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Creepy Pasta Duh-duh!

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Just what the title says! I am sure this hasn't been done before so guys tell creepy pasta stories here! I wanted you guys to start! So start!

Edited by EggMaster99

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Sorry to double post but I got a creepypasta story! Enjoy muahaha




“58, 59, 60″ I counted. Josh took note. We moved on to the next box, this one full of electrical wires. I began counting.


It was nearing twelve o’clock at night. Inventory was tedious, the warehouse was hot and had no A.C., but we were getting paid overtime, which made it worth it. We were the only two left; everyone else was gone hours ago. There was still a lot of work to do, but we didn’t mind. Every couple of hours we made a run to the nearby taco chain to keep us energized.


Suddenly, I felt the effects of one of those tacos creeping up. I started counting faster.

“125, 126, 127″ I finished after a moment. Josh took note.

“I’m gonna take a dump,” I said. Josh nodded. He started counting the next box himself as I walked off towards the bathroom.


I opened the door to the office section of the building, where the bathrooms were. Through the large glass window I saw her, for the first time.


She was pale as snow, her hair a light, wispy blonde. She wore a thin, faintly blue dress, nearly translucent in the light of the full moon. I could see her pale, naked body under it. She was beautiful, yet scars stretched across her stomach, as if it had been cut across with a knife over and over. She lifted a finger, beckoning me.


Then, as soon as I saw her, she was gone. I shook my head and blinked, and yet saw nothing but the darkness and moonlight beyond the door.


Half sure I had saw nothing and half sure it was a trick of my mind, I turned right and went into the bathroom.


I sat on the toilet and pulled out my phone. For some reason, the Internet wasn’t working. “Damn wi-fi,” I muttered and placed it back in my pocket. Then the hissing began.


At first it was faint, and I assumed it was only the plumbing. And yet, as it grew louder and louder it began to sound more and more like a voice – the voice of a woman.


Suddenly, the sound was unbearably loud, and then it began – the rattling.

The handle to the stall door rattled, as if someone on the other side was trying to get in. Soon the door began to shake, and within seconds the whole stall was in convulsion.


The hissing grew only louder, and formed into words.


“Come to me,” it beckoned. “Come to meeeee,” it whispered into my ear.


A mixture of terror and shock had me frozen, glued to the seat. Then I looked down. Below the door I saw them – her feet. I hadn’t payed much attention to her feet when I saw her before, but I knew they were hers. I knew.

“Come to meeeee.”


Suddenly, in a burst of both courage and insanity, I lunged for the door, knocking into it with both fists. And everything was quiet.


I stood there, breathless, staring at the door, not daring to look down. Finally my eyes dragged down to the floor.


The feet were gone. The door creaked open, seemingly of its own will. I almost left then and there. I almost bolted out of the building. But I knew I couldn’t leave Josh with her in here, and knew I had no choice but to return to the warehouse.


“Josh!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, as I pushed through the door.. “Josh! We have to leave – NOW!”

I heard no reply. Terror gripped me, but I kept going.


When I made it to the end of the warehouse I saw him, hanging. His feet were tied together with electrical wire, his fingers severed. He hung upside-down from the ceiling, a pool of blood gathering beneath him. Above his pelvis, a large gash ran across his belly, and his entrails spilling from the wound. His tongue was stretched out across his face, a long, crude, rusted nail driven through it into his forehead. I couldn’t move.


That’s when the hissing began again – at once as loud as it was before. In the hissing I heard her whispers.


“Come to me.” She said. “Come to me.”


I turned around, and looked straight into her burning red eyes. Her mouth slipped open as she repeated her mantra. She extended her arms and embraced me.


I closed my eyes shut, for the final time.

Edited by EggMaster99

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Guys I got another one!!!!


The Rake-


During the summer of 2003, events in the northeastern United States involving a strange, humanlike creature sparked brief local media interest before an apparent blackout was enacted. Little or no information was left intact, as most online and written accounts of the creature were mysteriously destroyed.


Primarily focused in rural New York state, self proclaimed witnesses told stories of thier enounters with a creature of unkown origin. Emotions ranged from extremely traumatic levels of fright and discomfort, to an almost childlike sense of playfulness and curiosity. While their published versions are no longer on record, the memories remained powerful. Several of the involved parties began looking for answers that year.


In early 2006, the collaboration had accumulated nearly two dozen documents dating between the 12th century and present day, spanning 4 continents. In almost all cases, the stories were identical. I’ve been in contact with a member of this group and was able to get some exceprts from their upcoming book.


The Rake


A Suicide Note: 1964


As I prepare to take my life, I feel it necessary to assuage any guilt or pain I have introduced through this act. It is not the fault of anyone other than him. For once I awoke and felt his presence. And once I awoke and saw his form. Once again I awoke and heard his voice, and looked into his eyes. I cannot sleep without fear of what I might next awake to experience. I cannot ever wake. Goodbye.


Found in the same wooden box were two empty envelopes addressed to William and Rose, and one loose personal letter with no envelope.


‘Dearest Linnie,

I have prayed for you. He spoke your name.’


A Journal Entry (translated from Spanish): 1880


I have experience the greatest terror. I have experienced the greatest terror. I have experienced the greatest terror. I see his eyes when I close mine. They are hollow. Black. They saw me and pierced me. His wet hand. I will not sleep. His voice (unintelligible text).


A Mariner’s Log: 1691


He came to me in my sleep. From the foot of my bed I felt a sensation. He took everything. We must return to England. We shall not return here again at the request of the Rake.



From a Witness: 2006


Three years ago, I had just returned from a trip from Niagara Falls with my family for the 4th of July. We were all very exhausted after a long day of driving, so my husband and I put the kids right to bed and called it a night.


At about 4am, I woke up thinking my husband had gotten up to use the restroom. I used the moment to steal back the sheets, only to wake him in the process. I appologized and told him I though he got out of bed. When he turned to face me, he gasped and pulled his feet up from the end of the bed so quickly his knee almost knocked me out of the bed. He then grabbed me and said nothing.


After adjusting to the dark for a half second, I was able to see what caused the strange reaction. At the foot of the bed, sitting and facing away from us, there was what appeared to be a naked man, or a large hairless dog of some sort. It’s body position was disturbing and unnatural, as if it had been hit by a car or something. For some reason, I was not instantly frightened by it, but more concerned as to its condition. At this point I was somewhat under the assumption that we were supposed to help him.


My husband was peering over his arm and knee, tucked into the fetal position, occasionally glancing at me before returning to the creature.


In a flurry of motion, the creature scrambled around the side of the bed, and then crawled quickly in a flailing sort of motion right along the bed until it was less than a foot from my husband’s face. The creature was completely silent for about 30 seconds (or probably closer to 5, it just seemed like a while) just looking at my husband. The creature then placed its hand on his knee and ran into the hallway, leading to the kids’ rooms.


I screamed and ran for the lightswitch, planning to stop him before he hurt my children. When I got to the hallway, the light from the bedroom was enough to see it crouching and hunched over about 20 feet away. He turned around and looked directly at me, covered in blood. I flipped the switch on the wall and saw my daughter Clara.


The creature ran down the stairs while my husband and I rushed to help our daughter. She was very badly injured and spoke only once more in her short life. She said “he is the Rake”.


