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Can you please put at the top of each part, 1/4 parts or 2/3 parts or 2/2 parts in bold please

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Can you please put at the top of each part, 1/4 parts or 2/3 parts or 2/2 parts in bold please

I would, but it's not really divided except into paragraphs.

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ok is that the end? That was brilliant! But, what was the Rock? Oooo! I got creeped by thinking, what happened to Joe!!!

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Smile

I used to have a monster in my closet.

 

Every child used to believe that at some point. Creatures in the dark, monsters in the closet, monsters under the bed. In my case, there was a creature who opened my closet door every night and went back in the morning because he hated the sun. I drew him a few times, in a childish scrawl; a quadrupedal beast with four slanted red-violet eyes, panther ears and claws, rough-ragged wolf fur over blackened snake scales and a whiplike, leathery tail. His lips were always pulled back in a gruesome smile full of sharpened teeth, but he was mine. He was my monster and my guardian angel.

 

When I was six, I used to think I saw eyes in dark rooms. Not just two, or four, but dozens of eyes of different colours and shapes, blank and empty of malice and emotion, all stuck to some blobby shadowy thing with too many legs and not enough joints, boneless in its movements. I would stand in a bright room that looked into the dark ones, and the creature would just stare at me dully. It would fill me with dread, not knowing what it was, my parents not believing it was even real. But at the same time, I knew it couldn't touch me. Why?

 

Because my monster would eat them, of course.

 

My grandma humoured me when my parents wouldn't. She kept the picture of my monster that I drew, told me he was my guardian and the reason the eye-monster didn't dare intrude on my room. She told me that as long as I was polite and I thanked him, he would keep me safe from anything. As a child, that was good enough for me.

 

There must have been a flipside to it. Before I started talking about the monster in my closet, I used to have normal dreams. After I started drawing him, they faded away. I didn't dream of anything good or bad. I slept well, content that I had a dark angel to watch over me; I made sure to say thank-you to glowing red eyes before closing the closet door every morning, because nonsense dreams were a small price to pay for safety.

 

They say that children can see things adults can't, and that children train themselves out of it as a process of growing up. I gradually stopped seeing the eye-monster, and soon, even my closet seemed empty. I stopped talking about him, but the door kept opening itself, even when I moved from one room in the house to another. It was just one of those things. My closet door would open regardless of where I slept, and I'd close it in the morning.

 

I started to think my grandma was just a bit crazy, that her continuous prattling about Jumbees and ghosts and monsters was just an 80-year-old brain winding down. I stopped believing her and started humoring her, nodding and agreeing when she wanted to sprinkle salt around her house or make dreamcatchers for all of my cousins and siblings. I was a little offended that she wouldn't give one to me, but when I asked, she took me by surprise.

 

"You don't need a dreamcatcher," she told me, "You have your monster."

 

I'd forgotten about him. I had completely forgotten about the monster in my closet that ate my dreams, but my grandma, who usually forgot what she did last week... hadn't. I just laughed it off, saying, "I don't even know what he was," past-tense, as if my closet door had stopped opening itself and I'd started having normal dreams.

 

I thought she'd leave it at that, but she didn't. "A Black Dog," she mused, "But he has too many eyes. A hellhound, but he's not malevolent. Shishi? Baku?" None of it really made sense to me. Hellhound, Black Dog; they sounded ominous, but my monster was really anything but. Had been anything but, I reminded myself; I was a grown adult and I didn't believe in that nonsense.

 

We didn't speak of it again. The closet door kept opening itself, and I'd close it every morning. Habit. Coincidence. Everything a person who doesn't believe in spirits or ghosts would tell themselves in an effort to preserve their sanity. Lucid dreaming, to explain why I didn't have dreams; Lack of imagination, or no fear response.

 

In March, my grandfather died, and my closet door stopped opening itself. When it stopped opening, I stopped being able to lucid dream. I didn't have to close it, and I started having the strangest near-nightmares. Darkness, eyes, growls in the dark, the cold feeling on the back of your neck when you're sitting in a room and something is there, watching you. The shiver of hands against your cheek when you see nothing at all. The whisper at the back of your mind telling you to keep a flashlight handy because it doesn't like the light, even if you don't remember what it is.

 

Isn't it strange that my Shishi, my Chinese Guardian, disappeared the same night my Chinese grandfather died? That my monster might have been a Baku, a dream-eater, and that I started to dream when he abandoned me? That my grandma gave me a dreamcatcher when I didn't need one before, and the gnawing feeling of impending doom just won't go away?

 

Isn't it strange that the shadows are flickering in the edges of my vision, in dark rooms or outside my window? They seem to have a life of their own, tricking your eyes into thinking they have too many legs and not enough joints, moving in the boneless ways that defy nature and logic.

 

The eyes are back, and they're watching me. But now... now they're smiling.

 

[[Another story the IRC people probably heard before. :3]]

Edited for a little spelling mistake, oops!

Edited by Xylene

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Gateway of the Mind

In 1983, a team of deeply pious scientists conducted a radical experiment in an undisclosed facility. The scientists had theorized that a human without access to any senses or ways to perceive stimuli would be able to perceive the presence of God.

They believed that the five senses clouded our awareness of eternity, and without them, a human could actually establish contact with God by thought. An elderly man who claimed to have “nothing left to live for” was the only test subject to volunteer. To purge him of all his senses, the scientists performed a complex operation in which every sensory nerve connection to the brain was surgically severed.* Although the test subject retained full muscular function, he could not see, hear, taste, smell, or feel. With no possible way to communicate with or even sense the outside world, he was alone with his thoughts.

 

Scientists monitored him as he spoke aloud about his state of mind in jumbled, slurred sentences that he couldn’t even hear. After four days, the man claimed to be hearing hushed, unintelligible voices in his head. Assuming it was an onset of psychosis, the scientists paid little attention to the man’s concerns.

 

Two days later, the man cried that he could hear his dead wife speaking with him, and even more, he could communicate back. The scientists were intrigued, but were not convinced until the subject started naming dead relatives of the scientists. He repeated personal information to the scientists that only their dead spouses and parents would have known. At this point, a sizable portion of scientists left the study.

 

After a week of conversing with the deceased through his thoughts, the subject became distressed, saying the voices were overwhelming. In every waking moment, his consciousness was bombarded by hundreds of voices that refused to leave him alone. He frequently threw himself against the wall, trying to elicit a pain response. He begged the scientists for sedatives, so he could escape the voices by sleeping. This tactic worked for three days, until he started having severe night terrors. The subject repeatedly said that he could see and hear the deceased in his dreams.

 

Only a day later, the subject began to scream and claw at his non-functional eyes, hoping to sense something in the physical world. The hysterical subject now said the voices of the dead were deafening and hostile, speaking of hell and the end of the world. At one point, he yelled “No heaven, no forgiveness” for five hours straight. He continually begged to be killed, but the scientists were convinced that he was close to establishing contact with God.

 

After another day, the subject could no longer form coherent sentences. Seemingly mad, he started to bite off chunks of flesh from his arm. The scientists rushed into the test chamber and restrained him to a table so he could not kill himself. After a few hours of being tied down, the subject halted his struggling and screaming. He stared blankly at the ceiling as teardrops silently streaked across his face. For two weeks, the subject had to be manually rehydrated due to the constant crying. Eventually, he turned his head and, despite his blindness, made focused eye contact with a scientist for the first time in the study.

 

He whispered “I have spoken with God, and He has abandoned us” and his vital signs stopped.

 

There was no apparent cause of death.

* follow-up study, 2000: Dr G.F., Department of Neurology, [hospital name witheld], San Francisco, CA. Recent study of a degenerative disease which targets the motor function and cognitive decline often leads to 'hallucinations' of the deceased. The death of targeted cells and chemicals in the brain by this disease leads to a loss of smell, among other senses. The cause of the disease is unknown. Hallucinations present in 39.8% of the patients, falling into three categories: a sensation of a presence (person), a sideways passage (commonly of an animal) or illusions. Present in 25.5% of patients (an isolated occurrence in 14.3%), formed visual hallucinations present in 22.2% (isolated in 9.3%) and auditory hallucinations present in 9.7% (isolated in 2.3%). Continuing study in San Francisco, CA. 2003–present

 

There is also a couple pictures and videos that go with this story http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/Gateway_of_the_Mind

Edited by Shato

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From the Creepypasta Wiki.

 

Trust

I open my eyes and look up at a ceiling. I’m sitting in a chair, can’t move. What feels like a belt is holding my head in place to the backrest. I move my eyes down; I can see most of another man’s face there. His head is also strapped down. His eyes are darting left and right, teeth clenched, struggling to free himself. I make my own attempts, knowing they would be useless, but trying anyway. The chair is bolted to the floor, it won’t move. The man is pretty close to me, if we could move, we could probably touch. I’m scared. I have no idea how this will play out.

 

“Hey,” I say, “you know what’s going on here?”

 

“No! I went to sleep and woke up tied to a ****ing chair with some censorkip.gif*** in front of me who’s apparently in the same ****ing situation!”

 

Stupid question I suppose, “Can you move anything besides your eyes and mouth?”

 

He tries again. “Just my fingers and toes, damn much that can do.”

 

“Ok,” I sigh, “looks like we’re stuck here until whoever did this decides to do what they’re doing. What’s your name?”

 

“Mike.”

 

“I’m Chuck.” I’m curious about this man. Why is he here with me? “Can you think of any reason you’re here? Did you hurt anyone? Steal from anyone? Anything?”

 

“Man, I’ve never done anything,” he cries, “couple speeding tickets, that’s it. You think someone would at least tell you why they kidnapped you.”

 

“I can’t think of anything either,” I say truthfully.

 

I look at him, try to think if I know him, or if I had even ever seen him before today. I hadn’t. “Any chance you recognize me?”

 

“Don’t think so.”

 

“Alright, we’re two innocent strangers. I guess it’s just random. Pick the first person they happen to get, but for what?”

 

I look around as much as I can. The ceiling is high and I can’t see any walls. There is a spotlight high over head illuminating us. All my fingers can feel are the edges of the armrest. I can’t hear anything beyond my own breathing and the attempted movements of my newfound companion. What could have brought us here? Is this torture? Is there some psychotic force that brought us together? Whatever the answer is, I can feel in my gut that someone’s going to die. Hopefully not me.

