#creepypasta

In the winter of 1944, with overtaxed supply lines in the Ardennes, a medic in the German army had completely run out of plasma, bandages and antiseptic. During one particularly bad round of mortar fire, his encampment was a bloodbath. Those who survived claimed to have heard, above the screams and barked commands of their lieutenant, someone cackling with almost girlish glee.

In the summer of 1996, the town of Newport Bay was struck by an odd and gristly phenomenon. Earlier that year, the employees of a small animal shelter had been found mauled and eaten, by what appeared to be a rather large animal. The location and severity of the wounds added to the already powerful feelings of dread, fear and paranoia the residents were experiencing. Being eaten alive is often thought to be one of the worst ways to go, and while everyone has their own opinions on the worst ways…

It was just like any other day when I received the call. I had been sketching the horizon for the past hour when my phone began ringing with with an unfamiliar number. I would have ignored it if the call hadn't been from my home town. Fast forward 24 hours later, and I'm sitting in a stark conference room and waiting for a team of doctors to arrive. I would have never imagined myself in this position. Who could? My mind was racing, and I wished that the doctor had given me a clearer explanation…

I'm sure you know what Disney's utilidors are by now. If you haven't heard, beneath Disney World, there's a massive underground network of hallways and doors that connects the attractions and sections of the park. This is so that nobody sees the people working in the park, specifically to keep the park feeling magical and keep the illusion alive.

Matt and I returned to our hometown after our first semester in college. We arranged to meet at a bar to catch up and trade stories. “How's UVA?” Matt asked, sipping his glass of Shiraz. “Pretty good,” I replied. “I think I'll major in physics.” I took a swallow of my beer. “How about you?” “Yale's everything I hoped for—and more,” Matt answered, “but I still haven't settled on a major yet. Philosophy maybe, or comparative lit…”

In case you’ve been following along with the events at the gas station on my blog, I apologize that my website was taken down so abruptly. For some reason, the city council found my public record of local events to be “troubling”--to the point that they hired a fancy Orwellian legal team to bury me in cease and desists. I tried fighting back, but as of last week, it looks like my entire site has been retroactively erased from existence. Presumably, these are the same guys who’ve been scrubbing…

I can't remember how it started. All I know is that I have to turn them on. All of them. The lights. Something is in the darkness. I get a glimpse sometimes. When it gets close. When the lights flicker. I can hear it breathing too. Whatever it is, it's not a nightmarish collection of body parts barely clinging to life. It sounds fit, strong. It sounds like a hunter, biding its time.

Please, I don't know what to do. I've tried to tell my wife about this, but she's a science teacher and thanks to my history of practical jokes, she thinks I'm just kidding. There is something stalking me. I don't know what it wants, but almost every night since I started seeing it, it has terrorized me. It doesn't touch me, it doesn't communicate in any sort of way, it just fills me with horror. If what I seem to ramble, please forgive me... I haven't slept in several days.

Growing up my father always told me I was a follower, not a leader. On an almost daily basis he would say to me, “Boy, you have got to forge your own path in life, instead of fooling around with those knuckleheads you call friends.” He was, of course, correct, but when I was a teenager that kind of wisdom went in one ear and out the other. In my mind I was invincible, I knew everything, and I could get away with anything.

On a scale of one to ten, what's the surest you've ever been at any one moment that something absolutely sinister was looking straight at you? I'd rate my experience earlier tonight at about an eight.

The Sinking House by Tristan Mason Colt was only thirteen years old when he rowed as fast as he could away from Benji and Caleb, the most menacing boys in Troop 0172.  It was the dead of night and only the faint orange moonlight lit the narrow path for Colt’s tiny canoe, which was starting to overflow. Benji and Caleb, whose kayak was much bigger and rowing skills were far superior, were gaining on him, shouting from less than fifty away.

"I dunno Chris, eldritch abominations are kind of old hat at this point " My brother Terry had said after reading over a rough draft of the latest story I was writing. His words stung more than I think he intended them to because though I wouldn't admit it outright, I knew that they were true. "Oh come on Terry! I don't have to reinvent the wheel every time I sit down to write." I had huffed back at him somewhat annoyed.

A few months ago a friend of mine, who is an up-and-coming nature photographer, decided to spend a day and night alone in the woods outside of our town. She wanted to get photos of the woods and wildlife as naturally as she could for her portfolio. She wasn’t afraid of being alone, as she had camped by herself many times before.

One day you will wake up and find yourself walking on a dirt road at what appears to be midnight. The road is extremely long, and will look like it could take hours of travel to get to civilization. The road consists of only dirt, dust and pebbles. At first, you will wonder how you ventured to such a place. You will also wonder how and why it is so dark, yet somehow illuminated with light at the same time. You will quickly come to the conclusion that you're dreaming.

Our trip started in late February as my three friends, John, Steve, Max, and I drove in my truck deep into the backwoods of Boxwood Gulch to follow the North Fork of the South Platte River. Steve owns a cabin up in the backcountry so we left my truck there and began our 57 mile hike into the wooded terrain following the river.

I don't recall ever seeing an actual music box. I mean sure I'd seen them on television but have never actually held one. Why is this relevant you may ask? Well, what I have to say about some things I've experienced recently involve sounds that can only come from a music box.

I am not a professional at investigating anything paranormal; I am a nonprofit journalist who documents incidents, and I was told to investigate Luigi’s Shadow, something everybody thought was a joke until it wasn’t anymore. By then, all of the original bedroom attacks before the game release had been archived and usernames had gone inactive, but by this point, the reports weren’t by gamers anymore. There’s new information that nobody knew until now.

Until my mid-teens I hadn’t lived in one house for more than I year. Though I’ve now been living in this house the longest, and my family thinks of it as home since we pay mortgage on it, I’ve always felt that my earlier houses were home. The “Yellow House” wasn’t one of those. I lived there before I entered school so my memory of the pale yellow house fuzzy, but almost all of my memories in that house took place upstairs in the converted attic where my siblings and I had our rooms. The house…

The old storage sheds along the tracks were abandoned shortly after the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad was built, and it wasn't long before the poor folk of the area moved in. The sheds provided shelter - of a sort - although the winter wind still pierced through every crevice, and the small fireplaces that the poor constructed did little to keep the cold at bay.

During the summer of 1983, in a quiet town near Minneapolis, Minnesota, the charred body of a woman was found inside the kitchen stove of a small farmhouse. A video camera was also found in the kitchen, standing on a tripod and pointing at the oven. No tape was found inside the camera at the time. Although the scene was originally labeled as a homicide by police, an unmarked VHS tape was later discovered at the bottom of the farm’s well (which had apparently dried up earlier that year).