My husband drove his car into a lake that night, while rushing our daughter to the hospital. He did not survive.


Being a small town, news got around pretty quickly. The police were helpful at first, and the local newspaper took a lot of interest as well. However, the story was never published and the local television news never followed up either.


For several months, my son Justin and I stayed in a hotel near my parent’s house. After we decided to return home, I began looking for answers myself. I eventually located a man in the next town over who had a similar story. We got in contact and began talking about our experiences. He knew of two other people in New York who had seen the creature we now referred to as the Rake.


It took the four of us about two solid years of hunting on the internet and writing letters to come up with a small collection of what we believe to be accounts of the Rake. None of them gave any details, history or follow up. One journal had an entry involving the creature in its first 3 pages, and never mentioned it again. A ship’s log explained nothing of the encounter, saying only that they were told to leave by the Rake. That was the last entry in the log.


There were, however, many instances where the creature’s visit was one of a series of visits with the same person. Multiple people also mentioned being spoken to, my daughter included. This led us to wonder if the Rake had visited any of us before our last encounter.


I set up a digital recorder near my bed and left it running all night, every night, for two weeks. I would tediously scan through the sounds of me rolling around in my bed each day when I woke up. By the end of the second week, I was quite used to the occasional sound of sleep while blurring through the recording at 8 times the normal speed. (This still took almost an hour every day)


On the first day of the third week, I thought I heard something different. What I found was a shrill voice. It was the Rake. I can’t listen to it long enough to even begin to transcribe it. I haven’t let anyone listen to it yet. All I know is that I’ve heard it before, and I now believe that it spoke when it was sitting in front of my husband. I don’t remember hearing anything at the time, but for some reason, the voice on the recorder immediately brings me back to that moment.


The thoughts that must have gone through my daughter’s head make me very upset.


I have not seen the Rake since he ruined my life, but I know that he has been in my room while I slept. I know and fear that one night I’ll wake up to see him staring at me.

Edited by EggMaster99

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The Houseboat-




In a private terminal at the Port of Boston there is a houseboat. This houseboat has been anchored there, permanently, for at least 50 years. The eccentric owner has maintained all fees and taxes and is in good standing with the Port Authority.


Still, even if the owner wasn’t financially responsible, no one would ask them to depart. Despite the owner’s friendly, hospitable, if odd nature, there is a persistent air of unease around the boat and the area of the Port surrounding.


Very few people have taken the owner up on offers of hospitality, but those who do recount a wholly unbelievable tale: When you step into the houseboat, it’s as if you’re sent backwards 50 years in time. Looking out windows depicts a cityscape of antiquity and the television receives live broadcasts of programs of the era (including news programs). If you look out the open door, you see the city as it stands today. When the door closes, you can see the 50 year old skyline through the port opening.


Some visitors who spend time with the owner notice something particularly disturbing: an almost uncanny resemblance to their host, despite obvious age differences. Though this is odd, the owner is friendly and trustworthy (ignoring the air of unease most feel), so it isn’t surprising if casual friendships build between a guest and the proprietor.


All this would, of course, be very strange and worthy of note, but dismissed as some form of elaborate hoax or illusion, if it weren’t for one additional detail. Whenever someone elects to spend the night in this houseboat after an evening of conversation and a few drinks, they are never heard from again.


When the guest awakens in the morning, the owner is nowhere to be found and suddenly, the city skyline never changes back to its contemporary appearance when exiting the boat. Under the bed there is a briefcase full of $100 bills with a letter stapled to a list.


The letter simply reads, “You have 50 years to follow these instructions if you wish to free yourself from this hell. The clock is ticking. Get to work.”

Edited by tikigurl91

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Unknown Number-


"JESUS!?!?" I cried

Being jolted from a half dose at a quarter to midnight by my new ‘Halloween theme’ ringtone didn’t do wonders for my heart-rate, especially since I’d momentarily forgot I’d changed the tone at all that day.

Took me a while to find my phone stuck down the side of the armchair I was sitting in, not helped by the fact that the only light in the sitting room was the static on the widescreen TV.


“Unknown Number.”


I answered it, there was no-one there.

To be honest I was expecting heavy breathing on the other end as I was still a little freaked out, but there was no noise at all.

I hung up, took a deep breath and frowned- Maybe I just pocket dialed myself.

My old iPhone could make a fake ‘self call’ designed to create a diversion, so if I was having a boring conversation with someone I could pretend mom was ringing or something , although I wasn’t familiar at all with this ‘new’ piece of crap.

Dad bought it from a gas station for twenty bucks a few days ago, as I’d lost my iPhone on a trip to the city last week.

I flicked through the features on the menu screen trying to find the fake call option, but didn’t have much luck, for one thing the screen was about half the size of a credit card.


I cursed and decided to watch T.V. instead to take my mind off things.

I tried using the light of my cell to find the remote with little success.

Groaning out of laziness, I hauled myself out of the chair to get to the light switch.

Stopping halfway, I registered the fact that I had the T.V. on the satellite channels when I fell asleep yet now: static from the analogue Ariel.

I ran the rest of the way to the switch and basically punched it.

Light flooded the room and my darting eyes saw nothing.

After another deep breath, my moment of fear passed, guess I was a little unused to having the whole house to myself.


Mom and Dad were only gone for the night, but it was quite a treat for me since they rarely went anywhere, even during the day.

Nowhere to go but fields around this part of the country, so them going to a friend’s wedding meant I finally had some solitude.

I still couldn’t see the remote so I decided to recheck the sides of the armchair.

I threw my phone on the seat and reached deep down either side.

The Phone rang again at full creepy blast with my ear pressed right up against it.

I angrily grabbed it- “Dammit WHAT!??”

Again, there was dead silence.

Cursing, I threw the phone back on the seat hard.



At that moment the lightbulb blew out violently and the power went out, thrusting me into total darkness.

With a shriek, I scrambled to grab the phone again and found it after an instant of blind terror.

Using the tiny screen light to see, I panicked and bolted down to my room as fast as I could, jumped into bed and pulled the covers. I curled into a fetal position.

I was panting hard, from both the run and the fear. I couldn’t form any thought for about 5 breaths, until I decided to call dad.

Looking at the screen, I saw I forgot to hang up the last call.

My breath caught in my throat as I saw that this time, it wasn’t an “unknown number”- It was mine.


My old number from the phone I’d lost.


As I hit the red button my terrified mind began to race through a thousand horrible implications until I realised something else.


My bed was already warm.


BEEP BEEP. The message tone nearly gave me a heart attack.


“It’s under your pillow”


Ever so slowly, my trembling hand slid underneath the pillow- and found the T.V. remote.


From under the covers I heard my bedroom door close, then lock.

Edited by EggMaster99

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[[ Copy and Pasted this. ]]


Deeper Darkness


April 15, 2008 at 10:55


There is a moment each leap year, at exactly three minutes past three on the morning of February twenty-ninth. If you possess the courage, await that moment in darkened room, with no other present. At that moment, the darkness will deepen. If you were to hold you hand directly before your face, you would not see a thing. But you must not do so. No, for that would be to waste the moment. Instead you must reach out, into that impenetrable darkness.


And it will reach out to you.