 

censorkip.gif! I just cut myself, I think! Something hard and sharp is around my right arm.”

 

I look back down at him; it’s a strain to keep my eyes pointed down so far. He’s staring at me, panicking, mouth wide open, and panting. I move my arms as much as I can.

 

“It feels like straps or something are holding down my left arm and metal bands are around my right.”

 

“What the hell? What are they going to…”

 

A loud screech. Deafening sounds. Speakers crackle. A booming voice.

 

“Good evening gentlemen. As you have no doubt discovered, you have been restrained and are now part of our little game. Between you is a table. On this table is a gun. In some time the restraints on your right arms will be released. The first to get the gun and kill the other will win their own life. An associate will put you to sleep and you will be released, a free man. The other will be disposed of and you will never be bothered again. If neither of you shoot the gun within five minutes of your restraints being released, a lethal electric current will be sent through your chairs killing you both, quite painfully in fact. It’s better for one to live than both to die.”

 

Silence. We wait for the restraint to be released. It doesn’t come.

 

“What the censorkip.gif, Chuck?”

 

“I guess we’ll have to wait. Maybe they want us to get to know the man we have to kill.”

 

“I don’t want to kill anyone! But I sure as hell don’t want to die!”

 

I yelled, “Well, would you rather kill me or die!? That’s the important question! Is your life worth the death of someone else? Could you live your life knowing that you murdered someone just so you can live?”

 

“No...” he said “I’d rather die than kill someone, but I’d rather live and not kill even more!”

 

“I feel the same, Mike, but unless you think we could untie ourselves in five minutes with only one hand…”

 

He was silent for a moment, then started whispering. “Yeah? What if we could?”

 

“What?” I yelled, “How can we trust that we actually have five minutes? How can I trust in you? If I reach over to untie myself, how do I know you won’t go for the gun?”

 

“Like I said! I’d rather die than kill someone. A shot at us both living is better than the alternative.”

 

“I guess it’s the only way to not be a murderer.” I smile, even though he can’t see me, “I trust you, you can trust in me too.”

 

So that’s our plan, we’ll attempt to free ourselves and hope we can do it in time. I know I’m not going to be getting anything off that table before I free myself, and I really think that Mike won’t try to kill me. I start going over plans to get myself free. Would it be easier to undo the other arm first? Would I need to see my other arm to free it? If not I would need to remove my head restraint so I could look, but could I do it with only one hand? I decide that when the time came I would just go with my instinct.

 

“It feels like there are three straps on each limb, one on my head, one under my shoulders and one around my waist.”

 

“So not counting the ones on the right arm, that’s,” Mike thought for a second, “twelve straps? Or belts? Whatever they are, I’m sure we have enough time.”

 

We wait.

 

“So, you got a family or anything Chuck?

 

“No, not really,” I say. “My parents are around and I see them every once in a while. I have a few friends, no one really close though. You?”

 

“I have a girlfriend and a kid, and the rest of the family. I really want to get back to them. I just got a new job, planning on getting a house. Things are going pretty well. Man, why did this have to happen now?”

 

“Why does this have to happen at all? Why are people so fond of death?”

 

The life of someone like me against someone like him didn’t seem fair. I still want to live though. I don’t want to kill him, but I’m not going to offer myself as a sacrifice so that he can live. The only thing a reasonable person would do is our plan. We talk for a while. He tells me about where he grew up, what he does for a living, how he met his girlfriend, about how wonderful his daughter is. He starts getting choked up and I take over. I talk about just anything, school, friends, my plans in life. We keep talking about the lives we very well might lose until we can’t bear to talk about it anymore. We wait for what seems like an hour in silence. Still, nothing happens.

 

Mike started yelling “Hey! Come on! We gonna sit here all day?”

 

Nothing in reply but silence.

 

Mike is shaking, as much as he could anyway. “I want to see my kid again. I want to get out of here.”

 

“Mike, just relax. Think about how you’re going to get out of here, think about getting your other arm free, your head, your chest, your legs.”

 

“Alright, alright. I’m cool.” He doesn’t seem cool.

 

We wait some more. Every time I look down, Mike seems worse. I try talking to him, get him out of his own head, but he won’t talk back. I wait a while, hoping that we can both be free of this accursed game. As I look at him, it feels to me that I’ve been here for years, just sitting here, looking across this table. Eventually he starts muttering, but I can hear him.

 

“We just assume that we can get out of here. They could have us locked in. They could have people kill us the minute we walk out. I don’t even know where we are. Could be the middle of the desert or Antarctica for all I know. Hell, there could be someone six feet to the left and I wouldn’t know. They could be listening in the whole time and know what we plan to do. I don’t even know what’s holding me down. They might have to cut me out of here and there’s no way to get out with just my one hand. Someone has to die, and it sure as hell won’t be me.”

 

“Mike,” I try to reassure him, “focus. Focus on getting out. No one has to die. I know it. You have to know it too. Twelve straps, that’s it. We walk out, finally free.”

 

Click.

 

Restraint is released. I lift my right arm to the belt that’s on my head and start to undo it.

 

I see Mike reach across the table, I know I can’t win.

 

“Sorry Chuck, I have a family. I’ve got more to live for than you!”

 

“Don’t do this! There’s plenty of time! Don’t go home to your family a murderer!”

 

censorkip.gif you.”

 

The belt on my head is loose, I look down quickly. His hand’s waving back and forth on the table trying to find the gun. It’s not there.

 

“Five years,” I say standing up, reaching for the kill switch. “Five years of endless variations, and they always reach for the gun.”

Edited by alupe99a

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Tourist Trap

 

In rural Wisconsin, there is an old abandoned park. Built in the 1920s, it served as the town’s gathering place for everyone.

 

That is, until a newly developed Train and Tunnel for Tots ride was installed in 1932. It was an innocent looking childish train, with one main (mechanized) head car, with three small trolleys pulled behind it. It went around some loops before going into a small tunnel.

 

But this is where the story gets weird. There were numerous cases of child deaths that year, all of them happening after the child rode on that train system. Some kids went missing in that short tunnel (about ten feet), and others went comatose after leaving. One, upon exiting, was found to be dead. Her dress was covered in what looked like small bloody handprints. Some killed themselves by scratching at their throats until they bled out, and one of them even killed another child before hanging herself with razor wire at the family’s farm.

 

The park was closed, and the town’s popularity as a tourist town plummeted.

Recently, a team of scientists were sent out to the park. They taped a video camera to the train, and put a new intern in with it, before sending it on its way onto the tracks.

 

When the train left the tunnel, it was empty, except for the camera.

The last ten seconds were nothing but static, save for the sound of children laughing.

 

______________

 

The Disappearance of Ashley, Kansas

 

Sometime during the night of August 16th, 1952, the small town of Ashley, Kansas ceased to exist. At 3:28am on August 17th, 1952, a magnitude 7.9 earthquake was measured by the United States Geological Survey. The earthquake itself was felt throughout the state and most of the midwest. The epicenter was determined to be directly under Ashley, Kansas. When state law enforcement arrived at what should have been the outskirts of the farming community, they found a smoldering, burning fissure in the Earth in the earth measuring 1000 yards in length and approximately 500 yards in width. The depth of the fissure was never determined. After twelve days, the state-wide and local search for the missing 679 residents of Ashley, Kansas, was called off by the Kansas State Government at 9:15pm on the night of August 29th, 1952. All 679 residents were assumed to be dead. At 2:27am on August 30th, 1952, a magnitude 7.5 earthquake was measured by the United States Geological Survey. The epicenter was situated under what used to be the location of Ashley, Kansas. When law enforcement investigated at 5:32am, they reported that the fissure in the Earth had closed.

 

In the eight days leading up to the disappearance of the town and its 679 residents, bizarre and unexplainable events were reported by dozens of residents in Ashley, Kansas and law enforcement from the surrounding area.

 

On the evening of August 8th, 1952, at 7:13pm, a resident by the name of Gabriel Johnathan reported a strange sight in the sky above Ashley. The town itself, having no official branch of law enforcement, called into the police station of the neighboring town of Hays. Gabriel reported what appeared to be a “small, black opening in the sky.” Within the next fifteen minutes, the Hays police station became overwhelmed with dozens of phone calls all reporting the same phenomenon. The phenomenon was never reported by any neighboring communities. A decision was made to send a trooper to Ashley to investigate the matter the following morning.

 

At 7:54 am on the morning of August 9th, 1952, Hays Police Officer Allan Mace radioed the Hays Police Station. He reported that, despite following the one way road leading into Ashley, he had become lost. According to his report, the road “continued along its normal path, but somehow ended up back in Hays.” Officer Mace went on to add that the road never curved, or bent in any direction. At 9:15am, seven of the town’s 10 police cars were sent to investigate the situation, and all members of the team came to the same conclusion. The only road leading into Ashley stopped leading into Ashley, but instead led back to Hays. Phone calls continued to pour into the Hays Police Station, all reporting that the black opening in the sky continued to grow in size. All callers were advised to remain inside, and to not travel outside unless absolutely necessary. At 8:17pm, Mrs. Elaine Kantor reported her neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Milton, and their two children, Jeffery and Brooke, missing. According to Mrs. Kantor’s phone call, the Milton’s attempted to leave town in their family car earlier in the evening. They never returned. Law enforcement officals from Hays never reported the car, or individuals, coming up the one way road.

 

At 7:38am on the morning of August 10th, 1952, phone calls from Ashley into the Hays Police Station reported that the town was in total darkness. The sun had never risen. At 10:15am, at the request of Hays Law Enforcement, a helicopter from Topeka, Kansas flew over the region in which Ashley, Kansas stood. The town was never observed from air.

 

At 12:43pm on the afternoon of August 11th, 1952, Ms. Phoebe Danielewski called into the Hays Police Station. She reported that her daugter Erica had begun to have conversions with her father, who died three years prior in a drunk driving accident.

 

To add to her concern, Ms. Danielewski reported that Erica was attempting to go outside into the dark, to “join them.” Over the course of the next twelve hours, a reported 329 phone calls were placed into the Hays Police Station all describing similar phenomenon with the children of the town.

