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Note that due to how the sites have evolved, many categories are now outdated.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.

While we do allow comments that dabble in snarkiness as long as they are still entirely constructive criticism, the mod team will not approve comments that contribute nothing to the refinement of a pasta. Likewise, this means that comments left simply to be nasty or bully the author will be deleted. In cases where a commenter continually attempts to leave abusive comments towards authors, they will likely be banned entirely. This website is, first and foremost, about helping people succeed with their writing projects. Unnecessary nastiness does not help us accomplish this goal and, as such, has no place here.

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!

There are several ways for the community to contribute their constructive criticism to the works here:

  • Comments: If you want to leave an overall review of one of the pastas posted here, you may use the most traditional method – the comment form. We use DISQUS, so if you want to be an active and recognizable member of the Crappypasta community, I do recommend registering a free account, however commenting without an account is allowed. The comments are moderated, and all commenting guidelines from the main site are in effect here as well.
  • Sidenotes: If you want to leave your feedback in a more fine-tuned fashion, please use sidenotes. Sidenotes (also called annotations) should be familiar to anyone who has visited Rap Genius (now Genius) – you can highlight a portion of the story and leave specific feedback for the highlighted portion. You can also simply click the speech bubble after each paragraph to leave your feedback for that paragraph. Sidenotes are only shown and available on the pasta’s individual page, so you will need to click through a pasta’s title in order to access this function. If you wish to retain a consistent identity when leaving sidenotes, you can sign up for a Livefyre account within the sidenote UI.
  • Star Voting: This is pretty self-explanatory, I think. Just like on the main site, you can give a pasta a star rating from 1-10. 1 being the worst, 10 being the best.
  • Upvote/Downvote: Use the upvote (thumbs up) if you believe a pasta is good enough, in its current, as-is state, to be posted on the main site. Use the downvote (thumbs down) if you believe the story needs more work before it’s eligible for moving to the main site.
  • Emoji Response: If you’re on mobile or just don’t feel like typing but still want to give slightly more nuanced feedback than the stars and up/downvotes, you may also use the emoji feedback options. These, like the sidenotes, are present only on the pasta’s individual page, and can be found in between the pasta and the comments section. Eventually, we will be able to display content lists based on these reactions, much like do presently with the up/down and star ratings, so please use this function!

March 2016 – Crappypasta Overhaul

Well, I'm sure most of you noticed that Crappypasta went totally dark for a few months. Basically, I've been plotting to rebuild the site somewhat, add some new functions, but didn't quite have the time and energy to see it through until now. I wanted to hold off on...
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Comments Undergoing Upgrade (99% Finished – Feel Free to Comment Again)

UPDATE 9/19: The automatic upgrade didn't work, so I ended up having to export the comments in small batches. At the time of this update, the upgrade is 99% complete. Only a few comments should be missing, and hopefully they will show up soon enough. By and large,...
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Admin Post: Crappypasta Changes Announced

Okay, guys. After giving myself some time off from Crappypasta to clear my head (I can't even express the level of burnout I've been experiencing), I've finally created and posted the new Crappypasta guidelines over on the main site. I've updated the FAQ as well as...
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The False Reunion