An unseen hand will grasp yours. You must not flinch away, nor tighten your grasp. To do so will only slough away more of the decrepit flesh that covers it, and anger its unseen owner. Remain perfectly still, as the withered fingers move over your palm, tracing unknown patterns. Do not move an inch as it crawls slowly up your arm. And most of all, do not even breathe as it caresses your face, touching what cannot be seen.


Should you remain still through this, the hand will be withdrawn and a voice will speak, so close you can feel its breath on your face, smell the scent of decay it carries. It will ask you for one simple piece of information: your name. Answer truthfully. Answer truthfully, and the presence will retreat, leaving only a whisper in the air as the darkness lifts. “It is done.”


From that day on, untold good fortune will be yours, and mysterious power. You will lack nothing, and have everything. But in a year, perhaps two, you will feel your skin begin to decay, and smell the sweet smell of death upon your breath…

Edited by ChocoBrownie

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[[Done that. Here is another one.]]

Sarah O’Bannon


Coffins used to be built with holes in them, attached to six feet of copper tubing and a bell. The tubing would allow air for victims buried under the mistaken impression they were dead. Harold, the Oakdale gravedigger, upon hearing a bell, went to go see if it was children pretending to be spirits. Sometimes it was also the wind. This time it wasn’t either. A voice from below begged, pleaded to be unburied.


“You Sarah O’Bannon?”

"Yes!" the voice assured.

“You were born on September 17, 1827?”


“The gravestone here says you died on February 19?”

“No I’m alive, it was a mistake! Dig me up, set me free!”


“Sorry about this, ma’am,” Harold said, stepping on the bell to silence it and plugging up the copper tube with dirt. “But this is August. Whatever you is down there, you ain’t alive no more, and you ain’t comin’ up."









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[[No problem. This will probably be the last for a few days...or not.]]


One More For The Orphan


In a small orphanage in a small village in Russia, there is a young boy. His hair is jet black, and messy, and he tattered jeans and an old dingy grey shirt.

Nothing is known of him. For 10 years, he sat in the bed in his room, never moving, never blinking, never eating or sleeping. In the 10 years, he has not seemed to age at all, continuing to look like a 7 year old boy. The only thing that proved he was alive is the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, and the refusal to take his eyes off anyone who enters the room alone.

A lone psychiatrist came over in an attempt to find out why the boy had done nothing in 10 years. He entered the room, and shut the door behind him.

30 minutes later, the orphanage’s nurse came to check on the 2 of them. Opening the door, she saw the child, still sitting, still not moving, eyes fixed on her. However, something seemed different. He appeared a slight amount larger, not by much, but enough to make him look like a late 8 or early 9 year old. The psychiatrist was no longer in the room. The door was the only exit, as the room had no windows, vents, or anything, and it was, in fact, in the exact center of the orphanage.


He continued to sit, only seen occasionally by the lady who came in to check on him, and she never closed the door upon entry.

A week or so later, 2 law enforcement personnel entered the orphanage, demanding to speak to the boy about the disappearance of the psychiatrist. The 2 of them entered, closing the door behind him, as the head of the orphanage stood outside the door.

30 minutes passed, and not a sound came from the room. The Head eased the door open. The boy was still on the bed, but the officers where no longer there. The boy was know quite noticeably bigger, about the size of a 15 year old. His skin was darker than usual, and he looked angrier than ever. But one thing remained the same: His cold, unforgiving eyes that stared at whoever entered.

Eventually, the law organized a large group of 10 officers to speak to the boy. They entered the room, and left the door open, until one of the younger orphans ran up and shut it, apparently in a daze.

The head quickly ran to re-open the door, and upon doing so froze him in horror. A low rumbling noise came from the room….




If you return to that orphanage, you will see it still continues to run. The orphans live in good care, health, and education. However, there is one room, that you sill see is boarded up, and far from enterable. If you ask what is behind it, you will be removed forcefully from the orphanage.

However, when no one’s looking, if you place you’re ear to the door, you will hear a low ominous growling sound, and if you listen for a bit, you will hear….






White With Red


A man went to a hotel and walked up to the front desk to check in. The woman at the desk gave him his key and told him that on the way to his room, there was a door with no number that was locked and no one was allowed in there. Especially no one should look inside the room, under any circumstances. So he followed the instructions of the woman at the front desk, going straight to his room, and going to bed.


The next night his curiosity would not leave him alone about the room with no number on the door. He walked down the hall to the door and tried the handle. Sure enough it was locked. He bent down and looked through the wide keyhole. Cold air passed through it, chilling his eye. What he saw was a hotel bedroom, like his, and in the corner was a woman whose skin was completely white. She was leaning her head against the wall, facing away from the door. He stared in confusion for a while. He almost knocked on the door, out of curiosity, but decided not to.


This disinclination saved his life. He crept away from the door and walked back to his room. The next day, he returned to the door and looked through the wide keyhole. This time, all he saw was redness. He couldn’t make anything out besides a distinct red color, unmoving. Perhaps the inhabitants of the room knew he was spying the night before, and had blocked the keyhole with something red.


At this point he decided to consult the woman at the front desk for more information. She sighed and said, “Did you look through the keyhole?” The man told her that he had and she said, “Well, I might as well tell you the story. A long time ago, a man murdered his wife in that room, and her ghost haunts it. But these people were not ordinary. They were white all over, except for their eyes, which were red.”



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Broadcast Interuption


You might already have heard of the TV broadcast hijacking in Seneca, South Carolina; the story’s gained pretty wide currency on the Internet, and part of the broadcast is available on youtube, assuming it hasn’t been taken down for whatever reason. For the uninitiated, the Seneca hijacking is one of the lesser-known broadcast signal intrusions. It was big news here, but the nation news media barely touched on it. Anyway, I’ve decided to jot down my impressions of the whole thing, even though other eyewitnesses have already described it more eloquently than I could.


I was home on winter break when it happened, making chemistry flashcards in front of the TV. No one else was around. After watching the umpteenth Law and Order rerun, I got bored and started channel surfing. A couple minutes later, I stumbled onto this ****ty public access channel where, bizarrely enough, my old high school Latin teacher was reciting a poem while wearing this dorky three-cornered hat. I watched for a few minutes and had a good laugh—I remembered him as a pretty serious guy, not the sort of person who’d embarrass himself in public like this—when suddenly there was this static-y crackle and the screen cut to this multi-colored test pattern.


Before I had time to change the channel, there’s another crackle and this weird cartoon shows up on screen. The animation style was detailed, but kind of jiggly and rough—it reminded me of those old anti-drug PSAs. Anyway, it seemed “normal” enough at first—an ordinary-looking middle class family eating breakfast together at a round kitchen table. There was a mom with an old-fashioned hairdo, a dad, two cherub-faced kids, a boy and a girl—all very Norman Rockwell. The family is making banal small talk: the dad complains about his day at the office, the kids prattle on about soccer practice, and so on. Gradually, though, the scene starts to get slightly sinister—a green light is seeping through the open window, and the family starts to acquire a jaundiced, unhealthy look: their skin changes color and their eyes become sunken. In the background, a droning radio broadcast slowly becomes perceptible: the announcer gives the date as November 15th, 2017, and starts to go on and on about some strange crisis—you can barely hear what he’s saying. He says something about a green light, melting flesh, mutations, strange shapes emerging from the sea; again and again, the phrase “Report to the nearest shelter immediately” is audible. Still, the family keeps eating breakfast as if nothing was happening.


