#monsters

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.

(Authors note: This is a rewrite of my first ever pasta from the creepypasta wiki. I hope you all enjoy!)

How long has it been now? 5 years? Or 15? I honestly can't remember. But I do know that it has been a while. I really don't know where the time went since I started working at this hospital. I'm a doctor here. Not too good, but not too bad either. Average really. Really average. But even so, seemingly needed. Many people who start working here leave not too long after, but I stayed. "Are you still feeling up for it? The night shift, I mean?"

It is a new and so far prosperous day when we are called to the King's chamber and so we come with high spirits. Under the old king's watchful gaze we listened to his words with both eyes and ears as wide as the kingdom gates in which the people of the land came forth for their daily business. "Do not leave the kingdom walls after nightfall." Said his Majesty, eyes widened with terror "For if you are to go forth then I cannot keep you from the wild things in which will find you"

In the flickering light of the torch, the old gold shimmered with a mesmerizing allure, a testament to the treasures of a bygone era. At long last, the avaricious seekers had found their prize, their hearts consumed by an insatiable hunger for wealth. "We shall be rich beyond measure," declared Sir Hampton with a triumphant laugh, his fingers greedily digging into the mounds of golden coins.

My name is Faith Bowman. I am a detective with the Louisiana State Police. At least… I am right now. Truth be told, once this story is out there, I will probably be fired. The higher-ups will know I was the one who leaked this story, name attached to it or not, but I refuse to stay quiet on this. I saw what happened to those children. People need to know the truth. The parents need to know. Something has to be done.

Samantha was a young, pretty, active girl with a positive outlook on life. Above all, she was down-to-earth, didn't believe in any ghosts, phantoms, or other such things, and had a very analytical mind. She loved long forest hikes, which relaxed and calmed her down greatly, allowing her to rest and escape from everyday problems. That day, right after finishing her lectures, she decided to head down to the river. She packed her backpack, put on a denim jacket, denim pants, and sturdy, heavy…

Mama was holding the goat by the horns while wearing garden gloves, still avoiding touching the horns with bare skin. “Untie those,” she said referring to the rope used to tie the goat to the column. I began to unfasten the rope from the goat’s neck. It started to jerk its head, uncomfortable with how she was being handled. “Don’t touch the horns,” her voice stern but low.

My wife and I always dreamed of living off-grid on our own land, but we were never able to afford anything—not even a small quarter-acre lot. We were sick of paying rent for shitty houses and apartments that charged way too much for the condition they were in, so we started wondering if there was anywhere we could actually afford to live.

My hands tremble as I type this. I apologize for any mistakes I might make, but I don’t have much time. To be honest, I’ll be lucky to finish, but before it’s too late, I need to warn you. All of you.

The man's mind was a blank slate, a void where the memory of how he came to be stranded on this small island should have been. He had woken on the shore, his body battered and bleeding, with the ghostly echo of an incessant beeping ringing in his ears. When he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of fire and twisted metal, but the meaning behind these fragmented visions eluded him.

Everyone in town loves Burger Sams. Everyday they would arrive, packing the order counter, tripping over each other to get their chance to just lick the burger grease. The dining area was always a chaos of noisy chewing and smacking lips. Sometimes they would have to close the drive thru to stop the line from blocking the road. Everyone in town loves Burger Sams. Except Jen. Because she worked there.

"Pass the coffee." Carl pulled away from the scope of his rifle, and grabbed the insulated container of coffee from a makeshift shelf to his right. Behind him, his father whittled away at a piece of wood, a vague animal shape just beginning to gain definition. Carl passed over the coffee, and his father took a swig from the stainless steel vessel. "Any deer? They should be getting up now." Carl peered out from the wooden shack that was their blind. "Looks like a few are making their way from…

"Breaking news tonight. Authorities have discovered the remains of four local Yakuza members in the Port District." The news anchor’s voice crackled from the TV. Her face flickered ghostly blue against yellowed, peeling wallpaper. Bad reception. Static danced across her eyes like digital maggots.

Part I Jake, Mike, Brian, and Josephine were a tight-knit group of friends who had known each other since childhood. They loved spending time together after school. With Mike’s birthday approaching the following week, his parents decided to throw a party to celebrate. All his friends were thrilled and full of joy about their friend's upcoming big day. His parents even had a special gift ready—one he had been waiting for for a very long time.

“Where do you live, man?” I asked, reaching out to grab the Skol can left by the window. “Cuiabá.” “Man… that’s a beautiful city.” “You’ve been there?” “Yeah. Made a lot of deliveries in the capital.” “So why do you want to go to Nova Esperança?” “For my grandmother’s wake…” “I’m sorry, kid. Losing a relative right at the start of the year…” The young man lowered his head.

It's almost seven. Zoya leans back in her chair, stretching her arms with heavy sighs after a fifteen-page essay. It's due tomorrow, so there's still time for edits - but she's been staring at her screen too long. She peeks out her bedroom window to the right. The last creeping bands of pink and orange sun grow dim across the barren treetops of the forest nearby, bleeding into the horizon beyond her corner of the suburb. The autumn air is cool and fresh, the wind is tame and her work is done…

I do not know this man. I do not know this man in the mirror. The one staring right back at me, moving his eyes to reflect wherever I look. He does every single thing I do. Makes every single face, pokes back at fingers aimed against the glass, and turns his back when I turn mine. To the untrained eye, it looks as any normal reflection does; behaves as any mirror is designed to do. There is nothing obviously out of the ordinary that would arouse suspicions otherwise.