The story that you are about to hear really happened to me on September 5th 2012, at 3:40a.m., about four months after my mother unexpectedly succumbed to a bout of pneumonia at the raw age of 45. I will never forget the time nor date of the horrifying experience for which I am about to share.
My Mother had always had numerous health issues in the years before her death. I was always bringing her to and from various doctors’ appointments, treatment centers, and hospitals. I was happy and willing to do this, because not only did I love her because she was my Mother, I loved her because she was my best friend, someone that I could talk to for hours and tell anything and everything to. The very last time that I took her to the hospital on June 5th of 2012 I was in complete denial. I was in denial despite my mother complaining of how hard it was for her to breath, I was in denial despite the fact that her normally beautiful bright and lively green eyes were dull, dark and glazed, and I know now that I was in blinding denial when my Mother turned to me as we were just arriving to the emergency room and said to me in a disturbingly labored whisper, “Amber, I’m really scared.” I never fathomed that that would be the final thing that she would say to me. I now know what someone looks like when they realize that they are about to die, and those final words and her petrified expression will forever haunt me.
Honestly, the next couple of months for me following my Mother’s death were a blur, almost nonexistent. The viewing, funeral, and condolences from friends, family and strangers did not seem real or surreal, as weird as that sounds. I numbed my aching pain as so many other grievers tend to do. I drank a lot of alcohol, I ate opiates and benzos like skittles, and I wallowed in my own self-pity and depression. Most days my husband would come home to find all of the blinds drawn and me, locked away in my bathroom, sometimes days at a time in complete darkness. My family let me grieve in my own way for a little while and then decided that it was time to intervene. I am grateful that they did because I sometimes wonder how long I would have remained in that dark sort of limbo, being neither here nor there, simply wasting away into bitterness and grief.
It was at the very beginning of September when I finally started to breathe again. I guess I was just starting the beginning stages of the healing process after losing someone so unexpectedly, after losing a piece of myself which I knew, and had come to accept I would never get back. During this time my husband had to travel for business for a couple of days. He was very reluctant to leave me, but I reassured him that I would be fine. Anyways, I secretly wanted a little time to myself. I was excited to settle down that night with a bottle of che blanc chardonnay, a good book, and a scorching hot bath. After these much needed indulgences I decided that it was time to retire for the evening, it was, after all already 2 in the morning and I remember having a slight, yet bothersome headache. I hated going to bed because it always seemed like as soon as I laid down, thoughts of her would begin to flood my brain. Her face, her voice, her laughter, her smile, anything and everything having to do with her always, always tormented me at night. On This particular night, however, it seemed a lot worse than usual. I battled with myself as to whether I should pop one of my prescribed sleeping pills. I tossed and turned, turned and tossed. That night no matter what I did, or how hard I prayed for peace, Peace just would not come.
I still wonder, no actually prey that on that night I was actually asleep and that it was all just a horribly vivid nightmare. I try to justify my experience with these hopes, but, I tell you my friends, what happened that night seemed very, very real. I specifically remember looking at my bedside clock which read 3:44a.m. and wondering when, if ever, would I actually fall asleep? I turned my attention away from the clock to the television and in that moment began to smell something like a burnt match, sulfuric, which I thought odd. Before I began debating to myself whether I should get up to see where the smell was coming from, I began to have a very strange, almost pleasant tingling sensation in my feet, lower legs and thighs. This sensation then began to travel up to my pelvic area, lower abdomen, and chest. Seconds after questioning the smell and the physical sensations my bedside alarm clock began to blare, 3:44 blinking at me furiously in bright red. This, of course startled me and as I reached over to turn of the alarm, I was literally pushed into my mattress with such a force that I was unable to move any part of my body. The mattress literally began to sink in around me, as if I were as heavy as a block of cement. The worst part was that I could not even scream. I was paralyzed from head to toe. The only thing that I could move were my eyes, yet I could not close them. Suddenly an even stranger feeling came over me. My entire body began to literally vibrate; I could even hear this vibration in my ears. The sound was almost deafening. Terrified, I looked around and then suddenly saw my Mother. She was straddling my body, wearing a white hospital gown with little blue shapes all over it; I am sure you know what I am talking about, it is the same gown that any hospital provides to admitted patients. The very same type of gown she was wearing when the fluid in her lungs continued to build, the very gown she wore when she was removed from life support, and as silly as it sounds this is one thing I have always remembered about her death, her final moments spent in that dirty fucking hospital gown. She was straddling me but she was not facing me, she was facing away from me in the opposite direction, facing my television which was still on just like it was before. I could not see her face because her dark curly brown hair hung loosely in a tangled mess, covering it up on all sides. On top of my t.v. I could see the time on the table box clearly, proclaiming it was 3:45a.m. The span of one minute truly felt like an eternity. I knew without a doubt that whatever this was, was pure evil and it was trying to impersonate my Mother. The terror that I felt began to well up in my throat, yet I could not make a sound. The vibrations got stronger as it slowly began to turn its head, its’ neck cracking violently as it did so, to face me. In my head I began to say the Lord’s prayer and beg for whatever this thing was to leave me in the name of Jesus Christ. After repeating this several times in my head there was a strange whooshing/popping noise and the vibrations ceased. I sprung up in bed gasping for air and clutching my throat. Sweat and tears rolled down my face. Needless to say I did not sleep at all that night or for the next couple of weeks.
I love and miss my Mother dearly. I know that if she ever decided to come to me in spirit, it would be a beautiful experience. That is why I know that whatever that thing was that came to visit me that night was not my Mother at all, but I do know that it was pure evil, I can say this because I felt it. I felt the evil just like you can feel or touch any tangible object, it was there. I still have nightmares about this experience. I hope and pray that I never again have a false reunion.

Credit: Amber Starr Banks

Fear, Reflected

Before I go into great detail of the worst nightmare I’ve ever been unfortunate enough to star in, I need to explain from where it stemmed. The roots of that horrible night are embedded in my mind, and to understand it, you must understand its origin.

Mirrors are curious things; I’ve always maintained an odd sort of fascination with them, given their silent role in humanity’s daily processes. They’re one of the first things we see when we wake up, barely able to greet the world, and almost always the last thing we look into before we take the plunge into darkness known as sleep.

They see us at our best; get that promotion you’ve been waiting for and I guarantee that you’ll pass by a mirror, surprised at the happiness that is reflected back.

They also see us at our worst; lose a loved one, get your heart ripped from your chest by a cheating lover, you’ll need only glance in the mirror to witness the hollows of your cheeks, your sunken red eyes, to realize just how broken you really are.

There is a near feeling of intimacy when you make eye contact with another person in a mirror; it is as if the window to the soul really exists, and you’re looking right at it.

Seven years bad luck if one breaks, never look into one while near candlelight; superstitions abound, and yet they show us not who we pretend to be, but who we really are in the harsh light of day. It was all of this idle musing that paved the road to hell for me that night.

I stood before a mirror, as I had done countless times before, staring deeply into my own eyes.
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,” I joked, smirking at how ridiculous I probably sounded, and happy that I was, at that moment, alone. It was when I glanced up that I realized my reflection wasn’t smiling back. In fact, I had never seen myself look so ragged, so tortured. To please that cruel god known as curiosity, I leaned forward, meeting my eyes in a way I had never done before.

And then my mirror self spoke, the surprise being mine alone.
The voice was wretched, presenting as wet, violent gagging sounds; scratchy from what could have only been from years of misuse, it was as if my eardrums were being run through with barbed wire. My skin crawled, my stomach lurched. The only response my body could properly muster was the slight prickling of tears as I mourned involuntarily for this pitiful creature. I strained to hear what was being said, placing my ear against the glass. And then it began, in spurts and gasps.

“You’re too curious. You’re getting too close.”

I pulled away, my eyebrows knitting together tightly in confusion. The look of desperation that I was met with was enough to force my ear to the glass once more.