And here’s where it gets really macabre. The family finishes eating breakfast and the mom loads the kids into a minivan. By now they look *really* unhealthy: their bodies are skeletally thin, the whites of their eyes are a sickly yellowish color, and their hair is disheveled. The car drives through a landscape bathed in the green glow from before. Strange shapes bob in and out of the screen, but you can’t quite tell what they are, and all the buildings the car passes look weathered and deserted. Finally, the car stops at a playground and the mom drops off the kids before driving away. There are large, odd-colored rocks all over the ground and moaning can be heard in the distance. The kids hang mirthlessly on the monkey bars for a while. Eventually, the camera pans over the playground, and you see that the rocks littering the ground aren’t rocks at all but naked human forms, horribly disfigured. They seemed to be either growing into or from the ground—I can’t say which. And they are very much alive. Behind the monkey bars, a tree can be seen with a human face growing from the trunk—its features are writhing and contorted in agony.


The scene suddenly shifts to a white collar office where the children’s father is stooped over a desktop, typing away. His features are as sunken and diseased as that of the other family members, and the office is covered in a green glow. In the other cubicles, fleshless corpses sit upright at their desks, frozen in death.


Finally, we see the family return home for the evening, walking through the front door together. Their skin is no longer simply jaundiced but actually melting off—dripping from their outstretched arms and running down their faces in drops. As they are literally falling to pieces, the family sits down in the dining room and begins wordlessly to eat dinner. Their flesh becomes more and more amorphous, ribbons of skin dangling from their bodies like the tendrils of an octopus. I can barely describe it, but they somehow begin to…merge with the chairs they are seated on—or rather, their skin grows over them. By now, their skin has the consistency of melted ice cream, and they are barely recognizable as human—except for their eyes, which somehow remain intact. The camera zooms closer and closer to the table, and finally their eyes all move directly towards the camera, conveying a feeling of unfathomable sadness. The screen goes black and large white letters appear on the screen: “Report to the nearest shelter immediately. Remaining at private residences is strictly prohibited.” And with that, the screen turned to static. I stared in stunned silence for a few minutes before the banal local channel switched back on.


And that’s all I know, really. I almost thought I was dreaming until the paper reported the story the next day. God knows what really happened: a ridiculously elaborate prank? An ill-advised viral marketing campaign? The crazier parts of the Internet have their own theories. You can look up the video yourself if you’re morbidly curious.

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[[Derp, I am incorrect. Since I am here already, I shall post more. Some of these are creepy. blink.gif ]]


The Blind Man’s Favor


In Berlin, after World War II, money was short, supplies were tight, and it seemed like everyone was hungry. At that time, people were telling the tale of a young woman who saw a blind man picking his way through a crowd. The two started to talk. The man asked her for a favor: could she deliver the letter to the address on the envelope? Well, it was on her way home, so she agreed.


She started out to deliver the message, when she turned around to see if there was anything else the blind man needed. But she spotted him hurrying through the crowd without his smoked glasses or white cane. She went to the police, who raided the address on the envelope, where they found heaps of human flesh for sale.


And what was in the envelope? “This is the last one I am sending you today.”



The Baby Doll

In rural southern Illinois a toy company began selling “realistic” baby dolls to expectant mothers. But apparently after the mother had her child the toy baby would start crying. Eventually the “rocking motion” advertised to calm it down wouldn’t work, and you couldn’t get it to stop without shaking it. Eventually when it started crying the parent would have to beat it, and the beatings and thrashings would have to get harder and harder to get it to be quiet. The only thing that seemed to shut the baby doll up permanently was the bash its head against the wall to destroy whatever mechanism triggered the crying. On more than one occasion though, neighbors called the authorities to report child abuse, and when the police arrived they found the bloody remains of infants smeared across the walls and the floor. In most cases the mother couldn’t understand why the police were there, she just “got rid of the stupid doll” as she rocked a baby-shaped bundle in her arms.



The Girl In The Picture


One school day, a boy named Tom was sitting in class and doing math. It was six more minutes until after school. As he was doing his homework, something caught his eye.


His desk was next to the window, and he turned and stared outside. It looked liked a picture. When it was home time at the school, he ran to the spot where he saw it. He ran fast so that no one else could grab it.


He picked it up and smiled. It had a picture of the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. She had a dress with tights on and red shoes, and her hand was formed into a peace sign.


She was so beautiful he wanted to meet her, so he ran all over the school and asked everyone if they knew her or have ever seen her before. But everyone he asked said “no.” He was devastated.


When he was home, he asked his older sister if she knew the girl, but unfortunately she also said “no.” It was very late, so Tom walked up the stairs, placed the picture on his bedside table and went to sleep.


In the middle of the night Tom was awakened by a tap on his window. It was like a nail tapping. He got scared. After the tapping he heard a giggle. He saw a shadow near his window, so he got out of his bed, walked toward his window, opened it up and followed the giggling. By the time he reached it,

it was gone.


The next day again he asked his neighbors if they knew her. Everybody said, “Sorry, no.” When his mother came home he even asked her if she knew her. She said “no.” He went to his room, placed the picture on his desk and fell asleep.


Once again he was awakened by a tapping. He took the picture and followed the giggling. He walked across the road, when suddenly he got hit by a car. He was dead with the picture in his hand.


The driver got out of the car and tried to help him, but it was too late. Suddenly he saw the picture and picked it up. He smiled. He saw a cute girl holding up three fingers…


The Dog’s Lick


A young girl is left home alone with only her dog to protect her. When night approaches, she locks all the doors and tries to lock all the windows, but one won’t close. She decides to leave it unlocked and goes to bed. Her dog takes its customary place under her bed.


In the deep of night she awakens to a dripping sound coming from the bathroom. The girl is too scared to go check so she reaches her hand under the bed. She feels a reassuring lick from her dog and falls back to sleep. She reawakens to the dripping sound, reaches her hand down to the dog where she feels the reassuring lick and falls back to sleep. Once more she awakens to the dripping sound. She reaches her hand down and feels the lick of her dog.


Now curious about the dripping sound, she gets up and slowly walks towards the bathroom, the dripping sound getting louder as she approaches. She reaches the bathroom and turns on the light. She is greeted by a horrific sight; hanging from the shower nozzle is her dog, with its throat slit open and its blood dripping into the bathtub.


Something on the bathroom mirror catches her eye she turns around. Written on the bathroom mirror in her dog’s blood are the words “HUMANS CAN LICK TOO”.


Edited by ChocoBrownie

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Guys come on! Keep it up! And I also got one!





A few weeks ago I went on vacation. I went to a resort in florida, the orlando area. I will not specify its name here, to avoid anyone trying to find it.


After a few dull days I awoke one morning to a set of footprints in the carpet. Just outside my bedroom door, the length of a childs, as if the poor thing had spilt something on their feet a ring of stain on the floor, dark black, with the pristine white footprints set just in the middle. I told my family about them and they laughed at how odd they were, but dismissed it as just a stain.

I followed suit and tried to ignore it. But the following day showed me that I never could.


The footprints had changed.


There they were. The 2 little prints, facing straight at my bedroom door. The stain around them blacker than the previous day, and no trace of the footprints I originally noticed.