 

The following morning of August 12th, 1952, the sitation became dire. During the middle of the night, all 217 children in the town of Ashley, Kansas disappeared. A reported 421 phone calls were placed into the Hays Police Department. Unable to be of any useful assistance, Hays Law Enforcement instructed all callers to remain inside and to avoid any and all attempts at finding the missing children.

 

At 5:19pm on the evening August 13th, 1952, Ashley elderly man Scott Luntz reporting a growing, distant fire to the south. According to his description, the fire seemed to turn the distant black into “bright red and orange [that] seemed to extend high into the sky.” Throughout the rest of the day, calls continued in, stating that the fire, in addition to moving north, now seemed to “come out of the black sky.” No fire was ever witnessed by any of the neighboring communities or law enforcement officials.

 

The reports continued until 12:09am on the morning of August 14th, 1952. The last phone call, placed by a Mr. Benjamin Endicott, reported that the fire in the sky had grown so intense that it began to appear as daytime over the town. The phone call ended abruptly: (FROM THE PHONECALL PLACED BY BENJAMIN SHERMAN ENDICOTT)

Benjamin: Just hold on….wait…

(CONTINUED SILENCE)

Benjamin (con’t): Yeah, yeah I see something. It’s to the south. It looks like-

[END PHONECALL]

 

The next phone call wouldn’t be placed until the following evening.

 

The following is the entire transcript of the final phonecall to be received by the Hays Police Department out of the town of Ashley, Kansas. It was placed at 9:46pm on the evening of August 15th, 1952. In this recorded phonecall, the officer on duty is Officer Peter Welsch. The caller has been identified as Ms. April Foster.

 

[bEGIN PHONECALL]

Officer Welsch: Hays Police Department.

(Muffled static).

Officer Welsch: Hello?

Foster: YES…yes, hello?

Officer Welsch: Ma’am, who am I speaking with.

Foster: My name is April, April Foster. (Coughs) Please, sir. Please help me.

Officer Welsch: What is happening, ma’am?

Foster: Last night….last night they came back.

Officer Welsch: Ma’am, I’m going to need you to -

Foster: LAST NIGHT THEY CAME BACK! (Cries)

Officer Welsch: Ma’am, I’m going to need you to calm down, and speak clearly. What happened? Who came back?

Foster: (Sobbing). Everyone.

Officer Welsch: Everyone?

Foster: They all came in the fire.

Officer Welsch: What do you mean everyone?

Foster: My son…..I saw my son last night. He was walking… he was walking down the street. He was burned. Jesus Christ HE WAS BURNED.

Officer Welsch: Ma’am I -

Foster: He died last year. I raised him since he was a baby….it was just me and him. I told him to watch for cars when he rode his bike. But he never wanted to listen.

Officer Welsch: Ma’am, what you’re saying isn’t making any sense. You said everyone came back?

Foster: ARE YOU ****ING LISTENING TO ME? EVERYONE. Everyone came back. Everyone who died, or went missing, they’re back. And they’re looking for US! (Cries). He…he said: “Mommy, I’m okay now! See, I can walk again! Where are you, Mommy? I want to see you!”(Sobs).

Officer Welsch: ….Ma’am, where are you now? Are you safe?

Foster: I’m hiding. Just like everyone else. We saw them coming through the fields….and….some people opened their doors for them. God, the SCREAMING. (Pause). I don’t know what happened to them. But their houses caught fire and they….caved in. I have my curtains drawn. I’m hiding in the closet right now and- (Silence).

Officer Welsch: Ma’am, is everything alright, are you okay?

Foster: (Silence).

Officer Welsh: Ma’am?

Foster: (Glass Breaking). Oh…oh my God.

Officer Welsh: Ma’am?

Foster: Something just came in. (Muffled cries).

Officer Welsch: Ma’am, stay as quiet as you can. Don’t make a sound.

Foster: (Muffled: “Mommy…..mommy?”). (Sobbing). He came inside.

Officer Welsch: Stay absolutely still. Don’t leave.

Foster: (Sound of muffled footsteps. Muffled: “Mommy? Mommy, where are you hiding?”)

Officer Welsch: Stay quiet.

Foster: (Sound of heavy footsteps. Laughter. Muffled: “I found you, MOMMY!”) (Indiscernable screaming and noise).

Officer Welsch: Ma’am? MA’AM??

[End phonecall].

 

The following morning, at 6:55am, the law enforcement officals of the Hays Police Department arrived at the location of Ashley, Kansas. A smoldering, burning fissure in the Earth was all that remained.

___________

 

Here's a good list if you want to check them out. I'm not gonna copy-paste them all. Besides, some of them were already posted on here.

Edited by Nestra

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Here I got one, but whether it's creepy/scary whatever is entirely up to you.

 

Bon Appétit

 

Mark and I were on our way to a newly opened restaurant named Django’s. Mark really has an appetite for foreign cuisine, especially exotic food.

“We’re just one block away, Chad,” he said. “They say Django serves the most delicious and most exotic food you can imagine.”

 

“You know I don’t have much,” I said. “And I’m not really into exo-”

 

“Don’t worry. It’s my treat.”

 

Ugh. It’s not about the bill, Mark. It’s the food.

 

We finally arrived at Django’s. It looked pretty normal but I immediately noticed something weird.

 

We were the only ones there.

 

Then a small guy with super neat hair and a thin mustache came over and greeted us.

 

“Good evening monsieur. Allow me to take you to your table. I am Django, and I will be your personal waiter.”

 

“Cool,” Mark told me. “See, I told you. This place is awesome!”

 

“Wait,” I said. “Django? You’re the owner?”

 

“Oui, monsieur, I am Django, the greatest cook you’ve ever met, and I will be your most loyal servant for tonight. As you see, you are our first customers.”

 

“Great!” Mark exclaimed.

 

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess…”

 

Django led us to our table. I gotta admit, the place was pretty neat.

 

“So what might we be having today?” the very pale Django asked as he handed us the menus.

 

“Cool names you got here,” Mark said.

 

I looked over the menu and was quite shocked. What kinds of names are these?

 

“I’ll take this, uh, Pasta Massacre…” I said.

 

“Okay,” Mark said. “One order of Pasta Massacre. I’ll have Tenderloin Brutale. And two orders of Bloodiest Mary.”

 

“Bloodiest Mary?” I repeated under my breath.

 

“Would you gentlemen also be interested in our specialty, Stuffed Head?” Django asked.

 

“Ooh, sounds exciting!” Mark said. “I’ll take one.” He’s lost his mind.

 

“Your orders are on their way, sir.”

 

“Mark,” I whispered. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

 

I didn’t want to sound like a chicken, but their food sounded horrible. And creepy.

 

I hoped it wasn’t too bad.

 

Then I spotted Django walking towards us, a silver tray in hand.

 

“One Tenderloin Brutale and one Pasta Massacre. Bon Appétit.”

 

I examined the pasta. It looked normal. Normal pasta, normal sauce?

 

I reluctantly took a bite.

 

A strong feeling swept over me. I became overjoyed. It was as if all the love in the world flooded my mouth and danced around my tongue.

 

“This is... this is incredible!” I shouted.

 

“Yeah, this too!” said Mark, as he chowed down on the tenderloin.

 

I couldn’t believe it. It was heavenly! I needed more! I was hungry for more!

 

I was about to take another bite when I saw something disturbing. It was round. I poked it with my fork and closely examined it.

 

White all around with a blue circle in the middle.

 

censorkip.gif.

 

It was a ****ing eye.

 

I threw the fork away from me in terror.

 

“What is this?” I yelled at Django. “What the hell is this?”

 

“It is an eye, monsieur,” he replied calmly. “This is an exotic restaurant.”

 

“Cool!” Mark said. “An eye!”

 

Django was right. This is the most exotic restaurant here. My pasta had an eye.

 

I started thinking. Should I continue eating? But it was Mark’s treat. It would have been impolite. So I took another bite. It tasted better than ever. Maybe they were right. I was just overreacting.

 

That’s when I swallowed something really good.

 

I searched my pasta for another piece of that meat.

 

I saw another chunk. I ate it and it sent me to ecstasy one more time.

 

“Here are your Bloodiest Marys, monsieur.”

 

What could this be? I wondered.

 

“Maybe this has real blood,” I told Mark jokingly.

 

“Maybe,” he replied.

 

I took a sip. And it felt real good.

 

It was so warm. It had a very distinct taste that I have never tasted before.

 

I had to ask Django what it was.

 

“Django,” I called him.

 

“Oui, monsieur?”

 

“What is in this pasta?”

 

“Our sauce is made from the finest and freshest human blood, eyes, fingers, throat, liver, heart, lungs, and intestines.”

 

Oh.

 

My mind was blank for five seconds. And then I started to puke.

 

Mark was shaking violently.

 

Django continued, “That tenderloin is from the hip of a sixteen year old girl. But we sometimes take 13-15 year olds, by request. We use their blood and other bodily liquids for our famous Bloodiest Mary.”

 

I nearly wet my pants. Mark did.

 

I took the knife and aimed it at the sick censorkip.gif***. “I’m gonna kill you!” I screamed in anger. “You’re crazy! You’re sick!”

 

“Are you going to finish your meal, then?” Django asked.

 

“You’re the devil!”

 

“I am not a devil, I’m a genius. Now, we only have one rule for people who do not finish their meals. We cook them.”

 

“Wh-what?”

 

“Will you finish your meal, monsieur?”

 

We had no choice. I ate every human finger, eye, and other body parts in my pasta. Mark cried as he ate the tenderloin.

 

After finishing the sick meal, we sat in silence.

 

Django came back carrying another tray. “Now for our specialty, the Stuffed Head.”

 

The next thing we saw was a male human head, served on a silver platter.

 

"Enjoy."

 

censorkip.gif this,” I said. We wanted to leave but we had no other choice. The exits were blocked.

 

I began to eat the brown eyes. Django suggested we should try the tongue.

 

Then the head was opened. We needed to eat the brain. Then the skin. Everything.

 

“Don’t forget the stuffing,” said the devil. “They are human penises, kidneys, and ovaries.”

 

I didn’t want to hear that. Hours passed and we finally finished the devil’s course.

