buildings which have been popping all over the main cities and it’s because most people these days cannot afford a proper house like they could back in the day. Residential buildings are usually well protected with the use of personal fob cards and concierges making sure everyone, and everything is safe within the residential building. Anyhow, my friend Rodney told me that there is a residential building the where doors are open 24/7 and that…

Ever since I dropped out of university the only jobs I ever had was in the security sector and I will be honest I didn’t get my SIA security licence through legal means but knew someone who could get me an SIA licence for a price. I had contacts with all sorts of people within the security sector which is how I got jobs in the first place and in this profession its all about who you know rather than what you know. I bet you don’t feel safe now knowing what the security industry is really like…

Lucas Thorne gulped as he turned the corner and saw the rotting corpse of a house that sat at the edge of town. The house seemed twisted as its warped wooden frame sagged under its weight. Grime smeared the windows, reflecting only the fading light of dusk. As his eyes darted around, he confirmed one thing: he was alone. He reconsidered his choice to volunteer for the cleanup.

Ed was a night watchman at Mr. Mitchell’s company, a firm that manufactured engines for motorboats. He was 54 years old—tall, thin, and never without his glasses. His night shift usually followed a set routine: he would circle the warehouse several times and then spend the rest of the night either napping or buried in a crime novel.

September 17, 20-- To whoever is reading: Please pardon my recollections and remembrances, as the events that have occurred in the past 24 hours have been the oddest, most appalling, and most confusing that I, and perhaps any other man, have experienced. The consistent knocking and banging on the other side of the steel door only adds to my frustration.

Steve was a respected city official who, from time to time, liked to break away from his daily routine and visit his hometown, located about 30 kilometers away. He stood at the station dressed in an elegant suit and hat, carrying a large suitcase. The weather that day was drowsy and rainy; he had forgotten to bring an umbrella. Thus, when the train arrived, he boarded quickly, took a window seat, and began to read a book. The front of the locomotive bore a sign: "Train to Nowhere."

“I have good news and bad news,” my boss Chester said. If there is a more butthole clenching phrase said at a struggling company during a sudden all hands meeting, I don’t know what it is. Thing was, Chester didn’t need to say a single syllable. His slouched shoulders, pale(er) face, and hangdog expression told us the entire story. The company was going under.

Evelyn was sitting on the bed, knees to her bosom and hugged by her hands. Her nightshirt drenched with sweat, she was cold. She hunched up but would not bundle herself up with her blanket: she needed the cold feeling that swept her skin, like the air itself. It was there to tell her that she'd come to, she was there, that the horror of her dream hadn't torn her soul to pieces. Evelyn remembered the dream very well, but the horror was gone: it had escaped with her frenzied scream. She thought…

4/13/2015 ...

1934 was a different time. Not just in Savannah, Georgia but in America. We didn't have many luxuries back then. Or much optimism, for that matter. Not when we were in the midst of The Great Depression.