For those pastas that are smelling less than fresh…

October 8, 2014
by derpbutt

The Corner Game

The Corner Game
This game, called “an cluiche cúinne” originated as an old Gaelic myth that was forgotten for centuries.

WARNING: This game can result in your demise. It is highly recommended that you do not play this game if you have a fear of:
-The Dark
-The Unknown
-Possessed Objects
-Being Alone

If you are an extreme daredevil looking for a new thrill, or a person who likes being scared out of your mind, this is the game for you. However, you have been warned.

To start the game, the time must be 10:40 pm at night. It is recommended you prepare your materials beforehand. At the 10:40 mark, it is time to set up the ritual. You will need:
-You’re bedroom
-An open floor (can be carpet)
-4 candles
-A piece of paper with no lines
-A pen with either blue or black ink
-A lighter
-A watch or clock (preferably a watch)
-And a piece of clothing you are willing to sacrifice

Your bedroom must have all the windows closed; however, they don’t need to have blinds closed. The bed must be made nicely, and the floor needs to be clean. The rest of the house must be empty of persons or pets. You are the only one who must be in the house. The pets and/or persons can be outside the remainder of the game. When all these preparations have taken, the game can now be set up.

At 10:40, you can now set up the game. Turn off every single light in the house except for your bedroom. Now go in your room and close the door, but don’t lock it. At this time, put the 4 candles in the middle of the room in a square formation. Do not light them just yet. Place your piece of clothing your willing to sacrifice in the middle of the placed candles. After that, then proceed to light all 4 candles with the lighter. Your job is to summon the spirit of Lucas Rowan, also known as Mr. Nightmare. Still before 11:00 pm, write his name on the piece of paper with your pen. After his name, write the words “I summon you” all before the 11:00 mark. You must stay quite through this procedure. Place the paper face up on the piece of clothing. Finally, at 11:00 pm, blow out all 4 candles. The game has begun.

Because of your actions, Mr. Nightmare is now allowed in your house. The object of the game is to stay in your room completely silent so Mr. Nightmare cannot correctly locate you. You may hear shuffling, creaking, or other curious noises outside your bedroom door. Mr. Nightmare will NOT open a door unless he hears you make a noise. Do NOT open your door. This will cause him to enter your room. Do NOT fall asleep at all during the game. If you do, he will enter your dreamscape and curse you with terrible, life-threatening nightmares. He is known for making people sleepwalk, so be careful.If you happen to make a noise during the game, you MUST hide in a corner of your room until the game is over, your face in the corner. You will feel him in the room with you, and you might feel sudden pain when looking at him. You won’t see him but you will feel a sharp pain.

Mr. Nightmare will leave your house at precisely 12:00 midnight. However, at this time the game still is not over. Your next task is to go through the rest of your house,looking in every single room without turning the lights on. By doing this, you ensure that Mr. Nightmare knows it’s your territory, and not to return unless he is summoned once again. If you turn on all the lights without searching through all the rooms, this gives him the opportunity to return to that room, and anyone who enters an unchecked room can experience headaches and fatigue. The only way to fix this is to play the game again, and check all the rooms.
The piece of clothing you sacrificed is now possessed by Mr. Nightmare’s spirit. Whoever sleeps in the same room with it will experience painful and possibly lethal nightmares. It is recommended to burn or throw away this piece of clothing.
The ritual is complete, but seriously, don’t try this at home.

Credit To – KyletheGameGuy
Credit Link –

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October 8, 2014
by derpbutt

The Noises…

Look, I know that you may think you have heard all the scary stories out there, and that this may be just another drop of salty water in the vast sea, but for your own sake please, pay attention to what I write here. It may just serve to save your life… If you don’t read this, just remember-

Don’t trust background noises.

It started a week ago. One night, as I was drifting into the land of shadows (or sleep, for those who are not as pretentious) when I heard the noise of a rake, or maybe a shovel, clattering to the ground in the room below. You see, the bedroom in my house Is set just above the garage, with only a few inches of floor between the two. Even so, usually you can’t hear a thing down there besides the occasional loud whir of the motor lifting or lowering the heavy door to the garage, or maybe sometimes the heater in the winter. Momentary confusion set in but, being a man of rationality and being very tired from a hard work day, I wrote it off as nothing I should be concerned with until the tomorrow. After a few minutes, once again the same clatter sounded from down below, now accompanied by loud thumping and pounding sounds. When they ceased abruptly after about ten seconds, I figured it must just be some kids taking their angst out on my garage doors or something. Whatever. If the neighbors care, they can deal with it.
Nothing else of note happened, and I awoke the next day unmolested, forgetting the events of the night before entirely. It was a lovely Tuesday, with birds chirping and sunshine flooding the bedroom window. The neighbors were having a barbeque outside, teenagers were heading down to the local river, and the ice-cream man was delivering goodies to the children. It all sounded delightful from my loft. It was a wonderful day, but the outside world was not mine to enjoy. You see, I write articles and do graphic design for a living, live alone, and order my groceries from online. As such, I usually have no reason to go outside. My entire connection to the great outdoors or to any kind of society at all, are the sounds of life thriving just outside my windows and the faceless patrons of the world-wide web. I realize now why I am so vulnerable to… It, but it is far too late for me to rectify my mistakes now. In any case, I had been living this way for years, and was so used to the common rustles and bumps of the night and the easy-going flow of suburban life during the day, that they had been nothing but background static for as long as I can remember.
Life rolled on, much as it usually did. I woke, slept, and woke. I had cereal one day, toaster waffles the next, and many pizza pockets throughout. Three days. Three days before I was expunged from my naivety. Can you believe that in all those hours, I never had the inclination to look outside? Never felt the need for some fresh air? For three days, I just surfed the web, and forgot all else. Then, on Friday morning, the internet went down.
That was when I noticed for the first time the odd, discordant quirks infecting the noises I believed myself to be so used to. It began with odd shifts in pitch that would randomly happen during common events. For example, at the barbeque next door, Mr. Wilson would hold a toast for the fantastic summer they were enjoying, and his children would joke about toasting something that happened every year. Often, in the middle of his toast, his voice would crack, or his children would suddenly sound older or younger than they usually sounded. The cars containing rowdy teenagers that passed by the bedroom window every day, three within ten minute intervals of each other, would sometimes forget to honk, or honk much louder than they should be able to. The excited teens would often say their lines out of sync with the others in their parties, and the song played by the ice-cream truck would sometimes garble into something that sounded vaguely of screaming. As I thought on these strange occurrences more, sitting at my desk, I realized something that made me more frightened than I have ever been in my entire life:

