#creepypasta

I have to remind myself. I don’t want to forget. I can’t forget again. For a while now I don’t even remember my own name from time to time, and I forget who my mom was. And my brother. I have to write down everything that happened before I go back there. Back to The Chimes. My name is Sam. My older brother was named Marcus.

I grew up in the countryside, accustomed to living in harmony with nature, familiar with my neighbors as if they were family, and used to the classrooms and schools that always had only two or three students. I was a fairly good student, and my grades allowed me to leave the countryside. However, once I started high school, the academic pressure became overwhelming, so I began attending cram school.

Here’s your story with proper paragraphing and a few minor grammar fixes: Together, as of today, we would never be apart again. We will always be together…

Days turned into weeks after the discovery of the disturbing "Sammy the Cat" DVDs. The unsettling events and nightmares continued to haunt my thoughts. I decided to go deeper into the mystery, determined to uncover the truth behind this haunting show.

It was just an ordinary night, at least that’s what I originally thought. My mother, my elder brother, and I were in the living room, watching the news while having dinner. It was then that the power suddenly went out.

Sacred Spirit came to me and reached out for my hand, whispered words of comfort so I could understand. Birth, Death Rebirth, Cycles of a whole never ending just eclipsed the cycles of the soul.

My best friends Darius and Jordan learned about my fear of swimming during an impromptu tubing trip on the Farmington River. The summer after I turned twenty-six, Darius and Jordan took me to Foxborough Park, a park that ran alongside the river. Foxborough Park had recently undergone improvements as a part of the town’s beautification project. My parents once described the park as being “overrun by druggies and dropouts.” After the project completed, the town’s lilly-white, upper-middle class…

At first sight, maybe it was my fault. I refused to move with them to London, wanting to stay in Sweden to finish my astrology projects. I had a lot of plans for the future, but it all slid down into nothing except pure sorrow of mine. Realization of someone being dead hurts, it surely does. Even for a grown up man I’d keep on being mama’s boy who would visit her daily if he could. I didn’t expect them to simply vanish from my life, straight into the coffin, to rot and be forgotten.

I found an old Polaroid camera at a yard sale. It was even still loaded with film. Excited, I just took a picture of myself in the living room. However, when the photo was developed, there was a shadowy figure standing behind me, its hollow eyes staring straight into the camera lens. I was home alone.

For as long as he can remember, he's had dreams where he feels completely unable to move. In these dreams, he sees only darkness and hears whispers—soft, yet relentless. As the dreams are about to end, he often experiences sleep paralysis, which only prolongs his torment, making the nightmare last even longer.

I should have listened to my brother all those times he told me about the mirrors. I should have believed him when he said mirrors were like a different dimension; a portal into a bad, horrible alternative reality. But, I did not believe him. I thought he was just being a pesky teasing older brother. That's the way Brandon usually was anyway. Why would I have thought he was really telling the truth?

Do you remember a show called Gilligan's Island? It was an American sitcom that aired in 1964 with three seasons and 99 episodes, one being in black and white and the latter in color, which started in 1965; Let me summarize what the show is about: There's a two-man crew on the charter boat SS Minnow and five passengers on a 3-hour tour from Honolulu who run into a typhoon and are shipwrecked on an uncharted island somewhere in the Pacific.

I had always been a traveler; a rambler of sorts. I had never stayed in one place for long. I had to be on the go, exploring and studying out of the way places and interesting and odd things. The small village of Sneeuqfognik was one such place. The village may have been just a dot on the map, but it was home to a museum with over a million abnormal findings from all across the universe. A cursed museum.

My Dad has always been a firm believer in the supernatural, or at the very least took great interest in it. He worked for the London Underground as an electrician and always had his fair share of ghost stories told to him by his fellow workers. He always told me it was “best to be open-minded about things we don’t fully understand.”

I can honestly say this has been the hottest summer I have ever experienced. Not just in Pittsburgh, where I live, but throughout the entire country. Sweltering heat to the point where even the most avid outdoor enthusiasts such as myself have either had to shelter inside the comfort of an air conditioned home or find times to get outside when one wouldn’t expect to literally melt. A couple of nights ago, against my better judgment I decided to go for an evening run in the heat.

May, 1689 Josiah’s boots christened against the granulated sand as he hopped off the launch raft. His head shot upward, taking in the sight once again. The beach was peppered with large palm trees, each either gray or brown. In the distance, he could see the various mountains peeking over the tips of the jungle foliage ahead. It was a wall of trees and bushes, and Josiah knew it would be a challenge to navigate through.

After a whirlwind of festivities at a recent wedding, my wife and I decided to take a much-needed break and booked a charming stone cottage for a night at a tranquil hill station.

I sat in the corner of the bar, sipping at my white wine and soaking in the rural atmosphere. It was nice to sit and relax. Work had been crazy as of late. The duties of a Paranormal Investigator seemed almost never-ending. "Hey, I know you," an old man with a long scraggly beard and red suspenders pointed at me from across the room. "Ain't you that Hadley Trivett from 'Ghosting'?" He slithered from his stool and began limping toward me.

There was nothing special about that morning. The sun was warm, and the breeze was cool, one of the first hints that spring was here to stay. It started off as a simple thought, just an idea. But I never could have imagined what that idea was capable of causing.

It was a slow, mild Fall evening. We were sitting in our local Irish pub, The Lion and the Lamb, watching a beautiful young blonde woman on stage. It was karaoke night, and she was singing “In Dreams” by Roy Orbison. The song was mesmerising; her voice was like an angel’s. I suppose that’s how we ended up talking about dreams. “Has anyone been having any strange dreams lately?” asked Selena.I looked at her and the others at my company, pondering the question.