 

“P-please let us go,” I said.

 

“You didn’t like it? It was marvelous!” Mark said.

 

“What?!” I cried.

 

“Oh, so it didn’t change your mind after all. Django, I’m gonna order again. I’ll bring my family along. We’re having a feast, and I want you to make the most out of my friend.”

 

Edit: Ah, I just noticed there's 3 censors in this

Edited by Altair

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Dark Heart

 

 

“Hey, freak show!”

Ugh. It was Katie, the so-called “popular” girl, again.

“Hey, I’m talking to you!”

Hannah sighed and turned around. She hated being called names, especially “freak show”. She had never thought of herself as being crazy, or a freak, or whatever it was that she was being called now. But the popular kids, better known to Hannah as the Popular Pricks, were starting to get to her.

“Please, Katie. School’s over. Just let me go home.”

Katie huffed, and shot back at Hannah.

“Don’t talk to me, freak!”

“But you were just—“

“Shut up!”

Hannah sighed again. Eff my life, she thought to herself.

 

 

When the bus reached Hannah’s stop, she got up to leave and was instantly hit in the back of the head with a wad of paper. Wad #24, to be exact. One of the Popular Pricks again. Her shoulders sagged as she stepped off the bus, and the bus driver gave her a sympathetic look.

I don’t need your friggin’ pity. Hannah thought bitterly. She continued to walk home alone, feeling angry and dejected.

When she arrived at her house, Hannah heard yelling. Her parents were fighting, again. Sighing, Hannah opened the front door.

“...CONTRIBUTE TO THIS FAMILY!!” her mother, Annabeth, was screaming.

“WELL I DON’T HAVE TO DO ANYTHING YOU TELL ME TO!” her father, Fredrick, barked back. “I’M IN CHARGE!!”

“YOU’RE IN CHARGE?! YOU’RE NOT EVEN HOME ENOUGH TO BE IN CHARGE!!”

Hannah was sick and tired of their constant fighting.

“CAN’T YOU GUYS JUST GET ALONG FOR ONE FRIGGIN’ DAY?!?” she snapped angrily. Her father turned on her in an instant.

“YOU SHUT UP!! YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO SPEAK TO YOUR PARENTS THAT WAY! YOU’RE NOT EVEN SUPPOSED TO BE HERE!! IF THAT CONDOM HADN’T BROKEN, I’D STILL BE A HAPPY MAN!!!”

Hannah gasped and took a step back.

“Fredrick!” her mother cried. “How could you?!” But Fred just stormed off to his room, and slammed the door.

“Hannah...honey.....” Ann tried to comfort her daughter, but it was too late. Her father had gone too far.

Hannah ran off, crying. She went to her bedroom, slammed the door, and locked it. She sat in a corner of the room and cried. Then she got an idea. She would run away. She didn’t know where, and didn’t care. Anywhere but here was fine with her.

She grabbed a bag and started packing her things. When she reached a mask she had made her junior year of high school, she tossed it inside as well. Might as well, she decided. Finally, she opened her bedroom window and climbed outside. She could hear her parents yelling again, but she paid them no mind. She just kept walking, straight into the darkening forest in the backyard.

She never looked back.

 

 

The moon was big and bright, the stars twinkled, and the creatures of the night sang their nocturnal songs. All was peaceful...outside of Hannah’s mind, that is. Inside of it, however, a war was raging. A war between sanity and insanity. And sanity was losing. Hannah began to sing an eerie song.

“If you go out in the woods tonight, you’d better bring a flashlight! If you go out in the woods tonight, you’re gonna meet with a fright! For every lost child that ever there was has gathered there together because tonight’s the night the Slender Man has a picnic!!” Hannah had always been obsessed with Slender Man, and always believed he was real. But no one else believed her when she told them.

Suddenly, Hannah heard the trees rustle behind her. She continued to sing, louder this time. Insanity was dropping bombs on sanity now. Atomic bombs. She sang louder and louder, until at last a tall figure stepped from the trees.

“I knew it! I always knew it!” she cried happily. “Hello, dear friend!”

The tall, thin, pale creature looked down upon her, evaluating her physical attributes and mental situation before deciding how her blood would taste. His featureless “face” gazed into her eyes, and saw that within them there was loneliness, insanity, and adoration.

“Will you take me with you? I-I could be your apprentice, M-Master!” Hannah felt guilty calling him “Master,” as she was a Christian. But she would have done anything to be with him. The creature, known to us humans as Slender Man, considered this for quite a while.

She’s dressed in dark clothes, and is carrying a pocket knife, as well as...a mask? Hmmm...potential, yes, lots of potential. But can she kill? She’s harnessed quite a bit of hatred within her; I think I’ll put this girl to the test. Slender Man spoke in a deep, fear-evoking voice.

“I’ll make you my apprentice—or proxy, if you will—on one condition. You must kill an entire family.”

Hannah paused. An entire family? But...but..... Then she thought of Katie. Snobby, mean, ill-mannered, spoiled, b****y Katie.

“You’ve got a deal.”

 

 

Katie woke up. It was half past midnight, but something had awoken her. The feeling that something was amiss... She shrugged, and lay back down to sleep. But before Katie could drift off to Dreamland, she heard a soft tap, tap, tap at her window, and turned just in time to see a shadow pass by it. Alarmed, she kicked the covers off of her, got some pajamas on, and grabbed a flashlight. It’s probably just a prank, she reassured herself. I’ll make Daddy teach them a lesson! Then she opened her bedroom door and stepped out into the hallway.

The big house was dark and silent, but for a quiet drip, drip, drip coming from the bathroom. Curious, Katie opened the bathroom door, and nearly screamed. It was her pet dog, sparky who was hanging from the shower nozzle by his own intestines. He was so mutilated that he was barely recognizable as a dog. A symbol was written in blood on the walls, an O with an X through it.

Katie gagged and was sick, and then she bolted away from the gruesome scene. Suddenly, she heard footsteps upstairs. She stepped cautiously over to the staircase, thinking to herself that a flight of stairs had never looked so ominous before. Careful not to make a sound, Katie tiptoed up the stairs. When she reached the top stair, she poked her head out to look around.

“Mommy?” she whimpered. “Daddy?” Katie snuck silently to her parents’ bedroom, pushing the door open. The sight that lay before her eyes next made her sick again, and she began to scream and cry “No!” over and over again.

There was blood everywhere, and the bed was shredded up. Various body parts and entrails were scattered about, but the bodies they belonged to were nowhere in sight. Katie backed up, and bumped into something. Startled, she whipped around to see what it was, and gasped. For it wasn’t a something at all, but a someone. It was a person.

It wore a black hoodie, dark grey shirt, and skinny jeans. The converse on its feet were bloody, and its hands even more so. In one of its hands it held a pocket knife, crimson with blood and glinting menacingly in the moonlight. Yet the thing that stood out the most was the mask that it wore. Black, with no eyeholes, nose, or any other features, and with a dark red broken heart on it. Katie recognized that mask from somewhere, but couldn’t remember where.

The tapping sound commenced again, this time on her parents’ window. But that’s impossible; it’s on the second story! Katie thought, a chill creeping down her spine. Tap, skritch, tap, skritch, like claws on the window, getting louder and louder.

“You hurt me...” the figure hissed in a choked-up voice. “You hurt me inside...you never listened....never stopped.....never believed me...”

Katie knew that voice. It was all coming back to her; that mask, the voice, the accusations... Realization slammed into her like a tidal wave. Hannah. It was Hannah.

“No! NO!” Katie shrieked. “I’m sorry! I’m really sorry! Please, Hannah, don’t do this!!”

“Never believed...but I’ll make you believe.....I’ll make you believe! YOU WILL BELIEVE!!” Hannah screeched, her head snapping sideways with a sickening crack. She began to laugh maniacally, her body quaking as if she were having a seizure. Katie released a bloodcurdling scream; the tapping and scratching on the window was deafening. She felt a burning, agonizing pain in her chest as the bloody knife was thrust into her heart.

Then everything went dark.

 

 

“You did well, dear Hannah.” Slender Man said when she returned outside, carrying Katie’s limp body.

“For you, Master.” Hannah said, laying it down at his feet. Slendy’s stomach growled.

“Thank you. However, first things must come first. It’s time you received your proxy name. From this moment on, you shall be known as...Dark Heart.”

Dark Heart, Hannah thought to herself. I like it.

“I won’t let you down, Master.” Dark Heart vowed, bowing.

“I know you won’t, my dear. I know you won’t.”

Edited by Flamma

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So I wrote this pasta a while ago, and I'd thought I'd share it with everyone. It's actually a retelling of a story I heard at a party in 4th grade. I'm not sure if this based off of anything or if it just came out of my friend's head. Here it is:

 

The Counting Doll

When I was young I heard a story about a very special type of doll. It’s called a “Counting Doll”. These dolls were called that because they had their fingers up as if the doll was counting and they were always extremely realistic looking. They looked like tiny little people. Now I have never seen any sort of doll that fits this description but I’ve heard an amazing story from a friend when I was little. I’d like to tell it to you now dear reader. All names in this story are aliases so don’t bother trying to find these people.

There was once a girl named Brittany (who had lovely blue eyes) who’s parents wanted to give a special birthday present. All this little girl wanted was a doll to play with, so her parents took her to a toy store. Brittany was scanning the shelves for dolls that peaked her interest when one in particular stood out for her. Her dad got the doll off the shelf for her and Brittany decide to buy the cute little toy.

The doll itself was made of plastic but it looked very realistic. It had curly brown hair, a pretty blue dress, lovely green eyes, with the happiest little smile ever. The doll was in a pink box that could be locked with a key that was also included. The sticker on the box simply said, “Counting Doll”. There was no pictures, no warnings, or even a company that made the dolls. But the most interesting feature was that the doll was holding up eight fingers as if it was counting.

When the family went up to the checkout counter the clerk there was surprised that this family was buying this particular product. As the family was about to leave the clerk got Brittany’s attention and motioned her over.