The same barbeque, the same cars, the same children, the same toast… had been happening at the exact same times, on the clock, as they had happened Tuesday.

It’s quiet right now, I might have time to explain-
Far from this being some screwed up “Groundhog Day” situation, the clock on my computer told me, with its bright, glowing face, that it was now Friday. All of the evidence agreed the computer was right, from the cell phone, to the Xbox, even the glitchy alarm clock I always meant to replace. This is real.
Being the intellect that I am, I decided to test this event which I dubbed “the repeating sound wave echo”, to see if it could be affected by anything I did. Of course, I didn’t even think to go outside, and that may have just saved my life, for the moment. Anyway, I changed my usual routine, tried to call out to people outside, even began to repeat my own noises, to see if mocking it would produce any effect.
Finally, after a few hours of experimentation, and losing my nerve and patience, I thrust open my window and yelled into the street below, “SHUT THE HELL UP!” Everything went quiet, and I noticed for the first time how abandoned the streets were. Nobody played outside, there was no eternal barbeque, and not a single driveway was bereft a vehicle.
Then I saw the blood. Smears of dark red were on the fronts and sides of houses, on the door handles of cars, even pooled in small divots in my wildly overgrown front lawn.
At the same time, the smell hit me. It was like… well, I can’t even describe it. It was the first time I have ever smelled rotten meat.
The last thing I noticed, before slamming the window shut and vomiting on my carpet, were the bodies. Desecrated corpses decorated broken windows and cracked pavements. It looked as if the entire community had been slaughtered an-
Sorry, it’s too much right now…
I now know what made the days echo themselves, what mimicked the dead it had ravaged. I’ve seen flashes of dark feathers, a monster the size of a man, with the sneaky grace of a cat. A beak, bloodied and covered in the viscera of my neighbors. It has begun mocking the very typing I am doing right now. My breathing is echoed, my heartbeat is accompanied by a sister heartbeat. It knows where I am, and it seems to be getting closer…-

I’m sorry, I would write more but I have no time I have to post this soon!the intenet has just started up a- I just heard a window donstairs break, shit!dont trust the noises, pay atention to the signs the noises might shift or change randomly! If they repeat, it’s too late!

Good luck, an goodbye…

Credit To – Nick Carlson
Credit Link – @Space_Lemon_ OR

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September 30, 2014
by derpbutt

The Unseen

I’ve never been the type of person to write experiences down, or record anything, really. Not because I was disinterested in the activity, or didn’t care enough, but because I was never really good at it. That was always my brother, Ben. He never missed an opportunity to capture something on film, or write something down. In fact, I remember him keeping a very detailed diary. Whether it was just us playing Scrabble (a game in which he often thrashed me) or a family reunion (an event that happened far too frequently in my opinion) or even the weather outside. Actually, the weather was what he seemed determined to keep a record of the most. This habit seemed unique and maybe even annoying, but never really odd. No, that’s not right… it did get odd. More than odd, in fact; it became downright terrifying.

That’s why I’m writing this now. Me, the one who never kept so much as a day journal. But it seems necessary now; actually, it seems to be the only way to make sense of what my life has become, especially to me. Seeing the words on paper seems to validate my sanity (or what’s left of it) because I can no longer trust the images in my head. I hope I can still trust my memories to be true, because they’re all I have left. And I’m leaving them here, in the hopes that some sort of good can come of this. So allow me to explain, please.