“I’m on this side to save you, to keep you from walking through. You don’t want to be on this side. Stay where you are, curb your curiosity. Unless you’re interested in a taste of this side? Flames licking at your feet, blisters and sores on every inch of your body. The lashings that cause blood to flow and skin to peel. Is that what you want?”

“What—what is this? No, I don’t want any part of it!” I backed up quickly, my face, the face reflected back, contorted into a look of sheer terror, enough to rip a scream right from my throat.

And that’s how I woke up; a scream lodged in my throat, a sheen of sweat covering my body. I kicked away the sheets and stood up, a meager attempt to catch my breath and collect my bearings.

A nightmare. That was all. A ridiculous nightmare brought on by idle musings. I walked robotically towards the bathroom and flicked the light switch. My reflection was there, but it was without a doubt the real me. I chuckled nervously, ignoring the slight hitch, and leaned forward onto the sink. A nightmare, a series of dream images; it wasn’t real. I had made the entire thing up, of that much I was sure.

Until I heard the screams.
Until I felt the flames.
Until I watched my reflection leave the room.

Credit: Justine Ward

Give a Little, Take a Little

Do you have something you want? Something you wish for, but simply cannot find or are too embarrassed to go out and get? Or something that’s simply illegal to acquire in your country?
There is a website, titled “givealittletakealittle”, located somewhere within the depths of the internet, that can help you, friend. But there is no real easily-accessible link to it, you must find it on your own. It’s well worth it, though.
Most of who have visited it say they found it on what is called “The Deep Web,” the unindexed part of the internet, but there have been reports of it being found on popular websites and forums.
If you want to attempt to visit the website, you’re going to have to know of it’s existence. Then, you must make an active search. No finding it by chance. The link can usually be found on websites dealing with buying and selling, so auction websites, warehouse sites (such as Amazon.com, but better chances come with lesser-known sites, as corporations usually delete the link when it surfaces), and even product review websites. The link will most likely be located in the comments sections, under an anonymous poster, or hidden within the website’s interface, archives, or just the fine print.
You’ll know the link when you’ve found it. Click on it, and it will probably redirect you through a few other websites first. The website itself varies in appearance, some have described a nearly blank, bare-bones site, while others say it was more decorated and stylized, with pictures usually revolving around barter and trade. One individual described it as all the text written through jpg’s of letters, as though it was a ransom note.
Though, every single report shares the same basic features: a title reading “give a little, take a little.”, 2 text boxes, one blank, one titled “specifications”, an address/zip code form, and a “submit” button. Now, once you arrive, you may place the name of any item you desire in the text box. There are some restrictions, though.
1: The item must be able to fit on your property. It can fit on your front porch, lawn, mailbox, or even your living room.
2: The item must exist. It cannot be a cure for cancer or a philosopher’s stone.
3: The item cannot be living.
4: The item must be reasonable to transport and deliver. (e.g., no asking for a piece of the sun.) A good rule of thumb is that if it is not deliverable via a van or towing service, it is not viable for delivery.
5: The item must not be unique. You cannot ask for the original Mona Lisa.
6: The item cannot cause major disturbances. You cannot ask for the entirety for the contents of Fort Knox.
Tl;dr: don’t ask for stupid shit.
So knowing your parameters, enter your item and the address of delivery. Put any specifications about delivery or about the item in the “specifications” box.
Once you are done, press “submit” and then exit the website. Then, simply wait a few business days. Make sure to leave your door unlocked if you asked it to be delivered into your home, or the gate unlocked if you wanted it on your lawn.
The item you requested will arrive, as long as you didn’t ask for something not allowed by the above rules or made it impossible to deliver. But don’t be surprised if something else goes missing, especially if it was of equal value as the thing you got. It could be a few dollars from your wallet, some jewelry, or even more expensive things like computers, TV’s, and in one extreme case, a car. It might take longer to happen if you ordered the item to a P.O. box.. Don’t try and stop it, and don’t think it won’t happen. You entered your address, remember?
After all, it’s give a little, take a little, right?

Credit: Gabe Henry

The Fog

“And from the Fog they come, to find the souls of children to claim…”

The eldritch words of my grandfather, Ullus, which are part of a lullaby he often sang to me before I would fall asleep as a child still echo through my mind from time to time. I still find it hard to forget the story, that of which the lullaby tells; especially around a certain time of year. The particular part of the year in which the nights grow cold and the frost clings to the fallen leaves of trees. The time of year that the Fog rolls in and encloses around everything in your sight until you feel as if you are trapped in your own miniscule world; no matter where you go.

Though I am a man of over two score years today, I still remember in full sense what a haunting feeling the Fog would bring to me as a child each year. In fact, I don’t think any number of aging years would allow for this fear that I still retain to subside one bit. The Fog is still a horrific sight to me, and I still find it hard to get a good night’s sleep during the frigid winter months of each passing year.

I reside still in the house I was raised in. It is a farmhouse of three stories that sits in the center of the rural property of ten acres that has been passed down by my family through many generations since my ancestors’ immigration to this country. The house itself is connected to the nearest public road by a long, dusty gravel driveway.

Since I was a young lad, I have since noticed more and more that there is a strange ambiance about the acres of orchards that surround my home. Something eerily strange and utterly weird that I still have not yet come to understand about the nature of things around this place. The trees are the same as I was a child, as is the vegetation that grows throughout. Even the birds I see fluttering about, as well as the critters I see scurrying along the ground, are all strangely familiar in appearance to those of which I witnessed as a child. It is as if everything here is undying or is un-altered by time itself.

