#creatures

I woke up. Sheets were stained with sweat, breath was no longer bated, and unconscious solace began to surcease. Depression kills. Not in a directly physical way, not in a way perceivable by anyone except the sufferer. It made me feel psychotic. It went past the brain tissue, into the atoms of their molecules. I always imagined the electrons painstakingly orbiting a chunk of ice. There was never light in my imagination.

The cold was the first thing I felt. Even before my eyes were open I felt a very deep chill in my core, a thousand spindles of ice sewn between my tissues. I blinked, my eyelids slowly bringing and stealing back the darkness, and with it the desire to keep them closed forever.

You lay in your bed, comfortably, staring at your ceiling. Your air conditioning is whirring, allowing you to completely relax and slowly drift into sleep. Just as you start to fall asleep your air conditioner cuts off. You can hear everything. You have a relatively large room. You're starting to become uncomfortable, but instead of moving to get into a better position you lay still. Almost frozen.

I guess I’m not really sure what to write down. These past few weeks feel…It’s just hard to put to words what’s going on. I can hear sirens in the distance. Not much time left now. The police’ll be here shortly. Only one more thing left to do, but first I want to leave some kind of a record. Some testament to what happened so when they look back on this insanity, maybe somebody will know I wasn’t crazy. At least, not completely. I’ll write down the facts as they happened, try and give you a…

If cleanliness is emptiness, then Apartment # 17 was spotless. It was located in a solitary building that occupied its own lot at the corner of Forest and Canal streets. Neither the scenery nor the waterways for which the streets were named were in evidence. The lot, however, did sport a drab plumage of tall grass stunted here and there by half-hearted attempts at maintenance, and the city it was located in had a river that ran through the center of it, a wide belt of deep, dirty water that…

Often when my wife and I go to bed at night our dog ends up sharing the bed with us as well. He is a black dog that weighs about 100 pounds so you can imagine that he takes up a good portion of the bed at night when he decides that he wants to sleep with us. Since we have black sheets he tends to blend in with the bed making it hard to tell if he sneaks up there before us.

When we were kids, we'd always spin in circles. The more we spun around, the more dizzy we'd get. Sometimes it was a challenge to see who would fall over or who could stay up right. When I was young, seven or eight, I remember this would be all I'd do with my time, spinning, spinning, spinning.

It was perhaps my eighth birthday when it all started. It’s hard to recall from this far in the future. My grandfather, a gentle old man, bought me a doll to play with and together we sat around a small cake with only four candles upon the top. They weren’t the fancy candles that you see on all the cakes now a days. We didn’t have the money for such fanciful things when I was a kid. No, they were just small nubs of candles that were nearing the end of their usefulness.

The chairs were the old school folding kind, brown metal with tan cushions that were almost comfortable. They were usually folded and stacked neatly against the wall in the basement of the church on Dionin street. Three times a week they were unfolded and made into a circle: once for bible book club on Monday afternoons, another time for prayer group on Tuesday mornings, and then every Friday night for meetings.

It was another cold night that night. I remember it vividly. Mostly due to the fact that out here you have to be alert at all times. My name is Sergeant Johnson, and at the time I was deployed at a remote outpost in the Warduj Valley. This valley is known for its high level of insurgent activity in the Warduj District, Badakhshan Province, Afghanistan. I was deployed for seven months, and I have to say the toughest thing, other than the usual rocket attacks, was missing my new wife back home.…

I must type this sentence to keep the monsters away. I don't know why this works, but it does. The faster I type, the further away they are. Sometimes, I think I might be able to type fast enough to make them go away. Yet, if I stop for only a moment they will return.

When I was a small child, I was terrified of the dark. I still am, but back when I was around six years old I couldn’t go a full night without crying out for one of my parents to search beneath my bed or in my closet for whatever monster I thought was waiting to eat me. Even with a night light, I would still see dark shapes moving around the corners of the room, or strange faces looking in on me from my bedroom window. My parents would do their best to console me, telling me that it was just a…

BOOM! Kaitlyn bolted up in bed in a cold sweat. She nearly fell out in a panic, and then managed to right herself. After catching her breath, she managed to calm down and glanced at the clock. 12:30 AM. Fucking great. She knew that she always took at least an hour and a half to get to sleep, and she had to be to work at 4:30.

Hear me out. I don't plan to stay here long. One way or another, this place won't hold me. Yeah, sure - I know 'they all' say that. But trust me - I'm different. No, that's not right - I'm probably bog-standard, but the circumstances are different. And the circumstances are going to make things a little difficult. Unless I tell someone - even if I tell someone.

Let me start by pointing out that I have been told, and have figured out on many occasions, that I have an over-active imagination. That being said, I have thought a lot about the night that this story will focus on and I can't talk myself into believing that it didn't happen. As the title says, this is a true story. I do write Creepy Pastas, but this story is true, it really happened, or so it did as far as I'm concerned. I don't share this with many people, so feel good, you're in a way,…

There was a loud bang on the door, followed by more equally loud bangs. The woman stood up from her couch and walked towards the door. She was watching the news which was reporting recent kidnappings in her area and was wondering when her husband would return home from work. As the woman walked to the door, she wondered who it could be at this hour. It was almost 10 o’clock at night. Could it be her husband? No. He would have come through the garage. Or even the back door. The woman reached the…

Let me start off by saying that as far as I can remember, this is all true, it’s not ‘creepypasta’ or anything like my previous posts, there’s no satisfying conclusion or an explanation, so if that’s what you’re here for, I’m sorry but you won’t find it, but this is how I remember it. It’s a story of two incidents that occurred in my mother’s house separated by years of normality, the latest of which happening in the early hours of the morning beginning the 26th of December 2011.

I was so excited. I hadn't ever really gone camping before, so the fact that one of my friends asked me to go with him was amazing in and of itself. He made plans for five other guys to join us as well. The plan was to leave right after classes on Friday evening and drive up to an old abandoned farmhouse, which, in Kansas, aren't too uncommon. This one was special, though, or so I was told by Riley, my friend that had invited me. He said not only was the house quite large and well held…

It started when I was six years old. I was in school, it was the middle of a reading lesson, and I needed to pee, badly. At that age, actually, a fair few kids still wet themselves, and I always got paranoid about embarrassing myself in public like that. I stuck my hand up and told Mrs. Zebby that I needed to use the bathroom. After the usual speech about how I “should have gone at break”, she gave me the key to the Disabled-Access toilet (as it was the closest one to my classroom).

That damn rain again.