Welcome to Crappypasta! This is the companion site to Creepypasta.com, and here is where you’ll find stories that we deemed not quite ready for the big leagues. If I believe that a story has potential but just isn’t quite there yet, I’ll post it here with some tags explaining my reasoning. The community at large can then offer their feedback and constructive criticism to aid the author in fully realizing their story’s potential.
However, if the community is in agreement that I made an error in judgement and the story should be accepted for the main site as-is, they may upvote the Crappypasta. If a story hits the (undisclosed for obvious reasons) correct ratio of positive to negative votes, I’ll move it to the primary Creepypasta archive, complete with a note of my taste fail!
You may read a more in-depth explanation of this process here.
I use the categories to give succinct feedback on each story posted. Rather than write out comments on every pasta, I make my feelings known via the categories that I assign to each specific post. This is done manually and on a per-pasta basis, so if you received a certain category on your story, that is my feedback to you.
You may read full descriptions of each category and how to interpret them as feedback/criticism here.
Note that due to how the sites have evolved, many categories are now outdated. In the dawn of this website, I didn’t get nearly as many submissions as I do now. As such, I was able to post and categorize every single eligible rejected story, even stories that I personally felt had a snowball’s chance in hell of being moved to the main site.
Nowadays, however, this would be an unrelenting sea of nonsense – most open-submission days garner well over a hundred submissions, and it’s statistically likely that only one or two of those will be more than a short, low-effort, all-lowercase paragraph. To prevent a flood of slush, I now only post stories that I believe have potential to be rewritten or upvoted to the main site.
All this is to say that some categories will almost certainly be archive-only from now on, simply because I can’t imagine a situation where I’d actually be posting a story that would deserve the “THIS IS STUPID” tag – it just doesn’t match up with how the site operates anymore.
The most frequent issues raised by new visitors are those of intended meanness and author permission. Please be reassured that if a story was posted here, it was submitted to me directly (I don’t go trawling the internet for stories to mock) with the author giving EXPLICIT permission for me to post their work here if it didn’t make the cut for the main creepypasta archive.
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That said, there will always be people who do not grasp the site’s function and leave comments accusing everyone leaving even benign, helpful feedback of bullying. Such comments are at each individual mod’s discretion on whether or not they will be approved, but if a comment section gets completely derailed due to misunderstanding-based white knighting, I will likely remove the comment chain in order to get the post back on track: we are here to give feedback, not argue with people who can’t be bothered to read this very blurb!
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[DISCLAIMER]: This is not referencing the Juniper Woods near New York in the USA. Near where I live(which I won’t reveal), there is a forest. Local people called it Juniper Woods, as it was close by to the street known as Juniper Lane. Enough with the TL;DR disclaimers, you want the creepy.
Crunch, crunch, crunch. The dried leaves below my boots crinkled as I strolled deeper into the forest. I trod on a broken oak wood sign. It read; ‘Juniper Woods: BEWARE’. I thought nothing of it and continued down into the darkness.
It was only last week when people started to mysteriously disappear into Juniper Woods, myself – being the curious person I was – I decided to enter those woods. It was getting darker and darker and the shadows twisted around the tree branches. I looked behind me, the sign wasn’t there despite the fact I had only walked a few metres since I last saw it. Things were getting strange.
In the distance, a light pierced the dense fog. It was a cabin. I dashed toward it. Inside was a tall, middle-aged man around the age of 40. I knocked on the door, and he opened it, welcoming me inside. I asked him, “Do you know about any of the disappearances around these parts?” The man didn’t reply, he just shook his head. I asked if I could stay for the night and he agreed. He pulled out a small inflatable mattress for me and gave me a small coat to use as a blanket. He sat down to sleep on the sofa across the other side of the cabin.
It was getting late. I checked my watch. The batteries had gone. I turned my flashlight off and decided to get some sleep. I was suddenly woken up by loud banging sounds from outside. The man was gone. I heard some scratching too, like someone was running their nails down the side of the cabin. I sat up on the mattress. I heard a thump from outside, then again, then a sound that was like someone banging trash cans together. I got up and peered through the window on the cabin. I saw the man lying on the ground, unconscious, before seeing what looked like a young child dragging him away.
I was starting to get paranoid. I slipped on my boots and ran outside. It was raining, badly. The man was gone, along with the other figure. There were scratches along the wall of the cabin and there was rubbish everywhere. I figured the man was knocked out by being hit by the can. Not knowing what had happened, I ran deeper into the forest. I reached an open patch of dirt, where I stopped to regain some breath.
The person who was dragging the man away was getting closer to me. I could get a clearer look at their facial features. They had a grey coat on, and underneath that there was a black gingham shirt. It appeared to be male. Fearing my own life, I turned and ran, but he saw me and gave chase. He was quick on his feet, catching up to me in seconds. I picked up my pace, before slipping on the muddy ground and falling backwards onto my back. At that point, all I could see was his face, a cricket bat, and then darkness…
I woke up some time later, where I saw the man from the cabin, and others. They were all people who had disappeared! The person who had chased me down was gone, the only thing other than dead bodies was a phone. My stomach hurt and I was dehydrated. It picked up the phone, clicking the power button. Thankfully, it still had some life left in it. I punched in 999, to see if I could tell the emergency services… But the signal was down. I was terrified. I looked behind me, seeing a wood chipper. I was even more scared. The man must be collecting lost people from the forest and shredding them in wood chippers! The man returned. Seeing as I was still alive, he picked me for the most painful way out. I tried to push him back, but it was too late, he kicked me in the stomach and I fell to my knees.