“There are some things I need to tell you about this toy,” whispered the clerk frantically. “There are three rules in keeping this doll. The first is to not get it wet. The second is not to feed it. But the most important rule is to lock it up in the box it came in before going to sleep. The key is in the box with the doll.” The clerk then smiled and cheerily told Brittany, “Now go have fun with it!” The family left then and picked up a friend who also had a doll. They then returned home for a play date.

Brittany and her friend Laura had a wonderful time together with their dolls. The two of them even went swimming while their two dolls were just outside of the pool. Brittany and Laura even got in splash fight causing a little water to get on the dolls. When the water hit the Counting Doll it’s finger nails got a little bit longer. Brittany didn’t even notice. The friends then had a tea party with their dolls and Brittany fed her doll cookies. When the doll ate it’s fingernails got a little bit longer.

Soon Laura left with her doll and the day passed quickly for Brittany. It was time for bed and she remembered to put her doll away in the play room. She put the doll in it’s case and closed it but she forgot to lock it.

 

Some time then passed and it was about 3:00 in the morning. Everyone was asleep. If you listened you could hear a small thumping sound in the play room. The sound was coming from the doll trying to get out of the box. After a few minutes it managed to open the case’s door. There was a dead silence after that. The doll stood up and stepped out of the box like a ballerina. It then started humming for a minute or so but then it started singing… The doll had a child’s voice and it sounded as if it was happy. Sometimes it would even giggle a bit. This is what it sang:

1... Out the room. 2... Down the hall. 3... Up the stairs. 4... Choose which door. 5... Open it. 6... In your room. 7... On your bed. 8... Now you are dead.

The doll was singing as it was doing the actions that the rhyme described. It went up to Brittany’s room and did some indescribable horror to her with it’s nails.

When the child’s parents went up to her room the next morning they couldn’t find her. Brittany was gone. She seemingly vanished into thin air. There was no blood, no weapons of any kind, or any signs of a kidnapping. The only thing that was out of place was Brittany’s doll that she had loved so much. It had nice coat of what appeared to be red nail polish on it’s fingernails.

The doll reminded Brittany’s mother too much of Brittany. She knew she had to get rid of it, so she did. The mother took it back to the store in the box it came in. The clerk smiled as they left and looked at the little doll. She noticed it was holding up nine fingers now instead of eight.

“Good job,” she whispered, “Now you only need one more person before you become real again.” The clerk then put it on a shelf next to a second doll of a similar type. This doll had no fingers up, and it had lovely blue eyes.

Fin~

 

Hopefully you enjoyed my version of the story.

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I've seen a number of these before, and I have yet to find a single creepypasta that scare me, so I'll be combing through this thread more thoroughly later tonight. But for now, here are some of my absolute favourite creepypastas:

 

"The last man on Earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door."

 

-----------

 

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. In a certain small town Harold, the local gravedigger, upon hearing a bell one night, 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 and pleaded to be unburied.

“Are you Sarah O’Bannon?” Harold asked.

“Yes!” The muffled voice asserted.

“You were born on September 17, 1827?”

“Yes!”

“The gravestone here says you died on February 20, 1857.”

“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 are down there, you sure as hell ain’t alive no more, and you ain’t comin’ up.”

 

-----------

 

A young girl is playing in her bedroom when she hears her mother call to her from the kitchen, so she runs downstairs.

 

As she's running through the hallway, the door to the cupboard under the stairs opens. A hand reaches out and pulls her in. It's her mother. The woman whispers to her child, "Don't go into the kitchen. I heard it too."

 

----------

 

There was a hunter in the woods, who, after a long day hunting, was in the middle of an immense forest. It was getting dark, and having lost his bearings, he decided to head in one direction until he was clear of the increasingly oppressive foliage. After a what seemed like hours, he came across a cabin in a small clearing. Realizing how dark it had grown, he decided to see if he could stay there for the night. He approached, and found the door ajar. Nobody was inside. The hunter flopped down on the single bed, deciding to explain himself to the owner in the morning. As he looked around, he was suprised to see the walls adorned by many portraits, all painted in incredible detail. Without exception, they appeared to be staring down at him, their features twisted into looks of hatred. Staring back, he grew increasingly uncomfortable. Making a concerted effort to ignore the many hateful faces, he turned to face the wall, and exhausted, he fell into a restless sleep.

 

Face down in an unfamiliar bed, he turned blinking in unexpected sunlight. Looking up, he discovered that the cabin had no portraits, only windows.

 

-------------

 

You just moved into your new apartment, in a very big city.

After a year of this life, you have almost given up hope of making any friends, be it at work or any other means. You feel very lonely. After looking for a peaceful place to spend your time, you find a quiet diner on the outskirts of town. The waitress is very attractive. Also, she seems to be the only employee there, ever. You never see anyone else eat there either, ever. The place is perfect for you.

Making love to her becomes a routine. You go there every night for dinner and then to see her.

 

You eventually make other friends, and eat at the diner less and less. After some time, you stop going completely.

 

At a bar with your best friend, you tell him about the fun you had with the waitress at the diner. He says he absolutely must see her. You take him there one night, but the building is in a state of ruin. The front door barely opens. The grimy insides of the diner are disgusting, and behind the counter is a moldy corpse, reeking of pus and rot.

 

When the police come to the scene, they interview both you and your friend. You are shocked to hear that the body is of a runaway girl from another province. The police tell you this is a homicide, and that she was also raped dozens of times after she was killed. The police say they can get a match for DNA and eliminate you as a suspect. You are suddenly very worried.

 

---------

 

Also, this is the best creepypasta collection I've seen in my life. Now that's horror! ^^

 

Ahem. From the best of the best, BOGLEECH!

Gibberish here gets it! <3

Edited by Zovesta

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Same, fuzzzzj. =D Gorepastas are painfully boring, imo.

 

Finishing skimming through this thread, It seems ChocoBrownie has similar tastes in creepypastas for the most part! cool.gif Most of these longer creepypastas tend to make me lose interest, though, sad to say - ones with more than one part, especially. I like 'em short, sweet, weird, and forever left hanging. =P Russian Sleep Experiment is great, so I'm glad someone posted that already. X)

 

Also, Trust was great. <3

 

This is not only my favourite creepypasta, but one of the best short stories I've ever read. More gems I wanna share:

I live in Osaka, Japan and often use the subway to go to work in the morning. One day, when I was waiting for the train, I noticed a homeless man standing in a corner of the subway station, muttering to himself as people passed by. He was holding out a cup and seemed to be begging for spare change.

 

A fat woman passed by the homeless man and I distinctly heard him say, “Pig.”

 

Wow, I thought to myself. This homeless man is insulting people and he still expects them to give him money?

 

Then a tall businessman went by and the homeless guy muttered, “Human.”

 

Human? I can’t argue with that. Obviously, he was human.

 

The next day, I arrived early at the subway station and had some time to kill, so I decided to stand close to the homeless man and listen to his strange mutterings.

 

A thin, haggard-looking man passed in front of him and I heard the homeless guy mutter, “Cow.”

 

Cow? I thought. The man was much too skinny to be a cow. He looked more like a turkey or a chicken to me.

 

A minute or so later, a fat man went by and the homeless man said, “Potato.”

 

Potato? I was under the impression that he called all fat people “Pig”.

 

That day, at work, I couldn’t stop thinking about the homeless man and his puzzling behavior. I kept trying to find some logic or pattern in what he was muttering.

 

Perhaps he has some kind of psychic ability, I thought. Maybe he knows what these people were in a previous life. In Japan, many people believe in reincarnation.

 

I observed the homeless man many times and began to think my theory was right. I often heard him calling people things like “Rabbit” or “Onion” or “Sheep” or “Tomato”.

 

One day, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to ask him what was going on.

 

As I walked up to him, he looked at me and said “Bread.”

 

I tossed some money into his cup and asked him if he had some kind of psychic ability.

 

The homeless man smiled and said, “Yes, indeed. I do have a psychic ability. It is an ability I obtained years ago. But it is not what you might expect. I can’t tell the future or read minds or anything like that.”

 

“Then what is your ability,” I asked eagerly.

 

“The ability is merely to know the last thing somebody ate,” he said.

 

I laughed because I realized he was right. He said “Bread.” The last thing I had eaten for breakfast that day was toast. I walked away shaking my head. Of all the psychic abilities someone could have, that one must be the most useless."

 

 

 

----------

 

 

 

They Go Deep

 

There was frost on the ground, and it was too warm.

 

Looking out from the porch, Abigail saw every blade of grass standing up, white, rigid. There was no bite in the air, no taste of electricity. Something else, maybe, a nectar smell, but not the scent of frost. There were no whorls on the windows, no ferns of ice tracing over the glass.

 

The grass moved in the wind, short and shorn but rippling like wheat.

 

Abigail was an old woman, and the mornings seemed colder every day, but the sun had been out for too long already. The school buses had come and gone, and so had the paper, and, eventually, the mail. It was the last that she had come out for, and she was in only a bathrobe and slippers, and this, even, was stifling under the heat of the sun, not yet willing to give in to autumn, kind enough to let the tomatoes and the dandelions die out in peace.

 

But there were no dandelions.

 

There was the grass, and the grass was rippling, and there was no wind.

 

She walked down the steps.

 

Closer, on an even plane, she could see the peculiarity clearly. What had yesterday been a dense, yellowed lawn, tufted and sprawled in nature’s lax blueprint, was clinical today. Militant. She could see that what had looked like dying leaves in unkempt design was truly row after row of orderly blades pushing up from the dirt, even as teeth, rounded as rats’ tails.

 

Abigail saw a lot of things these days.

 

A cursory glance from side to side showed that the frost had not just touched her yard. It hadn’t inhabited every neat suburban lawn, but dotted from house to house, ignoring some, favoring others. Each house it had chosen had been completely retaken, filling every space where grass had been before. Where boundaries touched without fences, the lines ran straight, green and white as neatly divided as if with painter’s tape.

 

Each icy blade rippled. There was no wind.

 

Abigail wanted her mail.

 

She stepped into the yard, and it retreated around her foot. The frost tails, rat tails, would not be trod on, instead sinking noiselessly into the earth. When she lifted her foot, they rose again, inorganically, pegs out of holes.