Even as children I could never really see us as siblings; me with my brown eyes and blond hair, shorter and just a little stocky, and him with his tall, slender frame, blue eyes and raven locks. I’ll admit that my brother was beautiful, with that dark and elegant look to him that I would have given almost anything for. Despite this, I don’t think I was ever truly jealous. Even in our high school years when Ben would spend countless nights out on dates and parties I never envied him; I liked my own company, and my privacy. As siblings go, I think we were pretty close. We rarely fought, and were each other’s best friends. Although, Ben’s habit of recording everything did get on my nerves more and more as we got older. Despite my best efforts and constant complaints, I couldn’t get him to stop recording me. I knew it was harmless and really a loving gesture, but something about it made me squirm. Ben would often just smile at this and say, “The camera loves you, Joe”. And maybe it did. All I knew was that I hated it.
This became especially true in the winter of 1995, right before I turned eighteen. Ben had been out at a party, and I had the house to myself for the night. I had always liked being alone, and I was in a good mood as I was deciding how to spend my night. I was pacing the living room floor in contemplation, going over my options. I looked outside and immediately knew that going outside was out of the question; the world had been whited out by a snowstorm. Between the black of the night and the snow, it almost looked like static. Suddenly my thoughts turned to Ben in a flare of concern, but it passed as I reasoned he would just stay the night at wherever he was at. I mean, no one would be crazy enough to try to travel in that blizzard. Walking towards the staircase at the left of the room, I resumed thinking of what to do with myself. As I rounded the corner off the top of the stairs and turned into my room on the left, I sighed in indecision. My eyes widened and my heart beat a little bit faster when I noticed the object completely alien in the design of my room; Ben’s camera, a small, compact, and black box. And it wasn’t just that the camera was there, on my dresser that shocked me.

It was on.

I didn’t know what to think. This wasn’t something that Ben would do, no, he would never be so careless. I didn’t know how his beloved camera had wound up here, but I decided to return it to his room when a better idea struck me; the blizzard. Ben had always loved recording the weather outside, especially the extreme kind. So, I went downstairs and placed it in its usual spot, in the middle of the table adjacent to the window. I checked the battery, not knowing how long it had been on, and set it to record.
I spent the rest of the night in my room, only going downstairs once to fix myself a snack. On my way down, I remember walking right past the camera, not sparing even a glance. After I got my food, I turned to go back upstairs, but something caught my eye; the camera. It didn’t look like anything was wrong, but I looked closer anyway. I realized what was off; it was pointing the wrong way, with the lens now focused on the staircase. This definitely creeped me out; I remember specifically aiming it outside. I decided that I had probably captured enough of the storm outside to satisfy Ben, so I picked up the camera and went upstairs to Ben’s room. I placed it on his neatly made bed and shut the door behind me, still thinking of how the camera could possibly have been turned around.

The storm dissipated not long after my discovery of the camera’s new position, and Ben staggered in as I was getting ready for bed. Now, this was unusual to me, because Ben didn’t drink (not as far as I knew, anyway) but I didn’t think too much of it. I walked out of my room to go to the bathroom and met him in the hall. My hair immediately stood up on end as I took in the sight of my brother: he was obviously quite drunk, swaying on his feet, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, but it was his eyes that really startled him. They were bloodshot, wide and darting, as if frantically trying to find something in the gloom of the hall. I spoke to him, “Ben?”
And his eyes snapped to mine. His words were slurred, but understandable, as he said to me, in a quiet but strong voice, “Where is my camera?” This was another oddity; he never moved it out of his bedroom except to film. He hadn’t moved it before he left, and he knows I would never touch it if I could help it, so why was he asking? Instead, I simply said “On your bed”. He turned around sharply and started to sway towards his room. Once he was inside, he slammed the door and I didn’t hear from him for the rest of the night.

I lay awake that night going over all the strange events; the camera in my room, it moving towards the stairs, and Ben showing up drunk and his strange question. I shrugged it off as just one of those nights, and went to sleep.
It was one of the last times I slept soundly.

After that night, Ben became more withdrawn and increasingly obsessed with his camera. He’d been coming out of his room less and less, and my family grew more and more worried. After all, he’d always been quite social and quite happy, and no one knew what the cause of this drastic change was. It was…heartbreaking, really. My sense of loss and pity slowly turned to one of fear, however: Sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night with Ben’s camera on my dresser, lens pointed directly at me, its small little red light looking almost insidious. He started recording my parents when they weren’t looking, often hiding in a corner. I’d try to confront him about this, but when I did, the look on his face always silenced me. It was beyond an expression of malice; it was murderous. Soon we stopped talking altogether, and it felt as if my brother had died. I didn’t know how right I was.

I found my brother’s body on a Thursday morning in November, lying face down in the middle of his room, limbs sprawled. He was fully clothed, and there didn’t seem to be any injuries, but there was something that did unsettle me even past seeing my brother dead; his eyes were blank. Not glassy or unfocused, but completely white. I stared for a few seconds.

They blinked.

I finally screamed then and my parents came running. They, too, screamed.

Life wasn’t the same after that. My parents fought more and more, and I was too sad to care. I was bored one day and was feeling especially conscious of my brother’s absence, so I went to his room. I wanted to remind myself of how Ben was before the winter, so I picked up his camera. I heard something rustle around when I picked it up, and noticed a piece of paper had fallen to the floor. I unfolded it gently, and almost dropped it. My eyes widened as I read its message, probably Ben’s last.

Written in what looked like blood were the words “DO NOT CHECK THE CAMERA.”

I threw down the camera and ran out of there with the paper still in my hand.

