#creepypasta

For my niece's sixth birthday I bought her a Barbie doll. She loved dolls and stuffed animals, and loved playing pretend with them even more. Whenever I stopped by my sister's house I could always hear my niece playing with her toys, speaking to them as if she was having a wonderful conversation and would sometimes make her dolls talk back.

3:47 pm. August 4th, 1973. My name is Kevin Matthews. I am at the Matthews Lakeside cabin in Black Rock Park which I received in my dad's will. I'm writing this to document my odd findings of my family's lakehouse.

There’s a floor in my apartment building that doesn’t exist. Not Thirteen. That would be too cliché. Although, it doesn’t have a thirteenth floor, but not for supernatural reasons. It just doesn’t go that high. Some of the residents call it Floor Three and a Half, or Three and Three-quarters to invoke a Harry Potter vibe, but both of those are far too whimsical for my tastes. I just call it the Dead Floor, which I know isn’t any less cliché than floor Thirteen, but it feels appropriate.

I remember the day because nothing about it felt wrong at first, and that’s what makes it stay with me. The normal days are the ones that rot the deepest when something inside them isn’t right. My name is William Marston, and I teach children how to put their thoughts on paper, how to shape fear into something harmless, something you can hold at arm’s length and say, “this is only a drawing.” I believed that. I needed to believe that. So when I told them that morning to draw a monster—anything…

On the morning of Tuesday the 16th of December 2025, I took a dead woman off the stones below the Old Cross at Ardboe.

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.

My father told me a story once. I'll never forget it, for a few reasons. I think its the first story he ever told me, as a child. Its also the story of how my grandfather died. But honestly, that isn't the reason. You hear stories, on TV, or sometimes you over hear something in a public place. People talk about ghosts and aliens, and you think to yourself “that ain't real. They're making it up, or they're mistaken, or they're crazy.” or something like that. You just can't believe it.

I was five when the man in the wolfman mask scared the shit out of me. No, he didn’t eat me. No, he didn’t kill me. He just gave me one good Halloween scare.

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.

Annabelle was the focus of a case that famed paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren took part in during the early 1970s, and is highlighted in the book The Demonologist. It has been stated that this is one of the most unusual cases of a possessed object on record.

What are ghost stories, anyway?

I'm getting a headache, everything sounds painfully loud in an empty basement.

My name is Marcus. For the past six years, my friend Jace and I have run a small urban exploration channel online, documenting the decaying remnants of closed theme park attractions. Most of the time, "abandoned" Disney properties are a disappointment—stripped down to bare concrete, scrubbed of anything interesting, and guarded by motion sensors that trigger local rent-a-cops within minutes. We thought Epcot’s Wonders of Life pavilion would be more of the same.

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 is a legend that few people know about. If you stand in front of the mirror, in the dark, with a single candle lit, and issue the call, “Here piggy, piggy, piggy.” The big man will appear. When the pig man appears, you must remain absolutely still, or the pig man will devour you in minutes.

Perhaps it's just my world, but it might also be yours. Everyone here wears a mask. A real mask, maybe the one given from the beginning or one changed or even stolen. Our masks decide everything for us: our emotions, jobs, school, friends, relationships, chances in life and even crimes. Our whole identity really. Without our masks, we can't live since there isn't really anything underneath it. We all get our first mask just after birth after all.

I remember when I first woke up here just a couple of weeks ago. It’s probably not like any place you’ve ever seen. Not that it matters anymore, now that I'm stuck here. You see, for the past few weeks, I've been stuck in some sort of hell. Because I have found myself trapped. Trapped in a never-ending expanse of cardboard. I don't know if I'm alone here or not; I'm mostly writing this so my mind has something to do. Hell, I don't know if I’ll even get out of here, wherever this place is.

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.

You don't know me. But perhaps you know my voice.

We didn’t have much to do. Not in Cairo, Georgia anyway. That’s Cairo pronounced with a ‘k’. Kay-Row. Not like the one in Egypt. Instead of pyramids, we had our beloved Cairo High Syrupmakers. But besides those Friday Night Lights, we didn’t have jack shit to be honest. Just an old theater and a museum downtown. There wasn’t much us twelve-year-olds could do even this close to Halloween.