#mindfuck

Tom was used to being the center of attention. He was always making a joke, always chugging some beer, always playing a round of flip cup or beer pong. He prided himself on being the life of a party. He was the first to arrive and the last to leave, often overstaying his welcome as the party dwindled to no one but the tired hosts. He didn’t notice, or maybe he didn’t care. He just didn’t want to go home.

Every Easter, we get ready for Big-Eared John's arrival. No one really knows how long we've been giving to Big-Eared John. Only know it’s longer than anyone in the town or even their ancestors can remember. Once in church a few years back, I saw slack-jawed Sally ask preacher man when Big-Eared John first came to our town, and he backhanded her right there in front of the whole congregation. That’s when we knew never to question how he came to be. Only that he was, and we were to do as we were…

Influencer cannibalism, demonic faucets, and the tragic rise of a bathroom-based megachurch.

Twice a day I change June’s bandage, and twice a day she lets me.

Tap tap tap. James peels his gritty eyelids back and stares up at the blank ceiling. He considers putting something up there. A poster maybe, like he had as a child. It would make sense, given how much time he spends staring at the ceiling above his bed. Sleepless nights, bed rotting, and the three AM wake up call from some animal tapping its way through the walls.

Ethan always arrived ten minutes early. It wasn’t something he’d planned. It had simply become part of his routine, the same way he always ordered the same coffee, chose the same table, and sat facing the front window. The café was small, tucked between a bookstore and a pharmacy. The furniture was mismatched, the windows were usually streaked with rain, and the woman behind the counter had a habit of forgetting people’s names. Ethan liked it there. Especially on Thursdays.

Not by much. You would not notice it walking through. You would notice it if you were sent to fetch something and had to count the doors, and the count came out wrong, and you stood there with your hand on the light switch, doing it again. Four doors on the left. Three on the right. The hallway had been built in 1962 and there had never been a fourth door on the right. My mother said this the way you say a thing you have said a hundred times. The sound came from that wall.

I I wished it with my whole being, which is to say I wished it with something I didn't know yet was a cage. Let me tell you about Delia first. Not because she's the main point—she isn't—but because you need to understand my obsession. Delia is the kind of pretty that makes pretty people feel plain. She wakes up, and her hair is already in order. Her laugh hypnotizes you and puts you in a trance. People lean toward her as plants do toward light, without even knowing it.

"The last few nurses we've hired have all flaked on me," Jim said with an exhausted sigh. "Please tell me you don't plan on flaking."

My brother could wear my voice before he could find his own. Our mother would call us down to dinner and he would answer in my throat, and she would set the table for one boy twice. At nine I heard him explaining me to our father. Not reporting. Explaining, the way you explain weather. He used my voice, and the words were mine, arranged the way I would never have arranged them, and he was right about every one. I asked how. He said, I listen. I am always listening.

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.

This story is meant to scare people. It's a little different from what i do. Even tho it is fictional it is a very hard creepypasta and i suggest to be careful while reading it. Have fun. Alaska. Monday December 12 1768. 9PM.

EVIL_BILLY57 AKA BILLIAM DALE EDWARDS IS AN ROBLOX HACKER BUT THE ONLY GAME HE WOULD HACK IS DANDY'S WORLD, HE HACK THE GAME IN AN WAY TO MAKE IT THAT 1 RANDOM TOON YOU'RE PLAYING WITH WIIL HAS AN HYPNOTIZED SMILE , CLOSED EYES AND AN SOMETHING USED FOR MURDER, THERE IS NO KNOWN WAYS TO SAVE THAT TOON FROM KILLING THEIRSELF AND WHEN IT HAPPEN, YOU WOULD HAS AN 5 STAGES VIRUS

Ice spread from within my soul. I felt myself falling in silent darkness. Cold... it's so cold... I can't breathe and I can't move... I tried to fight: to open my eyes or recall what happened that rendered me at such a state, only to find my mind equally rigid and frozen. The coldness webbed around my body, squeezing air out of my lungs. It's too cold... My arms reached out in the dark void. Seeking, grappling, pleading for something -- anything, to stop the freeze.

In the quiet of the night, I was not summoned. I was birthed the way mold takes root on bread—a silent growth feeding on whatever Clara left behind. The first thing I knew was the sound of her crying. It echoed through the house at three in the morning like a banshee's wail, filled with grief for her late husband, Mark.

Note: This is a story I posted on Reddit's nosleep around 2021. They removed it for being "not horror" but I disagree. Yeah, it's comedic. I was a comedy writer for several years and wanted to try writing something funny and creepy. I think it turned out well. -------- A weird thing happened to me recently, and I've struggled with how to talk about it. Basically, there's no way to do it without sounding bugfuck insane, so here it is: ALF spoke to me through my television.

I slammed the door shut and brushed the snot off my nose and the tears out of my eyes, then kicked my trainers off. They went sprawling over the door mattress and across the hallway floor. All of that for some stupid pills! My life these days revolved around my illness. I had a chronic seasonal allergy which lead to me snorting and sneezing for hours. Two weeks ago it was so bad that I stopped going to work because my condition became intolerable. My sinus thickened and my eyes were constantly…

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.

“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.”

Editor's note: The following pages were found on the laptop of Elena K., a doctoral student at the Art History Institute in Zurich, who has been missing since March 14th. Her advisor passed the file on to us with the request to publish it — maybe someone recognizes something, maybe someone comes forward. We have changed nothing in the text. The image related to her notes is shown above. Please look at it while you read, for better understanding. Aside from this file, only one other thing was…