I wouldn’t expect anyone to believe such an unnatural concept such as this, and I have a hard time wrapping my head around it as well. Hell, if I hadn’t cared to research the place of my residence throughout my years of life here I probably wouldn’t have even noticed. What I’ve come to know about the grounds on which my house was built and the property surrounding is frightening. It does however give me some insight on the strange family lullaby Ullus used to sing to me.

It has been a family tradition (by a dozen generations past) that the grandfather of the eldest born son of his own son must sing to the child the lullaby so that the grandchild will then sing it for his siblings and eventually his own grandson. The tradition is an odd one to explain to others, yes, but I once remember Ullus telling me of the importance of the song. The lullaby itself is supposed to put the child to sleep (as most lullabies are intended to do) as well as protect the sleeping child’s dreams. The latter of course made no sense to me as a child, though its importance is clear to me now.
The song itself goes exactly like this:
“Little one. Fall Asleep,
If you want your soul to keep.
If not, then they will knock,
Not once but twice,
Softly in the foggy night.
For from the fog they come, to find the souls of children to claim.”
Those words, coupled with the melody is what makes the lullaby complete and the magic real. I say magic because it is truly a spell that enchants the children of my family and allows for them to fall into deep, peaceful slumbers; protecting their innocent souls. This song must be sung, lest their souls be stolen by the force of supernatural entities – daemons.

It does sound crazy, yes, but it has been learnt to me out of my free will to learn that the house in which I live today was erected atop an archaic burial ground of a primitive people of old. The acres surrounding housing the lost spirits of fallen warriors from battles old and forgotten to most recorded history. Though thanks to the globalizing phenomenon that is the internet, I was able to shed some light on the history of not only my own heritage, but of the lands on which my family has resided for generations!

This has given me answers of a great many questions I have pondered over the course of my life. It explains the trees that do not die, the shadows and shapes that sometimes seem to shift and obscure before my eyes as if I am a schizophrenic, and the two raspy knocks on my window I once heard as a child the night that Ullus had died, as no lullaby was sung to me that night. Daemons at my window that I dared not open at all that dreadful foggy night.

I have never nor will I ever speak to anyone of the knocks I once heard in my bed as a wee one. For I fear (though I do not know for certain of course) that doing so will break such a grounded tradition and shatter the ritual of my family that keeps our own children safe. For I wish not for any children of my family in the present or future to ever witness the horrible knocking on their windowpane. It was a traumatic experience for myself and has its effects to this day, as I accredit most blame for my insomnia during the winter months to that one uncanny occurrence.

I often find myself cursing such daemons in my mind as I lay in bed on cold nights. How much praying will it take to save my poor soul before I die. I will surely never know.

Credit: Dylan Rose

Mr. Charlie

Clearriver community> Parent-to-parent forum>
Issues and concerns

Subject: Jeers/Cheers for staff

Mom_Mel wrote: Creepy bus driver?

Alright so I don’t know where to put this, because honestly I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble. My five year old daughter just started 1st grade so you know how it is, new year, new school, new teachers, etc.. But I can’t help but feel uneasy about her new bus driver. I think I’m being paranoid, so I don’t want to name any names, but he gave me an odd vibe when I saw him. Has anybody else had this experience?

Re: creepy bus driver
Deigo1146 wrote:
Are you talking about the old guy with the glass eye that drives route 56?

Mom_mel replied:
Yes! That’s the one! You know I don’t even know the poor man’s name. But I just don’t want my daughter scared to go to school.

Re: creepy bus driver
RobinandJames wrote:

Hey momma Mel, I noticed your concern and just wanted to give you a heads up, I’m sure you are just over thinking it; my son rides his route and hasn’t ever complained about it. Of course he did just start this week too, but when I walked him to the bus everybody on there looked asleep to me.

Re: creepy bus driver
Diego1146 wrote:
My son told me his name is Mr.Charlie, sounds friendly I suppose. But I got a better look at him today, I can see why he creeps you out. The burns on his face and right side of his body would probably give me nightmares if I was a kid.

Mom_mel replied:
As it turns out Chloe has been having a few restless nights since she started school. I thought it was just new school jitters, but what if you’re right?

RobinandJames replied:

Guys, I think you are both twisting this out of proportion. I know when I was younger I had a few teachers that scared me, but my parents told me that everybody was a person no matter what they look like on the outside

Re: creepy bus driver
Diego1146 wrote:
Ok, so after reading what Robin wrote I felt bad and decided to go up to the bus and talk to Mr Charlie, but I didnt get very far! Why you ask? Something on there stunk, and I mean bad! Like an animal had died or something. After I got over that, I tried to chat him up but didn’t get much out of him until the afternoon. He turned to me and asked casually, “Is your child riding tomorrow?”

I’m not sure why. But I didn’t like the way he said it.

Alex2011 replied:

I am so glad somebody else said something! I know this is just the first week of school but I’m a single mom, and my son is scared of the building already. After he saw this bus driver he bit his tongue so hard it caused him to bleed in his mouth! I instantly made him a car rider. It’s a few more minutes out of my day. But that guy seriously has problems

Re: creepy bus driver

Mom_mel wrote:
Okay, now I’m really concerned Chloe hasn’t gotten much sleep at all this week and she is walking around almost in a catatonic state. I took her to the doctor and he said it was like she had experienced some kind of trauma! I’m going to talk to the school and complain.

RobinandJames replied:

I feel sorry for him and all of you who fail to see he is just a senior citizen that is trying to eek out a living. Probably a Vietnam vet that deserves our respect. Y’all should be ashamed.