 

Her footsteps were cautious at first, but it continued to cede to her, and she put it from her mind. She’d become very good at putting things from her mind. The pills helped, but she worked very hard at her own part of it, and she was proud of that, and she thought the doctors were, too. She wouldn’t put all her burden on the medicine; she would carry her own yoke like the Good Book said, and she would be blessed.

 

When she reached the mailbox, Abigail looked around again, resting against the wicker fence, hand on the wood. It was late afternoon, and soul unseen. Children in schoolhouses, men at work. Women at work. Old women like her, used up, at home, dozing through the heat of the day and huddling against the cold of the night. She hadn’t slept through the night for some years, and it hadn’t been any of the trouble that caused it, simply a lack of pressure. She slept and ate as she needed to, and the days evaporated.

 

Abigail opened the mailbox and sorted its contents. Catalogs, sweepstakes entries. Less each day.

 

She clutched it to her withered breast and returned to the yard, closing the gate behind her. The sea of blades gave way beneath her feet. She smiled faintly at that—she was a queen before her subjects, Moses parting the waters. Moving slowly, taking up a last draught of sunlight, Abigail went into her house and locked the door.

 

She was an old woman, and the pills dulled her senses. It wouldn’t be until she bathed that night that she noticed the scratch on her ankle.

 

The pain wasn’t bad that night, and neither was the TV. Abigail rarely paid much attention to what she watched anymore, but what was on was soothing. There were some shows about selling and buying strange old antiques, and those were the kind she liked best. It didn’t matter if you nodded in and out, and she enjoyed humoring silly fancies that they lighted in her, of her grandmother’s pochette being more than the junk metal she knew it to be, of selling it for six or seven hundred dollars and treating her grand-niece to something her mother would disapprove of. Something ridiculously lavish, a rocking horse from that fancy shop in New York City, or a teddy bear so enormous that the precious girl could sit in its lap and sleep in it.

 

She liked commercials, since they were short and easy to understand, and instead took the longer segments of the shows, where the staff pretended to be angry about made-up conflicts and yelled at each other, to cut at the worm. She didn’t like the yelling, she found it abrasive and tedious.

 

The worm, or what she supposed was a worm, was white like the rat-tail blades of the yard, but more complex, more sophisticated. It was about as thick and long as a child’s finger, and segmented, ending in a split portion like a snake’s tongue or a fly’s foot. It was rigid, skeletal, and dry except for where it emerged from the hole in her leg. The end curled in on itself just a little, fish-hooked, and she found herself idly dragging her fingertips over it when she tired of the yelling, letting it catch her skin just a little.

 

She had tried pulling it out when she first saw it, and there had been a feeling like a knot seizing up her nerves, a terrible sticky heaviness, and she had not tried that again. It was her fault, she supposed, for not dabbing it with iodine much earlier, but it did not hurt to dab it now, so she dutifully freshened up the hole whenever it felt dry, or else whenever she remembered. She had taken one of the few knives left from the kitchen and cut at it sporadically, but with the way her hands shook, she couldn’t keep at one place long enough to break it. Hard as teeth. Silent, still, soothing.

 

The doctor would come tomorrow, was scheduled for her regular visit, so it wouldn’t do to make a fuss. The pain wasn’t bad, although when she got up to take her pills, Abigail hobbled slightly, her leg feeling heavy, full of bone. She had known the nerves were going in her feet, and despite herself, the thought of complications frightened her. She had gone over once to bring a friend a comfort package and pray with her after her feet had gone bad, and hadn’t been ready to see poor Alice with her wound all packed with maggots--maggots, yellowed and squirming and stinking, and Alice had been in good spirits and teased her about how it tickled, but Abigail hadn’t been able to lay hands on her and had gone home sick that afternoon, and thought for as long as it was dark about her last childhood friend lying alone in bed, alone except for all of those worms, turning, turning, turning inside her.

 

She would go mad, she knew. She’d made a promise to herself the next day that if they ever tried to put maggots in her, she’d take an Ace bandage and a good, heavy axe and have her foot off, and rub it in dirt so they couldn’t sew it back on. They could try, but she wouldn’t let them.

 

It shamed her, a little. The doctors were kind, and she tried to be good for them. She took care of herself, she ate what they said, and she exercised. She got her own mail.

 

And now, she was taking care of herself. She was using iodine, and she was keeping her wound elevated, and if it started swelling, she would put ice on it. It would stay safe and still, never turning and turning like poor Alice’s maggots, this lonesome, orderly worm, gentle as a rocking chair. The doctors would be so proud.

 

They would be so proud.

 

 

Fire didn’t work. That hadn’t been their first solution to the polluted ground, they had tried industrial chemicals and pesticides and water and salt before someone suggested burning the damn things down, but it didn’t work. The rat-tails just retreated underground, and there wasn’t any digging them up. They just went deeper and deeper, and God only knew where they ended. Sonar showed forests of them thronging the earth, sliding through bedrock, source unseen. This was after some poor censorkip.gif*** had tried blowing them up, sending shards of the brittle stuff through the air, through Hazmat suits, into skin--some dozens in the trucks now, only to have the scientists show a day later that it would have been useless anyway.

 

They went deep. That was all anyone could say, after a while. They went deep.

 

It was late on the fourth day of the quarantine that they reached the house with the wicker fence. The yard was infested, but the one next to it wasn’t, and the porch wrapped around to the side, making breaking in the sliding glass door a matter of little difficulty.

 

Flashlights swept the room, dark paneling, brown rug. One caught on the television set, casting a shadow over the thing on the couch, illuminating the edges of pins and needles, frost and bone on what was once a leg, an elegant hand, a scalp with a few strands of long silver hair still clinging to it.

 

There was a voice like rustling leaves.

 

“You weren’t worried, were you, Dr. Baxter?”

 

An oath, or a prayer, or a combination of the two, dropped from an agent’s lips, fell muffled into the confines of his suit, disappeared.

 

“An old woman can still take care of herself.”

 

There was clicking in the dark, endless clicking like chattering teeth, as the thing began to stand.

 

“I’ve even been taking my pi--“

 

There was a tedious, loud, abrasive sound, a flash of light, and Abigail’s body moved no more.

 

Her skin rippled.

 

There was no wind.

Edited by Zovesta

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So I wrote this pasta a while ago, and I'd thought I'd share it with everyone. It's actually a retelling of a story I heard at a party in 4th grade. I'm not sure if this based off of anything or if it just came out of my friend's head. Here it is:

 

The Counting Doll

When I was young I heard a story about a very special type of doll. It’s called a “Counting Doll”. These dolls were called that because they had their fingers up as if the doll was counting and they were always extremely realistic looking. They looked like tiny little people. Now I have never seen any sort of doll that fits this description but I’ve heard an amazing story from a friend when I was little. I’d like to tell it to you now dear reader. All names in this story are aliases so don’t bother trying to find these people.

There was once a girl named Brittany (who had lovely blue eyes) who’s parents wanted to give a special birthday present. All this little girl wanted was a doll to play with, so her parents took her to a toy store. Brittany was scanning the shelves for dolls that peaked her interest when one in particular stood out for her. Her dad got the doll off the shelf for her and Brittany decide to buy the cute little toy.

The doll itself was made of plastic but it looked very realistic. It had curly brown hair, a pretty blue dress, lovely green eyes, with the happiest little smile ever. The doll was in a pink box that could be locked with a key that was also included. The sticker on the box simply said, “Counting Doll”. There was no pictures, no warnings, or even a company that made the dolls. But the most interesting feature was that the doll was holding up eight fingers as if it was counting.

When the family went up to the checkout counter the clerk there was surprised that this family was buying this particular product. As the family was about to leave the clerk got Brittany’s attention and motioned her over.

“There are some things I need to tell you about this toy,” whispered the clerk frantically. “There are three rules in keeping this doll. The first is to not get it wet. The second is not to feed it. But the most important rule is to lock it up in the box it came in before going to sleep. The key is in the box with the doll.” The clerk then smiled and cheerily told Brittany, “Now go have fun with it!” The family left then and picked up a friend who also had a doll. They then returned home for a play date.

Brittany and her friend Laura had a wonderful time together with their dolls. The two of them even went swimming while their two dolls were just outside of the pool. Brittany and Laura even got in splash fight causing a little water to get on the dolls. When the water hit the Counting Doll it’s finger nails got a little bit longer. Brittany didn’t even notice. The friends then had a tea party with their dolls and Brittany fed her doll cookies. When the doll ate it’s fingernails got a little bit longer.

Soon Laura left with her doll and the day passed quickly for Brittany. It was time for bed and she remembered to put her doll away in the play room. She put the doll in it’s case and closed it but she forgot to lock it.

 

Some time then passed and it was about 3:00 in the morning. Everyone was asleep. If you listened you could hear a small thumping sound in the play room. The sound was coming from the doll trying to get out of the box. After a few minutes it managed to open the case’s door. There was a dead silence after that. The doll stood up and stepped out of the box like a ballerina. It then started humming for a minute or so but then it started singing… The doll had a child’s voice and it sounded as if it was happy. Sometimes it would even giggle a bit. This is what it sang:

1... Out the room. 2... Down the hall. 3... Up the stairs. 4... Choose which door. 5... Open it. 6... In your room. 7... On your bed. 8... Now you are dead.

The doll was singing as it was doing the actions that the rhyme described. It went up to Brittany’s room and did some indescribable horror to her with it’s nails.

When the child’s parents went up to her room the next morning they couldn’t find her. Brittany was gone. She seemingly vanished into thin air. There was no blood, no weapons of any kind, or any signs of a kidnapping. The only thing that was out of place was Brittany’s doll that she had loved so much. It had nice coat of what appeared to be red nail polish on it’s fingernails.

The doll reminded Brittany’s mother too much of Brittany. She knew she had to get rid of it, so she did. The mother took it back to the store in the box it came in. The clerk smiled as they left and looked at the little doll. She noticed it was holding up nine fingers now instead of eight.

“Good job,” she whispered, “Now you only need one more person before you become real again.” The clerk then put it on a shelf next to a second doll of a similar type. This doll had no fingers up, and it had lovely blue eyes.

Fin~

 

Hopefully you enjoyed my version of the story.