That night I struggled to sleep, I began to hear noises. I presumed they were from the flat upstairs, and stuck to that theory. But as the vacation progressed, the footprints still moved, ever closer to my door. I switched rooms, for we were in a suite with a spare bedroom on the opposite side of the hall from my first, but the next day the prints had turned still to face me, almost at the threshold of my room. The noises were getting louder and louder and I found I couldn’t sleep for more than an hour each night. I remember waking on occasions, completely outwit my bed, on the floor by it trembling. I still thought the noises were the neighbours, they were just normal sounds: loud footsteps, voices.


I was so relieved to leave that place. We exited as early as possible, due to my request. I still haven’t told my parents the footprints changed, but I just said I wanted to get home quickly. As I left I noticed that the footprints had gone, all that was left was the black stain, almost jet black after these 2 weeks.


I am home now, the hotel is behind me and I am happy. But I’m hearing noises from the floor above me: footsteps and voices. But we live on the top floor. I’m not sleeping to well, In fact I can’t sleep at all. And there is a set of footprints at the bottom of my bed.

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There are some pretty good ones here, and that's coming from someone who finds most creepypastas more funny than scary. The ones that really startled me were 'White with Red' (I'm assuming he was looking straight into the ghost's eye...) and 'Footprints'. I'm not going to be able to sleep tonight xd.png

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Wyvern the footsteps one I thought if that was real and it was me I would be like I'm a dead person... Because footprints is really quite creepy and some lone please to to creepypasta if you can and search up smiledog without the picture the story! I can't do it lol jeff the killer's eyes creeped me out lol


Oh and announcement I ain't putting up any stories no more so if how ant stories you copy late them here!

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(This one's not very scary but it's one of my favorites...)


We Danced


Footsteps aren't an uncommon thing to hear when you're sitting in a basement, so I think nothing of it when I hear quiet thuds coming from my upstairs hallway. I just assume it's my brother, and continue doing whatever pointless little thing I was doing at the time. They go on for another couple minutes, and I’m starting to get pissed off. They keep getting louder and louder and I sigh, wondering what the hell my brother's doing this late at night. I sit there, because its impossible to focus with the racket. I mean, it sounds like someone's power walking all over my main floor.

I sit there and listen as the thumps get faster and wilder. They just keep moving, almost starting to form a rhythm. They move even faster and get even wilder and they're thumping all over my main floor. I realize that whatever this is, it can't be human. No human can move like that.


“What the censorkip.gif?!” I finally yell. After that, all the noises stop. Everything is quiet for a moment, and then I hear calm, slow footsteps moving to my basement door. The door is pushed open, and the footsteps stop again. I listen to my breathing for the next three minutes, then sigh, thinking its over. Turns out something else was listening, too. Suddenly I hear it thudding down the stairs, and I knock my chair over in my haste to stand up. I start to run towards the nearest closet, just in time to see a grotesque, hairless, four-legged creature, dancing towards me, tapping its swollen feet in an intoxicating rhythm. I dive into the closet and slam the door shut. There's a half-second pause and then I hear that same rhythm on the door.


It just keeps going and going with no pause, no rests, no relief. He's been at it for hours now, and I find myself tapping my fingers along with his song. But then, just as suddenly as it began, it ends. I wait for a few moments, then look out. He’s gone. I flip on a light and fall into a chair. Its safe. I relax and think for a few moments. But then I notice my foot tapping. Maybe this song isn't so bad, I almost like it enough to dance to it. So I drop down on my hands and feet, and I start.

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(apparently one of the most highly rated creepypastas on the website. Let me copypasta this creepypasta here! Kinda long, so I will post it in parts)




I’m not sure why I’m writing this down on paper and not on my computer. I guess I’ve just noticed some odd things. It’s not that I don’t trust the computer… I just… need to organize my thoughts. I need to get down all the details somewhere objective, somewhere I know that what I write can’t be deleted or… changed… not that that’s happened. It’s just… everything blurs together here, and the fog of memory lends a strange cast to things…


I’m starting to feel cramped in this small apartment. Maybe that’s the problem. I just had to go and choose the cheapest apartment, the only one in the basement. The lack of windows down here makes day and night seem to slip by seamlessly. I haven’t been out in a few days because I’ve been working on this programming project so intensively. I suppose I just wanted to get it done. Hours of sitting and staring at a monitor can make anyone feel strange, I know, but I don’t think that’s it.


I’m not sure when I first started to feel like something was odd. I can’t even define what it is. Maybe I just haven’t talked to anyone in awhile. That’s the first thing that crept up on me. Everyone I normally talk to online while I program has been idle, or they’ve simply not logged on at all. My instant messages go unanswered. The last e-mail I got from anybody was a friend saying he’d talk to me when he got back from the store, and that was yesterday. I’d call with my cell phone, but reception’s terrible down here. Yeah, that’s it. I just need to call someone. I’m going to go outside.



Well, that didn’t work so well. As the tingle of fear fades, I’m feeling a little ridiculous for being scared at all. I looked in the mirror before I went out, but I didn’t shave the two-day stubble I’ve grown. I figured I was just going out for a quick cell phone call. I did change my shirt, though, because it was lunchtime, and I guessed that I’d run into at least one person I knew. That didn’t end up happening. I wish it did.


When I went out, I opened the door to my small apartment slowly. A small feeling of apprehension had somehow already lodged itself in me, for some indefinable reason. I chalked it up to having not spoken to anyone but myself for a day or two. I peered down the dingy grey hallway, made dingier by the fact that it was a basement hallway. On one end, a large metal door led to the building’s furnace room. It was locked, of course. Two dreary soda machines stood by it; I bought a soda from one the first day I moved in, but it had a two year old expiration date. I’m fairly sure nobody knows those machines are even down here, or my cheap landlady just doesn’t care to get them restocked.


I closed my door softly, and walked the other direction, taking care not to make a sound. I have no idea why I chose to do that, but it was fun giving in to the strange impulse not to break the droning hum of the soda machines, at least for the moment. I got to the stairwell, and took the stairs up to the building’s front door. I looked through the heavy door’s small square window, and received quite the shock: it was definitely not lunchtime. City-gloom hung over the dark street outside, and the traffic lights at the intersection in the distance blinked yellow. Dim clouds, purple and black from the glow of the city, hung overhead. Nothing moved, save the few sidewalk trees that shifted in the wind. I remember shivering, though I wasn’t cold. Maybe it was the wind outside. I could vaguely hear it through the heavy metal door, and I knew it was that unique kind of late-night wind, the kind that was constant, cold, and quiet, save for the rhythmic music it made as it passed through countless unseen tree leaves.


I decided not to go outside.

Edited by greenglassesgal

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Oops I forgot to add that in. Editing. Plus, here's the second part...


Psychosis (cont.)

Instead, I lifted my cell phone to the door’s little window, and checked the signal meter. The bars filled up the meter, and I smiled. Time to hear someone else’s voice, I remember thinking, relieved. It was such a strange thing, to be afraid of nothing. I shook my head, laughing at myself silently. I hit speed-dial for my best friend Amy’s number, and held the phone up to my ear. It rang once… but then it stopped. Nothing happened. I listened to silence for a good twenty seconds, then hung up. I frowned, and looked at the signal meter again – still full. I went to dial her number again, but then my phone rang in my hand, startling me. I put it up to my ear.