Alex2016 replied:
We’re just concerned about our children and their health, is that a crime?

RobinandJames replied:
I’m just saying leave it be and teach your kids to respect elderly one’s and disabled people

Re: creepy bus driver

Mom_mel wrote:
I left a message for the office, but I got a better look at the bus driver today. Maybe I was seeing things. But I’m almost positive when I saw his reflection in the mirror his face looked more like a skull. I think after this week is up I’m going to make Chloe a car rider too.

Devin1146 replied:

So I just needed to get on here right away and post this. I got a curious email from the school today.

To the parent(s) of Jeffrey Tomlinson,

We are sending you this message out of concern for your son’s absence at school since the beginning of the semester. We hope all is well, and trust that if you have any issues or concerns you will send a private message to our secretary or to the principal. If you need anything please let us know,

So… I know for a fact Jeff gets on the bus every morning…. I walk him there.

RobinandJames replied:

I got this email too. Odd. I see my boy get on everyday… so. Where is the bus dropping them off at??

Re: creepy bus driver

Mom_mel wrote:

Its almost six and Chloe isn’t home yet, I have been sitting at the bus stop for hours. I called the cops and they gave me the usual BS. Runaway blah blah. I’m like, she’s five! Jesus! Please somebody tell me their kid is okay.

RobinandJames replied:
Nick didn’t come home either. I called the school. They told me they didn’t have a bus driver that worked there by that name.

Devin1146 replied:
Jeffrey isn’t home. Guys, PM me, lets get to the police together maybe they will do something.

Re: creepy bus driver

OffDutyFrank wrote:

Evening everyone, Im a retired officer up in Newton, and in my spare time I try to tackle unsolved cases.
This may be just coincidence but your story reminded me of an incident we had back in 58.
A bus crashed on the side of the road and tipped over with 12 kids inside it. All 12 managed to get out though, and there was only one casualty: the driver.

The burns made it near impossible to recognize his body, but there was one distinguishing characterestic: he had a glass eye.

Mom_mel replied:

I waited for twelve hours. Maybe it was even longer than that. It was the dead of night. I was just about to give up, go home and cry my eyes out. Maybe do more than that. And then the air felt so still.
I saw the bus arrive, the headlights piercing the fog. I ran up to it, I don’t know what I was thinking, I saw the children still trapped onboard sitting there staring blank eyed and unmoving. I begged him, I must have been on my knees. Please, take me instead.
That got his attention, he turned toward me, and had a look on his face that will haunt me for the rest of my days.
“I’m sorry, we’re all full right now,” Mr. Charlie told me, and then smiled and asked, “But do you have any other children at home?”

Encounters: Kelpie

On cold and clear Sunday night’s I often find myself meandering to a body of water on the outermost reaches of civilization. For this is the best way to catch a glimpse of a water spirit that has grown rarer with the spread of man. If you should wish to see it too then you should heed my warning. Find a river or stream surrounded by dense woodlands and observe from a distance. The creature itself may seem unstartled at your presence and may very well be friendly but it likely does not understand the danger that it poses to you.

I must elaborate on my first encounter with one of these fantastic creatures which occurred some time ago. A night which I had stumbled across a small village in the northern most reaches of the country. In a clearing not far from the village, what appeared to be every man, woman and child who resided there was gathered at a lake. There were all kinds of accusations being thrown and the whole ordeal seemed very much like a trial. Not wanting to upset these villagers or to get involved in their affairs I turned to take my leave. However I was halted by a sound somewhat similar to hooves. I dared to creep ever closer and hid behind the tree closest to the crowd. There I saw the magnificent black beast standing like a proud horse with a mane of snakes. It trotted so casually through the crowd of villagers and each of them backed away. When it had reached the center of the clearing the village folk pushed a young girl towards the animal. They urged her to climb upon the horses back. The girl refused. She was obviously scared, I couldn’t help but wonder why. In an instant two burly men separated themselves from the crowd and lifted the girl up onto the horse being cautious to not touch the creature themselves. She screamed. The men backed away. For a moment the being upon whose back she was placed seemed confused. It stood there, head held proudly. A calm fell upon the girl and the crowd. Then without warning the creature bolted towards the lake and both were gone. The girl didn’t even have time to scream, the last noise she made being a gurgling one.

Once the villagers had dispersed I picked up my courage and approached the lake to investigate. I crept up to the edge of the water and peered into the darkened depths. I could see neither the animal nor the girl. I doubt I was staring into the lake for very long or with much concentration but I suddenly felt like I was being watched. That was when I heard what sounded like hooves hitting the ground behind me. I spun round to see the beast staring at me tapping what looked like a reverse hooved foot on the floor. Upon seeing it at such a close distance I could tell clearly that it was a black stallion not much bigger than a regular cart pulling horse. Its eyes were somehow magical, black in colouring but there was a depth and shine to them which seemed it would pierce a man’s soul. The mane of the creature was not snakes as I had initially thought but rather some form of water weed that floated as if the air was water. Its face was so close and in all it appeared to mean me no harm. If anything the stallion appeared lonely, I use this word only because I could not find another that described the solemn air about it. The more I drank in its features the more curious and charmed I became with this fantastical beast. I had resisted until then to reach out and touch the beast but I could fight the urge no longer. Slowly I raised my hand. As my hand came up the horse like creature displayed the side of its neck. I stretched the tip of my fingers and gently brushed against its fur, if that really is what it was. To my surprise it felt like no fur I’d ever touched before, not exactly soft or wet but something entirely different. Quickly the horse head rose up back to its proud position. I jerked my arm away only to find that the water weed mane had encircled my arm. I was trapped to the beast. It turned towards the water. I pulled away. The mane tightened. I realised instantly that I was to end up like the girl before me. My survival instincts kicked in. I pulled the blade from its place on my belt. The creature began to pull. Sinking my heels into the floor I tried to slow the movement while I attempted to cut the weed. Both efforts were useless. My prospects were looking bleak. As hope appeared to thinning I quickly severed my hand. Then I merely watched as the beast literally disappeared into the lake.