Eventually, as Ben’s loss became less sharp and life went on, I came to forget that camera. I immersed myself in a work program at a local youth centre, I was paying the bills and still living in that same house, with my parents having passed away a few years after Ben. It was winter again, I had a few days off with nothing to do and I wasn’t feeling up to much. Boredom and nostalgia slowly set in, so I visited Ben’s room again. The moment my foot passed the doorway, I stopped. Something felt…terribly wrong. Not unusual; wrong. Frightening. Menacing. The growing dark outside did nothing to abate this feeling.

I said to myself it was just the aftershock of Ben’s death, if something like that can be felt all those years later. I walked slowly, almost reverently, deeper into the room. I looked over all of Ben’s possessions, still there, and came upon that same camera. It was on, and I wasn’t all that surprised. Remembering the warning I had found, I considered simply putting it back, but I argued that it was probably best to know what the hell was going on, and was soon going over the recordings.

I’m sorry if this is getting hard to read, but my hand is shaking badly right now. I can see the video playing in my head, almost painfully clearly, and I think that this letter will be the last thing I ever finish. I can hear it coming, now; I can hear it laughing. I can hear Ben’s voice laughing with it, and under it, his screams.

The first videos were normal enough; me and Ben laughing outside, eating ice cream in the middle of summer, him winning at Scrabble, relatives we never saw, that kind of thing. Then they started getting darker. The film skipped to me, lying on my side in my bed, fast asleep. About 30 seconds into the video, the audio cut out. There wasn’t much noise to begin with, but no sound is as noticeable as absolute silence. Then, something moved along the edge of the camera’s sight. I say something because after seeing its shadow, there was no other possible way to describe it. I almost threw the camera across the room when it finally entered the frame; it was a tall, humanoid thing with arms and legs much too long for its body, dragging its limbs along slowly, almost like limping. Its skin looked to be an insane pattern of black and white, and my eyes began to sting just from looking at it. Then, as it approached my bed, it turned to the camera. Its face appeared to be burned, and it had black teeth that almost seemed to shine. It was smiling, no grinning, with the ends of its rotting mouth stretching up towards where ears should have been. As insane as it sounds, the most horrifying part of this home video from hell were the eyes.

They were Ben’s.

I forced myself to watch the other tapes, and it showed up in all of them, starting with the one I filmed the night Ben went to that party. The first time on camera, it seems, was right outside the living room window when I set it to film the blizzard. Its face was pressed right up to the window, smiling that insane smile directly at the camera, directly at me.
I burned the camera that night. I didn’t sleep easily either, imagining it to be right at the foot of my bed, looking at me with my brother’s eyes and those teeth ready to rip my flesh apart. I thought I heard it in the hallway, dragging its elongated limbs behind it towards my door, laughing softly.

The night before I moved out was the worst. I woke up at 2:45 AM, everything unusually quiet, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom. I decided to go to the bathroom, reasoning that this thing probably wouldn’t attack in the light. There, I got a glass of water, and leaned over to the faucet, splashing cold water on my face. When my head rose again, in the mirror, I saw it standing there in the doorway, still smiling that smile that didn’t reach its eyes (my BROTHER’S EYES). I turned around to look at it, and found nothing but empty space. My heart is beating so fast that it must surely be ready to burst or give out. I turn back to the mirror, and there it is, standing right behind me, its face inches from my shoulder. I’ll never know how, but I managed to speak. “What are you? What did you do to Ben?” Then I screamed, “WHY US?”

Then it whispered in my ear, “The camera loves you, Joe.”

It was Ben’s voice.

I turned and ran out of that bathroom as fast as I could. I turned on every light in my house and smashed every mirror I could find on the way to my bedroom. I packed a few clothes, my wallet and was about to run down the stairs when I remembered: Ben’s diary. I found it beside his bed and ran to my truck outside. His last entries will stick with me along with that video until the day I die.

Friday, November 24th

The camera is acting up again, this time showing nothing but static. Considering replacing it, but it’s so dear to me. Maybe I’ll just try to fix the lens again. Besides the camera, everything is great. Amy is treating me so well, and my friends are a lot of fun now that the holidays are coming. And then there’s Joe…

Wednesday, November 29th

Joe is acting more and more strange. He claims that my camera was on his room last night, so I’m going to watch the tape after I finish this just to see what he’s talking about. I’m starting to think he might need help…
That was the last time he wrote in that diary.
I’m having trouble focusing now. All I see is that video, that thing that killed my brother and will probably kill me. I’m not going to give it the chance.

I’m in a motel now, waiting for night to come. It looks like it’s going to snow.

I brought a camera with me, thinking I might say something, feeling the urge to record something.

After all, the camera loves me.

Credit To – Grim Writer

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September 30, 2014
by derpbutt


It wasn’t until the seventh day, that the black cat started lurking outside my window during the night. I would change into my night gown, draw the bed covers up to my waist, and read a few sentences of the “romance” novel which was unbearable to get through. The cat would wait until I dimmed the lights to match the surrounding darkness before the screeches were unleashed from its mouth. The first night I heard the screeches, I threw the covers off and stomped towards the window only to bang aggressively on the glass. The glowing eyes made my fist cease its movements. We stared at each other for a moment’s time until I closed the curtains and went back to bed, in which the screeching began again until six that morning.