“Hello?” I asked, immediately fighting down a small shock at hearing the first spoken voice in days, even if it was my own. I had gotten used to the droning hum of the building’s inner workings, my computer, and the soda machines in the hallway. There was no response to my greeting at first, but then, finally, a voice came.


“Hey,” said a clear male voice, obviously of college age, like me. “Who’s this?”


“John,” I replied, confused.


“Oh, sorry, wrong number,” he replied, then hung up.


I lowered the phone slowly and leaned against the thick brick wall of the stairwell. That was strange. I looked at my received calls list, but the number was unfamiliar. Before I could think on it further, the phone rang loudly, shocking me yet again. This time, I looked at the caller before I answered. It was another unfamiliar number. This time, I held the phone up to my ear, but said nothing. I heard nothing but the general background noise of a phone. Then, a familiar voice broke my tension.


“John?” was the single word, in Amy’s voice.


I breathed a sigh of relief.


“Hey, it’s you,” I replied.


“Who else would it be?” she responded. “Oh, the number. I’m at a party on Seventh Street, and my phone died just as you called me. This is someone else’s phone, obviously.”


“Oh, ok,” I said.


“Where are you?” she asked.


My eyes glanced over the drab white-washed cylinder block walls and the heavy metal door with its small window.


“At my building,” I sighed. “Just feeling cooped up. I didn’t realize it was so late.”


“You should come here,” she said, laughing.


“Nah, I don’t feel like looking for some strange place by myself in the middle of the night,” I said, looking out the window at the silent windy street that secretly scared me just a tiny bit. “I think I’m just going to keep working or go to bed.”


“Nonsense!” she replied. “I can come get you! Your building is close to Seventh Street, right?”


“How drunk are you?” I asked lightheartedly. “You know where I live.”


“Oh, of course,” she said abruptly. “I guess I can’t get there by walking, huh?”


“You could if you wanted to waste half an hour,” I told her.


“Right,” she said. “Ok, have to go, good luck with your work!”


I lowered the phone once more, looking at the numbers flash as the call ended. Then, the droning silence suddenly reasserted itself in my ears. The two strange calls and the eerie street outside just drove home my aloneness in this empty stairwell. Perhaps from having seen too many scary movies, I had the sudden inexplicable idea that something could look in the door’s window and see me, some sort of horrible entity that hovered at the edge of aloneness, just waiting to creep up on unsuspecting people that strayed too far from other human beings. I knew the fear was irrational, but nobody else was around, so… I jumped down the stairs, ran down the hallway into my room, and closed the door as swiftly as I could while still staying silent. Like I said, I feel a little ridiculous for being scared of nothing, and the fear has already faded. Writing this down helps a lot – it makes me realize that nothing is wrong. It filters out half-formed thoughts and fears and leaves only cold, hard facts. It’s late, I got a call from a wrong number, and Amy’s phone died, so she called me back from another number. Nothing strange is happening.


Still, there was something a little off about that conversation. I know it could have just been the alcohol she’d had… or was it even her that seemed off to me? Or was it… yes, that was it! I didn’t realize it until this moment, writing these things down. I knew writing things down would help. She said she was at a party, but I only heard silence in the background! Of course, that doesn’t mean anything in particular, as she could have just gone outside to make the call. No… that couldn’t be it either. I didn’t hear the wind! I need to see if the wind is still blowing!

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1/2 parts




I first met in person with Mary E. in the summer of 2007. I had arranged with her husband of fifteen years, Terence, to see her for an interview. Mary had initially agreed, since I was not a newsman but rather an amateur writer gathering information for a few early college assignments and, if all went according to plan, some pieces of fiction. We scheduled the interview for a particular weekend when I was in Chicago on unrelated business, but at the last moment Mary changed her mind and locked herself in the couple’s bedroom, refusing to meet with me. For half an hour I sat with Terence as we camped outside the bedroom door, I listening and taking notes while he attempted fruitlessly to calm his wife.


The things Mary said made little sense but fit with the pattern I was expecting: though I could not see her, I could tell from her voice that she was crying, and more often than not her objections to speaking with me centered around an incoherent diatribe on her dreams — her nightmares. Terence apologized profusely when we ceased the exercise, and I did my best to take it in stride; recall that I wasn’t a reporter in search of a story, but merely a curious young man in search of information. Besides, I thought at the time, I could perhaps find another, similar case if I put my mind and resources to it.


Mary E. was the sysop for a small Chicago-based Bulletin Board System in 1992 when she first encountered smile.jpg and her life changed forever. She and Terence had been married for only five months. Mary was one of an estimated 400 people who saw the image when it was posted as a hyperlink on the BBS, though she is the only one who has spoken openly about the experience. The rest have remained anonymous, or are perhaps dead.


In 2005, when I was only in tenth grade, smile.jpg was first brought to my attention by my burgeoning interest in web-based phenomena; Mary was the most often cited victim of what is sometimes referred to as “Smile.dog,” the being smile.jpg is reputed to display. What caught my interest (other than the obvious macabre elements of the cyber-legend and my proclivity toward such things) was the sheer lack of information, usually to the point that people don’t believe it even exists other than as a rumor or hoax.


It is unique because, though the entire phenomenon centers on a picture file, that file is nowhere to be found on the internet; certainly many photomanipulated simulacra litter the web, showing up with the most frequency on sites such as the imageboard 4chan, particularly the /x/-focused paranormal subboard. It is suspected these are fakes because they do not have the effect the true smile.jpg is believed to have, namely sudden onset temporal lobe epilepsy and acute anxiety.


This purported reaction in the viewer is one of the reasons the phantom-like smile.jpg is regarded with such disdain, since it is patently absurd, though depending on whom you ask the reluctance to acknowledge smile.jpg’s existence might be just as much out of fear as it is out of disbelief. Neither smile.jpg nor Smile.dog is mentioned anywhere on Wikipedia, though the website features articles on such other, perhaps more scandalous shocksites as censorkip.gif** (hello.jpg) or 2girls1cup; any attempt to create a page pertaining to smile.jpg is summarily deleted by any of the encyclopedia’s many admins.


Encounters with smile.jpg are the stuff of internet legend. Mary E.’s story is not unique; there are unverified rumors of smile.jpg showing up in the early days of Usenet and even one persistent tale that in 2002 a hacker flooded the forums of humor and satire website Something Awful with a deluge of Smile.dog pictures, rendering almost half the forum’s users at the time epileptic.


It is also said that in the mid-to-late 90s that smile.jpg circulated on usenet and as an attachment of a chain email with the subject line “SMILE!! GOD LOVES YOU!” Yet despite the huge exposure these stunts would generate, there are very few people who admit to having experienced any of them and no trace of the file or any link has ever been discovered.


Those who claim to have seen smile.jpg often weakly joke that they were far too busy to save a copy of the picture to their hard drive. However, all alleged victims offer the same description of the photo: A dog-like creature (usually described as appearing similar to a Siberian husky), illuminated by the flash of the camera, sits in a dim room, the only background detail that is visible being a human hand extending from the darkness near the left side of the frame. The hand is empty, but is usually described as “beckoning.” Of course, most attention is given to the dog (or dog-creature, as some victims are more certain than others about what they claim to have seen). The muzzle of the beast is reputedly split in a wide grin, revealing two rows of very white, very straight, very sharp, very human-looking teeth.