The next morning, after a somewhat restless night and doing my best to hide my arm, I approached the lakes edge once more. The water was crystal clear but there was nothing living in the lake aside from a few aquatic plants. Upon the shore near to me I discovered a mess of clothes and water weed, which had been washed up there at some point. As I pulled them free from the lake I believed I recognised them. They looked similar to what the young girl was wearing the previous night. That was when a young boy approached me. He looked at me with sad eyes and said something that would haunt me.
“They belonged to my sister. Everyone thought she was guilty. So they brought her here to be judged by the kelpie…”

The Madness of Joan Blake

Joan Blake lay fast asleep in her bed. The dust from the early sunset floated around the room, being penetrated through the scarlet curtains. She awoke at 6.20am, rolled out of bed and pulled the curtains open. The sun rested just above the houses on the street opposite. Joan seized the opportunity for a photo. She threw on some clothes, walked down the stairs, grabbed her disposable camera from the table at the bottom of the stairs and walked out of the front door.

Her house being at the beginning of the road, she was in the perfect position to get a good snap at the sunrise. Looking through the lens, she saw the empty pavement, the houses on the opposite street and a gorgeous sunset. With no-one around, she took the pictures with no interruption.

Walking back into the house, she fed her dog, dusted the mantelpieces and then decided to get the photos developed. With still nobody around, she put a coat on and left for the local printing shop.

Walking home, she held the envelope with the photos in her hand, wanting to know how they had turned out. Greeted by her dog at the front door, she walked over to the table and grabbed her gold letter opener. She lifted out the photos and looked at them in horror. The picture was the photo that she had taken- the sunrise. However, at the end of the road, where there should have been nothing, like there was when the picture had been taken, Joan Blake saw herself. Saw herself standing at the end of the road with gnarled arms and hands and an eerie artificial smile. She stared at the picture with utter terror, not knowing what to do. She looked at the other pictures. They were the same. The same sinister smile and arms that every small child makes when they want to scare someone- arched just below shoulder length with gnarled bent fingers. Joan Blake, perplexed, walked upstairs, went to bed and never woke up. A peaceful end to a life tinged with murderous rage.

Nighttime Twitches

Do you ever lie awake at night, trying desperately to fall asleep? And when it seems that you’re finally going to pass into the world of dreams one of your limbs jerks a bit without your permission? It means that you’re lucky.

You may be thinking “How can I be lucky if sleep evaded me?” Well, you don’t have to believe me, but you are. You see, our world isn’t the only ‘world’. Most people can’t see, let alone comprehend it, but there are different planes surrounding us. You can think of it as there being different levels, or layers if you will to existence. There could be someone occupying the very same space as you are right now.

I know that this doesn’t make a lot of sense to you right now, so just let me finish. These layers of existence overlap in certain ways. Have you ever put down something in a certain spot and then when you want it again, it’s moved? Or maybe it’s gone completely and you never see it again. That doesn’t matter too much, but the point it wasn’t you that moved it. You can blame this phenomenon on a lot of things, but only one explanation is really true. Something on another plane moved it.

It could be you from another point in time, or an alien creature. But I’m not here to explain why your favorite shirt is suddenly gone. No, this is a lot more serious than that. Those alien creatures I mentioned? Some of them don’t know that we’re here too, and some of them just don’t care, but there are others. Others that want to take what we have. Others that want to enslave us.

At this point you probably think that I’m batshit crazy. I promise you that there is a reason for this though. Every time one of those involuntary twitches occur, it’s them. They’re trying to come through to our plane. That twitch was them trying to take control of your body. Fortunately for you, their timing was off just a bit. You were still awake and that little twitch alerted your brain that something was wrong. They have to wait until you’re asleep because your brain can’t fight back.

If you had been asleep, well to put it simply, you wouldn’t wake up. Your body will, and it will go about your day as usual. It will get up, eat breakfast, go to work or school, and do whatever you would. It copies your routine so well that no one, not even your friends and family, will notice that something is amiss. They might think you’re acting a bit distant, but they probably won’t bother with it too much. But make no mistake, this isn’t you. This is your body being taken over by one of them. And during all this you’re helpless and can’t do anything than watch while you’re confined to a dark recess of your mind.

I couldn’t tell you exactly what they’re doing or what they want or why. But believe me when I say you’re lucky. You’re awake now and we can’t get to you.

Did I say we? I obviously meant they. You believe me, right? I’m not one of them, I’m really not. Why would I be telling you the process for how they operate if I was one of them? That would be a rather silly mistake for me to make, don’t you think?

Oh well, it doesn’t really matter now, so I guess I’ll drop the act. Are you surprised? Although that doesn’t matter either, now does it? Just be seeing this you’ve opened your mind to the possibility of the different planes and that means we can come through.

How does it feel, knowing that you’re being hunted, that your demise is inevitable, and that no one would believe you if you asked for help? And even if they did, they couldn’t do anything to save you. Are you in denial? Unnerved? Scared? Terrified? I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.