“See you later…”
I heard the wood chipper turn on. He pressed my head on the metal. I closed my eyes. As I thought all hope was lost, a policeman rushed to the scene. The man dropped me and I fell to the ground. I rolled under the wood chipper as the man attacked the police officer. I felt queasy. Seeing this as a chance for my escape, I dashed for the fence. I stopped as the man stumbled backwards. He tripped over my back and onto the wood chipper. In a display of blood and gore, his body was shredded completely. Not thinking of anything else, I ran for the trail back to the cabin.
It was getting brighter as the sun rose. I picked up some supplies from the cabin and dashed out of the woods.
While that murderer may not be at large anymore, I’d advise you not to head down to Juniper Woods. Or this same story may happen to you.
Credit: Jack Tansley
Credit Link: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCyVYkZY4BmVTtAmr0D8O_RQ
It all started with a vivid dream. I was in a super market picking out groceries for the upcoming week. I never knew what it was about that place, but I always felt comfortable there. Meandering about the winding isles, I would often find myself thinking deeply about my worries and problems, like some bizarre form of therapy. So, when I found myself there in the haze of subconsciousness, familiarity helped relax me, but it also made the following events seem all the more real.
As I approached the produce section, my mind elsewhere, I passed a large mirror, the type that is designed to make the room appear larger than it really is. I stopped in my tracks. An inexplicable sense of dread had filled my soul in the brief moment that I had walked in front of it. Curious, I approached the mirror again and that same feeling of terror griped me. I quickly snapped my head around in all directions, checking my surroundings, but I found that I was indeed alone. Yet, staring back at me through the mirror, a group of twelve people appeared to stand right behind me.
I shiver as I recall the intense hatred their eyes emanated as they glared at me. Their faces bore such intense malice that it was as if not even the most excruciating and painful punishment imaginable would satisfy their loathing. As our eyes remained locked for what seemed like several minutes, I tried to recognize who they were and, although a few of them seemed familiar somehow, all of their names escaped me.
When I finally felt more curiosity than fear, I asked them in a trembling voice, “Who are you?”
They answered immediately and in unison, “We are they whom you oppose. We are they whom you threaten with your existence.”
Because of how angry they looked, I was taken aback with how calmly they spoke, echoing some sort of controlled and rational hatred.
“You may be unaware of the risk you pose to us, but we will not allow you to hinder our agendas nor risk your involvement.”
Somehow I had threatened these people, if they were even human at all.
“Are you going to kill me?” I asked, fearing the worst.
In one motion, they raised their hands and pointed to the ceiling, as though they were lecturers that were about to deliver a powerful declaration. “We cannot harm you from where we are, but we will send to you a representative.” I saw a smile of malice cross their faces. “He will watch you.”
They paused a moment, allowing me to process their unexpected promise.
Their faces became gravely serious. “You are to accept our representative. But know this. If you harm him in any way, we assure you that your end will be far more unpleasant and painful than you have ever imagined.”
Suddenly, as if a switch was flipped, their anger turned violent. Within the mirror, they pounced on me. My vision faded as I saw them tear my reflection apart.
I awoke with a start, sweat beading on my forehead. The dream had been so vivid that recalling its events felt like remembering a memory.
It was not a minute later when I heard a knock at the door. I lumbered over and looked out the peephole, only to see the darkness of night. When I opened the door, I saw a baby bundled up in a basket. He was not crying or sleeping as a normal baby would, left abandoned in the cold, but he was silently staring straight at me with an unnatural intelligence in his eyes. A familiar sense of dread washed over me as our eyes met.
Immediately I remembered the beings from my dream. Was this the representative that had promised to send? As I scanned the street for the mother, I got the sense that whoever was behind this was part of some sort of obscure but powerful secret organization.
Cautiously, I brought the baby inside and set his basket on the kitchen table. His eyes remained fixed on me. We stared at each other for a few minutes before my eyelids grew heavy and I retreated back to bed.
In the morning, when I woke up and walked to the kitchen, the baby was there, his gaze still on me. I tried to ignore him, but those dark eyes of his seemed to pry into my head whenever my back was turned. He always watched me, as if he could see the contents of my soul by studying my eyes. Even when there were walls between us, I could tell that he was still watching me. I couldn’t focus on anything and I accomplished little that morning. Then reason kicked in. This wasn’t my child. I should turn him in to an orphanage.
Less than an hour later I was standing in front of the local institution with the baby in my arms. In my head, I had recited what I would say dozens of times and how I would not take no for an answer. But as stood there, I looked at the baby and an overwhelming sense of dread overtook me as his cold, knowing eyes bore into me. I knew he was the representative. He was here to watch me. If I made his mission difficult, those people in my dream would not be happy.
Raising a child, especially one that is not your own, is a difficult task that requires full attention. Despite the hard work that I knew I was in for, I had extensive experience. I raised two children, who now have families of their own, so I understood how to care for a baby. I decided to retire from my job at the news station, a bit earlier than I had previously anticipated, in order to have the time I needed to look after him as he looked after me. At times he would cry for milk and other needs a normal infant would have, but most of the time he would just watch me. That feeling of uneasiness never left me, but I grew accustomed to it.