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2/3 parts actually lol it's long


This is, of course, not a description given immediately after viewing the picture, but rather a recollection of the victims, who claim to have seen the picture endlessly repeated in their mind’s eye during the time they are, in reality, having epileptic fits. These fits are reported to continue indeterminably, often while the victims sleep, resulting in very vivid and disturbing nightmares. These may be treated with medication, though in someses it is more effective than others.


Mary E., I assumed, was not on effective medication. That was why after my visit to her apartment in 2007 I sent out feelers to several folklore- and urban legend-oriented newsgroups, websites, and mailing lists, hoping to find the name of a supposed victim of smile.jpg who felt more interested in talking about his experiences. For a time nothing happened and at length I forgot completely about my pursuits, since I had begun my freshman year of college and was quite busy. Mary contacted me via email, however, near the beginning of March 2008.


Added by MooseJuice

To: jml@censorkip.gif.com

From: marye@censorkip.gif.net

Subj: Last summer’s interview

Dear Mr. L.,

I am incredibly sorry about my behavior last summer when you came to interview me. I hope you understand that it was no fault of yours, but rather my own problems that led me to act out as I did. I realized that I could have handled the situation more decorously; however, I hope you will forgive me. At the time, I was afraid.


You see, for fifteen years I have been haunted by smile.jpg. Smile.dog comes to me in my sleep every night. I know that sounds silly, but it is true. There is an ineffable quality about my dreams, my nightmares, that makes them completely unlike any real dreams I have ever had. I do not move and do not speak. I simply look ahead, and the only thing ahead of me is the scene from that horrible picture. I see the beckoning hand, and I see Smile.dog. It talks to me.


It is not a dog, of course, though I am not quite sure what it really is. It tells me it will leave me alone if only I do as it asks. All I must do, it says, is “spread the word.” That is how it phrases its demands. And I know exactly what it means: it wants me to show it to someone else.


And I could. The week after my incident I received in the mail a manila envelope with no return address. Inside was only a 3 ½ -inch floppy diskette. Without having to check, I knew precisely what was on it.

I thought for a long time about my options. I could show it to a stranger, a coworker… I could even show it to Terence, as much as the idea disgusted me. And what would happen then? Well, if Smile.dog kept its word I could sleep. Yet if it lied, what would I do? And who was to say something worse would not come for me if I did as the creature asked?


So I did nothing for fifteen years, though I kept the diskette hidden amongst my things. Every night for fifteen years Smile.dog has come to me in my sleep and demanded that I spread the word. For fifteen years I have stood strong, though there have been hard times. Many of my fellow victims on the BBS board where I first encountered smile.jpg stopped posting; I heard some of them committed suicide. Others remained completely silent, simply disappearing off the face of the web. They are the ones I worry about the most.

I sincerely hope you will forgive me, Mr. L., but last summer when you contacted me and my husband about an interview I was near the breaking point. I decided I was going to give you the floppy diskette. I did not care if Smile.dog was lying or not, I wanted it to end. You were a stranger, someone I had no connection with, and I thought I would not feel sorrow when you took the diskette as part of your research and sealed your fate.


Before you arrived I realized what I was doing: was plotting to ruin your life. I could not stand the thought, and in fact I still cannot. I am ashamed, Mr. L., and I hope that this warning will dissuade you from further investigation of smile.jpg. You may in time encounter someone who is, if not weaker than I, then wholly more depraved, someone who will not hesitate to follow Smile.dog’s orders.


Stop while you are still whole.



Mary E.


Terence contacted me later that month with the news that his wife had killed herself. While cleaning up the various things she’d left behind, closing email accounts and the like, he happened upon the above message. He was a man in shambles; he wept as he told me to listen to his wife’s advice. He’d found the diskette, he revealed, and burned it until it was nothing but a stinking pile of blackened plastic. The part that most disturbed him, however, was how the diskette had hissed as it melted. Like some sort of animal, he said.


I will admit that I was a little uncertain about how to respond to this. At first I thought perhaps it was a joke, with the couple belatedly playing with the situation in order to get a rise out of me. A quick check of several Chicago newspapers’ online obituaries, however, proved that Mary E. was indeed dead. There was, of course, no mention of suicide in the article. I decided that, for a time at least, I would not further pursue the subject of smile.jpg, especially since I had finals coming up at the end of May.

But the world has odd ways of testing us. Almost a full year after I’d returned from my disastrous interview with Mary E., I received another email:


To: jml@censorkip.gif.com

From: elzahir82@censorkip.gif.com

Subj: smile




I found your e-mail adress thru a mailing list your profile said you are interested in smiledog. I have saw it it is not as bad as every one says I have sent it to you here. Just spreading the word.




The final line chilled me to the bone.

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Sorry to triple post but here's the whole story



According to my email client there was one file attachment called, naturally, smile.jpg. I considered downloading it for some time. It was mostly likely a fake, I imagined, and even if it weren’t I was never wholly convinced of smile.jpg’s peculiar powers. Mary E.’s account had shaken me, yes, but she was probably mentally unbalanced anyway. After all, how could a simple image do what smile.jpg was said to accomplish? What sort of creature was it that could break one’s mind with only the power of the eye?


And if such things were patently absurd, then why did the legend exist at all?


If I downloaded the image, if I looked at it, and if Mary turned out to be correct, if Smile.dog came to me in my dreams demanding I spread the word, what would I do? Would I live my life as Mary had, fighting against the urge to give in until I died? Or would I simply spread the word, eager to be put to rest? And if I chose the latter route, how could I do it? Whom would I burden in turn?


If I went through with my earlier intention to write a short article about smile.jpg, I decided, I could attach it as evidence. And anyone who read the article, anyone who took interest, would be affected. And even assuming the smile.jpg attached to the email was genuine, would I be capricious enough to save myself in that manner?


Could I spread the word?


Yes, yes I could.


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Copy & pasting this:


-----------------------------------Touhou 14



I had always prided myself on being two things; rather fearless, and rather good at games. Any game I owned was guaranteed to have been completed on hard mode, no matter what the time span took to reach the end. I would charge headfirst into a fight and had successfully disarmed an attacker who would otherwise have stabbed me.


I prided myself on those two things.



I also prided myself on my Touhou achievements.



To those who haven’t played the Touhou games, they are a series of vertical shooters where you dodge bullets whilst firing your own to progress through 7 increasingly difficult stages, with a boss at each stage. There are nearly 20 games in total for the entire saga.


I had beaten all of the Touhou games, including the PC-98 games. You name it, I had cleared it on both Hard and Lunatic modes. Subterranean Animism, Mystic Square, Double Spoiler… all that were in my Touhou folder were cleared.



You can imagine my excitement, when, out of the blue, my friend (let’s call them A) tells me they’ve found the demo for the newest game, Touhou 14, even kindly enough providing a download link from Rapidshare. Legit enough, right? Aside from I hadn’t seen users freaking out on Tumblr, nor an official announcement on the Touhou Wikia. None of that penetrated my thick skull as I downloaded the file, though.



