#creepypasta

Have you ever searched for employment for so long that pretty much any offer looked like a dream job? That was me a few summers ago. Fresh out of college, broke as shit, and desperate enough to answer a CraigsList ad. Yes, people still use CraigsList. Yes, it’s mostly sketchy as Hell. The post was titled “WANTED: WATER SAFETY EXPERT. START IMMEDIATELY.” It sounded like an official title, something important… but then again, so do “Sanitation Engineer” and “Sandwich Artist”.

There was a time before history. Before words. Before sanity.

Behind the unsteady glow of a flickering candle, Gideon, a man of pallid skin and restless eyes, sat slumped in his painting chamber. He would spend his days withering away here as he grappled with the monstrous quiet of an unraveling mind. He was known to be a brilliant portraitist, capturing the essence of his subjects with confident, precise strokes. In his hands, even the smallest nuance became a revelation, bringing to light the hidden beauties within every visage.

Katies life was never easy. She would often get bullied at school and even by her own father at home with no one to stop it. Her life would become worse when her mom died of cancer and she changed schools where the kids would become violent towards her. Even her sister moved out because she couldn't stand the abuse from their father... Katie would now the main target of her father and that meant the abuse would get worse for her too. The only comfort in her misrable life was her cat names…

I actually liked Albany. Sure, the town was far from Georgia’s finest. Far from having any recognizable achievements other than rampant poverty and an exaggerated crime rate. But hey, it beat Bainbridge. At least, there was shit to do here, you know. And Alicia and I were never bored.

The morning came gently, the way it often did in late spring - without urgency, without noise, as if the world itself had decided to stretch before speaking. Sunlight spilled across the small street in soft, slanted lines. It touched the rooftops first, then the windows, then slowly made its way down to the pavement where it shimmered faintly like water. Somewhere in the distance, a bicycle passed, its wheels clicking in a steady rhythm that faded as quickly as it arrived.

Martha still felt as if she were trapped in some nightmare. She saw people who bowed deeply to her time and again, only to vanish moments later. Magical carriages and coaches appeared and disappeared into thin air. She looked up at the sky, and suddenly, the image of a man in a hat appeared before her eyes. He looked like a vampire, baring his sharp fangs and smiling malevolently. Then, just as suddenly, the whole vision vanished. Martha felt her strength returning. By some miracle, she managed…

6/29/1316 ... My name is Edith, and I have not prayed in four months. I used to. God knows, or perhaps He does not, that I used to. Every morning, before the rooster crowed, I would kneel on the cold floor of our cottage and press my hands together until my knuckles whitened, and I would speak to Him the way my mother taught me, soft and grateful, the way you speak to someone who is listening. I do not kneel anymore. The floor may be the same cold stone it always was, but I have changed.

The date was perfect. The kind of perfect that makes you look for the catch. The food was good, the laughter was easy, and the chemistry felt natural. Still, I couldn't help but notice their pants. They were ill-fitted, sagging in the back in a way that looked almost like a diaper butt. It was a bizarre silhouette for someone so otherwise put together. "You look great," I said, leaning in. "But are those pants a little uncomfortable? They seem to sit a bit weird on you."

5/4/2015 ...

The Bainbridge Ghost Tours used to be a tradition in my hometown around Halloween. It was always cheap and heavy on the schlock. Hammy tour guides, cheesy music, cheap decorations. Picture ‘Monster Mash’ as a two-hour ghost tour and you get the idea. But given the town's limited history and questionable urban legends, I couldn't really blame Mr. and Mrs. Wesley for going all out with their prized attraction.

I remember one day, slumbering comfortably. I was experiencing a great dream. Full of colors, and bright lights. But that's when I woke up in the middle of the night. I was sweating, everywhere, and anywhere. I wiped my head clean, and noticed something strange. My door was slightly open, showing the light outside. Then I got a frightful epiphany, I must hide. The next day I fell fast asleep, exhausted from work. But the same thing happened once more, Woke up, sweaty, door open.

Dusk is just falling over the town of Evil Shade. The alleys are emptying, and the streets are becoming completely deserted. For some time now, the residents have been alarmed by strange, inexplicable events that usually occur late in the evening. Witnesses of these unsettling incidents report encounters with someone or something, after which they feel as though all their energy has been sucked out of them. They complain of muscle aches, headaches, and remembering very little of the…

I wrote this creepypasta when I wasn't in the best mental state, take this as a warning

Back in the early 2000s, I worked as a truck driver. I drove everywhere—from my hometown in Georgia to Alaska—and I’d seen it all. One day, early in my career, I was on a routine drive. I’d been on the road for a few days, and everything was going as planned. I stopped for a tank of diesel and rested for the night. The next morning, I got back on the road.

This story is inspired by SCP-096 created by Dr Dan, and takes place in the SCP Foundation universe. The cover image was created by dekades8 on DeviantArt and edited by me. Yeah, hey, I don’t know where this will go. If this goes through anywhere, then I guess I got lucky. one. Last. TIME. If you’re reading this, don’t go looking for what I saw. I mean that. Don't look at its face, and this means no photo will be attached.

8/27/2012 ... The highway looks the same for miles at a time. Endless strips of faded asphalt cutting through alternating stretches of open grass and walls of trees, broken only by reflector posts and the slight glint of headlights rushing past in the opposite lane. Every few miles, a green highway sign emerges from the horizon, hangs there for a moment, then disappears behind me again.

Xavier Truman drove with one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel, the other drumming against the door in rhythm with the radio. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the windshield, bathing the quiet neighborhood in a warm, nostalgic haze. The radio crackled softly.

5/2/2015 ...

In a small cottage lived a girl with brown hair with curls and amber eyes of soft hues. She wore a light blue dress as she moved into the kitchen. Her name is Hellen Greeds. Her hands always smelled like vanilla, even when she wasn't baking, even when she was only sitting at her desk with a pen between her fingertips. A blank page waiting to be turned into a world, the scent clung to her life, proof that sweetness could be made from nothing but patience and heat.