As he grew, more people noticed the newest addition to my family and began to ask questions. I simply told them I was lonely and chose to adopt a child out of the kindness of my heart. I omitted how I had never had a choice in the mater and how the child had actually chosen me. People congratulated me for my decision, but I grew to resent the child. I had only a fraction of the free time that I used to. I longed to go off to exercise and see my family like I used to, but every time I tried to leave the house, the child would scream for attention, as if on cue. I couldn’t leave him in fear of the dream that was still so vivid in my mind. I got in the habit of using delivery services. The house felt like a prison.
Years went by, and the child grew up. He always watched me. When he was old enough to walk, he would find his way into my room and stare at me while I slept. He never spoke, except for the occasional reminder to keep him in sight, his disapproval for whenever I tried to leave, and requests for food. No body asked about the child or came to visit me by that time. It was as if I no longer existed.
One day, he disappeared. I looked all over for him, but the only sign I could find was an open window and a note that read, “Our future is secure, but we will still be watching you.”
I did not know what he had meant by that until many years later when I had turned on the news to see eerily familiar figures standing before a large crowd of people. One of them had proudly accepted their nomination for president of the United States. As thunderous applause met their dark eyes, I knew something had gone very wrong.
He had been walking for hours now. He had forgotten how many times he had passed that same building. Rotten, destroyed, half of the wooden building missing and in rubble.
Every day he went on walks. He had never gotten this far, though, and had wondered to himself why he had never walked as far as five miles. Living in a rural area, he knew he could probably walk a long time and get home easily by just following the road, but he still ended up going as far as maybe one or two miles, and that was at the most before he got tired, sat down, and went home. This time was different. This time he couldn’t help but feel an ache in his stomach when he left the house, like he knew he would find something he didn’t like in his perfect foothills, overlaid with grass, wild wheat, and wild flowers.
Finally, he stopped. He looked at the building, which he kept coming to in all of its rot and filth, and knew it was calling to him. The reason was unknown to him, and he could only find one entrance. Dark, but showing some light, as though to console him. That was when, looking at the entrance, he had seen the yard.
It looked as if it had been untended for years. At this point, he was more afraid of the overgrowth and the possible snakes living in it rather than this excuse for a house. Yes, he loved abandoned places, but with an unkempt exterior and looking so rotted in a beautiful place…it just didn’t fit. None of it did. This angered the man.
“Why do you have to exist?! Why are you here, and why in this beautiful place?!” the man roared at the house, and obviously not getting a response.
The man took a step into the wild and tangled yard, and realized how his leg went through the grass with ease, as though nothing clung. Nothing resisted, and he felt nothing against the grass. No movement from animals, no movement from bugs, no movement from the grass. He had no resistance, as though the grass was tended to, but with the purpose of being smooth and clear of all things to resist movement.
The man kept moving, somewhat unnerved by this odd detail. He kept going, then stepped up to the entrance. A small, thin door, perfect for his frame. Covering the top and sides of the frame on the outside of the door was poison ivy and other vines, sprawling towards the now broken windows. The man looked through the door. Blackness. He could make out a small kitchen at the far right side of the house with another window with light shining through the apparent window there. Only counters and tiled floor was left there. The man looked to the left, and saw the outside. When he looked down on the left side, he realized how much was truly destroyed. Wires, pipes, everything had fallen to the bottom floor. They all lay together in a massive pile, as well as having rusted metal and nails in the pile’s top.
“Tetanus galore,” the man said jokingly. “Good thing I’m not going down there.”
The man looked at the flooring to see if it was safe to step into the house. The floor was wooden, and somewhat destroyed to where the entrance was. As his eyes adjusted, he looked more at the right side. He saw a couch and a small TV, but the TV only having a black screen saying it was on the AV screen. That’s when it hit the man.
“Electricity? But…no food? Nothing? It’s like some wasteland like after…” the man’s voice trailed off, as though saying the words he was about to would hit a nerve. He wanted to forget everything before now. Now is all that matters, right?
He walked into the house, the wood creaking under his rugged boots. He went to the television and looked at the couch. Somewhat destroyed, but not eaten up by maggots or decomposed by termites yet. No signs of them either. He sat on the couch, and then began to lay down. Looking at the small “AV” icon at the top-left of the TVs screen, he drifted to sleep.
The man woke up, startled by this voice. Dreary eyed, looking around, he saw it was no longer the afternoon. Rather, a peaceful twilight. He looked to the source of the voice, and saw a small finger jammed in his face. Pointed into a finger gun, he saw the little boy in tarnished clothing pointing at him. The boy’s face covered in dust and mud.
“I caught you in my house, mister! What did you think was going to happen when you trespass? You get shot!” the boy said joyfully with a wide smile across his face.
“The hell are you doing? And what do you mean by your house?” the man asked.
The boy took his fingers from the mans face and walked to the TV. He crouched down and looked at the cable box under the TV, starting to mess with it.
“This is my house. Ma and pa left a while back to get the people at the trash place to get the trashcans. They always forget, those clumsy fellows! But, hey, can’t be too mad. They have the hardest job on Earth!” the boy went on.
“W-what? Kid, have you looked outside?”
The boy looked at the man, perplexed.
“Why, yes sir! That’s why I am trying to stay home! It seems every day nature is taking the world back to being hers. That’s why I’m here. I’m meant to keep nature at bay, to make sure I live, as well as my family, when they come back that is, and to make sure there’s some semblance of life,” the boy said, trying to sound mature.
