#creepypasta

On a Saturday afternoon, I was watching BRAD: The Movie (I liked how BRAD and Jamie get into a relationship at the end of the movie) until I heard the doorbell ring. I paused the movie to go see who was there. Just as I answered the door, no one was there, but I noticed a DVD and a note on my front porch. I took it inside.

“Born to be a star” — that’s what my grandma always said, anyway.

I put on my running shoes with springs, designed to cushion the impact on the ground. It was my nightly ritual, something I did every single day without fail: running to the neighboring town, keeping my body busy and my mind free of thoughts. It was almost five o’clock, and the sun still stubbornly lingered in the sky, painting everything with a pale golden light.

The release wing door buzzed before it opened. There was no ceremony to it. No applause. No relief. Just a metal door that opened and closed without emotion. Daniel Danvers stood beside his car in the visitor lot, cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke unraveling into the cloudy afternoon sky. The gravel shifted under his shoes when he adjusted his stance. He checked his phone again. No new messages from Alexander.

Returning from the Amazon was one of the most exhausting and exhilarating experiences of my life. That trip to South America had been the perfect escape from my suffocating routine as a rising attorney in the United States. After years of hard work, I’d secured a solid position at Marston & Associates, and with a recent promotion offer, life finally seemed to be heading in the right direction. But since I returned, something hasn’t felt right.

“Where do you live, man?” I asked, reaching out to grab the Skol can left by the window. “Cuiabá.” “Man… that’s a beautiful city.” “You’ve been there?” “Yeah. Made a lot of deliveries in the capital.” “So why do you want to go to Nova Esperança?” “For my grandmother’s wake…” “I’m sorry, kid. Losing a relative right at the start of the year…” The young man lowered his head.

Part I Jake, Mike, Brian, and Josephine were a tight-knit group of friends who had known each other since childhood. They loved spending time together after school. With Mike’s birthday approaching the following week, his parents decided to throw a party to celebrate. All his friends were thrilled and full of joy about their friend's upcoming big day. His parents even had a special gift ready—one he had been waiting for for a very long time.

Amelia loved everything new, mysterious, and unusual anything unconventional and alluring. She loved music that made adults react with disbelief. She dressed like a Goth; in short, she defied all conventions. Her best friend, Diana, shared her musical passions. The girls liked to experiment, not only with their image but also with new experiences.

10/11/2010 ...

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.

Lisa was an ordinary teenager who loved going for walks and hanging out with her friends. She was helpful and kind-hearted toward everyone. Her parents were teachers; her mother was French and her father was German. Lately, however, misunderstandings between them had become more frequent. They couldn't find a common language anymore, and the air between them was thick with the threat of divorce.

The attic hatch didn’t just open; it fell away with a deafening crack, dangling by a single, twisted hinge. I scrambled backward, my heels drumming against the dusty floorboards until my spine hit the cold glass of the circular window. The creature didn't climb in. Instead, it reached up with those impossible, elongated fingers and gripped the edge of the opening. It pulled itself up just enough for me to see the top of its head—the same smooth, featureless grey skin, pulsing like a heartbeat.

12/8/2011 ... A figure of shadow stands before one of light. He regards the other in silence, bearing that same pensive furrow he affords all things not yet understood. There is, for a time, no movement between them. No greeting offered, none returned. He does not speak, not yet. There remains the question of whether he is perceived at all. Should he remain unseen, it would not be the first time.

A few years ago, I had returned from Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida and I nostalgically wanted to watch some old Mickey Mouse shorts for VHS. Among all of the other Mickey Mouse tapes, I noticed an out-of-place Mickey Mouse tape labelled, "Mickey's Book". What was odd was that the tape's date was 01/29/1995, even though old, black and white Mickey Mouse shorts were being produced much earlier.

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 never believed in urban legends, not at all. Until I saw him. This is a very generic way to start, but it started one evening when I was walking home from working; the streets were empty, but then I saw the man in the distance of the streets at an outdoor market. There was a small man hunched over with a massive, overstuffed pack with various masks on it. That grin, that GRIN... it was the first thing that caught me; it stretched past his cheeks and just stayed there.

I already know what you’re thinking. A gnome? Despite what the term I use might suggest, these creatures aren't rosy cheeked little bearded men with a pointy hats and quaint little tunics. As my friend would later find out, and as I'd feared for a long time, these beings are much stranger and far different from what is typically portrayed.

You think you understand the whole system? Read again. The door only sticks sometimes, but it always opens when I need it to. I noticed it first during the rainy season when the air felt heavier and everything in the house took longer to settle. The wood swelled a little, I think. It pressed into the frame and made the handle feel tighter than usual. Most people would panic at that. They would force it. Shake the handle. And make a scene out of something that just needs time.

Sara and Tom scrambled through the castle corridors, hoping to find Roy. They checked everywhere, but he was nowhere to be found. Suddenly, Tom spotted Roy between two suits of armor-huddled, trembling, and paralyzed with fear. "Man, why are you shaking like that?" Tom asked. "I... I... I saw her..." "Who did you see?" "The Mourner... I mean, the ghost of the Mourner. She was gliding down the hallway, "Man, why are you shaking like that?" Tom asked. "I... I... I saw her..."

The old wooden floorboards didn't just creak; they groaned like dying men. It was 3:17 AM when I woke to the sound of my bedroom door clicking open. I didn't move. I didn't breathe. From the doorway, the heavy, dragging footsteps of my grandmother shuffled toward the bed. She had been dead for three weeks, but there she was, pulling the cold air of the hallway behind her.