It might be right now, tonight, tomorrow, next week, but never forget: we’re coming.

Credit: Quuentong

Through the Window

My dad has always been a nice person, making a living for my mom and I by painting houses, with the occasional construction work. However, it recently became a difficulty after he had a heart attack a month ago due to him always using to eat junk food. As a result, he tends to be around the house more, as his doctor recommended. He is a very nice man, always being able to make people laugh, minus the occasional stubbornness. But he always had a weird quirk that he did since we moved into our house.

Every day, right before it complete gets dark outside, he always looks out my window. See, we live in a house where the woods of New York is our backyard, and my room happens to have a window showing a perfect view of the woods. So if you want to see the woods, you need to look out of my window. So each evening, I am greeted by my father looking out of it. He never tells me why though, simply looking out for about 5-10 seconds, then leaving my room, off to watch TV or lay down.

I always wondered why he did this though. No one can come from the backyard, say for maybe a deer, raccoon, or any other animal you expect to find in the woods. As a result, I decided to take a crack at it one day. So while my dad was watching a episode of Cops in the living room, I let him know that I would check the window for him. My dad though for a few seconds, then gave me the thumbs up. So now I can finally see just what the hell is making my dad so paranoid for the past 6 months.

When it came to 6 P.M., the time my dad usually checked the window, I went to my room, and decided to take a peek out of my window. Nothing peculiar, just the same old plethora of trees, wrapping our house with their arms of wood. Seeing that my work was done, I decided to just report to my dad of it being nothing wrong. But just as I was about to turn away, I could’ve sworn I saw something go into the woods, a pale…thing crawl back into the overgrowth of pines. I couldn’t let my dad know about this. He would throw a fit or even have another heart attack. So when he asked if there was anything wrong, I lied that there was nothing. Surely there wasn’t a possible unholy abomination outside our house!

So the next day, I decided to quell my paranoia with DeviantArt and Youtube. But it was not very effective. I kept thinking, what was that thing. Surely it could’ve been an albino deer, but it’s eyes would’ve shined when I saw it. What I saw was only white legs retreating into the pines. Humanoid legs. To tell my dad, or not to tell my dad? That is the question. Feeling thirsty, I decided to go to the living room for a drink of water. After getting a cup of water, I checked the newspaper that happened to be on the table. The headline almost made me spit my drink: MAN MUTILATED IN OWN HOME. Apparently our neighbor’s body was found mangled in his bedroom by his wife after she returned from the bar. People suspected a homicide, but the marks on his body were like an animals, and the doors were closed. As a result, the police ruled it a cold case.

Maybe what I saw last night was the killer? It might have wanted to attack my family, but since I noticed it, it attacked easier prey. As a result, I needed to make sure we were safe. My dad has to work extra late today, and I was going to the movies with my friends. As a result, no one would watch the window. As a result, I asked my mom if she can check my window later tonight. Knowing Dad’s quirk, she agreed to my request. Now I would be able to go to the movies knowing my house was safe. So when my friends picked me up, I had no signs of dread.

I came back home at 9:17. The movie was very good, it being a horror flick. I unlocked the door, and entered my house. But all the lights were off, and there was a disgusting odor that nearly made me gag, a mix of blood and feces. Wondering what the hell was in the house with my mom, I went to the kitchen and opened the drawer. My dad always kept a spare handgun under the knives, in case there was ever an intruder. Well, even though I was only fifteen and never held a gun in my life, not even a BB, this gun would finally be used. But my moment of safety was shattered when I heard a ragged breathing noise coming from my mother’s room.

Taking the gun into my right hand, I slowly walked into my mom’s room, where the thing I saw would probably be. As I looked into the room, what I saw would stay embedded into my nightmares: my mom, on the floor in a limp state, the thing on top of her. Now I can finally see what it was. It was about a head taller than me, probably bigger due to it being crouched down and its back facing me. It was naked, being ghost white, a gray in the dark. The breathing was sickly, similar to what you would hear from a heavy smoker mixed with that woman from The Grudge. Between my mother were two, sharp rake-like claws, probably ready to hit its prey. I then coughed, the most dumbest thing I would probably do. The thing then turned its neck an unnatural angle, almost turning completely towards me. Remember how I said deer’s eyes glowed? Well, this thing’s eyes were black, all pupil, like empty pits starting into my soul. It had no nose, resembling a skeleton’s nasal cavity. Its mouth looked like it was partially melted, pale skin being where its teeth should have been. The mouth was also in a permanent smile, as if it was mocking me.

Knowing I was a threat, it began to walk towards me on all four’s, resembling a human acting as a dog. Remembering the bathroom being the only locked room in the house besides the front door, I made a run for it. The thing then followed, never making any noise except for that infernal breathing. Somehow, I was able to get to the bathroom door. As I closed the door and turned the lock, I quickly pulled out my cell phone, the thing now beginning to bang on the door. I dialed 9-1-1, telling the operator how there I was being my mom being unconscious and myself almost getting attacked by a creature. After being told the police and ambulance were on their way, I prepared the gun in my other hand. As soon as I had both of my hands on the gun, the thing made a hole in the door, it’s cadaver of a face silently grinning at me, now producing a fusion of a growling dog and a growling human. Knowing it can be my one chance, I shot it.

Emitting an abrupt screech, it fell on the floor, limp just like my mother, a bloody hole where it’s heart would’ve been. Hearing the police sirens come, I ran to the front door, feeling a sense of relief, knowing that my mother and I were not dead.

But as the ambulance took my mother and I, I saw through the bathroom window something that was impossible.

