#creepypasta

We all knew Spirit Halloween, a store that is filled to the brim with the most messed up animatronics out there, ranging from screaming clowns, decayed zombies, demonically possessed children, and other stuff. Every year, they always push the limits with the level of gore and blood. But what if I told you that there was an animatronic that never made it to the shelves? Well, you’re in for a treat, so keep on reading.

It is the Summer of 2022, and I cannot escape the heat. The heat that is the crowded, cloying musk of Kilkenny city on a sweaty Saturday night. It grimes against my mind like the late June humidity on my skin. I had been robbed of what felt like half the Summer, having suffered a bad case of Achilles tendinosis, and had spent most of May and June endlessly stretching and pacing like a caged cat in a bid to nurse it back to functionality.

A twenty something years old man enters a cafeteria. White skin, maybe a bit too skinny, straight unkempt hair, a beard of a few days, and bloodshot brown eyes. He was dressed with a blue shirt, blue jeans, and black shoes. The young man looked around and then walked to the furthest table in the corner and sat down in front of an older man. The older man lowers his cell phone and looks up to the young man. “What do you want, kid?”

New York City, 1980: Giuseppe Russo sat in his small city apartment. It felt no larger than a jail cell, but had just about everything he ever dreamt of. His bed sat in a window nook on the right wall across from the entrance. Two bookshelves sat on both ends of his bed.

Chatrove / Topic: Confessions Posted by Anonymous 2003-07-16 23:14 [Archived] I'll call her Amelia. Not her real name, of course, but the vibe matches. She and I were always cut from the same invisible cloth (anxious, awkward, forgettable). If we didn’t sit together in lectures, we simply evaporated into the crowd. When New Year’s came, we made a pact: we’d change. Not in some dramatic way, just enough to stop melting into the scenery. We wanted to be more outgoing, more open, easier to like.

After it all happened, I could never explain just what about the little wooden jewelry box had caught my eye. It was simple and unornamented. When questioned about what was inside it, Maggie, the antique shop’s keeper, hesitated before speaking. “That’s a collection of old silver, mostly jewelry and coins.” I nodded. “So a few thousand dollars, I suppose?” I went to put the box back.

“And of course, my wonderful and wunderbar blast furnaces are the heart of my Foundry’s operations,” Raubritter boasted proudly as he led the young and aloof Petra down across the factory floor towards the upstairs offices.

I like to drive past spooky places.

I had always liked watching her hands. Emma, my babysitter, had these nails she painted herself—a soft, glossy lavender that caught the light just right. She was neat, careful, precise, and she promised me, as she usually did when she babysat, that after she came back with our dinner, we'd paint mine together. "You'll pick the color," she said, wiggling her fingers, "and I'll show you how to do it just right." I smiled at her nails, imagining mine looking the same: neat, perfect and lavender.

It’s a commonly held belief in the world that machines can do anything, that, given enough time and resources, robots and computers will one day replace humankind, or that the constant evolution of machines could bring back what we lost. But I remember when we learned our lesson, when we understood that maybe, the dead should stay dead.

Content Warning: This story contains graphic depictions of self-harm, suicidal ideation, psychological distress, and body horror. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Art is suffering. Suffering is what fuels creativity. I’m an artist. Not professionally at least. Although some would argue the moment you exchange paint for profit, you’ve already sold your soul.

What If I Told You the Military Survival School Near Cusic, WA, Was a Cryptid Response Facility? I have a crazy story to tell you, and at the end, you’re probably not going to believe me. However, for those who have lived near or spent time in the Colville National Forest, they will know.

In the time of the Pharaoh Shoshenq II, shortly after the end of the grandeur of Egypt’s New Kingdom, a time when the ordinary were ignored and their activities long since forgotten, lived a resourceful, scribal young man named Anseb; resourceful because the early death of his father, which had left the family poor, had forced the development of such traits and scribal because his still young, well-meaning mother, attractive though talentless, had managed to pay for her son’s education by way…

Adventure. Adventure is what I craved. I wanted to gain the fruits of life that I had so long been denied in my youth—and, in those days, those fruits could be found and plucked in the American West. But if I had a hint of what would happen to me and my boys when I found that adventure, it would’ve made me never want to leave civilization...

This is the continued part of The Ballerina. Let's begin. The next day, in school. Davian walked over to Amy and tapped her shoulder. Amy looked at him with surprised eyes. He asked: "Would tonight be a good day to study for the midterm for history?" Amy was so excited that her dark prince was asking her. She had to reply quickly before Davian changed his mind. Amy replied, sweetly: "Sure. Let me ask my dad quick."

I’m kind of scared guys. I’m a journalist at small town newspaper and just received an anonymous envelope containing some kid’s hand written journal. The name on the front cover of the journal has been scratched off, and there are what appears to be some blood stains on the cover and on some of the pages. I don’t know what to make of this journal or its contents yet, but I think something horrible happened to this kid. It seems so surreal and terrifying that something like this could even…

Last time we discussed the Not-human hypothesis, and since then, a discovery has been made that has been linked to these ancient humanoids. Though this one is rather unique, as it shows us how Neolithic and Paleolithic humans might have viewed and interacted with them.

A priest once gave me a gift in Aragon. He said it had belonged to a saint. That was a lie. Whatever power dwells in those dice does not answer to heaven.

ICON Systems Group TL-07: Neural Language Analysis Internal memorandum #TL510513 1A Dr. Elin Saber [Routing: Office of Internal Ethics Oversight] To: IEO General Director Hevlen Please, read carefully. I'm not sure how long I can keep my thoughts straight, or if they are even mine anymore.

I love the rain. I love how it seems to make everything feel… better. Smoother, somehow. Most people just enjoy the idea of rain. They like the sound it makes on the windowpane, or the cathartic feeling it gives. But it seems few actually enjoy the rain itself.