On the ninth day, I invested in earplugs to only find out that they did not block out the noise the black cat makes outside your window at night. On the twelfth day, I started calling the cat Maggie. Lying in bed listening to the cries of this cat, I kept trying to rationalize why, but during my rationalization process all I heard in those cries, was the name Maggie.

Her black velvet coat paced the ledge of the wall outside my bedroom window. Her eyes seemed to never leave mine. On the fourteenth night, Maggie was on the window sill. The only thing separating us was the thin layer of glass. She was quiet that night. I sat on my side of the window and we played our game of stare. She was looking into me and searching for something, that something I don’t know. There was no sound between us, except for the blood I could hear pumping throughout my body. She never looked away and kept her body cemented in place. I was so entranced that when my hand snaked to the glass to touch where she stood, I fell backwards onto the floor when she screamed the name Maggie. She kept screaming and screaming as I kept shaking and yelling for her to stop.

On the twentieth day, the landlord stopped by the house. The landlord—Zelda—walked through the threshold wearing dark purples and sequins. She threw her stubby arms out as if to hug me, only to realize she had spotted the teapot and was gesturing for me to make her some tea. “Sugar,” Zelda confirmed. As I was walking over to the teapot, Zelda made herself comfortable at the kitchen table, “So why am I here, darling? You seemed quite frantic on the phone.” I placed the teapot on the stove and went to sit across from the absurdly dressed landlord. “Yes, yes I am very much frazzled. Did the renter before me ever have any pets?” Zelda rolled this question in her mind and pursed her lips trying to find the answer.
“I don’t recall”
“Not any dogs, or parakeets, or cats?” I hesitated saying the last word.
“None, but I certainly love cats,” Zelda confided.
“Do you own any cats?”
“I did have one, but she seems to have gotten loose. It’s been about a month now”
The teapot shrieked on the stove, making me jump up out of my seat. I poured tea for Zelda and brought her the box of CANE sugar over to the table.

“Well,” I continued, “do you know the name of the renter before me? Maybe a phone number? I’m positive that she has left a cat behind. There’s a black cat that comes by my bedroom window every night” At the last comment, Zelda had stopped sipping her tea and placed her cup on the table. She folded her hands loosely together and smiled so wicked that the mole on her upper lip protruded out just a bit further. Fear slid its fingertips along the back of my spine. My heart started pumping faster as I began to feel smaller.

“The renter before you disappeared, about a month ago really. She didn’t leave any contact information behind,” Zelda slugged the words out of her mouth as I gripped the edge of my seat with both hands. “Her name is Maggie.” My throat began to shrink, my breath quickened. “Maggie?” I choked out. Saying the name felt like razor blades cutting deep into my throat. My mouth became dry and as I said the name again, I heard myself screeching. It wasn’t until I was three inches from the ground that I had found out what had happened to Maggie.

Credit To – Best_Mistake

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September 30, 2014
by derpbutt

Please Help

You look around yourself. All you see is trees in every direction. You know you’re lost, you can feel the tension building up inside you. Out of nowhere you hear a faint cry for help. Your anxiety suddenly reaches a fever pitch. You feel as if there was something deeply wrong about that cry. You want to close your eyes and just run away.

But you’re not a superstitious man.

You try to calm yourself down and assess the situation.

“Please help”, comes a voice from above. Instinctively you look up, and see a man sitting atop the tree in front of you. Only it’s not a man. It has the anatomy of a bony man, but its skin is bleached in white. Its long and frizzy hair hides most of its face, except for its eyes. Its yellow eyes appear to be glowing in the darkness of the night. Suddenly, the thing starts grinning. You keep staring at it in disbelief, and then you blink.

As you open your eyes after blinking, you see yourself below. Only it’s not you anymore. You’re crouched atop the tree now, and your former vessel is still staring at you in disbelief. Suddenly, it starts grinning. You can see a shimmer of yellow in its eyes. It then bows down and thanks you, and then proceeds to walk away, while you helplessly keep staring at it from the top of the tree, unable to move a muscle or do anything.

Except for crying for help.
Credit To – Shantam Sinha
Credit Link –

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September 30, 2014
by derpbutt

Don’t Turn Around

Don’t turn around.

Seriously, don’t. Not if you want to live longer than 30 seconds. Not if you don’t want your last image from life to be a pair of cold, lifeless eyes staring at you before your heart gives out. Trust me, I speak from experience, turning around right now is the last thing you want to do.
You see, I used to be just like you. I used to sit in a room where the only light came from my computer screen, palely illuminating my computer desk in a pale blue glow. It’s always blue, isn’t it? From deep blue to the lightest, almost-white blue, no matter what page you’re visiting, it casts a blue glow onto everything around it, making everything so cold and distant around you.

Kind of like a corpse.

Yeah, I was like you…reading creepypasta late into the night, loving the feeling of fear that came from doing something so daring like reading those eerie tales in such a dark setting. I could imagine that I could feel eyes on the back of my head, hear the breathing of another person, and even delude myself that I was imagining the feel of cold breath on my cheek. There were times when these delusions would make me reach over and snap on my desk lamp, turning around to find nothing but an empty room. I never turned around when the lights were off, never when the only light I had was the pale blue light of my computer screen. It was like I knew, deep down, that my delusions weren’t delusions at all…what I was experiencing was real, and the only way to safely turn around was by turning on my light first.

