#creepypasta

“Jalen, you sell drugs?” “What? No.” “Family sell drugs?” I laughed. “You for real right now?” His stoic face answered for him. “Not that it should matter, but I don’t really have a family. So, no, they aren’t kingpins in the drug game.” “Consider yourself lucky. No family is the way to go. No hassles. No buying gifts for ungrateful nieces and nephews who think just because you own a coupla properties, you’re Diamond Jim Brady. Gives me heartburn just thinkin’ about it.”

When my grandfather passed away during an early winter, my family scrambled to rid the house of his belongings before the first major storm. The asphalt-shingle roof of his one-story home was collapsing inward after years of neglect and most of the windows were boarded up with cheap plywood. Instead of paying for the repairs, my parents decided to leave the fate of the quaint brick abode up to Mother Nature. It was the first time we had visited since they relocated my grandfather to a nursing…

As I sit down to write this narrative, the air around me has become cold and thin. The end is near I am afraid. But I shall welcome the grips of death. I have nothing else to live for, everything I have is gone. Quite frankly everything I know or have ever known is gone. Swept away in a single flash of fate, a snap and my entire world was obliterated.

I put on my running shoes with springs, designed to cushion the impact on the ground. It was my nightly ritual, something I did every single day without fail: running to the neighboring town, keeping my body busy and my mind free of thoughts. It was almost five o’clock, and the sun still stubbornly lingered in the sky, painting everything with a pale golden light.

I still have the book.  And, reluctant as I am to share it with anybody, I can see no other way. Very well, then. This is how it begins: The Knights are lined up all the way down the hall To be blessed by the Queen and the King, With their shields and their sigils and armor and guns And their magical-gagical rings! - They’ve come from afar and they’ve come from a-near To kneel down and mount up and fight, They’re strong and they’re tall and they’re brave one and all –

I moved into town a few weeks ago. I got a new place to live, a new dead-end job, and a new start. I’ll come right out and say it, I’ve been running away from a sordid past my entire life. Well, that’s not exactly true. To be more specific, I’ve been running away from myself. What do I mean by that you ask? Well, I often fall into situations where my true colors show. When that happens, I’m forced to move away and try to start anew.

Howdy. You can call me "Jack." It's not my real name, but that's what I'll go by for now. I reckon the time to tell my story has come. Believe it or don't, but here it is. I suggest you take away the lessons it teaches, even if you dismiss it all as bullshit like 98% of the other stories on the internet. But there's more truth in this story than any one of you could know.

Ghosting Hour - The Last Days of Raoul Makumbe Remake 2026 Copyright: Andre Michael Pietroschek Disclaimer: No warranties! I use Grammarly Proofreading, which includes AI that I cannot turn off, and a wonderful rephrase tool that explains to me, WHY Native speakers would never speak like us Non-Native speakers consider it to be!

12/8/2011 ... A figure of shadow stands before one of light. He regards the other in silence, bearing that same pensive furrow he affords all things not yet understood. There is, for a time, no movement between them. No greeting offered, none returned. He does not speak, not yet. There remains the question of whether he is perceived at all. Should he remain unseen, it would not be the first time.

I never believed in cursed videos. I grew up when the internet was saturated with them—grainy clips passed through forums, chain emails promising death in seven days, mirrors that whispered your name if you stared long enough. None of it ever held weight. There was always a tell: an obvious splice, a cheap audio sting, a scream jammed in at the end. Fear sold clicks. Nothing more. So when the link began circulating again, I ignored it.

I would like to start this story by saying that Ray was great. A perfect gentleman and consummate professional. He didn't send a single untoward word or glance in my direction the entire time we were together. Even when things got scary, he put my safety first. And in spite of everything that happened to us, we're already talking about working together again.

Not much is known about Dr Michael Kessler's past, other than he was born in Ohio around the 1970s and had graduated with outstanding accolades in all scientific fields, however his distant and cold personality mixed with questionable views and theories led to many scientific groups ridiculing him. He was laughed out of many colleges and other such establishments when he would ever bring up his main interest of study; the "paranormal".

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.

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."

The knocking starts precisely at 3:14 AM. It isn't frantic, and it isn't loud. It’s a rhythmic, heavy double-tap—knock-knock—followed by a pause just long enough for me to take a breath, and then another double-tap. Knock-knock.

The streets, roads and dusty lanes of Colombia have been fertile territory for myths and legends since before the arrival of the Spaniards. Tales of ‘La Patasola’, a one-legged wailing banshee that forever sought her child, and of ‘El Duende’, a backwards-footed goblin that led travelers to their doom, nibbled at the corners of journeymen’s ease for centuries. Although these stories mainly troubled those living in or passing through rural areas, the growth of cities brought with it a new breed…

No one remembers her name. Her real name anyway. She was a girl once- a regular girl, a good girl- who worked as a harlequin for her family's tiny traveling show. She had a white painted face, with a happy painted red smile. Jolly jinglin' shoes, and bright purple-dyed pigtails that bobbed comically as she capered about on the stage of some, now long-fallen kingdom. She made nobles and peasants alike laugh.

For me, life was a whirlwind of lights and smoke, music and men. I lived in a beaten up shanty close to North Edsa, crammed in a closet-like room with a bunch of other woman. We slept on mats on the dirt floor and shared the space with mange-infested dogs, flea-bitten cats and cockroaches. My wardrobe consisted mostly of skimpy skirts, tank tops and the cheapest high heels you can buy in Quiapo.

Everyone has tales about the strange and bizarre. My story is about how my half-hole mask saved my life, and continues to save my life to this very day. Late in December, I was traveling north from California to my home state of Oregon. Nothing fancy, I was just going to visit the family for the holidays. On my way north I hit a small snow storm, nothing awful, just a lot of snow falling all at once.

Our journey began at the end of everything. The world had ended, but ours had just begun. We had lived our lives in solitude, confined for as long as we could remember, but that was about to change. “Hello? Can anyone hear me?” I asked seemingly no one. After a while, a voice I’d never heard rang out. “Hello! Yes, I can hear you. Who am I speaking with?” The British voice crackled out, and a wave of excitement overcame me.