The man looked at the boy. The hell was he doing alone? And how is it that the wires and nails haven’t hurt him, or even killed him yet? Has he ever hurt himself?
“By the way,” the boy added, “you never told me your name. You came to me and never explained why.”
“Came to you? Ah, I guess I did,” the man replied. “My name is…well, I can’t seem to remember. I’ve been forcing myself to forget my past for so long that I guess I can’t remember.”
The boy looked at the man angrily.
“Liar. Exodus 20:16, ‘You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.’ Be honest, for you have lied to yourself ever since you stepped into my house.”
“Th-the Bible? Where did you learn about the Bible, let alone memorize the phrases?” the man asked, worried more and more as the boy looked at him.
“Me? Have you not found out yet?” the boy asked the man. “It’s my word. It’s the word you should have obeyed, but you seem to have not obeyed it. Instead, you focused on what was around you rather than what you were meant to do. The vanity of the world. Ecclesiastes 1:2, ‘Vanity of vanities, for all is vanity.’ You disobeyed humanity, as well as me. Why did you leave your home?”
“Wait…wait, you’re saying you are God? Then why do you say you live in this terrible house?” the man asked skeptically.
“Fool,” the boy said, “this is my house, as well as your house. This is the house all life of mine shares together. What you see is what you have done to your world.”
“Prove it,” the man said.
As the man said this, the boy pressed the power button on the TV. The TV began to flash images, all of them moments of the man’s life.
“Your birth, your first lie, your first day at school, your first date,” the boy said. “Your first kiss, your first job, your graduation, your girlfriend who you married, your marriage, your children, and all who you-”
“No!” the man cut the boy off, “I refuse to hear it! Th-this isn’t real. How did I even die, supposedly? Can you tell me that, boy?!”
“You refuse to hear your crimes? You refuse to hear of the ones you murdered, of the ones you tortured and raped? Why?” the boy asked.
“Tell me,” the man demanded sadly, “how I died.”
“Well, it’s coming up. But do you regret all that you have done? Do you know what you have done is wrong?” the boy asked.
“Yes! Yes, I admit what I have done is wrong! I have sinned!” the man cried, bursting into tears. “I’m not worthy of heaven. I’m not worthy of even this conversation! Just…please! Don’t make me face them! I’ve hurt them all, thinking there was a reason, thinking them all criminals! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” the man wept, putting his face into the ground.
The boy went to the man and tilted his chin up from the ground with his hand.
“Thank you,” the boy said gently, “Now, go home. Go home and fix what you have done.”
The man could only nod, dirt and tears trickling down his face. The boy faded away, and the man could only look at the TV while on the ground in front of the couch. He slowly got up, and left the house.
He began to wander back down the road where he had came from. When he finally got home, he walked into the entrance.
A basement. Cold and damp. Wooden pillars holding up the flooring of the floor above. He looked at the wall. A woman was there, hooked to the wall with chains, looking at him with her mouth covered in tape and pleading sadness in her eyes. In his hand was his knife, on his head a mask. The basement floor stained with places with red, where blood had been from prior victims. His clothes were gone, all but the mask. He realized what he had been doing. He couldn’t do it, not anymore. He went to the woman looked her up and down.
He hit her with the back of his blade, knocking her out. He put his clothes on and took off his mask. He put the blade away in his pocket and unhooked the woman. He took her up to his car and drove her to the hospital, claiming that she was hurt and that he had found her on the road. He then left, and went to an open chapel. He repented for all he had done.
The next day, his body was found out in front of the chapel with a note saying only:
My abilities started when I was very young. I was always one of those weird kids that seemed too close to the veil. I started sensing and seeing spirits when I turned thirteen. I sensed my biological grandmother who I never got the chance to meet. She actually saved my life once, but that’s a story for another day. The story I want to focus your attention to is one that happened when I was eighteen years old. Many children slowly lose their ability to sense spirits as time goes on seeing as they get further and further from the veil. I was not one of the lucky ones.
Let me lay some backstory on you really quickly. I lost two of my grandparents within a month and a half of each other in 2014. I also have this amazing friend who’s been there for me through it all, and it just so happens that he can sense things too. I go over to his house a lot and the first few times I couldn’t close down my senses in time. I got a mental image of the spirits in his house that hit me like a dump truck. There was a little girl that would lie on the floor where her couch used to be. She trips me every time I go over and I hear this giggle in my head, but she’s not the one that makes my blood run cold.
Next, there’s this old man and he’s probably the property’s first owner. He’s the real strong and silent type. He never tries to communicate. He hardly moves from his spot in the corner of the room. He’s got the trench coat and bowler hat look that means he’s no nonsense. He even has a cigar in his mouth at all times. He watches everyone but he never reacts. Not to me anyway. My friend has said that there have been people that the old man didn’t like and he’s let it be known, so I guess he likes at least. He doesn’t give me night terrors either.
My friend’s grandparents and even great grandparents are in the house too. I’ve felt them and they’ve felt me and decided I’m pretty okay apparently, but they aren’t what fills me with dread either.
There’s just one more spirit in his house, and I wish I had never brushed up against it. I could sense nothing but pure evil rolling off of this… this thing. I felt this vile thing in my best friends house and slammed up my walls, refusing to let them down until I was safely back at home.