Well, one night I got brave. It was fifteen past three in the morning and I was wrapped up in a really good story when I felt it again, the eyes boring into the back of my head. I felt my breath quicken, believing it to be an imaginary boogeyman created by the dark stories I was feeding into my brain at such a late hour. I could hear the sounds of the floorboards creaking and the rustling of something moving on the carpet. Again, I shrugged it off, fully believing that I was simply hearing normal household noises and was making them into something else.

And then came the breathing. It was a raspy breathing, like someone who had a sore throat or something like that. I could feel the tickle of breath on the back of my neck and in my hair. My hand tightened on the mouse, wanting to reach for the lamp and switch on that safety-net of a light I had so come to depend on. I was so scared and yet I still believed it was nothing and that turning on the light only made me a coward. If I truly believed that there was nothing there, then I could turn around without the light. So, taking a gulp and a deep breath, I did just that. I turned around to confirm that this was just my imagination…

And looked into a pair of lifeless, cold eyes, so blue in the light from my computer screen…

It was the last thing I saw.

So if you’re sitting in your chair, bed, or wherever you happen to be, reading this and feeling the same thing I’ve just described…do yourself a favor and don’t turn around. There are things that feed off your fear. Things that lurk in the shadows behind you, supping on the frantic beat of your heart, the quickening of your breath, the prickling feeling you get when the eeriness surrounds you…they feed off of this. Light is the only thing that makes them go away, that makes them disappear into whatever hell they come from. As long as you turn on the light, you’re safe to turn around and convince yourself that it was all in your imagination.

But if you do feel daring…turn around while the lights are off…

I’d love to see the fear in your eyes just before you die…

Credit To – Kristen

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September 30, 2014
by derpbutt

I Saw A Thing Through The Trees

I saw a thing through the trees.

It wasn’t a normal thing, like a deer or bear.

It was a strange thing.

A thing I couldn’t identify.

You see, I was biking one morning.

It was very early. Maybe around 5:30.

It was foggy, as it usually was in the morning.

Everything was dark and green, yet, gray? I can’t really explain it.

And I was still groggy from waking so early.

So I wasn’t really sure I saw it at first, in the dim light of the tree line.

But it was there.

A tall thing, on all fours.

It had an arched back, like a scared cat.

It was black, which made it hard to see at once.

It’s limbs were thin and gangly, with flesh seeming to drip off the frame.

With an evil face, with a scary grin.

I know it saw me.

Who knows how many similar mornings it had watched me.

Countless? I have a hard time believing it was the first time.

I stopped my bike to look at the thing.

A moment passed, and the thing turned and loped away.

I shuddered, not wanting to know.

The rest of the morning was fine.

But ever since that morning, the thing gets closer.

It waits for me, grinning in it’s strange way.

Every morning, it is farther from the tree line and closer to me.

Only recently, it follows along,  still far away.

I don’t know what it is.

Or what it wants.

Maybe it doesn’t want anything.

Maybe it just wants to scare me.

I’d rather not know.

I don’t want to find out why it smiles.

Or why it follows me.

Or why it looks underfed.

I saw a thing through the trees.

And now it wants me.
Credit To – DK Martin

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September 30, 2014
by derpbutt

The Rotting Lady

There’s a lady in the woods.
She’s rotting there.
There’s lady in the woods;
Dead twigs are her hair.
There’s a lady in the woods.
She’s frightening, I know.
There’s a lady in the woods.
Where’s she from? Where’ll she go?


Molly Barnes was a twenty-six year old woman. She had brown, straight hair cut into a bob with bangs that covered her whole forehead. She wore black, cat-eye glasses and was very hard of seeing without them. Molly liked to wear blue women’s suits with black, point toe heels.

Molly liked to believe she led a more or less nice life. She had no lover to distract her, no children to fret over. She had two cats, Mindy and Mandy, both blond. She worked for a company that sold airplane parts. She served as a secretary, reading no less than 100 emails a day, handling faxes and answering the telephone when it rang. It was a nice job, a quaint job, suitable for a woman like her.


I heard there are worms crawling in her eyes,
I heard her head is full of flies,
I heard her mouth is full of dirt,
I dare you to touch her, I’ll bet all I’m worth.


Molly woke up on a Monday and noticed a funny feeling in her feet. Green, yellow, and purple spots started showing up and had splattered nearly half of both her feet. They didn’t hurt her much.

“What odd bruises,” she remarked to herself and made a mental note to call her doctor about it when his office opened. She walked through her apartment, a small one bedroom-one bathroom spiel. Quaint. She poured herself a mug of cereal, as she was wont to do nearly every morning, and sat down on her couch to watch the morning news. War in Syria, global warming, tips for driving- a cat meowed. Molly looked down from her position on the couch. Mindy pushed her bowl with her nose. Molly scowled and got up, complaining about her feline friend’s lack of sentience, or even just lack of thumbs, the great gift bestowed upon mankind at their conception, and that if they just had thumbs they could get their own damn fancy feast and not bother her perfectly lovely news show. The program was ending anyway, but she had missed whether or not the man had gotten convicted for murder (he probably was, he was found with the blood on his hands and the fingerprints on the gun were being tested, but really, there was no one else who could have done it, right?) The news over, Molly went to her room to change for work.