After an hour and a half of total download, unzip and install time, the folder sat innocently on my desktop. “Touhou 14”. This was nothing new; I only named the folders for my games with the English name, and as this was a demo, there was no English name. However, by this point the time had gone 10pm, and college beckoned in the morning for a 6am start. I shut down my laptop and readied myself for bed, barely drifting off into a fitful, dreamless sleep.




When I awoke, there was still murky, residual darkness outside, viewable via the window opposite my bed. Flipping open the mobile phone I keep on my bedside table, the screen illuminated the time blindingly into my dark-habituated eyes; 4:44am. With a groan I rolled over back onto the pillow but to no avail; I flipped and rolled for seemingly hours with no success of sleeping. Giving in, I dragged myself out of bed for a shower and some tea, a ritual I had recently accustomed myself to.


By 5:59am, I had eaten, showered and was in the process of blowdrying my hair before dressing when the flashing blue light of my laptop caught my attention. Strange… I’d switched it off the night before. Giving my newly dried hair a shake and a drag-through with a flat brush, I toggled the touchpad of the laptop, only to find I hadn’t pressed the “Off” option when switching off last night. No big deal, it meant I could fool around for a bit until 6:30 when I had to leave for the bus to college. It meant that, surprise surprise, I could give the new Touhou instalment a whirl before Form.


Pulling a dress over my newly brushed hair and panties under the dress, I executed the file inside the folder; strangely enough, named in boxes where it would usually be named something along the lines of “TH14 Demo”. However, I assumed it to be the original Japanese text that my tottering unupdated laptop couldn’t read, and shrugged it off as I settled back down into the seat in front of the screen, black as the executable file booted itself up.


In seconds, the title screen was up, amazingly similar to the title screen for Ten Desires, but with no sound. I sighed, thinking it was an error in patching that deleted the music file; I’d had this problem with Perfect Cherry Blossom. Starting up a new game, I was pleasantly surprised to find new playable characters; Flandre, Nue, Komachi, and Utsuho. I was even happier to see that these playable characters were what most fans would consider fairly strong characters, especially Utsuho and Flandre. Now, Nue had always been a favourite of mine, so my directional pad headed straight for her option. Hitting the Z button, however, yielded no result aside from a loud screech from my laptop.


Stupid thing, I thought, it must have damaged the game file. I got the same result from Flandre and Utsuho, leaving me with little hope that Komachi would work.


Amazingly, her option agreed with my laptop and stage one fired up. But again… there was no music. The normally vibrant background colors were dullened, boringly enough. However, when playing FPS games my laptop tended to sometimes mess with colors, so I paid little heed. There were also no bullets to dodge; no fairies appeared, no midboss, only small cloud-like enemies floating across the screen. The minute I launched an attack on them, though, they fled, leaving a black box behind in the stead of the usual red power-ups or green point boxes. Upon collecting these… a strange thing happened. After I collected 10 of these boxes the screen faded to black, making the loudest static noise ever. Jumping halfway out of my skin at the unexpected noise, I simply held down the power switch to turn my laptop off. Catching sight of my clock on the wall, the time read 6:25; probably time for me to go. College awaited me.




When I came home that night, I started up Touhou 14 again, hoping that cool-off time would improve the game. This time there was music for the title screen; however, it wasn’t a ZUN-type sound. It was more several title themes all played over each other… I took it as another quirk of the damage my laptop could inflict on games. This time, however, there was no character select after the title screen. There were no controls at all; they were taken over by the computer, as though in demo mode. It controlled itself as it moved Komachi across the screen, attacking all that came in her path in a rather uncharacteristic way for Komachi. In another strange move, all enemies fled her. The background looked rather like the inside of Yukari’s gap as shown in the fighter games like Scarlet Weather Rhapsody, extending so far that the bomb, life and power counters were hidden.


The next shock came when the boss of the level showed up. A very stressed-looking Shiki appears, warning Komachi to turn back. Not too surprising since there was no aforementioned incident and Komachi has a job to do, right? Before any back-and-forth could occur between the characters, as is the norm, the game launched Komachi forward, causing her scythe to cleave her boss in half.


I sat staring, dumbfounded, at the screen as blood seeped from the halved pixels, spreading over the screen until the gaplike background was obscured by red.


The game handed control back to me. I shook as I carried onto level two, confronted by some fleeing fairies. Again, they dropped black boxes… however, this time, there was no static sound. I was transported directly to stage two, a setting that resembled the flowing lava of Subterranean Animism stage six. This time, a visibly irritated and fearful Rin appears, warning Komachi that to go deeper is a danger even she wouldn’t approach. Komachi’s control was taken from me at this point; again she was launched into the kasha, slicing the girl’s head from her shoulders. My trembling increased as a split frame appeared on my screen long enough to print-screen it; upon minimising of the game, and pasting of the screenshot into MS Paint, the frame appeared to be that of what looked like a young cosplayer, about fourteen years old, dressed as Flandre. Her cosplay was cut open shoddily down the front, exposing her… with the shards she used to decorate her wings with impaling her chest and abdomen, and what seemed to be broken bone sticking out of her right arm. Blood took up most of the shot.


Bile started to rise in my throat as I realised just what kind of game this was. I deleted the image and tried to exit the game… but there was no exit command. Alt+F4 would not work. The laptop would not turn off. The game didn’t show as being run on Task Manager; on the contrary, it showed only critical processes as running. I was faced with no choice but to finish the game.


The format carried on as aforementioned for five more horrible levels, a myriad of different characters being slaughtered by what should have been a fairly easygoing ferrywoman; all three of the Mischievous Fairy Trio at once, Alice Margatroid, Aya and Momiji in the same level, Futo, Tojiko and Miko all at once, and the last level… Nue and Mamizou. My two favourites out of the whole game were dismembered before my eyes, even though they were only pixels.


As the game carried on, the split frames appeared for longer amounts of time… making sure I could see the atrocities… all Touhou cosplayers… after the Flandre then a Byakuren, her throat slit; an Utsuho, broken bones poking out from every limb and the neck at a sick angle… A Remilia with her intestines removed and wrapped tightly around her neck, acting as a noose. A Yuyuko with hands, feet, eyes and head cleaved from the body. A Yuuka impaled through the chest with several knives; a Hina whose face, legs and arms were badly charred, as well as a portion of the dress and some of the wig.The one similarity, aside from the complete lifelesness and youth of the girls, whose ages ranged from around 9 through to 16… was that the clothes were all shoddily cut open down the front, exposing far more of the deceased girls than should have been.



At the end of the “game”, the agonisingly slow blacking out of the image of the Hina cosplayer, came the credits… without any credits. No words rolled on the screen, only blackness, until where the usual end of the game would be.


“And special thanks… to YOU.”


I’m still not sure how fully the experience has affected me, but I certainly no longer pride myself on fearlessness. Anything red makes me vomit. Anything Touhou makes me faint. I can’t hear the original soundtracks of any of the games without descending into a debilitating panic attack. I dream about the murdered girls, suffer flashbacks to their dead eyes. The police took away my laptop to search the file… but it must have done something to itself. The entire motherboard was completely useless, melted and corrupted beyond saving. The download link had disappeared from Rapidshare. I see my therapist twice a week. She says I have post-traumatic stress disorder.


All I know is that I can see those dead faces, and will until I die.

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