I got a text from my friend all of the sudden that sent me into a panic. All it said was, “Sandy? Are you okay? The thing isn’t at my house anymore”. I felt sick to my stomach, knowing that it had followed me before I felt it press against the glass of the window beside my bed. I don’t know how to accurately describe pure evil but I’ll do my best. I never saw it because if I had gotten out of my bed I don’t know what could have happened. All I remember is the sensation of feeling a tar covered hand, or a hand made out of tar maybe, pressing against my window. I felt the window start to give just as I sensed my grandparents coming to my aid.
I got the visual, clear as day, of my grandparents sitting vigilant beside me for the rest of the night to ensure that I stayed safe. I haven’t felt alone ever since.
Credit Link: http://glitterninja73.tumblr.com
For ages I have watched you – no, not you as in YOU, you as in the whole human race – and trust me when I say that you people ain’t worth shit.
Before i expand on that, let me tell you a thing or two about myself
I am……..well…… just think of me as a lawyer of sorts, I watch as you come into this realm and i watch when you leave, I’m always there with you, there’s not even a definite “there” for me, I am what you call, onipresent, i’m everywhere at all times. No , i’m not your “god” or anything like that, not your current one anyway, like i said before, jus think of me as a lawyer, not always YOUR lawyer, but a lawyer nonetheless.
My job description is simple, I should watch every second of your lifes and take notes on keypoints. That said, i don’t care about that redlight you ran 60 miles faster than the limit, or when you didn’t pay the pension or skipped jury duty. Those rules does not concern me, what I do care about, is that one time when you felt like punching someone but you withheld your fist, that one time you realized that the cashier gave you an extra dollar but you didn’t gave it back, the way you handle rejection, etc., the small things, i look at your feelings and your intentions, and then i make notes.
Now now, don’t go thinking that i don’t notice the big events, like, if you commit suicide or when you kill someone. The only cardinal rule here is that you can’t kill, not even yourself, sometimes exceptions are made, sure, because They know that some of Their creations are monsters and because of Their own rules, there’s nothing They can do about it.
Who are They?- you may ask me- Well, that’s the 5 dollar question ain’t it? Just move past it.
Well, now that i have explained what i am and what i do, time to tell you why i think humanity should just die out.
Trough my entire life i always remained impartial until The Judgement day, this was my job and i was the only one that could do it, but after all that time watching, seeing you destroy not only one another but the very planet that you live, without giving a single shit to the future generations, there’s no doubt left in my mind, there’s just no place for the likes of you here. Where’s here? Here is what happen after you “die”, yeah, “die”, because you don’t really die, you are born.
I’ll explain it to you in simple terms, it will probably cost me my job and most likely my life, if I already didn’t lose’em by now, but anything is better than watching one more second of you.
As I said, I am a lawyer of sorts, I am always with you, some of you with a very high psychich abilities can even sense me – Little bit of trivia; that’s where the whole “guardian angel” thing came from – The notes i take are used when you “die”, to construct your case or destroy you, and i mean that quite literally.
Now, you were put there for a reason, They created you and wanted to test you, all this, your entire life, no, humanity’s entire history since the first man, it was a test designed to see if you were worth of what you would call “heaven”. And now you ask me: “If they created me so surely I am worthy of heaven, if not, why’d They even create heaven?”. Heaven is ancient, it pre-dates even me, and it’s dying slowly, They need to repopulate it. So they created you and gave you free will and gave me, one of their last, the job to watch your actions and council Them in The Judgement.
Now for the fun bit, The Judgement.
The Judgement is what happens when you “die” on Earth, depending on your actions I will either aid you on your case and help you get to heaven, or i’ll show proof that you don’t deserve it. Believe me, very few of you really deserve it. If you pass The Judgement, then you can join the ranks of what you would call “angels” in heaven, but if you were to fail, then you would know what you call “hell” and then be reborn again after several years. Yes, reborn again, humanity’s number is finite, they send you to hell to try to teach you a lesson, but sometimes you don’t learn and they just erase you.
The whole judgement, depends mostly on me and my notes on you.
And I am sick and tired of you.
If you didn’t realized that by now, i’ll tell you:
I am not the one that you fear,
but I am the one that you should.
BAM! , I wake up in a daze as the truck I’m riding in hits a pot hole making my head bounce against the window I had rested it on before I nodded off. “Man, that one had to suck. Sorry I didn’t see it before we hit it” a voice from the driver seat rang out followed by a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah I bet, you bastard” I exclaimed before shooting a dirty look over to Jules who was smiling, happy to have someone conscious to talk to after what was probably hours of relative silence.
“Are we almost there man?” I said shaking off the grogginess of my sudden awakening. “Kinda, we still got a couple hours before we get where we are going.” Jules said as he turned the truck on to a dirt road off the highway.
Our job was pretty easy with a lot of freedom because it was just him and myself assigned a large moving truck. No boss, cameras, and only two calls in to the home warehouse a day to check in our progress with the management. The lifting of furniture and appliances was physically demanding but in between the stops we were basically paid to ride around and see the sights Pennsylvania had to offer. This free time allotted for a few extra “activities” which meant my stoner self had the green light to smoke as much pot as I could want which was really the only reason I kept the low paying job.
“Dude, I don’t think I’ve ever been this far east” Jules said looking over to me as I was finishing rolling up a joint. “Yeah it’s strange that they would send us out here overnight. I guess its going to be a hard move out” I grumbled licking the paper and finishing my task. Looking around the area seemed strange. From the unkempt condition of the dirt road riddled with ruts and overgrowth. not enough to cause alarm but it definitely looked like a road forgotten by Pendot and everyone else for that matter. Even the trees twisted and bare seemed to lean away from the direction we were going toward. Ignoring my gut I looked down to my joint and lit it up.
