#creepypasta

I never really did want to go to that Christmas party, but I have to say it turned out all right in the end. The Christmas party was to be held on the great stage at the Opera House downtown, and it was open to all employees of the law firm Goble & Mundorff and their immediate families.  That last part was a problem for my brother Henry and me, because our mom was a paralegal at G&M, and she’d made it clear that she expected us to put in an appearance.

Every small town seems to have its own claim to fame. Something that draws in the looky-loos to spend their big-city cash. I’m sure you’ve made your fair share of roadside stops or taken a backroad to see the World’s Largest Ball of Twine, toured the mistress’s house of Blackbeard, where he may or may not have buried his treasure, or touched the hanging tree of those poor ethereal women. Well, my town is famous for red pumpkins.

The room was, as always, a mess: the bed was unmade, at least four mugs of unfinished tea sat on the windowsill, a backpack lay on the floor, and clothes hung over the chair. Some trash was scattered under the bed. But the owner of the room clearly had no plans to clean up. And where exactly was the owner? He was sitting at the desk with his gaming PC, hunched over as usual, frantically clicking the mouse and typing on the keyboard. The sound of gunfire came from the speakers.

If you were on TikTok or Instagram in the week before Christmas 2024, there's a good chance you've seen my brother die.

She arrived without warning one day, tall and pale with a pretty face. Dark hair hanging down, tangling with the wind. It was a Sunday, the only day the mines of Gavinvill were closed. With slender hands curled, she rapped her knuckles on the door. And when it opened, she would simply ask: “Need a stitchin’? Need a fix’en?”

Documents relating to the events at Slaghtaverty, near Garvagh, 23rd-31st October 2025. Compiled by Hannah Moore My name is Hannah Moore. I'm 35. I'm a freelance audio producer, which means I make podcasts and radio documentaries for people who can afford to pay me, and I record everything, and I label everything, and I keep everything. That habit is the only reason this document exists, and I think it's the only reason I'm not in prison.

[Originally posted to a forum in March 2026 under the title "Anyone from Carrick remember what happened in January last year? I was there. This is all of it." Reproduced here in full.] My daughter says if I don't write this down she'll do it herself, and she'll put in the bits I'd leave out. She's eighteen now, and she means it, so here we are.

[Originally posted as a reply in a thread titled "Irish folklore creatures that are actually terrifying," on a paranormal forum, January 2026. The reply was long enough that the poster later moved it into its own thread. Reproduced here in full.]

[Originally posted to a paranormal forum in March 2023, split across four posts because of the character limit. Reproduced here in full, with the poster's section headings.] My counsellor thinks I should write this down. Not to post, necessarily. Just to get it out of my head and onto something that isn't my head. I'm posting it because if I only write it down, it's just me and the page again, and I've spent five years being the only person who knows the whole of it.

A Creepypasta They say that if someone has caused you unbearable suffering, all you need is a chestnut and three words. But before you try it, you should know the story of Charlie Whitmore. And you should understand that Charlie doesn't forgive. For nearly seventy years, Whitmore Chestnut Farm had been a beloved fixture in the small rural community of Ashbury.

“Hey sweetie, are you gonna open your eyes for me now?” I heard his voice. It was all sweet and nice, making my stomach feel sick. His hands were on my shoulder, squeezing slightly, shaking them side to side. I could feel a groan pass my lips and my eyes struggled to unstick themselves. “Yeah! There we go, I'm sorry about that special candy, I guess you're just a little bit smaller than the dose is made for.” He laughed, it's a quiet, airy laugh, making my stomach tighten again. I blinked,…

It started with the silence. In a house usually filled with the clatter of ceramic lasagna pans, the metallic screreech of claws on hardwood, and the endless, booming complaints of an orange, gluttonous feline, the quiet was heavier than lead.

Never look beneath the deadfall. I don’t actually think Edgar needed this to be explained. But then, maybe it wasn’t really for him. Maybe it was for me. I like explaining it. It’s like a dark, dirty secret that every kid in our school knows.

One time, near Prescott, Arizona, I witnessed a ghostly wagon train rumble across the scrub brush for nearly an hour. Kept pace with my truck as I screamed down the highway. The driver even doffed his cap to me. I returned the favor as he evaporated into a fine mist.

Have you ever seen the flesh of a dead man so perfectly loose with decay that it may come off of his brittle old bones as easily as cutting soft cheese with a well honed knife? let me tell you son... it is a satisfying feeling that none have been able to replicate (at least from what I've seen in my years wandering this miserable rock we call home). now I know you will yelp on about some "oh but that's so horrible!" or maybe you will demand to know "what kind of fucked up mind thinks of such…

Note: This is my own take on the "Clown Statue" urban legend A girl was babysitting two children in Florida while their parents went out on a date. That evening, the mother drove her to the house and dropped her off at the front door. The children's mother came to let her in. "Hi! You must be the babysitter. Come on in." "Hello. Yes, that's me." The father walked over and smiled. "Thanks again for doing this. We won't be gone too long." "No problem." The mother pointed toward the stairs.

I used to believe that the worst thing that could happen at a restaurant was getting food poisoning. I was wrong. My name is Emily Carter, and what happened to me three years ago is something I still cannot explain without feeling like I am going to be sick. I have never told the entire story to anyone. Not my friends, not the police, and certainly not my father. Maybe writing it down is the only way I can finally get it out of my head.

DATE OF INCIDENT: 2306-04-29 REPORTING OFFICER: Captain L. Voss, Service No. 4071, District 9 LOCATION: BLACKGULL-9A-0102-THALASSA INCIDENT TYPE: ANOMALOUS EVENT INCIDENT SEVERITY: CRITICAL

“It’s going to happen, Jack. Nothing we can do about it. The wheels are already in motion. Higher-ups tell me I need to release the staff by the end of the week.” “Then ‘AM 640 - Talk of the Town’ becomes what, exactly?” Ron sighed. “Another DJ-less, auto-programmed, adult easy listening station.” “Aww, Christ on a bike,” I said. “They’re stealing the soul of this industry. Our Arbitron numbers grew last ratings cycle.”

On the morning of the 13th June 1997, an unidentified federal agent was found dead at his workstation deep within a secret government facility at an undisclosed location. The cause of his death was a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The following extract consists of the final entry logs of said agent prior to his suicide. Despite the lack of context and supporting evidence, this document was received from a trusted source.