Molly slipped off her pajama pants and was shocked to discover that between her first getting up and her going to change, the spots had gone from only covering half her feet to consuming the middle of her calves, getting worse as they crawled upward. Fairly confused and beginning to become a bit frightened, she searched her purse for her phone and called her doctor’s office. They didn’t pick up.


The rotting lady,
The rotting lady,
She’ll eat up all your baby dolls.
The rotting lady,
The rotting lady,
She’ll take your favorite bouncy ball.


Molly walked quickly to the E.R., stumbling a few times on the way there. Although she didn’t feel much pain in her legs (actually, she didn’t feel much, anymore; it was a numb sensation, as if her legs were asleep), they were beginning to give out on her, the flesh of her feet slowly peeling off, almost like a sunburn. By the time she got there, the rotting had spread to just above her kneecaps. The average stranger would not be able to tell her condition, however; she concealed it with yoga pants, which she threw on in the rush out of her apartment. She stumbled through the door of the E.R. and was carried to the front desk by two nurses.

Molly was laid on a table a half hour after she arrived (the hospital was quite busy, you see, budget issues, not enough room, sorry for the delay). She had to be carried there by the two nurses, who, upon lying her on the table, removed her shoes and socks as Molly had requested. Molly felt a strange sensation. The nurses made strange noises, like gasps  then ran from the room, making no excuses or explanations, slamming the door shut upon exiting. Molly pushed herself onto her elbows to see what had caused them such alarm.

Molly’s left foot had rotted off.


Do you wonder what happened to her face?
Do you wonder why she left without a trace?
Do you wonder how she got to Rot Place?


Molly crawled her way to the wheelchair down the hallway. There wasn’t much time. She had only a few minutes before the nurses would come back.

Within two days, the rot had consumed her and she was falling apart, slowly. Her skin had taken on a gray, lifeless color, splotched with green and yellow patches of mold in random places and would shed away at the slightest touch. She had already lost both pinkies and her ring finger was gone. The numbness she had felt in her legs had spread to her entire body, which made it difficult for her to move. She made it to the wheelchair and began wheeling down the hall. She pressed the down bottom on the elevator. There were shouts at the opposite end of the hall.

She wheeled herself away from the elevator in an attempt to escape. She was caught with ease and taken back to her room, her chest rising and falling, as if trying to sob.


The first will come and with repose
Will cause the world to decompose.


On the third day, the bed Molly lied on began rotting. It spread to whatever surface she made continuous contact with. Her eyelids swelled shut and by afternoon had sunken in, suggesting that they eyeballs themselves at completely rotted away. She was restrained, due to her escape attempt the day before, and could make no objection when she was placed in an ambulance, which was meant to take her to a more secluded location. She was becoming a threat to those around her.

The ambulance never reached it’s destination. It crashed while driving through a shortcut through the Haverford Forest. By the time help arrived on the scene, the back half of the ambulance had rusted and bent at the edges, sharp and porous. The driver explained that this was the reason of the crash. By the time he became reoriented, Molly had escaped. The local law enforcement followed her trail, but were ultimately unable to find her. After two weeks, it was assumed that she had completely rotted away.


There’s a girl in the woods
She wasn’t the first.


It has been almost a year since the disappearance of Ms. Molly and in that time a number of strange occurrences has happened.

Firstly, a number of people, for a variety of reasons, including being ‘dared’ by peers and fulfilling strange club pacts, have gone missing in Haverford Forest. The toll told to the public is twelve, although in truth there have been forty-two disappearances. The local law forces have restricted traffic, pedestrian and motor, through Haverford Forest, although this effort has not done much.

Secondly, a location affectionately dubbed “Rot Place” by the younger generation has been rumored to be where Ms. Molly lives. Where this is, exactly, is not known, but it is speculated that this is a cave deep in the forest. The matter has been looked into, but no evidence of such a cave has been found.

There have been multiple reports of “The Rotting Lady” as she has been known, appearing in the woods. As far as the general population is concerned, this new urban legend is nothing more than that: as urban legend. The true condition of Ms. Molly, as well as the likely reason for her disappearance, has not been released to the general public. “The Rotting Lady” has become something of a celebrity, being connected by the townsfolk to the disappearances of the locals. We’re still looking into the matter.

In the investigation of where Ms. Molly’s condition came from, not much has been found. As far as the doctors knew, her body began shutting down on it’s own, beginning in her feet, and following the natural process of decomposition. As for how it spread from her to other surfaces, we’re not sure. There is a great deal of unknowns in the case.

The driver of the vehicle committed suicide not long after the crash, leaving behind this mysterious poem:

The first will come and with repose
will cause mankind to decompose.

The second will come with humanity’s need;
When all seems lost, he will be the seed.

The third will come from this sacrifice
And will renew the earth at mankind’s price.

This, I have seen in my dreams.
In these, I have heard mankind’s last screams.

Credit To – Khipper

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September 30, 2014
by derpbutt
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Never Alone

I am not a paranoid person. I do not have any reason to be.