Another hour down the road things started to change. The trees that once stood far from the road now seemed to stand uncomfortably close to not only the road but to each other making a sort of artificial darkness completely obscuring our line of sight after only a few feet back. Maybe I was just high or maybe I was in denial but out of my peripherals I could have sworn that I occasionally saw figures standing amongst the trees along with an almost unnatural cold lingering in the November air…
The road couldn’t even be called a road anymore, more like a dirt path cut into the increasingly dense snare of overgrowth. The trees seemed to close in behind the truck sealing off the path we had come from. A sense of dread crept over me as watched the trees pass. “hey man I think we should call these people. I don’t even know if we are the right place anymore.” Jules grimaced at that thought “your right and I would have called a while ago but we haven’t had service in hours.” “Fuck! Dude this sucks. Here we are on banjo-rape road and we are completely alone” those last two words made my stomach turn. The path itself was impossibly, narrow and didn’t allow any way to turn our truck around. Hell, it would have even allow a car to pass to our side. We had no choice. We had to keep going forward.
After another hour the trail opened up to a barren field surrounded on all sides by the wall of trees. In the middle of the clearing stood a an old two story Victorian house that was in extreme disrepair. The house seemed like a godsend after so long on the claustrophobic trail. As we approached the porch our noses were hit with a foul smell. It was so bad I turned to the side of the house and gagged. ” here we go” said Jules as he reached out to knock on the door but before he could make a sound the door flew open with a loud groan causing him to jump back to avoid being hit by the it. Out of the darkness of the house emerged a frail looking elderly woman.
“Why hello boys” she said in a voice as frail and jagged as her figure. “Hello ma’am we are here to pick up two stoves, a washer, a dryer and a refrigerator from you today” Jules said with his usual smile. “Oh those! They are out back” she said mirroring his smile. Looking at the woman made me feel uneasy. Her eyes looked empty and sunken but not like a junkie I have seen people like that a lot in my life and especially while working this job. it was something more than that. Even her toothless smile seemed to be a false gesture.
Shaking off the odd feeling in my gut I returned to the truck to grab our furniture dolly. the combination of time and dry heaving from that smell completely killed my buzz so I decided to roll up another joint as well. Taking a big pinch from my Ziploc I filled a paper and started rolling it but the lingering unease I had been feeling intensified. It felt like I was being watched.
SNAP! A tree limb broke right outside the trucks door causing me to jump and toss my incomplete joint in the air showering cab with ground up weed. “Woah man it’s just me!” Jules said putting his arms up in an apologetic fashion. “What are you doing?” He said to me with a raised eyebrow. “What do you think I was doing!?!” I exclaimed as I glared at him. But just then my blood ran cold. Over his shoulder I saw a figure darting out of sight in what seemed like long black robes trailing close behind as it vanished into the wilderness. I was sober and I was stationary. This wasn’t a product of a high or blurring of the senses. It was real.
“Dude lets get the hell out of here.” I said to a now confused Jules who had seen my reaction to the figure behind him. “Okay we gotta give her the check and we are out man”. Reluctantly I stepped back out of the truck and we returned to the house finding the elderly woman waiting on her porch with a silver tray, three cups and a teapot. “You boys did such a good job I made tea for you” the woman said with her toothless smile “this is my favorite blend”. She filled the three cups and seemingly grabbed a cup at random. I watched her take a drink before I put mine to my lips and then drank it as if it were a shot of whiskey eager to get back to the truck so we could leave.
We said our goodbyes and started toward the truck but halfway there I noticed something was horribly wrong. Each step was harder to make than the last and my vision blurred. I turned to see Jules laying face down on the ground. I drug my feet against the raw earth until I was standing over him.
Just then I heard a voice behind me. “Your a strong one. Most everybody else would already be knocked out.” Drawing on the remainder of the strength I had left in my muscles I turned to face the source of the voice to see the old lady. “Why?” I coughed out. “Why?” She repeated with her ever present grin “Because you showed up! My dear.”
Those words echoed in my head as the darkness closed in on my sight. I lost control and collapsed to the ground beside my unconscious friend. As I drifted closer to slumber I saw an uncountable number of hooded figures start to appear from between the trees. “H….How? You drank it too!” I coughed out causing her to roar with laughter. “You can’t stop a heart that’s already dead my dear!” She exclaimed followed by another outburst of laughter. “Don’t worry this isn’t the end for you. Not even close. You two belong to us now”.
Credit: David Keys
March 7th. 12:17am.
Dead on arrival, Martha Cunningham was found spread out like a carpet in her single room apartment on the corner of Wattle and Broadway. Age – 27, height – 5’10”, brunette and dark brown eyes. She was a looker, that’s for sure. Well, was.
By the time I’d arrived on scene, Ms. Cunningham was most certainly unresponsive and I was immediately ushered beyond the yellow tape to conduct my sweeps of the premises.
Cause of death, from initial inspection, appeared to be severe blood loss from a deep laceration around the neck. The weapon, clutched in the hand of the victim, was a blood-soaked kitchen knife.