One thing I don't get with this system. There are supposedly 8steps to kill the child but what about the doll with no fingers up? ohmy.gif

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That's because the blue-eyed doll with no fingers up is Brittany, after the doll killed her. ;P Brittany's doll also used to be a human girl - the doll needs to kill/turn 10 human girls in order to become human again.

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Abandoned by Dinsey

 

Some of you may have heard that the Disney corporation is responsible for at least one real, "live" Ghost Town.

Disney built the "Treasure Island" resort in Baker's Bay in the Bahamas. It didn't START as a ghost town! Disney's cruise ships would actually stop at the resort and leave tourists there to relax in luxury.

This is a FACT. Look it up.

 

Disney blew $30,000,000 on the place... yes, thirty million dollars.

 

Then they abandoned it.

 

Disney blamed the shallow waters (too shallow for their ships to safely operate) and there was even blame cast on the workers, saying that since they were from the Bahamas, they were too lazy to work a regular schedule.

That's where the factual nature of their story ends. It wasn't because of sand, and it obviously wasn't because "foreigners are lazy". Both are convenient excuses.

 

No, I sincerely doubt those reasons were legitimate. Why don't I buy the official story?

 

Because of Mowgli's Palace.

 

Near the beachside city of Emerald Isle in North Carolina, Disney began construction of "Mowgli's Palace" in the late 1990s. The concept was a Jungle-themed resort with a large, you guessed it, PALACE in the center of the whole thing.

If you're unfamiliar with the character of Mowgli, then you might better remember the story "The Jungle Book". If you haven't seen it anywhere else, you'd know it as the Disney cartoon from decades past.

Mowgli is an abandoned child, in the jungle, essentially raised by animals and simultaneously threatened/pursued by other animals.

Mowgli's Palace was a controversial undertaking from the start. Disney bought up a ton of high-priced land for the project, and there was actually a scandal surrounding some of the purchases. The local Government claimed "eminent domain" on people's homes, then turned around and sold the properties to Disney. At one point a home that had just been constructed was immediately condemned with little to no explanation.

The land grabbed by the Government was supposedly for some fictional highway project. Knowing full well what was going on, people started calling it "Mickey Mouse Highway".

 

Then there was the concept art. A group of stuffed shirts from Disney Co. actually held a city meeting. They intended to sell everyone on how lucrative this project was going to be for everyone. When they showed the concept art, this gigantic Indian Palace... surrounded by JUNGLE... staffed with men and women in loincloths and tribal gear... well, suffice to say everyone flipped their censorkip.gif.

 

We're talking about a large Indian Palace, Jungle, and Loincloths not only in the center of a relatively wealth area, but also a somewhat "xenophobic" area of the southern USA. It was a questionable mix at that point in history.

 

One member of the crowd tried to storm the stage, but he was quickly subdued by security after he managed to break one of the presentation boards over his knee.

 

Disney took that community and essentially broke it over its knee, as well. The houses were razed, the land was cleared, and there wasn't a damned thing anyone could do or say about it. Local TV and Newspapers were against the resort at the beginning, but some insane connection between Disney's media holdings and the local venues came into play and their opinions turned on a dime.

 

So anyway, Treasure Island, the Bahamas. Disney sunk those millions in and then split. The same thing happened with Mowgli's Palace.

 

Construction was complete. Visitors actually stayed at the resort. The surrounding communities were flooded with traffic and the usual annoyances associated with an influx of lost and irate tourists.

 

Then it all just stopped.

 

Disney shut it down and nobody knew what the Hell to think. But they were pretty happy about it. Disney's loss was pretty hilarious and wonderful to a large group of folks who didn't want this in the first place.

 

I honestly didn't give the place another thought since hearing it closed over a decade ago. I live maybe four hours from Emerald Isle, so really I only heard the rumblings and didn't experience any of it first-hand.

 

Then I read this article from someone who had explored the Treasure Island resort and posted a whole blog about all the crazy censorkip.gif he found there. Stuff just... left behind. Things smashed, defaced, probably ruined by the disgruntled former employees who had lost their jobs.

 

Hell, the locals from all around probably had a hand in wrecking that place. People there felt just as angry about Treasure Island as folks here did about Mowgli's Palace.

 

Plus there were rumors that Disney had released their aquarium "stock" into the local waters when they closed... including sharks.

 

Who wouldn't want to take a few swings at some merchandise after that?

 

Well, what I'm getting at is that this blog about Treasure Island got me thinking. Even though many years had passed since its closing, I figured it might be cool to do some "Urban Exploration" at Mowgli's Palace. Take some photos, write about my experience, and probably see if there was anything I could take home as a memento.

 

I'm not going to say I wasted no time in getting there, because honestly it took me another year after I first found that Treasure Island article to get around to going up to Emerald Isle.

 

Over the course of that year, I did a lot of research on the Palace resort... or rather, I tried to.

 

Naturally, no official Disney site or resource made any mention of the place. That had been scrubbed clean.

 

Even odder, however, was that nobody before myself had apparently thought to blog about the place or even post a photo. None of the local TV or Newspaper sites had one word about the place, though that was to be expected since they had all swung Disney's way. They wouldn't be out there lauding their embarrassment, you know?

 

Recently, I learned that corporations can actually ask Google, for example, to remove links from search results... basically for no good reason. Looking back, it's probably not that nobody spoke of the resort, but rather their words were made inaccessible.

 

So in the end I could barely find the place. All I had to go on was an old-as-hell map I'd received in the mail back in the 90s. It was a promotional item sent out to people who had recently been to Disney world, and I guess since I had been there in the late 80s, that was "recent".

 

I didn't really intend to hang onto it. It just got shoved in with my books and comics from my childhood. I'd only remembered it months into my research, and even then it took me another few weeks to locate the storage bin my parents had shoved it all into.

 

But I DID find it. Locals were no help, as most were transplants who had moved to the beach in recent years... or old residents who just sneered at me and made rude gestures the second I managed to say "Where would I find Mowgli's---"

 

The drive took me through an inordinately long corridor of overgrowth. Tropical plants that had run rampant and overpopulated the area mixed with the native species of flora that actually BELONGED there and had tried to reclaim the land.

 

I was in awe when I reached the front gates of the resort. Tremendous, monolithic wooden gates whose supports to either side looked like they must've been cut from giant sequoias. The gate itself had been gouged in several places by woodpeckers and eaten away at the base by burrowing insects.

 

Hanging on the gate was a sheet of metal, some random scrap, with hand-painted letters scrawled in black. "ABANDONED BY DISNEY". Clearly the handiwork of some past local or an employee who wanted to make some small protest.

 

The gates were open enough to walk through, but not drive, so grabbing my digital camera and the map, whose flip-side showed a layout of the resort, I set off on foot.

 

The inner grounds of the place were just as overgrown as the entryway. Palm tree stood untended and ragged among piles of their own coconuts. Banana plants similarly stood in their own stinking, bug-riddled refuse. There was this sort of clash between order and chaos, as carefully planted rows of perennial flowers mixed with obnoxious tall weeds and stinking, blackened mushrooms.

 

All that remained of any outdoor structures were broken, rotting wood and various charred bits of unidentifiable material. What was most likely an information booth or an outdoor bar was now simply a pile of assorted debris chopped up by past vandalism and ravaged by weather.

 

The most interesting thing on the grounds was a statue of Baloo, the friendly bear from the Jungle Book, which stood in a sort of courtyard in front of the main building. He was frozen in a jovial wave toward no one, staring into empty space with a silly, toothy grin as bird censorkip.gif covered whole swaths of his "fur" and vines ensnared his platform.

 

I approached the main building - the PALACE - only to find the outside of the building covered in graffiti where the original paint hadn't peeled and chipped away. The front doors weren't just open, they had been taken off their hinges and were stolen.

 

Above the front doors, or the gaping maw where they had been, someone had once again painted "ABANDONED BY DISNEY".

 

I wish I could tell you about all the awesome stuff I saw inside the Palace. Forgotten statues, abandoned cash registers, a full-fledged secret society of homeless bums... but no.

 

The inside of the building was so stark, so bare, that I actually think people had stolen the molding off the walls. Anything that was too big to steal... counters, desks, giant fake trees... they were all resting amid this empty echo chamber that amplified my every step like a slow rat-a-tat of a machine gun.

 

I checked the floorplan and headed to all the locations that might seem in any way interesting.

 

The kitchen was as you'd imagine... an industrial food prep area with all the appliances and space, no expenses spared. Every glass surface was broken, every door knocked off its hinges, every metal surface kicked and dented. The entire place smelled like very old piss.

 

The huge freezer, not even remotely cool now, had row upon row of empty shelf space. Hooks hung from the ceiling, probably for hanging cuts of meat, and as I stood inside for a moment, I noticed they were swinging.

 

Each hook swung in a random direction, but their movements were so slow and small that it was almost impossible to see. I figured it had been caused by my footsteps, so I stopped one from swinging by clutching it in my fist, then carefully letting go, but within seconds it started to swing once more.

 

The bathrooms were in much the same state as the rest of the place. Just like the Treasure Island resort, someone had methodically smashed each porcelain commode with coconuts and other implements. There was about a half inch of rancid, stinking stagnant water on the floor, so I didn't stay there very long.

 

What's odd is that the toilets and the sinks (and the bidets in the ladies' room, yes I went there) all dripped, leaked, or just ran freely. It seemed to me that they should've shut the water off long, LONG ago.

 

There were plenty of rooms in the resort, but naturally I didn't have time to look through them all. The few I did peer into were similarly wrecked, and I didn't expect to find anything there. I thought there was actually a television or radio in one room, as I really think I heard a quiet conversation coming out.

 

Though it was like a whisper, probably my own breathing echoing in the silence, or just another case of the sound of flowing water playing tricks on the mind, this is what it sounded like...

 

1: "I didn't believe it."

 

2: (short, unknown reply)

 

1: "I didn't know that. I didn't know that."

 

2: "Your father told you."

 

1: (unknown reply, or possibly just weeping.)

 

I know, I know, that sounds ridiculous. I'm just telling you what I experienced, why I thought there might've been something running in that room - or worse, some vagrants who had holed up there and probably would've knifed me.

 

At the front doors of the Palace again, I figured I hadn't found anything of note and had wasted the trip up.

