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When I was about five years old I was alone with my friend back in school and we were playing a game in a corner of the school where the cameras couldn't see us fully. We were playing a game we made up call twin phones, what you have to do is you have to act like you hear a phone ring and as soon as you 'actually' hear it, pick it up and say "Hello? Nice to meet you I am (Whatever you picked as your name)." Then you would wait for the other person to speak and then 'hang up'. We were playing…

Martha still felt as if she were trapped in some nightmare. She saw people who bowed deeply to her time and again, only to vanish moments later. Magical carriages and coaches appeared and disappeared into thin air. She looked up at the sky, and suddenly, the image of a man in a hat appeared before her eyes. He looked like a vampire, baring his sharp fangs and smiling malevolently. Then, just as suddenly, the whole vision vanished. Martha felt her strength returning. By some miracle, she managed…

"Pass the coffee." Carl pulled away from the scope of his rifle, and grabbed the insulated container of coffee from a makeshift shelf to his right. Behind him, his father whittled away at a piece of wood, a vague animal shape just beginning to gain definition. Carl passed over the coffee, and his father took a swig from the stainless steel vessel. "Any deer? They should be getting up now." Carl peered out from the wooden shack that was their blind. "Looks like a few are making their way from…

5/4/2015 ...

The Bainbridge Ghost Tours used to be a tradition in my hometown around Halloween. It was always cheap and heavy on the schlock. Hammy tour guides, cheesy music, cheap decorations. Picture ‘Monster Mash’ as a two-hour ghost tour and you get the idea. But given the town's limited history and questionable urban legends, I couldn't really blame Mr. and Mrs. Wesley for going all out with their prized attraction.

I remember one day, slumbering comfortably. I was experiencing a great dream. Full of colors, and bright lights. But that's when I woke up in the middle of the night. I was sweating, everywhere, and anywhere. I wiped my head clean, and noticed something strange. My door was slightly open, showing the light outside. Then I got a frightful epiphany, I must hide. The next day I fell fast asleep, exhausted from work. But the same thing happened once more, Woke up, sweaty, door open.

Heavy rain, shaking thunder. Laser sharp lightning. Muggy gloom. A beautifully Victorian castle lit hazily from within burns bright on the center of nothing, and nowhere. Painted sepia shades descending darker than the darkness of night itself. Our distressed protagonist, drenched, hurriedly scurries up the stone steps to the bronze Baphomet-shaped door knocker. Thud. Thud. The door slowly scrapes open to reveal a rather unfortunate looking young man, around twenty years of age at most.

"Breaking news tonight. Authorities have discovered the remains of four local Yakuza members in the Port District." The news anchor’s voice crackled from the TV. Her face flickered ghostly blue against yellowed, peeling wallpaper. Bad reception. Static danced across her eyes like digital maggots.

A wail. I hear it drone through the trees. I want to leave. I want to explore. I want to leave, and see something more. Someone I want to meet. I want to see people. I follow the wail. It is loud, not piercing, not uncomfortable. There are people here. I want to see them. I want to see and meet them. they are wailing. I see them there through the trees. They sit there, they wail. It does not feel uncomfortable. There are two people sitting there. They sit outside of the trees.

Year 157, Near the end of the fall season. I'm not sure what day it is. I am a regular guy who lives in the peaceful village of "Unut." And today, I am helping the village elder by chopping some logs for him. "But he's not going to pay me shit." I said as I swung my axe. I'm only helping him because he's like a father to me. I was a little child when my family abandoned me. Yet he took me in and raised me to this age. "And I am going to do his chores for the rest of his lifetime."

Dusk is just falling over the town of Evil Shade. The alleys are emptying, and the streets are becoming completely deserted. For some time now, the residents have been alarmed by strange, inexplicable events that usually occur late in the evening. Witnesses of these unsettling incidents report encounters with someone or something, after which they feel as though all their energy has been sucked out of them. They complain of muscle aches, headaches, and remembering very little of the…

We bought the house in March, which my mother always said was the worst month to make decisions. Too late for winter clarity, too early for spring hope. The month where you mistake exhaustion for certainty.

I’ve been thinking about that ever since. Weekend census was low. That’s the whole context you need. Mostly post-op and trauma overflow, half the lights dimmed in the corridors, the particular quiet of a floor that’s running on minimum staff. I was doing mobility checks alone, which is normal on a slow weekend. You develop a rhythm. Room to room, clipboard, chart check, get them moving if they can move, document, next one.

Last night it was on my counter. I don’t sleep well anymore. Haven’t since October, which is when Eleanor died.

I wrote this creepypasta when I wasn't in the best mental state, take this as a warning

I lost my wife a few years ago. Most people hear that and picture someone older–fifties or sixties. I’m twenty-one. Rose and I were born in Insurrection County, West Virginia. Rose was a southern belle, even though she always said that West Virginia wasn’t the real South. Rose’s hair was strawberry blonde, and she had deep green eyes and freckles that would pop when her face was sunburnt.

Back in the early 2000s, I worked as a truck driver. I drove everywhere—from my hometown in Georgia to Alaska—and I’d seen it all. One day, early in my career, I was on a routine drive. I’d been on the road for a few days, and everything was going as planned. I stopped for a tank of diesel and rested for the night. The next morning, I got back on the road.

My name is Mark, and this story takes place back when I was in college. I had a solid group of friends who shared my love for hiking and camping. It was no surprise to anyone that we often spent our free time exploring the outdoors. One chilly fall Sunday, we decided to hike a new trail we’d never tried before in a national park. For privacy and legal reasons, I won’t name the park; I’ll simply call it “The Park.”

It's been a week since my wife died, and it was my fault—all of it. I still remember that day, detail for detail: the sound of metal and nature meeting, the smell of gasoline and pine needles meshing together, and the revolting taste of iron that danced on my tongue. I survived for one reason, a sickening reason: at the time of the crash, I was inebriated. As for my wife... she died on impact. I tried everything, pleading and even praying to God that she wasn't dead; I guess God ignored my…

In a mysterious forest, among ancient trees and a clearing long forgotten by man, stood an abandoned shack surrounded by old, neglected graves. The place was shrouded in infamy; disturbing things happened there. Witnesses claimed that something sinister lurked in the darkness. Local residents spoke of terrifying screams echoing from the shack—cries that resembled a chimera or some other horrific beast.