The front door was deadlocked and the only window in the apartment was locked from the inside. Being three stories up and behind two layers of key-card locked doors, the window and front door already appeared infeasible in regards to entry and exit. Further inspection showed no signs of a struggle, all furniture was neatly kept. No fingerprints or hair besides the victim’s.
The only thing that was out of place were three words scrawled, in blood, along the floor beside the lifeless body.
March 7th. 12:41am.
Feeling for my field notebook, I managed to overhear a conversation between officers about a ‘prominent’ paranormal investigator en route to the scene.
In my professional opinion, the case was, from back to front, a suicide. There was no need for second opinions, much less from a ‘paranormal investigator’. Surely, the title itself proved the position redundant. There’s no need to investigate the paranormal because anyone who buys into that crap must be deluded.
The scribbling sound accompanying my pen stopped as I felt a presence approaching me from behind. I began to turn, apprehension apparent as a voice struck me.
“Might you be the acting detective here?” A sharp, eloquent question. It emerged from a man who was not at all outstanding. A shorter, rounder man with a pointed face, like his question, stood before me. Dark shades withheld his eye colour, despite the time of night. I gave him a once-over; it was just a quick sweep of the eyes disguised within a blink. A worn brown overcoat and matching trousers along with surprisingly polished shoes. He held a briefcase in his left hand while wearing a single glove on his right hand. As my eyelids came back up to see his face, an expression of impatience was shadowed by more words. “If I may, sir, my name is Harold Page. You may refer to me as Mr. Page. I have come here to conduct an investigation into the murder of Martha Cunningham.”
Mr. Page certainly didn’t mince words. Taken aback by the abruptness of the man’s introduction, I retorted.
“Well, before you begin ‘investigating’, I believe you are mistaken.” Mr. Page turned inquisitive eyes towards me as I continued. “You referred to this case as a ‘murder’. From what I’ve seen, all that happened here was a single self-inflicted wound. A suicide, if you will.”
Mr. Page scoffed through his nose before drawing an exaggerated breath. “Look, Mr. Detective-”
“Hughes, Andrew Hughes.” I corrected. He continued.
“Mr. Hughes,” his voice was concentrated at me, but his focus was obviously on the scene beyond, “what might be seen as a typical case on the surface quite often is only a simple mask yet to be uncovered…” Trailing off, his interest had clearly lingered, Mr. Page shuffled into the room and began his investigation.
March 7th. 12:58am.
I returned to the scene, a warm cup of joe between my numb fingers. The commotion of something happening in this quiet part of the city had already died down. Passersby passed by without a second glance. Strangely enough, the few policemen that were assigned to this case appeared to have left already – most likely headed back to the mountains of paperwork at the precinct – all with the exception of Mr. Page. Upon seeing me, the stout man shot up with a grim expression.
“A murder indeed.” He breathed, straightening his coat. I raised the cup to my mouth, awaiting his explanation.
“It appears that you had overlooked a few rather elementary details in your investigation, Mr. Hughes.” He cocked his head toward me as he folded his arms. “Ms. Cunningham had taken quite some time and effort to put her makeup on before this, suicide.” His eyes didn’t waver. “Something like this is rather uncharacteristic of a woman contemplating her own death, wouldn’t you think?”
I looked down momentarily, contemplating this theory.
“The second thing I’d like to note are the words written in blood beside her. Faith, Born, Greed. A simple analogy really – ‘Bringer of Death’. Why would she write such a thing as she lay dying? A message perhaps?”
Mr. Page stopped for a moment. He raised a hand to his head, as if struck with a sudden headache, before continuing. “Putting that aside for now, there is a very final and important point, I think it’s well worth mentioning that you had already known that this was a murder from the very beginning.”
I believe that a confused and rather impatient expression had taken over my face as Mr. Page immediately cut to the chase.
“I made a call to your precinct in order to get as much information on the case as possible. They told me that the 911 call, that was made by Ms. Cunningham’s neighbour, was the martyr for this case.”
A 911 call? I opened my mouth to deny that, when it all started flooding back to me.
A 911 call comes in around midnight. It’s Martha’s neighbour who’s been woken up by blood curdling screams from the apartment over. He goes to investigate, still on the line. At this point, I remember that you could clearly hear Martha screaming and pounding on her own front door. All of this climaxes in the sounds of further screaming, erratic banging and a final crash as the call flatlined.
Fifteen minutes, half a cold coffee and two police cruisers later, the neighbour who made the call was missing and Martha, unfortunately, had nothing to say about it. And who was in the first cruiser on the scene?
How could I have forgotten this vital information? It was as if there was a force field blocking off that section of my memories. Not only me, but that of the other officers as well. I would have surely named this case a suicide and no one would have questioned it. Why?
“Mr. Hughes? You seem to be deep in thought.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I-It must have slipped my mind…” I said, the lack of confidence more than evident.
March 7th. 1:24am.
I was still more than shaken about what had just transpired. It seems that Mr. Page was more reliable than I had initially believed. I was on the way to the front reception with quick strides and tunnel vision through the stairwell halls.
The neighbour was the last person who heard or saw Martha Cunningham alive. He’d been missing since the very start of the investigation, his apartment door left simply ajar. It’s more than likely that he knows something, if not, he may be the killer himself. I expressed this opinion to Mr. Page earlier, however he disagreed right away, almost too quickly for my liking. He shook his head, his focus dimming as he appeared to be lost in thought. I guess he’s still one step ahead of this case. Mr. Page then instructed me to find information on that man from the front desk, while he investigated the neighbour’s apartment.