 

As I looked out the door, I noticed something interesting in the courtyard that I had apparently missed. Something that would give me at least ONE thing to show for all my trouble, even if it was just a photograph.

 

There as a lifelike statue of a python, maybe eighty feet long, coiled up and "sunning" itself on a pedestal right in the center of the area. It was almost time for the sun to start setting, so the light fell onto the object in the PERFECT way for a photograph.

 

I approached the python and snapped a photo. Then I stood on my toes and snapped another. I moved closer again to get the detail of its face.

 

Slowly, casually, the python lifted its head, looked directly into my eyes, turned, and slithered off the pedestal, across the grass, and into the trees.

 

All eighty feet of it. Its head long disappeared into the woods before its tail even left the sunning spot.

 

Disney had released all their exotic animals onto the grounds. Right there on my floorplan map was the "Reptile House". I should have known. I'd read about the sharks at Treasure Isle, and I should have KNOWN they'd done this.

 

I was dumbfounded, just utterly stupefied. My mouth must've been hanging open for the longest time before I came back down to Earth and snapped it shut. I blinked a few times and backed away from where the snake had been, back toward the Palace.

 

Even though it was totally gone, I still wasn't taking any chances and backed my way into the building.

 

It took a few deep breaths and slaps to my own face to get myself right in the head again after that.

 

I looked for a place to sit down, as my legs were feeling a bit like jelly at this point. Of course, there WAS no place to sit down unless I wanted to recline in the broken glass and dead leaf carpet or haul myself up onto a desk of questionably reliability.

 

I had seen some stairs near the Palace's lobby and decided to go have a seat there until I felt better.

 

The staircase was far enough away from the front of the building to be relatively clean, save for a startling accumulation of dust. I pulled a wedge of metal off the wall, once again painted with the "ABANDONED BY DISNEY" motto I'd become accustomed to. I placed the wedge on the stairs and sat on it to keep at least somewhat clean.

 

The stairway led downward, below ground level. Using my camera flash as a sort of improvised flashlight, I could see that the stair case ended in a metal mesh door with a padlock. A sign on the door... a REAL sign... read "MASCOTS ONLY! THANK YOU!".

 

This perked up my spirits a little bit, for two reasons. One, a Mascots-Only area would have definitely had some interesting stuff back in the day... Two, the padlock was still in place. Nobody had gone down there. Not the vandals, not the looters, nobody.

 

This was the one place I could actually "explore" and perhaps find something interesting to photograph or wantonly steal. I had come to the Palace essentially agreeing with myself that it was okay to take anything I wanted because - hey - "abandoned".

 

It didn't take much to bust the lock. Well, actually that's wrong. It didn't take much to bust the metal plate on the wall that the padlock was hooked to. Time and decay had done most of the work for me, and I was able to bend the metal plate enough to pull the screws out of the wall - something nobody else had apparently thought of, or hadn't been able to do at the time.

 

The Mascots-Only area was a startling and very welcomed change from the rest of the building I'd seen. For one, every second or third fluorescent light overhead was illuminated, even though they flickered and faded randomly. Also, nothing had been stolen or broken, even if age and exposure were definately taking their toll.

 

Tables had note pads and pens, there were clocks... even a punch-in clock on the wall complete with filled-out time cards. Chairs were scattered around and there was even a small break room with an old, static-filled television and long rotted-out food and drink on the counters.

 

It was like one of those post-apocalypse movies where everything is left in the state of evacuation.

 

As I walked the maze-like sub-basement hallways of the Mascots-Only area, the sights just became more and more interesting. As I went further, desks and tables were knocked over, papers scattered and almost melded with the damp floor, and a large carpet of mold was slowly overtaking the real rotting crimson floor-covering.

 

Everything was just sort of "squishy". Anything wood disintegrated into mush when I applied even the least amount of force, and clothing items hanging on hooks in one of the rooms simply fell to moist threads if I tried to unhook them.

 

One thing that annoyed me was that the light was becoming more sparse and unreliable as I went further into the dank, suffocating depths of the place.

 

Eventually, I reached a black and yellow striped door with the words "CHARACTER PREP 1" stenciled on it.

 

The door wouldn't open at first. I figured this was probably where the costumes were kept, and I definately wanted a photograph of that twisted, stinking mess. Try as I might, whatever angle or trick I tried, the door wouldn't budge.

 

That is, until I gave up and started to walk away. That was when there was a slight popping sound and the door creaked open slowly.

 

Inside, the room was completely dark. Pitch black. I used the camera flash to look for a light switch in the wall buy the door, but there was nothing.

 

As I made my search, I was jarred out of my sense of excitement by a loud electrical buzz. Rows of lights overhead suddenly flashed to life, flickering and fading in and out like the rest I had passed.

 

It took a second for my eyes to adjust, and it seemed like the light was going to just keep getting brighter until all the bulbs exploded... but just when I thought it would reach that critical stage, the lights dimmed a bit and steadied.

 

The room was exactly as I had pictured it. Various Disney costumes hung on the walls, fully put together like strange cartoon cadavers hung from invisible nooses.

 

There was an entire rack of loincloths and "native" clothes on hangers toward the back.

 

What I found odd, and what I wanted to photograph right away, was a Mickey Mouse costume at the center of the room. Unlike the other costumes, it was lying on its back in the center of the floor like a murder victim. The fur on the costume was rotten and shedding, creating bare patches.

 

What was even odder, however, was the coloring of the costume. It was like a photo negative of the actual Mickey Mouse. Black where he should be white and white where he should be black. His normally red overalls were light blue.

 

The sight was off-putting enough that I actually put off photographing the thing until last.

 

I took a picture of the costumes hanging on the walls. Upward angles, downward angles, side shots to show an entire row of frozen, putrid cartoon faces, some with plastic eyes missing.

 

Then I decided to stage a shot. Just one of the bedraggled character heads on the slick, grimy floor.

 

I reached for the headpiece of a Donald Duck costume and carefully removed it so the thing wouldn't fall apart in my hands.

 

As I looked into the face of the wide-eyed, moldering head, a loud clattering sound made me jump with fright.

 

I looked down at my feet, and there between my shoes was a human skull. It had fallen out of the mascot head and shattered into pieces at me feet; only the empty face and lower jaw remained, staring up at me.

 

I dropped the Duck head immediately, as you'd expect, and moved for the door. As I stood in the doorway, I looked back to the skull on the floor.

 

I had to take a picture of it, you know? I HAD to, for any number of reasons that may seem silly, but only if you don't think it through.

 

I'd need proof of what happened, especially if Disney was going to somehow make this go away. I had no doubt in my mind, right from the start, that even if it was just gross negligence, Disney was RESPONSIBLE for this.

 

That's when Mickey, that photo negative, opposite-Mickey in the middle of the floor, started to get up.

372reverse mickey

SadofreedomistAdded by Sadofreedomist

 

First sitting up, then climbing to its feet, the Mickey Mouse costume... or whoever was inside of it, stood there at the center of the room, its fake face just starting directly at me as I mumbled "No..." over and over and over...

 

With shaking hands, a violently thrashing heart, and legs that had once again turned to jelly, I managed to lift the camera and aim it at the opposite creature now quietly sizing me up.

 

The digital camera's screen displayed only dead pixels in the shape of the thing. It was a perfect silhouette of the Mickey costume. As the camera moved in my unsteady hands, the dead pixels spread, marring the screen wherever Mickey's outline moved to.

 

Then the camera died. Went blank and quiet and... broken.

 

I raised my eyes once again to the Mickey Mouse costume.

 

"Hey," it said in a hushed, perverted, but perfectly executed Mickey Mouse voice, "Wanna see my head come off?"

 

It started to pull at its own head, working its clumsy, glove-clad fingers around its neck with clawing, impatient movements similar to a wounded man trying to pull himself free of a predator's jaws...

 

As it worked its digits into its neck... so much blood...

 

So much thick, chunky, yellow blood...

 

I turned away as I heard a sickening tearing of cloth and flesh... only cared about getting away. Above the doorway out of this room, I saw the final message clawed into the metal with bone or fingernails...

 

"ABANDONED BY GOD"

 

I never got the pictures out of the camera. I never wrote the blog entry about it. After I ran from that place, fled for my sanity if not my very life, I knew why Disney didn't want anyone to know about this place.

 

They didn't want anyone like me getting in.

 

They didn't want anything like that getting out.

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sad.gif *is terrified at Shadowwolf6's article "Abandoned by Disney* Why did I read that. Ugh. sleep.gif I creeped out by the negative Mickey removing his head.

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That's why I posted it o.o

Of all the creepypasta's I've read, this one was just... e.e

 

And I don't suppose SCP counts as creepypasta?

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And I don't suppose SCP counts as creepypasta?

I clicked your link out of interest (never heard of it before) and wow, that is some cool stuff. *goes off to read some more*

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Oh, may I tell some scary story here?

 

Okay. So there is some belief/ superstition here in the Phil. if one sees a reflection of someone, without the person's head, that person will die soon. The thing to counter-curse was said to be for that person to burn his/her clothes and/or if he/she is travelling, to not go to the destiny so soon.

 

So, once, there was this girl. She was travelling in the province. It was late in the afternoon, near dusk. She rode a jeepney. And as time passed, the passengers got off the jeep, save for the girl and the passenger beside the driver, who is a male. After awhile, she noticed that the driver was talking to the passenger beside him. They were both looking at the rearview mirror in the direction of the girl, and were talking. The girl ignored them. But some time passed, she looked out and saw that the way was not going for her destination. She got nervous and wondered if the two were accomplices and were planning to lead her astray and rape her. After awhile, the other passenger got off. The driver then asked her where her home is, to which the girl replied. The jeep then got to the girl's house and after she got off, the driver then told her that she should burn the clothes she was wearing since he saw her with no head in the mirror awhile back. That was why he was talking to other passenger and went astray first.

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^ WHAT thats it ohmy.gif that was a good one! You sure that the end >_<^

You do know that the dark heart story was made by Fun2havaround, the creator of the pastatown rp.

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That awkward moment when you've read most of these.

I friggen love creepypastas.

But my favorites are and will always be:

 

-The Russian Sleep Experiment

-The Showers

-Xorax

-Persuaded

-Darkness

-Self Preservation

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