I used to have a friend who was, though. I remember him constantly looking over his shoulder, always checking behind doors before entering a room, always making sure he was never alone. He was jumpy, too. You could walk up behind him and touch his arm, and he would jump straight up in the air. One time he screamed, so loud that I tripped over myself trying to get away. We teased him, much more than I care to admit, but he didn’t mind. All he asked was that we didn’t leave him alone. Unfortunately, he died a few years ago. I can’t remember exactly, but I think he fell off a roof or something. Poor guy. If only I could remember his name. Or even what he looked like…

Like I said before, I am not usually paranoid.

I don’t know if it was because I was thinking about my dead friend, but lately I’ve been feeling…Well, like I’m being watched.  It’s never with other people, only when I’m alone. For example, I’ll be in the shower, fighting with the shampoo bottle, when I get a creepy feeling, like I’m being stared at. I look behind me, but there’s nothing but wet ceramic wall. I peek out from behind the curtain, but there’s only a toilet and a stack of towels. Nothing that could have given me the feeling. Then I dismiss it as paranoia and go back to washing. Sometimes, though, I can almost imagine a dark shape in the corner of the room, sitting, watching, waiting. Almost.

It’s getting worse. Today I got home early. I was lying on the couch, waiting for my sister to come back, because she knows how to cook, and I don’t. A few hours later, no one had shown up. I was getting worried. I got up to call my sister, but I didn’t take more than a few steps before I felt it again. Someone was here, watching me. I just knew it! This time the feeling was accompanied by a cold, paralyzing fear. Breathe…I couldn’t breathe! It was like getting kicked in the stomach, except I couldn’t bend over. I forced myself to suck in air, but all I could manage were a few short gasps. Finally, the feeling went away, but then something grabbed me by the back of the neck, and I passed out.

Moments later, I heard my sister’s voice. “Danny? Danny, are you ok? Should I call 9-1-1? Danny, please answer me!”
I groaned, and sat up, rubbing my head. It hurt like Hell. “What happened,” I asked, wincing at the sound of my own voice.
“I…I don’t know…” My sister murmured, running her hands through her hair. “I touched you and you just…fainted?”
“You grabbed me by the neck!” I snapped.
She rolled her eyes at me. “No need to get rude. It was just a joke.”
“Some joke,” I muttered, and she didn’t try to argue further. Anyway, I was glad for the company. Even being with annoying younger sisters are better than being alone.

I think I’m going crazy. No, I know I am. I went to several doctors, and they all told me I was sleep deprived. I already knew that, and if I could fix it, it would already be done. I can’t, though. Not with that <i>thing</i> watching me every night. I’ve tried everything, but the only method that works is sleeping in the same room with someone else. I don’t see it when I’m around other people, for some reason. I wish I didn’t see it at all.
It’s strange, whatever it is. Small, black, kind of blurry. I can’t make out a definite shape, like it’s made out of fog. The only feature I can pinpoint is It’s two white, empty eyes. With It comes a terrible, paralyzing fear. I’ve heard of the old Hag nightmare. I guess it’s sort of the same thing, only I’m not asleep.

I can’t sleep.

It follows me. Watches me. I look over my shoulder, hoping that what I’m looking for will not appear. I’ve tried to tell people what I see, but they don’t believe me. They tease me, and call me crazy whenever I’m in earshot. They stare, looking so much like my stalker that I almost laugh. Almost.

I hated my sister. I hated her for reminding me. I knew I had to fix the roof. I’ve known for a while now. I begged her to at least stay and watch, so I wouldn’t be alone. But she refused. “You’ll be fine,” she had insisted. Then she went off to do whatever girls did. Didn’t she realize? Didn’t she know how much danger I was in? Didn’t she care? I guess not, because here I am.
A loud noise startled me out of my thoughts, and I accidentally dropped my tools. They fell off the house, and I watched them go with a sinking feeling in my chest. Our house is tall. Tall enough that if something fell off that roof, it would shatter, like those tools…or me. One little screw-up and my sister would come home to a very messy, very <i>nasty</i> surprise. Well, at least now I had an excuse. I turned to leave–and froze. It was sitting there, right behind me, watching. I gasped and scrambled backward, forgetting one small detail: my location. Before I fell, I somehow managed to grab hold of the gutter. Please don’t fall, I begged myself. Please, please don’t fall…
My fingers went limp. I could still see It watching, waiting. I could almost imagine a smile deep in that black, foggy shape.
I fell.

Credit To – WikiGhost

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September 30, 2014
by derpbutt
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You’ve seen it before. Every town has at least one; those deserted houses with their boarded-up windows and their lawns that reeks of abandonment. You’ve probably walked right past one without a second thought.

Many of them are just old drug dens or simply just abandoned houses left to decay as time goes on. This is true for most of them, but not all. You see, some of them harbour dark secrets which are meant to be hidden from human eyes, thus the reason they are abandoned. People pass by them every day, never suspecting a thing. But what, you may ask, would happen if someone were to uncover the dark realm within the house? Would they find a building full of corpses with rotting flesh or, perhaps no flesh at all? Would they find a portal to Hell in which they would suffer for all of eternity? Would they discover vicious creatures long forgotten to human kind that could shred their skin and devour their bones in the blink of an eye? What would happen if someone tried to fulfill their insatiable curiosity?

Well, there’s a reason that no one ever sees or remembers the previous inhabitants.
Credit To – Yelhsa Senrab

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