I was greeted by a rather unsightly man behind the counter at reception. A large, unkempt and balding man. He was at least two sizes larger than Mr. Page and wearing a shirt two sizes smaller than himself. He bore a less than interested expression and I decided to make this visit quicker than quick.
I briefly recapped what he most likely already knew and began my interrogation.
“Do you know the name of the man who lives next door to the victim, in 376? Any numbers we can reach him at, addresses, family even?”
He grunted and with a thump, the receptionist dropped a thick leather-bound book in front of him and began to flick through the pages. He stopped every now and then to lick his finger, leaving a sickly coloured residue on the page corners. Finally, his finger came to rest upon the name registered to the room number.
Margaret Ellmore. 72 years of age.
What the fuck was going on here?
A man made that call.
March 7th. 1:42am.
I bursted into apartment 376, calling loudly for Mr. Page, amidst panting, after I’d torn my way up the stairs. I was answered with a heavy silence. Things just weren’t adding up here. I clicked the light switch beside the door a few times and asserted that I’d be traversing the apartment in the dark. Attempting to steady my breathing, I moved cautiously into the apartment. In one hand I flicked on my flashlight and the other hovered close to my holstered handgun.
Despite my thin field of vision presented by my flashlight, this apartment had the same layout as the one next door. Shining it up and down, taking one step at a time, the single room apartment could be confirmed as empty.
“Mr. Page?” I called out softly, some apprehension annoyingly stuck in my throat. I approached the bathroom door. This was the only part of the room that wasn’t visible from the front door. My hand met the cold steel. With a click and a creak, the door slowly shuddered open. At first, my olfactory system was assaulted by the horrid stench that is associated with rotten meat. I swallowed my bile and prepared myself for what I was about to see. It was something that no man or woman should ever have to see with their own eyes.
Half standing and half slumped in the three by four foot shower, was the corpse of Margaret Ellmore. I couldn’t tell this at the time, because I promptly closed the door and retreated from the apartment. Her body was later found to be wrapped and sealed in several meters of bubble wrap, thus allowing the body to ‘stand’ within the shower. It also seemed to be the reason why someone hadn’t complained about the smell earlier. She must have been dead for a week at least. An uncountable number of lacerations and stab wounds marked her body. This was the handiwork of a person – if you could even call them that – no less than a psychopath.
March 7th. 1:54am.
I took a short interval from my duty to recover outside on the balcony. My hands shook and I swore the putrid smell had followed me out here. Mr. Page and I needed to regroup. I had no doubts that he had seen it too. I picked myself up and moved back to the original apartment where the first crime went down. Mr. Page was probably in there and it was about time that we let the ambulance take Ms. Cunningham’s body away. This investigation was over. We had bigger things to deal with now.
I stood in the doorway to Martha Cunningham’s apartment.
Mr. Page was not here.
Neither was Martha Cunningham.
March 6th. 11:21pm.
The short and stout man known as Mr. Page briefly checked his watch as he silently moved through the night. He strode into the reception of the apartment building on the corner of Wattle and Broadway. The receptionist, uninterested in the new arrival, continued to flick through his pornography magazine. This was to Mr. Page’s great advantage.
The less witnesses, the better, he smirked to himself.
Climbing the stairs, he was careful to avoid the sweeping view of the security cameras. His shoes with rubber padding made no sound on the concrete as he arrived on the third floor.
This is the place, he thought, room number 376. The psychotic serial killer, who had murdered well over six people and assumed their identities to avoid capture, was two inches of wooden door away from being brought to justice. This was the night Mr. Page had been waiting weeks for.
He raised his gloved fist to the door and knocked.
What happened next took Mr. Page by surprise. The door opened very suddenly, without as much as a hint. His right arm, still raised from knocking, was grabbed and twisted violently as the door closed directly on his wrist. Grimacing in pain, Mr. Page looked up to see a large fist before his face.
March 7th. 12:02am.
Mr. Page was awoken by the sounds of a struggle.
“What the fuck is going on out there?” An unfamiliar, yet strained voice called out. Mr. Page winced as his right hand throbbed. He wiped his eyes with the other, his left eye swollen and unable to open properly. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out, but he could see moonlight filtering in through a split in a pair of curtains beside him.
Suddenly, his attention was grabbed by a loud shriek and his vision focused. The screaming continued and this was followed by the immediate sound of a door being bashed against. A figure, hard to make out in the dark, opened the door to the room Mr. Page found himself in. In the split second of light that hit the figure’s face as he exited, Mr. Page was able to instantly recognise the face of the serial killer. He was on the phone to someone and during this time, the screaming had not yet ceased, but instead had only grown louder.
Mr. Page struggled as quickly as he could to his feet. Mustering the strength to escape his captor, he felt this may be his only chance before he became yet another victim. Reaching the door, he crouched down and peeked around the corner, the screaming and pounding much louder here.
He watched the serial killer drop his phone, cracking and breaking on the concrete, as the door, to the apartment over, swung open fully.
Mr. Page watched in astonishment as a monstrously feminine hand gripped the killer by the leg and dragged him into the apartment, kicking and screaming.
The last thing Mr. Page heard as he fled from the scene was a hideous cackling coming from beyond the door.
On that dark and cold night, Mr. Page swore he would never return there for as long as he lived.
Credit Link: https://www.youtube.com/user/Natenator77