The thing was gone, only a trail of blood where its body used to be.

Credit: Vaddix Umbran

The Organist (of La Dames Blanche Chapel)

There is a church in the small town just outside of Avignon, France known as the La Dames Blanche Cathedral. The cathedral is the largest building in town, and due to the well-kept regal appearance, it has become a must-see for tourist passing through. The attraction remains very popular, despite the townspeople’s fears surrounding the pipe organ on the second floor, and the organist who plays it.
The second floor isn’t used, and not much is up there. Not long after the church was built, a priest noticed that there was only one window on the second floor, and it was the only one in the whole church that wasn’t stained glass. It was an old, dirty round window, about three feet around, and was near enough to the dusty and dilapidated organ that one could sit to play the organ and see out of the window. One of the priest went towards the window to see if it could be easy to remove and replaced. As he got close to the organ, the wood below him broke and he fell through the floor, and the heavy cushioning of the pews below him broke his fall. He survived, but was paralyzed from the neck down. They sealed up the room, boarded up the floor, and left everything on the second floor as it was. The priest insists that the organ not be left up there, as it was dangerous to leave something that big and heavy in such a high place, with risk of the weight of the instrument causing the wooden floor it rests on to break and crush church-goers below. He requested this too late, however, as it was made nearly impossible to get back in to get to the instrument.
It was three years after the church was built that the small town started to grow in population. More and more people attended service at the cathedral. Weddings were held there twice a month. This is also the same time that nuns would claim to hear organ music being played in the middle of the night.
The priests dismissed it, as the second floor where the organ stay had been sealed off for long enough that it should be too covered in dust and grime to work properly. The nuns stuck with their claims, and it wasn’t until that Sunday’s service that the priest believed them.
There was the body of a man found near the church, within earshot of the window on the second floor. His eardrums had burst, and his ears were bloody. He had marks down the side of his face that look as though he was trying to tear out his own ears, which were overstuffed with cloth. The coroner at the scene assumed the death was probably accidental. It had been raining the night before, and the man probably tripped and hit his head on the pavement. The sudden impact is what caused his eardrums to burst, and in a last stitch effort, he plugged his ears due to try and stop the bleeding.
Many of the townspeople were not satisfied with this, but did not question it. The following night, a similar death happened to a woman on her way home from the store. She died in a similar spot, near the church, within earshot of the window on the second floor. As it did not rain that night, they could not claim this one to be an accident. The third night, an old beggar woman, unkempt and unsightly, made a huge fuss, getting the attention of anyone who would listen, that there was someone in the second story window, sitting at the organ and playing music. No one else could hear the music but the woman. She danced in the street to the song. The police told her if she wanted to make a fool of herself to do so elsewhere. She told them she would stop dancing when the pretty music stopped playing.
The music did not stop. The woman had stopped dancing hours ago, exhausted. The song still rang in her ears. She covered them with her hands and moved herself to the far end of town. If she were away from the church, she couldn’t hear the tune, she thought to herself. Three more days she heard it, never stopping. She returned to the church, and went inside. She begged the priest and the nuns to make the organist stop playing the song. They told her there was no organ player. She pleaded with them a bit more before they had to escort her out. She was in tears at this point, ripping out clumps of her hair.
The following morning, the police found the poor old woman, still on the grounds of the cathedral, directly below the window on the second store. There was a patch of blood staining the grey bricks on the wall. It looked as though she had smashed her head against the wall, numerous times. One of the priests says he heard her there, yelling at the window upstairs, but he disregarded her as it was the middle of the night and that her angry rant stopped by the time he had gotten outside.
The body was cleaned up and the police started to worry about the threat of a serial killer. They requested the cathedral be closed off for today so it could be investigated. The head priest agreed. When they investigated the stairs leading up to the second floor, they found them loose, and able to be pried off with a crowbar. Officers Altier, Martine, and Rosamunde were chosen to investigate the upper floors. They said the floorboards were too worn down for someone to be walking around. Everything was covered in dust. Officer Altier pressed a few keys on the organ sitting alone in the room. Dust spewed from the pipe related to that note, but no sound came out. The window beside the organ was very dirty and the officers could barely see out of it. They left the second story and said there was nothing suspicious about it, aside from the loose boards blocking off the stairs.
The following day, the wife of Officer Altier awoke to find her husband’s body in the bed with her, his eardrums burst and bloody, staining the pillow his head rested on. His eyes were rolled back in his head, and his hands were pressed against his ears.
People were afraid to go to church. The nuns stayed in the inn nearby, refusing to sleep in the hotel. The priests stayed in a smaller church the next town over. Police blocked off the entrance to the church, and had covered the window on the second floor. Alternate routes were made so nobody had to walk in front of the gates. They questioned anyone in town that knew how to play an organ. One man broke into the church and smashed up the organ. Children threw rocks at the window. They did everything in their power to make sure this stopped.
It did not stop. In fact, it got worse. One person dying outside the gates of the cathedral grew to five. Three shop owners near the church jumped from the roofs of their stores. Eight people were driven mad, one even almost drowned trying to block her ears out with river rocks.
Each new person who said they heard the music no one else did stated that the man in the window was angry. They said he could see them, even without the window. He filled their thoughts. They could only think of organist, playing his tune, staring not at his sheet music, but directly at them. His eyes, cold and uncaring, did not blink, and lacked any hint of remorse or sympathy for the people begging at his feet. His fingers were thin and skeleton like. He did not speak to them. He would not stop playing.
The song plays on.

Credit: Maizina

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